Fox Tracks

CHAPTER 5

Ornate wrought-iron lamps, installed in 1877, on the long curving main drive at Custis Hall, contrasted with the clean Federal architecture of the earliest buildings on campus built in 1812. The building bordered quads named after the trees planted on them. One could readily see when the money poured into the school, as it was reflected in the architecture.

Those buildings constructed in the 1980s were mercifully hidden around the Blue Spruce quad, way in the back, a half mile from the original Federal building. One good thing about these particular three long, low-slung buildings was they looked better than the examples from the 1970s.

At the rear of the blue glass building, Art DuCharme with Donny Sweigart, both men in their thirties, maneuvered a heavy wooden crate off the back of a small moving van onto a forklift. A Custis Hall groundskeeper drove the forklift and the two men followed him into the building.

A service elevator, thankfully huge, had enough room for the forklift to deposit the large box.

When the elevator reached the fourth floor, Tariq Al McMillan met Art and Donny. He rolled a low metal dolly over and the two delivery men jiggled it onto the dolly. Art steadied the end of the box while Donny walked beside it.

Tariq rolled the large, heavy object into a large office with floor to ceiling windows. The entire campus unfolded before him, to the west.

“Do you need a crowbar?” Donny asked, staring at the crate.

“Here, let’s put it right here.” Tariq directed them to the windows. “I think my big claw hammer will do.”

Knowing it wouldn’t, Donny left without a word, returning with a crowbar and a power drill with a Phillips head. Reversing the direction, he could spin out screws.

After twenty careful minutes, an ultramodern desk emerged. A heavy glass top—so heavy the sides were green—was supported by two graceful steel legs and supports. Like bridge cables, they ran diagonally between each side’s front and rear legs. The desk resembled a suspension bridge.

“Ah.” Tariq clapped his hands once the desk sat in place, directly in front of the large window.

“Pretty amazing.” Donny admired the cool piece of furniture.

Tariq dug into his pocket, giving each man a fifty-dollar tip.

Donny looked at Ulysses S. Grant. “Tariq, this is too much. You paid enough to get the desk here.”

“It’s not too much. I’ve been waiting six months for this desk. I’m grateful for your help. And I’m grateful in the hunt field, too. Teenage girls can be a lot to handle.”

Donny laughed. “I’m practicing. Sybil is pushing forty and she’s a lot to handle.”

The three men laughed.

Art checked his watch. “We’ve got one more pickup. Tariq, thanks for the tip.”

As they left, Tariq settled in his comfortable desk chair, leaned his elbows on the desktop, and admired the steeple on the campus chapel, noticing clouds piling up behind the mountains.

Donny and Art walked to the small moving van, a square-box Chevy Topkick from the late nineties. Art said, “Margaret went to school here. She got a scholarship.”

“She’s made the most of it. I bet being a sports doctor she makes good money.”

“You know, I make more than she does and I don’t pay as many taxes.” He laughed.

“Yeah, but you have to worry about getting caught.”

Both men laughed as Art drove west from Custis Hall to Walter Lungrun’s place, Mill Ruins. They did not go in the main entrance, a long gravel driveway that led to the huge mill where a two-story waterwheel still turned.

Instead, Art turned down a rarely used rutted farm road. “It’s Lungrun’s operating day. He wouldn’t notice the tracks anyway. No one uses this road. Well, hardly.”

The truck hit a deep rut sending Donny, not wearing his seat-belt, upward. “Jesus.”

“Yep. Sometimes in the spring or summer, maybe Lungrun drives back here. He’s got that Wrangler.”

“Well, let’s hope no one comes back here. Anyway, it’s supposed to snow. That should cover our tracks.”

“Place used to be full of people. Shootrough was what they called it because it was full of high grasses. Everyone would come in the fall, expensive shotguns. Walking through here, the quail would fly up—I bet there were hundreds of them. A lot of farms had shooting places then, but this one was special, more natural and full of game.”

“Can’t much do it now. The laws against shooting hawks and falcons means the big birds have about wiped out the ground nesters. Not that I’m a big fan of shooting anything but deer. Still. Seems too barren.”

They drove up to a large metal-sided building, color faded, roof good, windows still intact.

They stepped from the warm truck into the cold.

Art, with conviction, said, “No broken windows after all these years. You know nobody comes back here.”

“Sometimes the hunt does,” said Donny, “but no one goes in the building. Well, let’s get the stuff out of here.”

Art slipped his key into the big metal lock and opened a side door. The two men then carried twelve-by-twelve-inch cartons over the concrete floor from the building. The truck’s back door was rolled up and they loaded the cartons onto the bed of the box.

Donny pulled himself inside the truck’s rear compartment as Art continued bringing cartons. Donny walked to the back, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a beeper, like one would use to open a car or truck door. Pressing its button, he heard a click and a beep. A flat door, what looked like the back of the truck, opened, revealing a three-foot-wide space spanning the width of the truck.

Donny rapidly packed the cartons into this space. Art brought out the last ones, then climbed aboard dragging a small metal step-ladder over to Donny. He handed him cartons as Donny stacked them all the way to the top of the hidden space.

“They’re tight as a tick,” Donny remarked from the top of the ladder.

“Yeah, but let’s use the cords.” Art stooped to retrieve long, flat, heavy woven plastic cords, which the two men fastened into recessed large eyelet screws inside the hidden door. They tightened three bands of the plastic, further securing the boxes.

Once finished, Donny pressed the beeper and the false back closed. He handed the beeper to Art.

Back in the truck, Art leaned over Donny and opened the glove compartment where he placed the beeper, which had a long black ribbon attached.

“Cut the motor on, Art. It’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

“How would you know?” Art sassed him. “You haven’t been to bed with any witches.”

“How do you know?”

Art cut on the motor and the mid-sized truck engine rumbled to life. “You’re right. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

“Well, Art, every time I open that door inside the box, I think, damn, you did a good job,” said Donny. “You can do just about anything with a car or truck. I never wonder about you.”

“Hey, that’s my line of work, but building a false bottom or back or compartment is pretty easy. The trick is hiding the seams, fooling or diverting the eye.”

They bounced back down the awful road.

Once out on the decent two-lane highway, Donny asked, “When do you want to deliver this?”

“Let me call and double check, but I figure middle of the night Sunday.”

“I’m good with that.” Donny unzipped his heavy jacket as the truck heater worked its magic. “People are saying you’re running the still again.”

“Mmm. Don’t worry about it.”

“If there’s enough talk, Ben Sidell might have someone stop you on the road.”

“Donny, don’t worry about it. No cop is going to find the hidden compartment and I know every byway so we can avoid the weigh stations. Haven’t gotten caught yet.”

“Right.”

“And you’re making money. Good money.” Art reached for the round can on the seat of the truck for a dab of chew. “What are you going to do with all that money?”

Donny smiled broadly. “I got plans.”

Art smiled back. “Me, too.”