Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  “Thanks, man,” George said, waving as Hermanski left.

  Chapter 67

  Mort Sulkin peaked out the window of his divorced brother’s small two-bedroom ranch home near Jackson, Michigan. He carried a string of Christmas tree lights in his right hand.

  “Can you get that? I’m busy,” Sulkin’s brother said from the kitchen, reacting to a loud rap on the front door.

  “It’s two cops. Are you expecting them?” Sulkin asked.

  “What the...no?” Sulkin’s brother said, entering the room. “Open the door and see what they want. We’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Mort Sulkin cracked open the door. The two uniformed officers pushed the door back and entered the home.

  “Hey, lighten up. What’s this about?”

  “Are you Mort Sulkin?”

  “Yes, what is this—?”

  “Sir, you have the right to remain silent and...” the officer said, telling Sulkin his rights. “Please turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  “But I didn’t do anything.”

  “You are under arrest for the desecration of the body of Gordon Lickshill.”

  “I didn’t know the man. I don’t remember anything about that. How can I go to jail for something I don’t remember doing?”

  “We’ll let the courts decide. We have orders to take you back to West Branch.”

  “Can I come too? I’m his brother.”

  “Did you know Gordon Lickshill?”

  “No, I only read about it in the newspapers. My brother is innocent. He doesn’t remember.”

  “I suggest you stay here and arrange for a lawyer.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll finish the tree and have you back home in time for Christmas,” Sulkin’s brother said, taking the string of lights from Mort Sulkin’s hand. His eyes teared as the two officers escorted him out of the house.

  Chapter 68

  Light, from an overhead chandelier, reflected off the smooth silver knife blade in Lopez’ right hand.

  “See this? I could kill you with one swift jab to the neck,” Harry Lopez said, waving the hunting instrument by his wife’s face.

  Lucinda screamed. “What is wrong? You go crazy on me.” She backed away and spewed a mouthful of Spanish expletives.

  Harry stood by the Christmas tree, examining a lone branch sticking through a layer of plastic rain. He carefully cut the branch, held it over his head with his left hand and let it drop to the floor.

  “Gravity. Did you see that? Gravity pushed it to the floor. I’m a fucking genius.” His red eyes flared when he saw his reflection in the shiny blade. “What the...” He dropped the knife, walked to his favorite chair, sat down and held his head. “What is happening to me? I need to get back to school. I can’t stand my useless life any longer. Pack your things, we’re leaving tonight.” He pointed at Lucinda to go to the bedroom.

  “Harry, you scare me. I don’t want to leave now. It will be Christmas soon,” she said.

  “Go now!” he said, picking up the knife and flashing it at her. Lucinda ran into the bedroom, crying.

  “I will kill them one by one, anyone who gets in my way. An eye for an eye,” he said, lightly touching the sharp point of the knife against his right eyelid.

  Chapter 69

  Bright sun streamed through curtain slots into Katie Kottle’s eyes. She batted at the dust-filled rays, rolled over in bed and spooned against Jeb Porter’s nude body.

  “Are you awake? It’s almost eight. The paper should be here any minute. I can’t wait,” Kottle said. “We did it. Just think, we may have written the most important story of this decade.”

  “Mummf...what? Go back to sleep; I’m beat,” Porter said, waking from a sound sleep.

  Porter’s apartment door vibrated as the Sunday edition of the Detroit Times thumped against it.

  “Woohoo, it’s here.” Kottle hopped out of bed, grabbed a short robe from a chair and pranced to the door.

  “The biggest day of my life and all I want to do is sleep.” Porter sat up in bed, yawning, rubbing his eyes.

  Other footsteps sounded in the apartment hallway, followed by a door slammed shut.

  “It’s gone; where is it? Did that lady next door take it again?” Kottle said, cracking the door open.

  “That old bitch,” Porter said, slipping out of bed. He donned his long blue robe and darted out the door into the hallway. Kottle followed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kottle leaned her head against old lady Purdle’s apartment door. “I don’t hear anyone.”

  “I know you took the paper. Please return it now. I will let you read it later.” Porter wrapped lightly on the door. “God dammit, Mrs. Purdle, give us the paper,” he whispered.

  “Buck Fever. I told you it was Buck Fever. I knew those rat bastards had Buck Fever,” she said from inside her apartment.

  “What is she talking about?” Kottle asked.

  “Nothing. Come on, please give us the paper.”

  “Not until you apologize. I told you they all had Buck Fever and you wouldn’t believe me. You rat bastards think that an old woman doesn’t know these things.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. You were right.”

  “I’m totally confused,” Kottle said.

  Purdle opened her door several inches and slipped the newspaper into Porter’s hands.

  “Say you’re sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, but you know this is my newspaper.”

  “Rat bastard,” she said, slamming her door.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What’s that about?” Kottle asked as they retreated into Porter’s apartment.

  “Remember back in November when you were here and I told you that I wrestled the paper away from her that morning? Well, she read Dingman’s story and said the men, Lopez and Greppleton, probably had Buck Fever, and—”

  “So, it wasn’t your idea? You stole it from that old lady?” Kottle said, slamming her fist into Porter’s arm.

  “Ouch, what’s the big deal?”

  “You bitched about Dingman and Pillbock stealing your headline, and it wasn’t even yours, and oh, wow...” Kottle lifted the paper and saw the headline and her name in the byline. “Buck Fever by Katherine Kottle, Jebediah Porter and Louis Dingman. Contributing articles by Joe Chekless and Casper Jordan. At least we have top billing.” She kept reading. “Pillbock didn’t cut a thing that I can see.” She paged through several continuation pages in the next section. “It’s all here. Wow, look at these drawings of the Egyptian Pyramids and the old man, and the Salem witches and—”

  “Okay, my turn,” Porter said, grabbing the front page from her left hand.

  “Do you think this makes me sound stupid? This whole thing about Rachel and Reno, and that man they arrested with the blonde girl. It gives me the creeps.”

  “No, it’s all part of the story. Dingman sure knows his stuff; I have to give him that. Look at this; he’s dredged up references to the Bible and seven prophets all living around the time of Christ. He’s suggested they may have used some extract of Ergotamine to perform their miracles. That should throw the religious right into a hissy fit. I’ll bet we get more email about that, than the story as a whole.”

  “Where’s Gunter? He should be here by now,” Kottle said rubbing her cheek.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Huh? Nothing, I was just reading this part about what I said in the hospital.”

  “Damn, you gave me a scare. I thought...never mind. By the way, Dingman called last night and said Pillbock wants to talk to us in his office at noon tomorrow.”

  “At least we can sleep in then. This is so great. I can’t believe it.”

  Porter sat on the bed and continued to read. Kottle kneeled behind him, pressing her breasts against his back.

  “Hey, that’s not fair. I, ah...ooh...umm.”

  Chapter 70

  Sleek green glass of the Times building held Kottle’s attention as she accompanied Porter to the front entrance. The
y briefly stopped, giggled at each other then entered.

  “God, my knees are shaking. How do you think Pillbock is going to react?” Kottle said, entering the elevator. Porter followed her in and pushed the 14th-floor button.

  “It will be another look-and-learn experience, I’m sure.”

  Kottle nodded and waited patiently for the door to open.

  ~ ~ ~

  Dingman greeted them on the 14th floor and the three entered Pillbock’s office.

  “What do you think; isn’t it a gorgeous piece of work?” Kottle said.

  “It is beyond extraordinary, eh?”

  “Good morning, my three star reporters. Are you ready for the follow-up activities,” Pillbock said, rocking back in his leather desk chair. “We need to plan our responses.”

  “What’s the verdict? Did our readers love it or hate it?” Porter asked.

  “Let’s just say, it’s about even. The Blogs just came out an hour ago. For many, the story was depressing. Some have vowed never to eat deer meat again; others have vowed never to eat grain. Some expressed a new fear of deer. And, as you might expect, the references to the Bible are being deeply questioned.”

  “Man, that doesn’t sound good. I thought we had the story of the century,” Porter said.

  “I’m feeling dizzy,” Kottle said, holding her head with both hands.

  “They are not getting it, eh, boss?” Dingman said, chuckling.

  “Why are you acting so giddy?”

  “You will see, just wait.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kottle said.

  “There are no negative references to you three personally or the newspaper, just paranoia that the public was kept in the dark for many years. We’ve aroused emotional conspiracy.” Pillbock raised his right hand and pulled down, ringing a non-existent bell. “Newsday wants to do a follow-on story. They have already covered the disease containment at the MDCC, but asked to interview us personally. The major TV networks have called about doing a series. And guess who wants to interview my girl?” Pillbock said.

  “The Tonight Show?” Kottle asked, face beaming.

  Pillbock nodded.

  “Wahoo. Wouldn’t Rachel be proud?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, Rachel, my lost twin sister.”

  Dingman acted nervous and began pacing. Pillbock stood up, walked to the rear office door, and opened it.

  “Who?” Pillbock asked again.

  “What’s going on?” Kottle said, glancing at the three men.

  Porter shrugged. “Got me.”

  Dingman snickered and sat deep into a sofa chair.

  “You mean this Rachel,” Pillbock said.

  A striking, black-haired woman wearing a plain-black dress and simple black shoes haltingly entered the room. A prominent half-moon-shaped mole showed on her left cheek. Ida Kottle followed the hesitant woman into the room.

  “Holy Mother,” Porter said, gasping.

  “It’s you, it’s—RACHEL!” Katie blurted, stepping forward. “How, where?”

  “Hi, Katie,” Rachel said, as they hugged tightly. “I’ve missed you. We talked six months ago, but you didn’t know who I was.”

  “I know. I know. God, who found you? How did you get away from that awful man?”

  “Best leave that story for another time. Let’s just enjoy the moment.”

  “This is so wonderful. I wish your mother could see this,” Ida Kottle said, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “It took some doing, but we tracked her down, didn’t we Louis. It took persuading, but she’s here and that’s what counts,” Pillbock said.

  “You didn’t want to come?” Kottle asked.

  “I was scared, mainly hiding from Gunter in Texas. Now that he’s in jail, I don’t feel so terrified anymore.”

  “Oh, my God, Rachel, what you’ve been through; I can’t imagine.”

  “You knew and didn’t tell me?” Porter said.

  Dingman winked, pointed two fingers at Porter and back at his eyes.

  Pillbock returned to his desk, opened a drawer and removed five plane tickets.

  “Here, the Board was so enchanted by your story, they told me to send you all to Hawaii for two weeks.”

  Katie, Rachel and Ida Kottle hugged and cheered.

  “And..., it is Christmas. God bless everyone,” Dingman said, crossing his heart. “Also beats the free meal card, eh?”

  “Look and learn,” Porter said, smiling.

  Pillbock looked at Dingman and winked.

  Epilogue

  Detroit Times internal memo from the Editor’s Desk:

  Louis,

  I have selected these back-stories from you, Joe and Casper. You know the drill: integrate them into your story. Some are too graphic and need work for consumption by the general public, but okay for our online edition. Get with Eddy in Research and completely explore Ergotism. Play up its connection to LSD. Get with Casey in the Art Dept. to illustrate—his work is genius. I want facts, speculation (not yours—the experts), and great drama. Jeb and Katie need prodding; push, push, push.

  Cory

  P.S. Another Chalet card in it for you if you can pull this off in two weeks.

  2500 B.C. – Egyptian Influence

  By: Casper Jordan

  The grizzled-faced dark-skinned old man sat legs crossed in sand, holding out the small clay bowl of goat urine and mineral-spring water to the sun awaiting purification. A loosely tied white cloth adorned his head sheltering his eyes while offering a cooling effect on his exposed back as sweat evaporated from a dangling cotton flap. A soiled white cloth, worn like shorts, covered the loins of an otherwise naked body. His hardened leg and arm muscles flexed showing rigid structure as he stretched his offering upward. With eyes tightly closed, he faced the sun’s dazzling rays waiting for inspiration.

  Ten men, similarly dressed as the old man, circled him ten meters away. The problem had perplexed them for one full moon. How could they cut the bridge stone that must cover the west airshaft to the main burial chamber so the shaft can be diverted toward the east? Two previous attempts ended abruptly, crushing bodies and taking days to remove. The bridge stone had collapsed under the weight of another layer of stone. Quarry stones on rolling logs, one behind the other, waited in anticipation of fixing the problem. Each day of delay would result in pushing the men harder to catch up. The Pharaoh expressed discontent; each man would share that discontent in painful retribution as encouragement to find a solution.

  ~ ~ ~

  A triangular-shaped mountain loomed in the distance. A parade of loin-clothed men dotted the landscape moving large blocks of limestone up the long-winding ramp to the top. Ten years of daily toil had proved to the Pharaoh his vision could be completed. It would become a constant reminder for all generations of his existence. He shared his good nature with the men who were building this monument in his name. He offered them good food: the finest grains baked into bread, and fresh fruit carried in daily. Goats herded and nurtured into offerings for the gods, provided milk and cheese for the builders. Tightly plugged containers of aging-grape liquid stood in a corner of each worker’s room, kept full, allowing a graceful end to a hard day’s work.

  The growing season of the past four moons was unusually wet. The first wheat crop wilted and turned reddish-brown and consequently, the Pharaoh directed it be burned. The wheat could poison the men and stop work. To eat or possess the scourged wheat was forbidden. Another golden crop was sown, grown to perfection and harvested in time to replenish the diminished stores of flour.

  ~ ~ ~

  The old man lowered the bowl with his left hand and put his right hand into a small leather sack held tightly between his legs, retrieving a handful of darkened grain. He quickly flexed his right hand over the bowl, let the reddish-brown kernels fall into the goat urine, and raised it up to the sun again.

  The surrounding group of men became agitated and nervous.

  The shadow of the old man’s body moved slow
ly along the ground showing the agonizing passage of time. The bowl suddenly tipped dumping a yellow-brown soup into the old man’s eyes, nostril and mouth. He quickly pushed the grain falling on his cheeks into his nose, and further into his sinus cavities.

  The waiting group began chanting the Pharaoh’s name, each time getting louder.

  The old man flopped backwards onto the sand. His body straightened and writhed like a snake. The ten men leaped forward and kneeled around the old man holding him down.

  “Ra-Horakhty. Ra-Horakhty,” the old man shouted skyward. His body contorted in apparent pain.

  “Ra will light the way. The truth will come to him,” one of the ten men whispered.

  The old man struggled to sit up, still shouting. Suddenly, his body became limp; the men let go and stood up. The old man raised up on his elbows as several men held up a diagram of the shaft and bridge stone sketched on an arm’s-length sheet of papyrus. In slow deliberation, he pointed to the bridge stone, then directed attention to the sand below and drew a horizontal octagon-shaped block suspended over two vertical octagon-shaped blocks. He then demonstrated how other blocks loaded on top would distribute the weight away from the center column of the shaft.

  The men stood in silent reverence, nodding agreement, then chanted the Pharaoh’s name as before.

  The old man held a finger under each nostril and blew brownish mucus into a cloth offered by one of the attending men. He carefully mopped the soupy liquid from his face, removed wet sand beneath his feet, put it into the cloth, and wrapped it tightly. He stood up, staggered to a cooking area and tossed the wadded cloth into a fire pit, burning it. The hidden leather sack, containing the reddish-brown grain, remained fastened to his inner left thigh.

  Two men worked diligently to change the drawings on papyrus for direction to the quarry artisans in the morning.