Full Cry. The Hunt Ball

But hounds aren’t bred to show and prance. They’re bred to hunt. The qualities that appeal to show judges are rather insulting to a hound. His or her job is to put that nose to the ground and find the quarry, or, if a sight hound, to catch a glimpse of quarry and give rousing chase. Intelligence, determination, a beautiful stride, and marvelous lung capacity—such treasures may be overlooked by the judges as yet another fetching cairn, jaunty Scottie, or Standard poodle in full French cut paraded out like an actor greedy for applause. The hound doesn’t want applause; it wants the fox, the rabbit, the otter, the raccoon.

Year after year, Sister, like so many other devoted hound people, watched unbelievable specimens in the hound category be overlooked in the final showdown. Disappointed, angry, she’d return to the Carlyle Hotel, vowing never again to waste her money by coming back to Westminster. Of course, she didn’t outwardly display this anger, but to see once again the best of the hound group—a group now of twenty-two breeds—get passed by was too much!

The hound group in 1941 contained seventeen breeds. It had expanded over the decades, although not as much as other groups. That didn’t bother her. After all, each time a new breed is accepted by the AKC, it’s more money for them. She didn’t begrudge them that, even though some of the groups were so large one needed a No-Doz to sit through them.

No, she begrudged the prejudice against hounds.

“Godammit!” She threw the 1997 book on the floor. She picked up the older edition, much thumbed over the years, smoothing down the old spine before placing it on the nightstand.

Rooster, startled, barked,“What’s the matter with her?”

“Westminster’s coming up, first week of February, Ithink.”Raleigh chortled.“We’ll watch it on TV together.You won’t believe what will come out of her mouth. Shegets so excited, we can’t let anyone else watch it with her,except for Betty and Tedi. They know her so well and loveher so much, if she loses her temper and cusses a bluestreak, they’ll laugh. Most people have no idea how passionate our mother is.”

“She has to keep a lid on it because she’s the Big Cheese,” Golly, on her back next to Sister, added.

“True,”Rooster agreed.

“Golly, Sister doesn’t go to cat shows. That’s proof shelikes dogs better than cats,”Raleigh slyly said.

“Balls. Why go to a cat show? Every single cat is perfect,the crown of creation. The fun of a dog show is seeing the imperfections in you miserable canines.”

“How do you stand her?”Rooster whispered.

“By tormenting her.”Raleigh giggled.

“Furthermore, no cat in the universe is going to walkdown a green carpet, stand on a table, and let somestranger inspect her fangs. Ridiculous. Why, I’d sink my fangs in the fat part of that silly judge’s thumb in a skinnyminute.”

“Oh, you scare me.”Raleigh rolled his brown eyes.“I’ve got your catnip mousie, the one covered with rabbitfur. Thought I’d swallow it.”Raleigh put the little mousie in his mouth, fake tail dangling out.

“Thief!”Golly vaulted off the bed.

Raleigh just turned his head from side to side as Golly tried to get her mousie. Her stream of abuse reached such a pitch that Sister put down the more calming book she was reading, a reexamination of the Punic Wars.

“All right, Raleigh, give her the toy. Don’t be ugly.” She turned on her side, opened the drawer in the nightstand, and took out two greenies: little green bones made in Missouri. “Here.” She tossed one to Raleigh and one to Rooster.

Raleigh dropped the mousie to grab the greenie. Golly snatched up the soggy toy, leapt back up on the bed, and batted it around for good measure.

“You know, Golly, today is Mozart’s birthday in Salzburg, 1756.” Sister could remember dates. “Hmm, also the day of the cease-fire in Vietnam, 1972. A good day, I would suppose, January twenty-seventh.” She noticed the cat taking the toy, pulling back a corner of the pillow, and shovingit underneath.

“He won’t find it there, the big creep.”

Sister laughed, watching the cat. She abruptly stopped.“A cache. I didn’t notice the caches today. Like you, Golly, the big cat kept a kind of pantry. Don’t see too many of the mountain lions. I wasn’t looking for the signs, but foxes do the same thing, smaller scale.” She picked up the book, then let it fall in her lap. “My God, I’m a dolt.”

“Now what?”Rooster’s voice was garbled as he was chewing.

“A cache. The storage unit is a cache. Storage houses like that don’t just burn down. People don’t set fires to them to see the flames.” She looked at the animals, who were now looking at her. “But I don’t get it. What’s being hidden in that cache? What could be worth that kind of violence? And to whom? Clay? Xavier? Both? Who was found burned? I don’t get it.”

“Well, you’d better keep your mouth shut until you do,” Golly rudely but wisely said.

CHAPTER 26

In small towns, people notice one another. Tedi Bancroft would have lunch with Marty Howard. Someone would notice. Word would spread. Not that this is a bad thing, but it can lead to that great Olympic sport: people jumping to conclusions.

Then, too, there is a certain type of personality who lives by the motto“There is no problem that can’t be blown out of proportion.” The media is filled with just such personalities, but they thrive even among other segments of the population.

Knowing that, Sister asked Ben Sidell to swing by the farm sometime Wednesday. If seen together in town, any number of scenarios would have been bandied about.

The two sat chatting in the library.

“That was my first thought,” Ben confessed, after hearing Sister’s conjecture. “Berry Storage would be the obvious place.” He reached for a sandwich. “Fortunately, most people who own good silver and jewelry keep an inventory. Many now mark the items themselves in some unobtrusive spot, a number, a series of letters. If they haven’t catalogued their goods, they have photographs with duplicates to the insurance agency. It’s fairly easy to rip off a car and sell it. With something as unique as George II silver, it’s not easy to fence. Something like that usually is goingout of the country.”

“What about a ritzy shop on Madison Avenue, a high-class fence?”

“We’d track it down, most likely. Now if the goods are presold, if you will, the items go directly to, say, a buyer in Seattle, we probably wouldn’t find them. Sometimes you get lucky, though.”

“After reading the papers about the silver thefts in Richmond, I thought … well, you know what I thought.”

“Logical.” Ben appreciated her concern. “Quite logical that antique furniture and silver could be crated and hidden at Berry Storage, shipped out, and it would all look like business as usual. Worth millions of pure profit, no taxes.”

“I see.” She crossed her legs. “And everything in the burned building is accounted for?”

“No. The insurance investigator from Worldwide Security is still working through what she can. What we did when we could get in there without melting the bottom of our shoes was to open the crates. The ones in the back were intact. Nothing was burned, although everything smells like smoke. Wechecked to see if anything was on the list of items stolen from Richmond. Nothing. Naturally, we’ll work with the insurance investigator—her examination will be detailed—but I don’t think Berry Storage has been a way station for this high-class theft ring.”

“For the sake of argument,” she uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, “if remnants of stolen silver or Chippendale chairs are found, is it possible that something like this could be done without Clay knowing about it?”

“Unlikely, but yes, it is possible.”

“Or they could both be in on it … Clay and X. Selling stolen goods, collecting insurance on the fire.”

He shrugged.“That’s possible, too.”

“I’ve wasted your time with my ideas. I was so sure I was onto something with the theft ring,” she paused, “because of yesterday’s hunt.”

“Heard it was wild.” He smiled.

“That it was, but what set my mind in motion was how my attention was so focused on the chase that I missed the danger signals, the signs of the mountain lion. I rather thought this might be the same sort of thing.” She blushed.

“It might. When I get an I.D. on the body, that should help.”

“I would think it would. And no one locally has been reported missing?”

He looked at her intently.“No. Think how many people live alone. If our victim was a loner, I might not get a missing-person call until his coworkers report it. If the victim doesn’t have a regular job …” He threw up his hands. “But I’m confident we’ll get a dental match soon.”

“Baffling.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

“Do you think this has anything to do with the deaths of Mitch and Tony?”

“I don’t know. At this point, I don’t see a connection.”

“Nor do I.” She put her forefingers on the sides of her temples for a second. “And yet, the warehouses aren’t far from where those men lived the last part of their lives. They were throwaway labor, for lack of a better term. Perhaps they were literally thrown away.”

“It’s a stretch.”

“I know. And I’m just running on. I don’t have an ounce of evidence, but I do feel something, something disquieting, and I’m probably making too much of missing the signs after yesterday’s lion hunt.” She smiled slightly.

“I like having you on my team,” he reassured her.

CHAPTER 27

Cold though it was, Crawford kept up with his riding. He’d go out with Fairy Thatcher, though he was beginning to prefer riding with Sam. Fairy demurred giving him advice. Sam offered guidance to him as they rode, paying special attention to Crawford’s hands over a jump.

Ambition burned in the Indiana native. He desperately wanted to be a good rider. He was surrounded by people who had been riding while still in their mother’s bellies. It made him all the more determined.

He and Sam entered the stables after a cold ride. They’d been going over Crawford’s farm, digressing into personalities in the hunt field.

“Sam, Virginia’s full of damned snobs.”

“Sure it is. You can see them coming a mile away. You don’t have to buy into it.”

“How’d you get so smart?” Crawford had a hint of humor in his voice.

“By nearly drinking myself to death. I had to be that stupid to get smart.”

Crawford’s eyes narrowed. He picked up the riding crop. “Why’d you do it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t. I suppose there are a lot of reasons for drinking, but no excuses. I thought I’d fill up the hollows in my life with bourbon. I wasn’t a prince among men.”

“Who is?”

“Peter Wheeler came pretty close. And there’s my brother.”

“I underestimated you, Sam. There’s more to you than I thought.”

“Maybe that makes two of us.”

Crawford grunted. He slapped the smaller, slighter man on the back, and left for the big house. He had a lot to think about as he strode through the brisk air.

The phone rang in the tack room.

“Sam.”

“Rory, how are you doing?”

“I’m doing.” His voice thickened. “It’s hard, man. How’d you do it?”

“One day at a time.”

“But how do you live with all the shit you’ve done?”

“That’s a bitch. Rory, you ask the people you’ve hurt to forgive you. If they don’t, there’s not much you can do about it. The hard part is forgiving yourself. And no matter what you do, there are people who will never trust you. You just go on.”

“Yeah.” A long pause followed. “I called to thank you for dragging my sorry ass down here.”

“I was glad to do it. Hey, Rory, you hear about Berry Storage burning?”

“Don’t hear nothing from home in here.”

“One of the smaller buildings caught fire. Arson. Found a body inside.”

“Jesus.”

“I thought one of our guys might have figured out how to get in.”

“Well, that’s another reason I called. About Mitch and Tony. I don’t know where they got what they drank, but funny you should mention Berry Storage. Sometimes Clay or Donnie Sweigert would come down and get us to help make deliveries. You did some of that?”

“Yeah, a little. We’d tote chairs to a house. About broke my back.”

Well, we’d go to Lynchburg or Roanoke, even Newport News. Cities all over. I remember once we delivered an expensive desk down to Bristol.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, here’s what I remembered. All of those odd jobs where they needed an extra pair of hands were deliveries to coaches. You know, like sports.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Christ, all you cared about was horses. Yeah, we’d deliver a chair to a football coach at this high school or a sofa to a college basketball coach or maybe the trainer.”

“Odd.”

“I might have been drunk as a skunk, but, hey, the Orioles are the world, and Tech football, bro, awesome. I pay attention to those things.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don’t. Just crossed my mind.”

“What about other deliveries?”

“None. Just coaches and trainers. And here’s one other thing, on those runs, the ones where us scumbags were used, always the same driver: Donnie Sweigert.”

“Donnie works for Berry Storage. Nothing unusual in that.”

“Maybe not, but you’d think sometimes we’d pull another driver. Always Donnie.”

“Huh.” Sam couldn’t make heads nor tails of this.

“I gotta go. They keep us pretty structured.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

Rory’s voice, heavy with emotion, simply said, “I guess I gotta grow up.”

“Grow or die.”

CHAPTER 28

A thin cloud cover, like a white fishnet, covered the sky on Thursday morning. The mercury stalled out at thirty-eight degrees.

Hounds checked down by a man-made lake at Orchard Hill, the day’s fixture.

As Sister waited on a rise above the lake, a froth rising off the still waters, she reflected on the past. In 1585, Sir Walter Raleigh founded the Lost Colony of Roanoke. What would Raleigh make of Virginia now?

She also wondered what those first Native Americans thought when they saw ships with billowing white sails. They must have felt curiosity and terror.

What would this lush rolling land be like four hundred years hence, could she return? Would the huntsman’s horse still echo, rising up as the mist now rose at Rickyroo’s hooves?

At least if Raleigh returned, he would recognize the hunt. Back then, though, they hunted in far more colorful clothing, knee-high boots turned down, revealing a soft champagne color inside. Over time, these evolved into the tan-topped formal hunt boots worn by men and some lady staff members, if the master allows the ladies to wear scarlet—still a topic of dispute among foxhunters. The flowing lace at the neck became the stock tie by the early eighteenth century. But apart from the clothing, those seventeenth-century men would know hound work, good hounds, good horses and, from all accounts, good women, as well as a surfeit of existing bad ones.

Tedi, Edward, Xavier, Ron, Gray, Jennifer, and Sari made up First Flight, the two girls allowed to ride on Thursdays. Sister had petitioned their science teacher at the high school, citing environmental studies. The teacher, an old friend, Greg Windom, agreed. After each hunt, the two students had to write up what they had observed.

This morning they observed a huge blue heron lift off from the lake when he heard the hounds, cawing raucously as he ascended.

A slow-moving creek lurched into the lake on high ground; an overflow pipe at the other end of the built-up lake flowed into that same creek some four feet below. In warmer weather, the creek was filled with five-inch stink-pot turtles: little devils, aggressive and long-necked. They’d snap at you, steal your bait if you were fishing for rockfish or even crawdaddies. Catch one and the odor made your eyes water.

Sister had taught geology at Mary Baldwin College before marrying, although her major had been what was then called the natural sciences. But Mary Baldwin had needed a geology teacher, so she voraciously read anything she could and was smart enough to go out with the guys from the U.S. Geological Survey in the area. They taught her more than anything she found in the books.

She passed on what she could to Jennifer and Sari when they asked questions, but she didn’t push them. As years rolled on, Sister had ample opportunity to be thankful for her study of rock strata, soil, erosion, and such. It helped her foxhunt. People would remark that Sister had uncanny game sense. Yes and no. She had never stopped studying soils, plants, and other animals. While she realized she would never know what the fox knew, she was determined to get as close as she could.

She’d hunted most of her seven decades, starting at six on an unruly pony. She still didn’t know how a fox could turn scent on and off, even though she had seen it with her own eyes. She’d seen hounds go right over a fox. Days later that same fox might put down a scorching trail for hounds.

In her wildest dreams, she prayed to Artemis to allow her to be a fox for one day and then return to her human form. Since this prayer went unanswered, she continued to read, learn from other notable foxhunters, and study her quarry. She knew her hounds, but she knew she would never truly know her foxes.

They knew her. The fox possessed a deep understanding of the human species as well as other species. The quickness of the animal’s mind, its powers of judgment, and its ability continually to adapt were phenomenal. The two times a fox would lose its good judgment were when it heard the distress call of a cub, any cub, and during mating season, when the boys were lashed on by their hormones. This is not uncharacteristic of higher mammals.

One such fellow, maddened by desire, now found himself eight miles from home, smack in the middle of Orchard Hill. The hounds picked him up, then lost him at the lake.

He’d dashed around the lake, leapt straight down from the overflow pipe into the creek, and swam straight downstream until he rolled up against a newly built beaver dam. He thought about ducking under the water, coming up into the lodge, but beavers are notoriously inhospitable, even to a fox in distress. He climbed up on the dam, gathered his haunches and, soaring over to the first lodge, alighted on top. He heard the commotion inside. He hopped from lodge to lodge, finally jumping from the last one onto the land. He had outwitted everyone. Catching his breath, he enjoyed a leisurely trot home.

While the hounds cast themselves at the lake bed, Trident, an excellent nose, found a middling scent: a gray dog fox. He kept his nose down and as it warmed, he spoke very softly. Trinity, bolder than her brother and littermate, walked over.

“Line!”Trinity called out.

Cora trotted over and checked it out.“Let’s give it atry.”

The rest of the pack, eighteen couple today, joined them, although the pace was relatively slow. The American hound doesn’t run with its nose stuck to the ground like glue. The animal inhales, lifts its head slightly, moves along, then perhaps thirty yards later, puts its nose to the ground. As each hound is doing this, the line is well researched. And the whole point of a pack is that hounds must trust one another as well as their huntsman.

Shaker knew the line was so-so. He also knew it couldn’t be the first fox they had run; the line would have been hotter, the music louder. As it was, hounds opened but never in full-throated chorus. They were more like geese, calling out flight coordinates at this moment.

But as hounds moved away from the lake, climbing to higher ground, frosty pastures still in shadows, the pace quickened. The music grew louder.

A tiger trap squatted in the three-board fence line. Shaker and Gunpowder easily popped over, the ground falling away on the landing side. They slipped a little, then the lovely thoroughbred stretched out as the hounds picked up speed. They covered the pasture, jumped a log jump into a woods filled with ancient hollies, twenty feet high, the tiny red berries enlivening the woods with endless dots of color. Called possumhaw by country people, swamp holly by newer folks, Shaker knew he’d be in a swamp soon enough. Possumhaws loved the muck.

Sister knew it, too. She also knew raccoon scent would be heavy as the coons love the berries in winter.

Hounds ran on despite the heavy odor of raccoons. The gray fox, a young one, thought the swamp would slow down his pursuers. He was right, but it also held scent. He needed to get up, get out, and fly across a meadow still untouched by the sun.

He figured this out at the end of the swamp, climbed over the slippery low banks, darted through an old pine woods, many of the Virginia pines having fallen from age, then hit the cold western meadow, revving his engine.

Gunpowder kept right up, but stumbled when he ran over flat rock in the piney woods. His right hoof skidded on the slick rock. He pitched forward, pitching Shaker with him. If a horse loses his balance or drops a shoulder, a human can rarely stay on. A cat couldn’t stay perched on even with claws. Shaker shot over Gunpowder’s shoulder, hitting the rock hard.

Gunpowder stopped, put his nose down on Shaker’s face.“You okay?”

Shaker didn’t move as Gunpowder stood by him.

Sister arrived within a minute. She hadn’t seen the fall. Quickly she dismounted and felt for a pulse. There was one, thank God.

She lifted one eyelid. His pupil was dilated. Fearing a concussion, she hoped it wasn’t worse. As for broken bones, no way to tell until he regained consciousness.

The other riders halted, watching with apprehension.“Ron, give me your flask.”

Ronnie quickly dismounted, handing his reins to Gray, and brought her his flask. He knelt beside her. She poured out a little alcohol in her hand and touched Shaker’s lips with it, then rubbed it on his cheeks. Blood rushed to his face, and he flushed.

His eyes fluttered. He started to sit up, but she held him down.

“Not yet.”

Ronnie moved behind his head, holding it.

“Shaker, can you feel your feet?”

“Uh.”

“What day is it?”

“Uh, hunting …”

“Can you feel your toes?”

His mind cleared a bit. He wriggled his toes in their scratched boots, polished many times.“Uh-huh.”

“Can you feel your fingers?”

He wiggled his fingers in his white string gloves.“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “Ronnie, don’t kiss me.”

“You asshole.” Ronnie laughed.

“What day is it?”

“Hunting day.”

“No. What day of the week?”

“Uh … what happened?” He started to sit up. Ronnie and Sister let him, since nothing seemed to be broken. He winced when he took a deep breath. “Ahhh.”

“Lucky it’s not worse.” Sister continued to kneel next to him.

“Cracked a few.” His breath was a little ragged when he inhaled. “I’ll tape them up.”

“It will only hurt when you breathe.” Ronnie stood up.

“You’re a big help.” Shaker wrapped his arms around his chest.

“And if you were the last man on earth, I wouldn’t kiss you.” Ronnie figured the best way to help him was to torment him. He was right.

“Jerk.”

“Asshole.”

“Gentlemen.” Sister shook her head.

“Sorry,” Ronnie said.

“Look, honey, you’ve cracked some ribs, maybe broken them. If you’d punctured a lung, we’d know; you can hear that plain as a tire hissing. But I think you’ve suffered a mild concussion.”

“Got no brains anyway.” He smiled his crooked grin, all the more appealing, given the circumstances.

“At least you admit it.” Ronnie leaned over, putting his hands under Shaker’s right armpit.

Sister did the same for his left.“One, two, upsy daisy.”

Shaker stood up unsteadily. Both friends kept hold. He rubbed his head, the horn still in his right hand.“Jesus.”

“Sister, I can call an ambulance.” Xavier carried a tiny cell phone inside his frock coat.

“I’m not riding in any goddamn ambulance. I fell off. Big deal.” Shaker’s head throbbed. He reached for Gunpowder’s reins.

“Don’t even think of it.” Sister took the reins instead.

“Well, someone’s got to stay up with the hounds.”

“Betty is there and so is Sybil. You are going to stay right here. Sari, I want you to stick with Shaker. Jennifer, ride back to the trailer, tie up your horse, drive my truck here, and then drive Shaker to Walter.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, and I’m the boss.” Her words had bite. “If you don’t go to Walter, as a precaution, and your damned bullheadedness costs us the season, you’ll have a lot more pain from me than what this fall has caused.”

“Hard boot,” he grumbled.

“You’ll call me worse than that.” She looked up. “Jennifer, move.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jennifer turned her horse, galloping back toward the trailers, which fortunately weren’t but a mile away.

Xavier said,“Sister, let me go back with her, and I’ll tie my horse next to hers. Just in case the horse gets silly by himself.”

“That’s a good idea, and X, go with her to Walter, will you? She’s only a kid, and I should have thought of that. John Wayne here might feel compelled to give her orders, such as to forget it. I’ve put her in a bad spot. I know he can’t do a thing with you.”

Xavier touched his crop to his derby and cantered off.

Shaker wanted to say something back, but he was foggier than he realized. Ronnie continued to hold him up. He blinked, then handed the horn to Sister.“Better kick on.”

She took the horn.“Jesus H. Christ on a raft,” is what she wanted to say. She’d hunted all her life, but she’d never carried the horn. She was the master. Her field, small though it was today, looked to her. It was her responsibility to provide sport. “Okay, I’ll give you a full report later.”

Ronnie stayed back with Sari and Shaker.

Sister walked away, not wishing to make Gunpowder or their horses fret. Once away from the three, she turned.“Edward, take the field, will you?”

“Delighted.” He nodded in assent.

The field now consisted of Tedi and Gray.

Sister moved out; she could hear hounds way in the distance. Rickyroo had speed to burn. Unless footing got trappy, she could get up with them in five or ten minutes. She trusted her two whippers-in and knew they’d be on either side.

Luck was with her. She had no heavy covert to negotiate, just open meadows, thin dividers of woods and trees on either side. She caught sight of her tail hounds climbing up a rolling meadow. Rickyroo opened his stride even more, and within minutes she was right behind Delia, Nellie, Asa, and Ardent, who were fifteen yards behind the rest of the pack.

She put the horn to her lips. A strangled sound slid out of the short horn.

“Oh, God,” she said.

“Just talk to us,”Asa advised.

She stuck the horn between her first and second coat buttons.“Whoop, whoop, whoop.”

Cora heard this, slightly turned her head.“Sister’s hunting us.”

“No joke.”Dasher smiled.“Guess we’d better be right.”

Diana, moving fast, literally leapt, turning in midair.“Tothe right!”As anchor, and in her second season at this demanding position, she had to keep everyone on the line, correct line at that. The fox executed a 90-degree cut, smack in the middle of the pastures.

Sister watched this. The other hounds came to Diana. Cora put her nose down, confirming the shift.

When hounds are doing their job, Sister thought to keep quiet. If she’d been in heavy covert, she would have tooted as best she could, so Betty and Sybil would know where she was. Not a good thing for the whippers-in to get thrown out.

Her questioning of why the fox would head straight north into another pasture was quickly answered when she galloped well into the pasture, having taken the coop, and saw the herd of Angus on the far side. He’d made a beeline for them.

Sure enough, hounds checked. How many times had she watched this? But now it was in her hands.

“Good foxhounds,” she called out to them, her voice encouraging. “Get ’em up.”

Hounds circled the cattle; Dasher moved right through them. Young Tinsel found the line on the other side, and off they ran. This side of Orchard Hill was divided into ten-to twenty-acre pastures that the owner used to rotate stock. Every fence contained jumps, which made it great fun, except that Sister was so intent on staying with hounds she never saw the jumps. She cleared them, eyes always on her hounds. Rickyroo was in his glory. He lived to run and jump.

Finally, they blasted into fifty acres of apple orchard on the right side of the farm road. On the south side, where there was more protection from sharp north winds, were fifty acres of peaches.

Orchards draw deer, raccoons, possums, and all manner of birds. Even rabbit feed on the edges. The place reeked of competing scents, which the temperature kept down.

But Cora, Diana, Asa, Ardent, Delia, and Nellie untangled the scents. The younger ones, while momentarily overwhelmed, quickly imitated their leaders. They kept on the fox.

He had put distance between them when he used the cattle. Try as they might, they couldn’t close it, but scent held.

Sister caught sight of Betty down on the farm road. She figured Sybil to be outside the orchard.

Edward, Tedi, and Gray were getting one hell of a hunt. They glided through the apple orchard, flattening grass soft underfoot, a welcome change from some of the footing they’d recently been over.

Sister, well up with her hounds, kept a sharp eye in case she might see her quarry. She’d see him before the hounds would.

On the other side of the orchard, a stout coop divided it from the hayfield. Rickyroo took it with ease, and Sister glimpsed the smallish gray.

“Yip, yip, yoo!”

Hounds knew what this meant from their master. Their adrenaline, already high, shot higher. They pressed.

Young though he was, the gray had some tricks in his bag. He looped around the hayfield, dipped into the narrow creek, came out, turned toward the peach orchard, which had a fire stand at the edge: a tower with a roof and ladder.

He climbed up the ladder and flopped on the lookout stand.

Hounds skidded to a halt underneath.

“He’s up there!”Trinity screamed in frustration.“Nofair.”

Rickyroo halted. Sister, not entirely sure that the gray had climbed, dismounted.“Ricky, hold the fort.”

Hounds milled under his legs, their excitement bubbling over. Trudy tried to climb the ladder, made it up three foot holds, only to fall flat on her back.

“Nitwit,”Cora said.

The hounds sang and sang. Edward, Tedi, and Gray arrived in time to see Sister’s small butt, covered by her buckskin breeches, moving up the ladder.

She peeped her head up and almost fell back as the small gray walked right up to her, putting his nose close to hers. Cowering wasn’t his style.

“If you throw me down, I’ll bite.”

“Well done, little fellow, well done.” She smiled at him and backed down. Then she plucked the horn from her first and second buttons and tried blowing “Gone to Ground.”

Blowing the horn proved easier if she wasn’t moving, but she needed work. Laughing, she took the mouthpiece from her lips, “Okay, so it doesn’t sound like ‘Gone to Ground.’ How about ‘Up in the Air’?”

Everyone had a good laugh, including the fox.

“Sister, that was thrilling,” Tedi enthused.

“You’re being very, very kind.”

Betty and Sybil came in just as Sister was blowing her mightiest.

“This is one for the books.” Betty smiled broadly.

“I don’t know about that.” Sister swung back up on Rickyroo, who was having the best day. “But I think it’s time to go in. We’ve sure had some big days, haven’t we?”

“And the reds have just started breeding,” Betty mentioned, knowing the grays had been at it for two or three weeks.

“I always said the best hunting is late January through February.” Sister, high from the chase, and having managed a few warbles, laughed.

“Grays cheat,”Trinity complained.

“No, that’s the way they do,”Asa reminded her.

“Not as bad as the time three years ago when a grayjumped in the backseat of Tedi’s car. He’d foiled his scent. She drove him home!”Cora giggled.

Since Jennifer and X had taken her truck, Sister, Betty, and Sybil loaded up hounds. Sari and Ronnie heard the whole story. They stayed back, waiting for Jennifer and Xavier to return.

Sister, using Betty’s cell phone, reached Jennifer on the truck phone as she pulled out from the hospital.

Shaker grabbed the phone.“Three cracked ribs, two separated, a mild concussion. I’m fine.”

Xavier took the phone from Shaker.“And he’s bald. Walter had his chest shaved before they taped him so it wouldn’t hurt when he took the bandages off. Such a manly chest.”

Sister heard Shaker laughing, then wince. She said,“We could sell tickets. Raise a little money for the club. You know, help your huntsman change his bandages, see his naked chest.”

“Wouldn’t get a dime,” X replied.

Once off the phone, Sister told the others,“He’s okay. Cracked ribs, two separated.”

Tedi and Edward both said,“Good news.” Tedi added, “And you did great!”

“All I had to do was keep up, that was enough. Let’s be honest, it was a pretty good day for scent.”

“Janie, you did great.” Tedi patted her arm. “Take the compliment.”

Sister smiled.“You’re right.”

Gray walked over.“Are we still on for tomorrow night at the club?”

“You know, dinner there is like taking an ad on local TV.”

“Exactly right.” Gray reached for her hand. “I’m serving notice on all other men.”

“Flatterer.” She laughed.

Betty, Sybil, Jennifer, and Sari, once back at Roughneck Farm, all helped get the hounds fed, cleaned, checked over. Then the girls took care of the horses.

Shaker kept trying to do chores until Sister finally lost her temper with him, banishing him to his cottage.

“He’s worse than a child,” she said to Betty and Sybil.

“They all are.” Betty kept working. “Overgrown boys.”

“But isn’t that what makes them fun?” Sybil, lonely for male companionship, winked.

“You’re right,” Sister agreed.

The phone rang in the office.

Betty hurried in to answer, then called for Sister.

After listening to Ben Sidell, Sister rejoined the others as they washed down the feed room.“Girls, they’ve identified the burned body. Donnie Sweigert.”

“Oh, no!” Sybil exclaimed.

Betty, too, exclaimed,“This is awful. What in God’s name was Donnie doing there?”

“Said he had a high alcohol content in his blood.” Sister thought Donnie not a very intelligent man, but how could he be dumb enough to be dead drunk, literally, in the middle of a fire?

“God, I hope there wasn’t hemlock in it,” Betty gasped.

“No.” Sister clasped her hands together.

“Well, he worked at the warehouse for years. Maybe he got drunk and fell asleep,” Sybil thought out loud.

“With a can of gasoline next to him?”

“Jesus.” Betty whistled.

“Before this is over, we’re all going to be calling for Jesus,” Sister said. “What is going on down there?”

“Doesn’t make any sense.” Sybil, too, was upset.

“It makes sense to somebody,” Betty rejoined.

“Yes—that’s what scares me,” Sister half whispered.

CHAPTER 29

“Old-fashioned,” Sister said, walking through the freshly washed-down kennels, water squishing under her ancient green Wellies.

Walter, having a light day this Friday, used the afternoon to check in on Shaker and to begin his hound education.“What do you mean by old-fashioned?”

“Oh, a little heavy boned in the foreleg, a bigger barrel than gets pinned in the ring these days, and a somewhat broader skull than is currently finding favor.” She closed and double-latched the heavy chain-link gate leading to the young-entry run. “You breed for the territory, Walter. You’ll get sick of hearing that from me, and truthfully, you breed the kind of hound you or your huntsman can handle. A lot of people can’t handle American hounds; the animal is too sensitive, too up for them.”

“Like house dogs? Some people like terriers; other people like golden retrievers.”

“In a sense, yes. But I swear there are more born liars in the foxhound world than anywhere else but golf and fishing.” She moved along to the hot bitch pen.

Sweetpea, having recently been bred, was already in the special girls’ pen, as Sister called it, the hot bitch pen and whelping area. A steady hound, not brilliant, Sweetpea, when crossed to Sister’s A line or Jill Summers’s J line, produced marvelous hounds. Mrs. Paul Summers Jr. was the long-serving master at Farmington Hunt. She’d bred a consistently fine pack for over thirty-five years.

“Hello.”Sweetpea wagged her tail.

“Sweetpea, you remember Walter.” Sister reached down and smoothed her lovely head, the eyes expressive, filled with intelligence.

“I do.”Sweetpea touched Walter with her nose.

Wanda, more advanced in her pregnancy, hearing voices, padded in from outside, where she’d been taking her constitutional.“I’m here.”

“This is Wanda: great drive, okay nose, strong back end, as you can see. That gives her a lot of power. Her shoulder angle could be better, but at least it’s not straight as a stick. So in breeding Wanda, I want to keep her good features, but see if I can’t improve the shoulder a bit and maybe refine her head just a wee bit. Again, I’m not too much into looks, but conformation is the key, as well as attitude. Same as with horses, of course. Both these girls are so easy to work with, eager to please and keen to hunt. And their offspring are even better. Wanda is bred to a Piedmont hound who actually goes back to Fred Duncan’s incredible Clyde—oh, that was back in the early seventies. That hound could follow scent on a hot asphalt road. Never saw anything like Warrenton Clyde.”

Walter, overwhelmed, sighed.“Sister, how am I going to remember all this? It’s Greek to me.”

Sister, who had a few years of Greek in college, smiled.“If you mastered organic chemistry, bloodlines will be a snap.”

“Can I read up on this?”

“The books start in the early eighteenth century. Well, actually, I think Xenophon even mentioned hound breeding, but don’t fret, Walter. I’ll give you a list of the classics. The MFHA has FoxDog: their computer software. I struggle with it, but Shaker’s got the hang of it. I’m not exactly a computer whiz, but I can send e-mail.”

“FoxDog?” He bent his tall frame over to pat both Wanda and Sweetpea.

“All the bloodlines for every hunt for each of the main types of foxhounds are on FoxDog. I can’t imagine sitting down and entering all that information. God bless the MFHA.” She paused. “But I’ll tell you, the best way to learn about hounds and breeding is to hunt, hunt, hunt, and watch. Go to any hunt you can, mounted or on foot, and observe. The great ones stay in your mind just like the great horses or movie stars.”

“That makes sense.”

“And you’ll soon know what I’m talking about when I say that Piedmont Righteous ’71 was bred to Warrenton Star, which gave us a bitch, Piedmont Daybreak ’79, and she produced Piedmont Hopeful ’83, a very great bitch. A lot of people will say they want Hopeful in the tail female line, and all that sounds impressive, but I just watch hounds. I don’t give a damn if the nick is on top or on bottom—”

Walter held up his hand.“Sister, what’s a nick? You’ve lost me.”

“Nick is a bad hound who hunts coons.”Wanda was referring to a neighbor’s hound, whom she didn’t much like. Although Nick was a good coonhound, he didn’t pay his proper respects to Wanda—a girl with a big ego.

“I think of a nick as a lucky cross. Funny Cide, terrific racing horse, a gelding, you know whom I’m talking about?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, he won’t be retired to stud, but people will study his pedigree and try the same or similar cross if they can. Nothing wrong with that, but I think you can get a good result playing with the template, if you will. Instead of just copying something that in the thoroughbred world would mean hundreds of thousands of dollars, reverse the nick or go back to the grandparent generation. If you study, Walter, there’s always a way. I study pedigree. I study hounds, study horses, too. And one of the great things about foxhunting is I can call another master in order to take a bitchto his dog; he or she is flattered. Of course, masters allow this and everyone benefits. You don’t pay for it. The opportunity is freely given. Foxhunting operates on generosity. We improve the animal if we’re careful. The operative word is ‘careful.’ ”

“What’s tail line and all that?”

“Oh. The tail line is the bottom of a breeding chart, the dam or bitch’s side. The top belongs to the dog hound or stallion. I’ll show you when we go in to the office, but you’ll see right what I mean when you check a pedigree. It’s a good thing to study and research pedigrees. It’sa better thing to see performance in the field and to talk to those who know the antecedents of a good hound.”

“I’ve got my work cut out for me.” He whistled. “Can’t wait. And Sweetpea and Wanda, I can’t wait to see the babies.”

“Mine will be better,”Wanda bragged.

Sweetpea, easygoing, just licked Sister’s hand.“I loveyou, Sister. I’ll give you good puppies.”

“Precious.” Sister kissed her head, then patted Wanda.

They left, closing the gate behind them, and walked the long outdoor corridor to the main kennel building. Once inside, she showed him Sweetpea’s pedigree of this year’s entry from Sweetpea and Ardent. Walter realized the format was exactly the same as a horse pedigree. He felt better.

The door opened, and Shaker stepped through.“Draw list for tomorrow?”

“Haven’t done it yet. Did you do yours?”

“Yes.” He placed his list on the desk then spoke to Walter. “I’m not sitting around.”

“Give it another day, Shaker. Really. I’m not worried about your ribs. The concussion worried me even though it wasn’t bad. But give it another day.”

“Who’s going to hunt hounds tomorrow? I need to go out.”

“You and Lorraine can be wheel whips. I’m not taking any chances with you. If you miss tomorrow, well, it’s not great, but if you miss the rest of the season, the best part of the season, I’ll be one step ahead of a fit,” Sister reminded him.

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Shaker sat on the edge of the desk.“For Chrissakes, people get their bell rung all the time.”

“They aren’t fabulous huntsmen. And how do you blow the horn when you’re galloping?” Sister hoped the compliment would somewhat mollify him.

“Practice. It’s a good idea to go out with an empty bladder, too.”

“I figured that out.” She laughed. “I’ll hunt the hounds tomorrow. God willing, nothing awful will happen. Let’s take steady eddies, no young entry. Make it easy for me. Tuesday, you’ll be back in the saddle and all will be well.”

“No, what’s going to happen is you’ll love hunting hounds, and we’ll have a fight,” Shaker grumbled.

“I will love hunting them. I loved yesterday even though I had butterflies, but you’re the huntsman and huntsman you’ll stay.” She swiftly ran her eyes down the draw list, dogs on the left side of the page, bitches on the right, firstyear entry, young entry, and even some second year with a different-colored mark before the animal’s name. It was a good system. “I’ll get back to you on this.”

Up at the house, Sister asked Walter about Shaker’s injuries as she heated water for tea.

“This is the third time you’ve asked since yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. He’s very dear to me, even if we fuss.”

“He hit hard. He can wrap up his ribs. I want a few more days for his head. By the time I saw him, he was in pretty good shape from the concussion, but you always want to be careful with a head injury.”

“Thank you again for seeing him. I guess we could have sent him to the ER, but I trust you; I don’t know who’s in the ER.”

Walter smiled.“Thank you for your confidence, but the team down at the hospital is very good.”

She poured tea. Walter liked dark teas, as did she.“You don’t know much about foxhounds; I don’t know diddly about medicine. What really is an endocrinologist?”

“Someone in the right field at the right time. It’s the study of ductless glands. So it’s really the study of the thyroid, the pituitary, and the adrenal glands, basic human chemistry.”

“Lucrative?”

“Very. If you have a child whose growth is stunted, you’d go to an endocrinologist. Menopause—think of the money there with the boomer generation. It’s a growing field that will benefit from the constant advancements just in thyroid studies alone. Pretty amazing.”

“Would an endocrinologist have more ways to make illegal money than, say, yourself?”

“From medicine?” Walter’s blond eyebrows rose. “Uh, well, Sister, any crooked doctor can make a fortune. Prescribe unnecessary painkillers, OxyContin, mood elevators, Percodan, Prozac. If you’re less than honest, it’s easy, because, of course, the patient wants the drugs.”

“What about cocaine or heroin?”

Walter couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t need a doctor. You can get that on the street.”

“It’s really easy to get coke or marijuana?”

“As pie. Easy as pie.” Walter sipped the restorative brew. “Our government, the FDA, I could list agencies as long as my arm, and I’ve got long arms, make the mess bigger and bigger. Some drugs are classified as dangerous; others aren’t. I could kill you with caffeine. There’s a hitof caffeine in this tea. Sister, I could kill you with sugar or salt. Americans are literally killing themselves every day with salt and sugar. We are so hypocritical when it comes to— what’s the term?—illegal substances. You’ve got people making policy based on their version of morals instead of, well, endocrinology. And I’m serious: I could kill someone with caffeine. I’m a doctor; in order to save lives, you have to know what takes those lives. Any doctor worth his salt, forgive the pun, can kill and make it look perfectly natural. But as I said, why bother? Americans are killing themselves.”

She drummed her fingers on the kitchen table.“Mmm.”

“Why this sudden interest in endocrinology?”

“Dalton Hill’s speciality. He’s paid his associate membership; he’s been hunting pretty consistently. Good rider.”

“Bought that Cleveland bay.”

“Yes.” She frowned a moment. “Obviously, he has money.”

“Right.” Walter smiled. “He’s an endocrinologist.”

She smiled back.“What do you know about him?”

Walter shrugged.“Leave of absence from the Toronto hospital, teaching this semester, and he’s brilliant. That’s what I hear.”

“Do you like him?”

A long pause followed her question. Walter cleared his throat.“Not really.”

“Cold.”

“More or less. He’s thawing a bit, thanks to your geniality and the hospitality of Virginians in general.” Walter thanked her as she refreshed his tea. “He’s recently divorced, which is why I think he’s teaching this semester. A chance to get away. Clear the head.”

“I’ve been curious about him.” She smiled again. “Can’t have too many doctors in the field. Wish we could get the entire hospital staff to hunt.”

“You wouldn’t want that. We’ve got some first-class fruitcakes.”

“And the hunt doesn’t?”

They laughed.

“Back to hounds,” Walter said. “Can you breed for the task? By that I mean, can you breed an anchor hound?”

“We could be here for weeks on that one. Well … yes and no. I have noticed certain characteristics passing in certain of my lines. For example, Delia, mother of Diddy and those firstyear entry, comes from my D line. D hounds are consistently steady, and they enter and learn fairly quickly. On the other hand, I’ve observed that my R line can be brilliant, but it seems to skip a generation. Rassle, Ruthie, and Ribot are brilliant. Their mother wasn’t; she was just there. Her mother was outstanding. Like I said, the answer to your question is yes and no.”

“It’s fascinating.”

“And highly addictive.” She reached for a sugar cookie. “The more you breed, the more you want to breed, and you drive yourself onward with the dream of perfection.” She sighed. “Well, humility goes a long way. And even in the great crosses, the golden nicks, you still must cull.”

“The hard part.”

“God, yes. I think a youngster won’t work for us, I draft him to a good pack, he’s terrific. Now some of that can be because he’s in, say, a newer pack. He’s not overshadowed by Diana or an upcoming Trident. He becomes a star. But you never truly know until they hunt for you or for someone else.”

“This is going to make me think.” Walter laughed.

“You think plenty. Now you’ll be hunting, watching in a new way. You’ll be singling out hounds, observing young entry, seeing who contributes. The slow days are the best days to learn about the hounds. You see who really works. Might be dull for the run-and-jump crowd, but those slow days offer the best lessons a foxhunter can get.”

“I’ve never had a bad day hunting.”

“A bad day’s hunting is a good day’s work.” They laughed again and she changed the subject. “I’ve learned to trust my instincts hunting on and off a horse as well. I’m unsettled about Donnie’s death. And the deaths of Mitch and Tony.”

“Do you think Donnie wanted to burn out Clay?”

“Sure looks like he did.” Sister glanced out the window. “It’s like drawing through a heavy covert: you know the fox is in there, but you can’t get him up and running. I’ve seen days when hounds, my hounds and other packs, too, have drawn right over a fox. I feel that’s what’s going on.”

“What do you do on a day like that?”

“Keep moving, but,” she paused dramatically, “later you can come back and draw in the opposite direction. Sometimes you can get him up that way because he didn’t expect it.”

Walter tapped his spoon on the side of the mug, then stopped.“Sorry.”

“Is that how you think?”

“I have to do something rhythmic,” he replied.

“I do my best thinking working outside or sometimes in bed just before I fall asleep. But do you see what I mean about drawing over the fox? We’re drawing over those deaths, over information.”

“I’d put it another way. You’re on the right track, but the train’s not in the station.”

“Not yet.”

CHAPTER 30

The burnt orange of Betadine stained Dragon’s white fur. Aggressive and domineering as he could be with other hounds, he was an uncommonly sweet hound to people.

He stood on the stainless steel examining table as Sister and Gray sponged his wounds with antiseptic.

Lifting sixty-to eighty-pound hounds tested Sister after the sixth hound. Shaker had wanted to help, but his ribs needed to heal, so Sister threw him out of the med room. She had realized that her planned date with Gray at the club would either have to be canceled or pushed back too late, so she had called him to cancel. Since tomorrow was Saturday, the biggest hunting day of the week, she didn’t want to stay out late, plus she was nervous about hunting the hounds. To Sister’s surprise, Gray volunteered to help with her chores.

Riding, resplendent in perfectly fitting attire, pleases any foxhunter. Hearing“Gone Away” on the horn, hounds in full cry, is a thrill beyond compare. Few foxhunters, however, evidence any desire to be in the kennels picking up poop, feeding and watering, washing down the feed room and the runs, birthing puppies, or tending to sick or injured hounds in the med room.

The blood still seeped from Dragon’s wounds. Sister’s old lab coat bore testimony to that. Gray, too, wore a lab coat smeared with mud and bloodstains.

Dragon was the third hound they worked on. Two hounds had run under barbed wire Thursday, slicing their backs, although they had bled very little.

The fact that Gray was willing to forgo a fancy dinner and, on top of that, to lift hounds, get dirty, and dab wounds gave him an added luster in Sister’s eyes.

Gray was the same height as Sister. He was fit and uncommonly strong, as was his wiry, much shorter brother.

Carrying a beloved red ball, Raleigh padded in to watch, as did Rooster. Golly heard there were mice in the office, so she, too, accompanied the humans and dogs.“Death to mice” was Golly’s motto.

“Bon sang ne sait mentir”was Sister’s motto, archaic French, which meant, “Good blood doesn’t lie.” This was fitting for a foxhound breeder, but equally fitting for the human animal. Blood tells.

“There you go, big fella. Guess you won’t cross Cora again.” Sister gave Dragon a cookie for his good behavior before Gray lifted him down.

“Handsome.”

“That he is. Diana and Dasher turned out quite good-looking, too, but with a better temperament in the field. Dragon is hardheaded when hunting, and yet such a love the rest of the time.”

“My nose is the best. I get sick of Cora double-checkingeverything. I don’t care if she is the strike hound and the head bitch,”Dragon explained himself.

“Kennel up.” Sister pointed to the sick bay kennel, a series of separate pens with cozy boxes off the med room. Each of these rooms had a small outside run that could be shut off. Each room contained its own wall heater, high on the wall so the hound couldn’t get on its hind legs to chew it. Since hounds curl up together in cold weather, they are able to keep warm; but a hound alone could use a little help in winter, especially if he or she has been injured or isn’t feeling well.

Dragon obediently walked into his place. Sister closed the door behind him, dropping the latch. The other two hounds were already asleep in their pens.

Fortunately, none of these hounds had suffered severe wounds. They’d most likely be back hunting within a week. If the wounds didn’t close up to Sister’s satisfaction, she’d keep the hound out of hunting, although not out of hound walk. No point in reopening wounds and delaying healing, but if a hound can be exercised, that’s good for him mentally.If the animal wasn’t ready to rejoin the pack, Sister would hand walk him. Each of these hounds pulled his weight in the pack, so she wanted them up and running.

Gray washed his hands in the big stainless steel sink.“I never realized how much work there is.”

“All day, every day.” She hung up her lab coat, inspected it, then took it off the hook. “Laundry time.”

“Ever get tired of this? It’s a lot of physical labor, plus the actual hunting.”

“I love it.” Her face shone. “I couldn’t live without it. Everyone needs a paradigm for life, and hunting is mine. Hunting islife. The way a person foxhunts is the way he or she lives.”

“True.” He wiped his hands on a thick terry cloth towel. “I think that’s true about any sport, the way someone plays tennis or golf.” He thought for a second. “Maybe a little less true of the team sports because you have help, but still: character will out.”

“Hand me your lab coat.” She took the coat and draped it over her arm. “It is funny, isn’t it, how we spend our childhood and adolescence constructing our social masks with the help of our parents, family, friends, and school, and then something unmasks us? Usually sports, love. People are always unwittingly revealing themselves. Me, too.” She opened the door to the laundry room, tossing the coats, plus other odds and ends, into the industrial-size washer. “This thing’s about to go. Can’t complain. It’s been chugging along eight years. You wouldn’t believe the doghair we pull out of here. Same with the horse blankets. Sometimes I envy those critters their fur. No clothing bills.”

“Oh, but you look so good in warm colors—peach, pink, red. Now if you had the same old fur coat, that wouldn’t be the case.” He handed her the detergent.

“You look good in every color of the rainbow,” she countered.

“Uh-uh,” he disagreed. “Not gray or beige.”

“Didn’t think about that. Blond colors. Walter colors.”

“Kill!”Golly screamed from the office.

Sister and Gray looked at each other as the house dogs ran to the closed office door.“I’m afraid to look,” she said.

“I’ll go first,” Gray said in a mock-manly tone. He walked out, peeped in the inside office door, which had a window in it, then came back. “Biggest mouse in the county, maybe in all of America.”

“Good cat.” Sister turned on the washer as Raleigh hurried back into the med room to retrieve his ball before Rooster snatched it.

The five friends walked back up to the house, darkness deep on this cloud-covered early evening. Golly, mouse firmly in jaws, tail hoisted as high as possible, pupils huge, ran ahead of everyone.

“She’s the only cat in the world who has killed a mouse.” Rooster watched the fluffy tail swaying in triumph.

“The trick will be getting her to deposit it outside. She’sgoing to want to bring it in the mudroom and then into the house. She’ll be parading that damned mouse for days.”

“Why doesn’t she just eat it?”Rooster asked.

“Look at her.”Raleigh laughed out loud, which sounded like a healthy snort.

Although Golly usually acquired a bit of a potbelly in winter, this winter she had acquired enough for two. As the dogs giggled, Golly laid her ears flat back, then swept them forward.

She couldn’t open her mouth. The mouse would drop out, and one of the dogs, those lowlifes, would steal it. Something as valuable as a freshly killed mouse, neck neatly snapped, would bring out the worst, especially in the harrier; she knew it. But she thought to herself,Goahead, laugh. I don’t see either of you worthless caninesridding this farm of vermin. At least the hounds hunt. Youtwo do nothing, nothing.

Once inside the mudroom, a tussle broke out between Golly and Rooster.

“All right, Rooster, leave her,” Sister ordered the dog, who obeyed but not without a telling glare at the cat. “Golly, what a big mouse. What a great hunter you are. Give me your mouse.”

Puffed with pride, Golly opened her jaws, the limp, gray-brown body thumping to the slate floor.

“Protein,” Gray said.

Sister picked up the mouse, stroked Golly’s head. “Right. Mouse pie as opposed to shepherd’s pie. Hope you like shepherd’s pie because that’s what we’re having for dinner.”

“Is there time to dice the mouse?” He hung up his full-length Australian raincoat.

“No.” She patted Golly again and wondered just what to do with this prize. “Gray, I’m going to put this out by my gardening shed in case Inky comes in tonight. Why don’t you go inside and fix yourself a drink if you’re in the mood?”

“Sure you can tote that heavy mouse by yourself?”

“With effort.” She grinned.

“Can I fix you a drink?”

“Hot tea. I need a pick-me-up.”

When she returned, steam curled out of the Brown Betty teapot. Before she reached the oven to check on the shepherd’s pie, Gray poured her a bracing mug of orange pekoe and Ceylon mix.

“You know how to make real tea.” She lifted the lid, the mesh tea ball floating inside the pot, emitting even more of the delightful fragrance.

“The English taught me.”

“Really?”

“I lived there for five years when I worked for Barclays Bank.”

“I didn’t know you did that.”

“Well, I got my law degree then my accounting. I did it backwards, I suppose. I thought if I had a strong background in banking before finding the right firm, I’d be a triple threat. And when I graduated, I had a choice between Atlanta—where my color would actually help me at that time, remember those were the days of Andrew Young and Maynard Jackson; they put Atlanta on the map in terms of banking and investing—or London. Well, I wanted to experience other cultures, and I thought England would be easier than if I tried to crash Germany.”

“Aren’t you the smart one?” Another ten minutes and the pie would be ready. The crust was browning up.

He smiled.“In some ways. People think tax law is boring. Not me. The power to tax is the power to destroy. I learned a lot about taxation in England. Here I was, a kid really, negotiating a culture mentioned by Roman writers, finally subdued by Agricola in A.D. 84, wasn’t it? I soaked it all up. Haunted Hatcher’s.” He mentioned the venerable bookstore. “Didn’t have enough money to shop at Harrod’s but I liked to stroll through. And on weekends for pennies I could go to France, Germany, Spain. Loved Spain and the Spanish. Couldn’t get into what were then Soviet satellite countries, but I met people, high-level types, visiting Barclays. You know, it was just the right time, the right place.”

“Sounds fabulous. What are you drinking?”

“A perfect Manhattan. I make a mean Manhattan—a good dry Manhattan or Manhattan South. Name your poison.”

A sudden memory of the drunks guzzling hemlock shot through her.“Tea. I’m not much of a drinker, although my flask has port in it.”

“I drank a lot. Not as much as Sam, but a lot. Especially when my marriage tanked.” He helped her set the table. “One day I realized I needed to slow down. I didn’t want to wind up like Sam. Alcoholism floods both sides of the family.” He folded a white linen napkin in thirds. “One drink in the evening, even if it’s a party. One.”

“Good rule.”

“You never drink?”

“Champagne to celebrate, but I don’t have a thirst for it. It’s a true physical drive, and I don’t have it.”

“Sam said even when he was in high school, he’d be plotting how to get liquor, where to hide it. When he rode competitively, he would secrete a bottle in the trailer. He stashed booze in the tack trunks. Carried a thin flask in his barn jacket. Controlled his entire life. Still does. He has to fight it every day.”

“Insidious.”

Golly sauntered through, warbling,“A Mighty FortressIs Our Puss.”The cat had no sense of religious decorum.

“Still crowing.” Sister laughed at her friend.

The dogs, chewing greenies, ignored her. The problem was that Golly wouldn’t ignore them. Their scratched noses bore testimony to her relentless need for attention.

“When did you have time to make shepherd’s pie?”

“I just slaved over this stove.” She giggled. “Lorraine brought it by. She’d made them for Shaker and me. Those two are getting along, but he’s close-mouthed. They’re inching toward each other, and, truth is, he’s scared to death. The divorce took a big chunk out of him.”

“Always does.”

As they enjoyed their meal, Sister asked,“You don’t speak of your first wife, your only wife, I assume.” When he nodded in affirmation, she continued. “That bad?”

“No. Few romantic relationships can last a lifetime. We’d probably be better off with different people at different times in our lives. The person you marry changes. That can be good, but for me those changes were filled with resentment, anger, feelings of abandonment. Nothing too original.”

“Who changed?”

“We both did. The focus of our relationship was our children and my career. We lost sight of each other. Theresa and I get along better today than when we were married. We see each other once or twice a year, usually something involving our kids. I expect in the next few years, we’ll be dealing with grandchildren.” He stopped for a moment. “I talk to her once a week. After the first year of the divorce was over, we both calmed down. I kept telling myself, even in the worst of it, ‘Whatever you saw in her in the beginning is still there.’ And I went into therapy. That helped.”

“You did?”

“You didn’t?”

“I foxhunt three times a week, and attend other hunts if I can. Does it for me. I figure things out. I may not use the same language a therapist does, but I really do figure things out.”

“You’re smarter than I am.”

“Not at all. It takes a lot of courage, especially for a man, to ask for emotional help. Actually, I don’t know if I could do it. Too big an ego.”

“You?” His voice lifted upwards.

“Me. I think I can fix anything, including myself.”

“Whatever you do, it works.”

“Well, I hope so. Lately the truth jumps up at me like a jack-in-the-box. I wonder how I missed it.”

“Unhappy?”

She shook her head.“No. Actually, I love my life, and I suppose, for lack of a better way to put it, I love myself, but I’m blind to things, inside things.”

“Everyone is.”

“I know, but Gray, I think I’m smarter than anyone else.

Isn’t that awful to say? But I do. I’m not supposed to be blind. I’m supposed to be the master. I’m supposed to know hounds, horses, territory, people, weather, scent, the game, game trails, plants, wildlife, and I’m supposed to know myself. I surprise myself these days. Like right now. I can’t believe I’m babbling all this.”

“You’re not babbling.”

“Gray, I was raised a WASP. Grin and bear it. Stiff upper lip.”

“I was raised that way, too. Not so bad. We don’t need to know everyone’s intimate details, but it’s good to know your own.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a rare woman who will admit she has a big ego.”

“Gargantuan. I hide it well. In fact, I’ve hidden it pretty effectively for close to six decades. My first decade I gave my mother hives. With a great effort on her part, she taught me how to cover it all up. She harbored a pretty big ego herself.”

“Funny.”

“What?”

“What we’re told as children. It may be damaging, on the one hand, but it’s the truth. Our parents, family, older friends tell us what the world is like.”

“They tell us what the world was like for them. They don’t know what it will be like for us because we will change the world.”

He put down his fork.“Sister, no wonder you take your fences as you do.”

She laughed.“Every generation changes the world. You hear what went before you: your parents’ victories, miseries, and fears as well as hopes for you. They tell you their truth. You’ve got to find your own.”

“But remember the past.”

“I do.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you. I’m sure I haven’t.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you. Maybe we’ve reached a point in our lives when we molt. We shed our feathers. But this time, instead of growing the same feathers, we grow different ones: the feathers we’ve always wanted.”

“Your metaphors come from nature.”

“Nature is what I know. Now if you speak in metaphors, do I have to get a law library? Do I have to studyMarbury versus Madisonor theDred Scottcase?” She knew her history, those being landmark American cases.

He laughed.“No.”

“Tell me about those Manhattans you mentioned. I thought a Manhattan was some blended whiskey and a bit of sweet vermouth.”

“The basic Manhattan.” He leaned back in the chair. “Well, a dry Manhattan is the same, only you use one-fourth ounce of dry vermouth instead of sweet. Easy. A perfect Manhattan is one and one-fourth ounces of blended whiskey, one-eighth ounce of dry vermouth, and one-eighth ounce of sweet vermouth, and you garnish it with a twist of lemon. The dry Manhattan you garnish with an olive, the standard Manhattan, use a cherry.”

“What about a Manhattan South. Such mysteries.”

“One ounce dry gin, half ounce dry vermouth, half ounce Southern Comfort, and a dash of Angostura bitters, no garnish, and it’s not served on the rocks as the others can be. You always mix it in a glass filled with ice, stir, then pour it into a chilled cocktail glass.”

“You know, the first party I gave after Ray died, a year and a half after he died, I never even thought about mixing drinks. When one of my guests asked for a vodka stinger, I had no idea what to do. My throat went dry, my heart pounded. I missed Ray and I had learned once more how dependentI was on him for so many things, the small courtesies, the minutiae of masculinity, for lack of a better term. I no more know how to make a vodka stinger than how to fly. Thank God, Xavier was there. I asked him if he would mind, and he graciously tended bar. Ever since, if I give a party or ifthe hunt club has a real do, I hire a bartender.”

“For me, it was fabric. Theresa knew all this stuff about fabrics, for shirtings, for sheets, for towels. She wasn’t dead, of course, but that was my first big clue that there was another side to the moon that I needed to explore.”

“Well said. You know, earlier we were talking about sports, about how the way a person foxhunts or plays a game shows who they are. I don’t know, it crossed my mind, do you think the pressures of high-level competition drove Sam toward more drinking?”

“Yes, but he had it in him already. He could just as easily have become a drunk without that career. I learned a lot about alcoholism, thanks to my brother. I thought for the first years that Sam drank a lot, but he wasn’t an alcoholic. The bums at the railway station were alcoholics. Well,they represent about five percent of alcoholics. Most alcoholics sit next to you in church, stand next to you at the supermarket, work next to you at the office. They function quite well for years and years, and then one day, it’s like the straw that broke the camel’s back. All those years of hiding, lying, performing even while hung over, just collapse. I think Sam would have become a drunk no matter what. He’s full of fear. Drunks, basically, are afraid of life. I learned that much.”

“Then it is possible that Mitch and Anthony wanted to end it all?”

Gray thought about this for a long time.“Yes.”

“Do you think they committed suicide?”

“No.”

“I don’t either, and I wish I could stop thinking about them, especially. All three of them were part of our community. To see familiar faces year in and year out is a great comfort; ties that bind, even if you don’t know someone well.”

“Some people realize that quite early, but for most of us, it doesn’t come until middle age.”

“We’re pack animals. We need a community. Giant cities, where are the communities? Maybe the neighborhood, maybe not. It might be a shared interest like dancing or professional associations. We need to be part of one another.”

“Hard to imagine Anthony Tolliver and Mitch Banachek being part of a community. I guess the drunks at the station are their own little world. Sam doesn’t talk about it. Winding up there is really the bottom of the barrel.”

“We couldn’t reach those men. But we saw them. They saw us. And maybe, in the darker corners of our souls, they made us feel better about ourselves. At least I’m not as useless as Mitch Banachek. I’ve still got my teeth unlike Anthony Tolliver. They allowed us the secret thrill of superiority.”

He watched her mobile features, listened to her, and found himself completely engaged by this forthright woman.“You don’t flinch, do you?”

“Oh, I do. I don’t like knowing those things about myself.”

“It’s human. I think the entire media industry is built on just that emotion.”

They both laughed so hard that Golly returned from her post in the library to see if she’d missed anything.

“What’s doing?”

“High-tone talk,”Raleigh replied.

“Why don’t they just go to bed and get it over with?” Golly rubbed her face against Raleigh’s long nose while Rooster wrinkled his.

“Because they’re human,”Raleigh said.

“They complicate everything,”Rooster said without rancor, a simple observation.

“She was reading this book on sex in ancient Greece andRome. When you guys were asleep. She woke up, startedreading this book. I can’t sleep when she turns the light on,so I watched over her shoulder. And you know what shesaid? She said,‘Life must have been heaven before guilt.’And then she went on one of her tears.‘How clever ofJudeo-Christians to put the cop inside instead of outside.’You know, that’s guilt. In Rome, you tried not to getcaught if you were fooling around. In America, you catchyourself. She has these odd insights. I wish, for her sake,she weren’t human. She’d be so much happier.”Golly truly loved Sister.

“She’s happy enough for a human.”Raleigh, too, loved her.

As the animals discussed their weighty issues, Sister and Gray cleared the table, did the dishes, talked some more. Eventually, Gray got up to leave. He put on his coat, walked with Sister to the door, and kissed her good night. This kiss led to another then another. Finally he took his coat off, and they went upstairs.

They removed their clothes. Considering their ages, they looked pretty good.

Gray in a soft voice said,“Sister …”

Laughing, she interrupted him,“Under the circumstances, I think you’d better call me Jane.”

CHAPTER 31

Sound travels approximately one mile every five seconds. Sister believed it traveled faster in a hunt club. Not that she was ashamed of bedding Gray, far from it, but neither of them was quite ready for public proclamations. Nor did either know if this was the beginning of a relationship or simply a matter of physical comfort.

When she walked out to the kennels at four fortyfive, she noticed Lorraine’s car parked in Shaker’s driveway. Maybe the moon, sun, and stars had been aligned for romance. She smiled and walked in the office. The hounds slept, though a few raised their heads. Most humans need clocks. The hounds knew it wasn’t time yet to be called into the draw yard, so they continued to snore, curled up with one another, dreaming of large red foxes. She dropped her amended draw list on the desk, a neon orange line drawn across the top of it, indicating this was the final draw. She’d discovered neon gel ink pens and gone wild with them months ago. Every color now had a special meaning.

Back in the kitchen by five, she checked the outside thermometer: twenty-seven degrees. She clicked on the Weather Channel. The day, according to radar and a host of experts, should warm to the low forties, high pressure overhead. High pressure, theoretically, made scenting more difficult.

Golly leapt onto the counter.“I’d like salmon today. Andyou certainly look happy, happy, happy.”

Sister grabbed a can of cat food, which happened to be a seafood mix, and dumped it in the ceramic bowl—“The Queen” emblazoned on its side—then ground up a small vitamin. Golly stuck her face in the food as Sister finished sprinkling the vitamin powder over it.

Raleigh and Rooster patiently waited for their kibble mixed with a can of beef.

Sister made herself oatmeal. Today’s fixture was at Tedi and Edward’s, parking at the covered bridge. She thought about the draw. Then she realized she had to plan for the wind shift. She wanted to draw north, but if the wind wasn’t coming out of the northwest as was usual, she’d better produce a backup plan.

“God, this takes every brain cell I have,” she said aloud.

“You can do it!”Raleigh encouraged her.“Think of allthat good energy you got last night.”

“Yeah, sex is energy,”Golly agreed.

“Why do people do it under covers?”Rooster cocked an ear.

“No hair, they get cold,”said Golly, who thought of herself as a feline in possession of important facts.

“Oh.”Satisfied, Rooster returned to his breakfast.

“If all else fails, I bet I can pick up a line if I head toward Target’s den.” Sister was drawing a rough outline on a pad. “But usually I’ll get Aunt Netty just above the bridge. Well, I’ll see what Shaker thinks.” Then she smiled. “Bet he’s in a good mood. Making love with cracked ribs might test his mettle, if indeed he did.” She smiled, twirling her pencil.

By the time she and Shaker filled the draw pen, he was whistling, and she was singing. They looked at each other and laughed.

Lorraine’s car was still there.

Sister didn’t refer to it, but she peppered him with questions on the first draw, the wind, how quickly did he think the mercury would climb today?

Finally, Shaker slapped her on the back.“Cast your hounds. Be alert. The best advice I can give you is what Fred Duncan gave me when I was a kid, ‘Hunt your hounds and don’t look back.’ ”

“If Fred said it, must be true.” She had greatly admired the former huntsman and his wife, Doris.

Being a huntsman’s wife called for tact, patience, and humor. Doris had all three, plus creativity of her own. She would sit in the kitchen and write novels. Fred would read them and wonder how he had won such a talented woman.

Successful marriages mean the two main participants enjoy each other. Sister and Big Ray had. That foundation of truly liking one another saw them through many a trial.

“So, Gray left at four-thirty.” Shaker’s lips curled up at the corners, a twinkle in his eye.

“What were you doing up at four-thirty?”

“Had to take four Motrin and two extra-strength Tylenols. Breakfast of champions. Couldn’t go back to sleep. Saw the light on in your kitchen.”

“I didn’t see your light on.”

“Got one of those little book lights, so I can read some.”

“Lorraine still asleep?”

“Guess we both got lucky, huh?” He thought a minute. “The man is supposed to be lucky. What do women say to each other?”

“If they’re smart, nothing.”

He laughed.“Good point.”

“You … happy?”

He draped his arm around her broad shoulders, kissing her on one smooth cool cheek.“Yes. I’m a little nervous, too.”

“She’s a good woman from what I can tell.”

“Solid. Shy, but solid.” He kissed her again. “You?”

“Too early to tell, but I’m—” She stopped. “—I’m waking up. I thought I was too old for all this.” She laughed at herself.

“Not you.”

“You haven’t said one word about Gray being African American, black, colored, a person of color, take your pick.”

“I’d like to think those days are over.”

“I do, too. For us maybe they are, except the fact that I brought it up means the worries are still in me. Not like they would have been thirty years ago.” She paused, then spoke with a controlled vengeance. “God, we’re stupid. So bloody stupid. Do you think any of those beautiful hounds cares if another one is tricolor or red or black and tan? I hate it.”

“Ever wonder what it would be like if the situation were reversed? Wake up one morning and you’re black?”

“I’d slap the first silly bastard who mistreated me. Guess I wouldn’t get far in this life.”

Shaker, a thoughtful man, a deeply feeling man, softly replied,“If I was born that way, I would have been shaped, pruned, restrained to hold the anger in, you know, hold it in. All that negative shit, excuse my French, must be like a drop of acid on your soul each time you feel it. The only thing I can liken it to is sexual desire. For men anyway, we are taught to rein it in, control, control, control. One day you let go, and you feel like you’re flying.”

“I thought women were the ones who had to deny their sexuality.”

“Mmm. We both do in different ways. Takes its toll, and you don’t know it until you let it go. But I think about what it’s like to be black in this country. It’s better, but we still have work to do.”

“The work of generations … about lots of stuff.” She smiled a small, sweet smile. “I think that’s why I like foxhunters. Half of us are stone stupid and can talk only about hounds, horses, and hunting, or worse; the other half of us are the most interesting people I have ever met. Like you, for instance.”

“Go on.” He squeezed her tight, then released her. “Let’s load these babies up.”

Once at the fixture, Shaker handed her his horn, a symbolic gesture with the significance of a scepter being handed to a ruler.

“Still can’t blow this thing worth a damn, despite your quick lesson.”

“Do the best you can and use your voice. They know you. I’ll get in the truck. I’m on foot, it might confuse them. Their impulse will be to follow me. But you have to use the horn when you move off. They will go to the horn, and they’ll go to you if you encourage them. We didn’t put all those years into this pack to have them fizzle out because I’m on the mend. This is a great pack of hounds, Sister. You love them, and you’re going to do just great.”

She smiled down at him from her mount on Lafayette.“Shaker, you can tell the best fibs, but I love you for it.”

“I mean it.” He did, too. “You can hunt these hounds. Remember, hunt your hounds and don’t look back.”

She rode Lafayette to the assembled field, Edward, the logical choice, acting as field master. Tedi, who knew hunting and the territory, could have just as easily led, but the field was large for this time of year; she didn’t want to tangle with Crawford or other shaky riders. Edward possessed a quiet sense of command. She readily deferred to him. Tedi thought to herself that it was better someone get mad at Edward than at herself.

“Gather round.” Sister called in the faithful. As she scanned the field, she couldn’t help but linger on Gray, who winked. She blushed, smiled, then said, “Our hosts, the Bancrofts, will again spoil us with their hospitality. Breakfast follows. Shaker is mending quickly. He’ll be backThursday. Edward is your field master, so you’re riding behind the best. Edward will never tell you, but he won Virginia Field Hunter of the Year in 1987. The hounds of the Jefferson Hunt want you to know they are going to get up a fox for you. And I’m so glad they’re smarter than I am. Let’s go.”

The small thermometer in the dash on Sister’s truck had read thirty-four degrees when she had first pulled into After All Farm. Now, as she and Lafayette walked north with hounds alongside the strong-running Snake Creek, the temperature remained close to that. She could feel it on her skin. The bright blue winter skies were cloudless. The frost sparkled on the earth. All pointed to a tough day for scent. But a light northwesterly breeze, a tang of moisture coming in, hinted that maybe in two hours or less, conditions would improve.

In the meantime, she needed to do all she could to flush out a fox. She walked for five minutes, quietly talking to the pack. Settling them, especially with young entry in tow, helped them and helped her. After a long discussion, she and Shaker had decided to include some young entry. Shaker was already on his way, Lorraine as a passenger, to the sunken farm road close to the westernmost border of the Bancroft estate, a border shared with Roughneck Farm.

Knowing she had Shaker as a wheel whip bolstered her confidence. Knowing Betty rode on her left and Sybil on her right also gave her a lift.

“Girl power,” she whispered.

Diana looked up at the human she adored.“You’d betterbelieve it.”

“Ha,”Asa said.

“Bet you one of us finds scent first,”Diana challenged him.

“I’ll take that bet. What about the rest of you boys?” Asa sang out, but not too loudly or Sister would chide him for babbling.

Dasher, Ardent, Trident, Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Rassle, and Ribot quickly picked up the gauntlet.

Cora, up front, smiled, a puff of breath coming from her slightly opened mouth.“Girls, even if we run on rocks allday, we are going to find a fox!”

The girls agreed, then all turned their faces up to their master and now huntsman.

Sister smiled down at them.“Good hounds.”

A powerful emotion burst through her. She was of this pack. She was one of them, the least of them in many ways, and yet the leader. The only love she had ever felt that was this deep was when Ray Jr. used to wrap his arms around her neck and say,“Love ya, Mom.”

She whispered,“Ride with me today, Junior,” then turned her full attention to drawing up the creek bed.

The grade rose by degrees, until Sister and the pack were walking six feet above the creek. The drop into the creek was now sheer. Where eddies slowly swirled, a crust of ice gathered next to the banks.

The smooth pasture containing Nola Bancroft’s grave soon gave way to woodlands.

Behind her, Edward led a field of sixty-five people. Everyone came out today because the snows had made them stir-crazy. This was the first good day since then. Before the first cast, Sister noted that Xavier and Sam kept a careful distance between them. Clay, Walter, Crawford, Dalton, Marty, Jennifer, Sari, Ron, plus visitors, all came out.

She also noted, walking a distance behind them, were Jason Farley with Jimmy Chirios. Bless Tedi and Edward, they found someone to guide a newcomer who couldn’t ride but showed interest.

A warm air current fluttered across her face, a welcoming sign.

“Get ’em up. Get ’em up.”

The hounds, also feeling wind current, a lingering deer scent sliding along with it, put their noses down, fanned out, moving forward at a brisk walk. Raccoons, turkeys, bobcat, deer, and more deer had traipsed through in the predawn hours. Rabbits abounded, now safely tucked in their little grass hutches or hunkered down as flat as they could get. Foxhounds might chase a rabbit for a few bounds if the animal hopped up in front of them, but otherwise the scent offered scant appeal.

Tinsel got a snootful of badger scent.“Cora.”

Cora came over.“Must be more moving in. Strange, strange.”

Young Ruthie, wonderful nose, inhaled, then sputtered a moment.“A heavy fox, a heavy fox.”

Heavy meant pregnant. Dasher and Asa hurried over. Both sniffed, sniffed some more, and then jerked their heads up. Ruthie, in her youth, had made the wrong call.

Cora came over. She inhaled deeply.“Coyote.”

“Dammit!”Asa swore. He knew how ruinous coyotes were to livestock, house pets, and foxes. In his mind, the foxes’ welfare outweighed the others.

Sister noticed, stopped Lafayette. Both human and horse carefully watched.

“Can we run coyote?”Rassle, Ruthie’s littermate, asked.

Cora hesitated for a second.“Yes. They’re fair game,but,”she raised her alto voice,“young ones, they runstraight, they run no faster than they must; occasionallyone will double back, but this is really a foot race. Don’tforget that. If anywhere along the way, any of you finds foxscent, stop. Stop and tell me. The fox is our primaryquarry, understand?”

“Yes,”all responded.

Diana, her voice low, said to Asa,“Thank God, Dragon’sstill back in the kennel.”

Asa chuckled.“Right.”

“Ruthie, you found, sing out.”Cora encouraged the youngster.

“Rock and roll.”Ruthie lifted her head a bit then all joined her.

Hounds went from zero to sixty in less than three seconds. Sister, eyes widened, at first didn’t know they were on coyote. Could be fresh fox scent.

Hounds threaded through the woods, pads touching lightly down on the narrow cleared trail. They clambered over a fallen tree, kept on, then burst out of the woods, leaping over the hog’s back jump in the fence line separating After All Farm from Roughneck Farm. They’d covered two miles in minutes.

The electrifying pace only increased as they charged through the meadows, blasted along the edges of the wide wildflower field, the stalks of the odd wisps of broom sage bent with winter’s woes, the earth beginning to slightly soften, releasing ever more scent on this crisp day.

As Sister flew along behind her hounds, she noticed they headed straight for the bottom of Hangman’s Ridge. A large dark gray cloud peeped over the uppermost edge of this long formidable ridge.

Hounds circled the bottom of the ridge. On the Soldier Road side, they abruptly cut up the ridge on an old deer trail.

Lafayette effortlessly followed, his long stride making the ride comfortable.

Sister blew a few strangled notes when hounds first took off. Now she relied on her voice. She whooped and hollered, shouting as she and Lafayette began to climb to the top of the ridge.

Halfway up, they were enshrouded in a thick veil of white mist. By the time they reached the top, she could barely see fifty yards ahead of her. The heavy moisture in the low cloud felt clammy.

Onward and upward hounds roared. As they passed the hanging tree, they ignored the mournful spirits there. The wind rustled that strange low howl, whistling at a varying pitch just as Sister rode by. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She thought she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the specter of a well-dressed eighteenth-century gentleman standing next to a Confederate veteran in full uniform.

“Balls,” she said out loud, and heard a ghostly snicker.

She loathed this place. Lafayette snorted. They galloped, clods of thawing turf flying up behind his hooves, to the end of the ridge, down the wide dirt road, the last road the convicted ever trod.

Then along the farm road—faster and faster, farther and farther—past the turn into her farm, hounds in the kennel making one hell of a racket, down the farm road, out to the tertiary road, the briefest of checks.

Sister dropped her head, then tipped it back, gulping air. She turned her head, looking back. Behind her, the clouds slid from the ridge, some fingering down the Blue Ridge Mountains as well. Weather was not just making its way in from the west, it was coming full throttle.

She saw Edward emerge at the bottom of the ridge, a dot in bright red.

“Cross the road,”Ardent sounded.

The others picked up the line where he’d found it, and on they flew on a southeast line. They shot through the tiny graveyard, marked only by an upright stone. Legend was this was the last stop for suicides who could not be buried in consecrated ground. No one knew for certain. Hounds kept running again, coming out on another tertiary road, the gravel spitting up beneath their claws as they dug in for purchase. The top of the road darkened as dew sank into the bluestone. Lafayette thundered across it, plunging into the rows of cornstalks, leaves making an eerie rustle as the wind picked up.

They were at Alice Ramy’s northernmost border. She left the corn up for wildlife every winter. Hounds reached the end of the cornfield, hooked left, and forded an old drainage ditch, snow filling the bottom.

Sister and Lafayette didn’t even look down. They flew over the wide ditch as though at the Grand National. A soft thud on the other side as they landed, Lafayette reached out with his forelegs and on they ran, now turning northward, then northeast. Again, they crossed the dirt road, over the meadows, into another wooded area, land mines of rock everywhere, tough soil.

Hounds stopped. Searched.

Sister stopped, hearing the hooves behind her about a quarter of a mile. She figured the drainage ditch held some of them up. God knew, Edward would fly over it.

Hounds moved at a slow, deliberate pace, trying to pick up the scent. The coyote, pausing for a breather on the rim of a ravine a half mile away, heard them, judged the distance between himself and the pack, then trotted toward After All Farm.

He crossed the paved highway, a two-way road with a painted center line, walked down a steep embankment, and then loped toward his den at the southern edge of After All Farm, not a third of a mile away.

Hounds found his line. By the time they reached the den, he was safely inside.

Sister dismounted, blew“Gone to Ground” with what wind she had left. She studied the tracks. “Knew it, god-dammit.”

“Well, we knew they were here.” Betty, who had swung in, looked down.

“What a pity.” Sybil, also joining the pack, face cherry red, mourned.

“If we’re very lucky, they won’t run off our foxes. Still, I think we should shoot every damned one of them.” Sister bore no love for the coyote.

“Yeah,” Betty agreed.

Edward, top hat firmly in place, red hat cord ensuring it wouldn’t be lost, relaxed his shoulders a moment.

“What a run,” Crawford enthused.

Coyote did give glorious runs, but the play by play was much simpler. It was the difference between high school football and the pros. The coyote didn’t use the ruses the fox did, and most dyed-in-the-wool foxhunters wanted to pit themselves against the cleverest of creatures. The coyote might be wily, but he wasn’t sporting like the fox.

Hounds, jubilant at putting their game to ground, sterns upright, eyes clear and happy, pranced as they packed in back to After All Farm.

“Girls won.”Cora laughed.

Asa, generous, conceded, then said,“After a go like that,I’d say we all won.”

“Yes, well done, youngsters,”Diana praised the firstyear entry, who beamed.

As the field walked back, clouds filling half the western sky, a little spit could be seen coming from them: more snow.

“Mercury’s taking a nose dive,” Betty mentioned.

Sybil hunched up her shoulders.“What a winter we’re having.”

“Was Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit who first put mercury in a thermometer. Born in Poland in 1686. Just think how every day we are enriched by someone who went before us,” Sister mused.

“It is pretty wonderful.” Betty smiled.

“Bet you by the time we get to the covered bridge, snow will be falling there.” Sybil furrowed her brow.

Sister studied the western sky.“Yep.”

Shaker and Lorraine waited at the turnoff to After All Farm. He rolled down the window of the truck, stuck his thumb up.

Sister stuck hers up, too.

He rolled up his window and drove down to the trailers, less than a mile away. He wanted to be at the party wagon when hounds arrived.

Sam, on Cloud Nine, chatted with Gray and Tommy Cullhain. His horse, the timber horse, has a long stride, but he wasn’t paying attention.

The horse bumped Xavier’s paint horse, Picasso.

Xavier turned around, beheld Sam, and snarled,“Drop dead.”

“You first,” Sam fired back.

CHAPTER 32

A towering bouquet, winter greens interspersed with rich red and creamy white roses, stood majestically on Sister’s front hall table, a long narrow Louis XVI, its gold ormolu gleaming against the deep black lacquer.

Sister opened the note, which read,“Who says flowers don’t bloom in winter? Beautiful. Gray.”

Her right hand touched her heart for a second.

Golly sat behind them, a feline part of the display.“Patterson’s delivered.”

“Spectacular!” Sister exclaimed.

She loved flowers—what woman doesn’t? One of the small disappointments of age was that men did not seem to send them as regularly as they once did.

She took the stairs two at a time, stripped off her clothing. She always took off her boots in the stable, and the girls would clean them. She’d slip into her Wellies, cold in the winter, finish the chores, then come into the house.

She hopped in the shower, Raleigh and Rooster pressing their noses to the glass doors. Then she toweled off, fixed her hair, threw on makeup, opened the closet door, and uttered those immortal words,“I have nothing to wear.”

“How can she say that?”Rooster, having lived with a man, was just learning that women were different in some respects. He was only in his second year with Sister.

Raleigh, nosing a soft pair of leather shoes, answered,“Color, season, fabric, she has to worry about all of thatand then when she picks the right thing, the shoes.”He rolled his eyes.“The downfall of women!”

“Peter would shower, shave, put on a suit or a navyblazer with some kind of pants, a tie, and off he’d go.Twenty minutes, tops,”Rooster informed Raleigh.

A red ball rolled into the large closet as Golly giggled.“Look what I have.”

“That’s not yours.”Raleigh snatched the ball.

“Pig.”Golly sat on a forest green pair of high-heel shoes, squashing them.

Finally Sister settled on a tailored suit, double-breasted, with a magenta pinstripe. She wore a pale pink blouse and a deep teal silk scarf. She was always putting together colors in odd ways, but they worked. After much deliberation, she wore shoes the color of the suit.

“Can you imagine wearing panty hose?”Golly wanted to snag the nylons.

“No.”Rooster wrinkled his nose.“Where’s she going,anyway?”

“Special party for Reading for the Blind. Kind of a fund-raiser, but more low-key than the dance stuff.”Raleigh knew his mother’s charities and special interests.

Golly shot out of the closet, cut in front of the dogs, and walked into the bathroom where Sister performed a last-minute makeup check. Golly hit the wall with all fours, bounced off, and turned to face the dogs.

“King of the hill!”

The two canines stopped, then Rooster said,“Golly,you’re mental.”

“I’m a killer. I can bring down bunnies twice my size. Ican face off a … a bobcat. I can terrify a cow. I am Kong!” She spun on her paws, flew the entire length of the upper hallway, hit the wall there, bounced off, and flew back, running right under the dogs’ bellies.

“She is mental,”Rooster repeated.

“I think she has to go to the bathroom,”Raleigh said.“She gets that way if she has to do Number Two.”

“I do not!”Golly was outraged.“But if I have to go, I’llgo in your bed because you have mortally offended me.” She turned in a huff, jumping onto the counter where the makeup sat.

“I don’t know how you’ve stood it for all these years,” Rooster consoled Raleigh.“At least when I lived with Peter, he didn’t keep cats. They’re horrible.”

“Oh, ignore her, Rooster. She just wants attention.Think of her as a tiny woman in a fur coat.”

Golly, purring for all she was worth, watched as Sister put on lipstick, considered it, wiped it off, put on a more pinkish, subdued color, considered it, threw the tube in the trash in disgust. Finally Sister wiped her lips and rubbed in a little colored gloss.

“She’s losing it,”Golly grandly announced.

“No. She’s finding it,”Raleigh answered.

By the time Sister reached the gathering, darkness enveloped the town, the white church steeples contrasting against the darkness. A light snow fell.

Marty Howard, a force in the reading group, urged people also to get involved in the Committee to Promote Literacy.

Clay and Izzy Berry moved through the group. Izzy had a sister who was blind and was passionate about the work of this group. Xavier and Dee were there, as well as Dalton Hill and Ben Sidell.

“Ben, this is the first time I’ve seen you at one of our functions. Thank you for coming,” Sister warmly greeted him.

“Marty asked me to drop by. You gave us great sport today, Master.” He smiled at her.

“Thank you. Mostly I was trying to hang on and stay up with the hounds. Coyote, as I’m sure you know.”

“That word filtered back to us. Bobby Franklin galloped as fast as I’ve ever seen him go.” He nodded in the direction of the genial, plump Bobby.

The Franklins donated printing to this group.

“Big as he is, he can go.” Sister smiled. “He’s trying the Atkins Diet now. Let’s all encourage him. Betty sure looks fabulous. She put her mind to losing weight last summer, got it off, kept it off.”

“Well, you don’t see too many fat whippers-in, do you?” Ben absentmindedly rattled the cubes in his glass. “Guess you heard about the brief exchange between Xavier and Sam?”

“I did,” Sister tartly responded.

“Gray intervened, and Clay moved Xavier up. Lends spice to the proceedings.”

“Maybe too much.” As Xavier and Dee came over, Sister pecked him on the cheek, then her. “Haven’t I just left you?”

“What a day.” Xavier, face drawn, complimented her.

“X, thank you for your restraint.”

He shrugged.“I’ve got bigger things on my mind than that worm.”

“Honey,” Dee gently chided him.

“Well, I don’t mind telling you all how I feel. It’s not like we don’t know one another. And Ben, you’re out there riding, so I count you in.” Xavier inhaled. “The storage fire is turning into a nightmare.”

Sister sympathized.“I’m sorry. It’s got to be a strain.”

“The investigator won’t release the money until the situation, as she calls it, is clarified. How can I clarify Donnie Sweigert winding up as Melba toast? Melba toast that committed arson. It’s crazy.”

“Honey.” Dee squeezed his arm.

“Sorry. I’m a little stressed.”

“These investigators are good, sugar. She’ll figure it out,” Dee reassured her husband.

Ben glanced briefly to the floor, then looked up.

“Sorry, Ben. Dee didn’t mean it that way. This is a tough situation. I know you’re doing all that you can.” Xavier, for all his troubles, was sensitive to the feelings of others.

Clay and Izzy joined them. Politically wise, Clay didn’t want the tension between Xavier and himself to become gossip fodder. Yes, he wanted the check, but he didn’t know what more to do about it either.

After a few moments of social chat, the group broke up. Ben remained with Sister. She noticed Clay moving off to talk to one group of people while Izzy moved over to another, chatted briefly, and then left the room. She noted that Dalton also left the room by another door.

“Meant to ask you, you know the high school and college coaches around here, don’t you?”

“Some better than others,” Sister answered.

“With the exception of the university men’s basketball coach, most of these guys have been working a long time, great stability.”

“Winners don’t get fired,” Sister replied, knowing the same applied in the hunt world.

Few people understood the pressures on a professional huntsman. He or she has to produce, just like the quarterback for a major league team. Huntsmen are professional athletes minus the endorsement, media hype, and titanic salaries. Many of these men and women could have had careers in the lucrative sports. They chose love instead of loot.

“What’s the problem with men’s basketball at the university?”

“Boy, it’s a yo-yo, isn’t it? Let’s hope they’ve turned the corner.” She touched his arm. “Look at these kids playing basketball and football now. They’re hulks.”

“That they are.” Ben lowered his voice. “Sam Lorillard mentioned something to me at the breakfast. Mitch and Anthony did some odd jobs for Berry Storage. We knew that. Donnie Sweigert was always the driver, never any other driver.”

“I don’t see the significance.”

“I’m not sure I do, either. Sam’s friend, Rory Ackerman, who’s now in rehab in Greensboro, was the one who told him this. Anyway, Sam said Mitch and Anthony only delivered furniture to coaches or trainers.”

“Have you asked Clay?”

Ben nodded that he had.“Said he’d check his records. Said he couldn’t trust Mitch and Anthony or any of the railroad denizens to stay sober long enough for a long haul. They only made the short runs, and Donnie drove those because he didn’t like going cross-country. Also Clay said he felt Donnie could control the drunks. I think Donnie himself drank more than Clay knew.”

“What a pity.”

Ben shifted his weight from one foot to the other.“You know these people. Can you think of anything—no matter how far-fetched—that would tie in Mitch, Anthony, and Donnie to the delivery of expensive furniture to coaches?”

“Drugs,” she replied. “These days it always seems to come down to that. We have a countereconomy in America, not one tax dollar produced from it. Billions.”

“I know,” Ben said with feeling.

Sister replied,“I can’t see that Clay or X would be involved in drugs. They don’t appear to use them. But,” she inhaled, “an insurance scam fits the bill, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Worried?”

Ben looked her right in the eyes.“Yes.”

“You don’t think it’s over?”

“No.”

She rubbed her forehead a moment.“They aren’t afraid to kill.”

“Selling OxyContin can yield hundreds of thousands of dollars. Prozac, Percodan, anything like that. Even Viagra.” He smiled slightly. “Off market, the drugs can make one very rich very fast. As for cocaine and other party drugs, they can make you rich fast, but they’re more dangerous because the other people dealing them are smart, tough, quick to kill.”

“Ben, have you ruled out the furniture and silver theft entirely?”

“No. No evidence so far for linking the fire to that, but,” he said, with emphasis, “these people are highly intelligent, very well organized. This may be a warning to someone else in the ring or to competition. They’d be stupid to burn down a warehouse full of stolen goods, wouldn’t they?”

Sister agreed, then asked,“What can I do?”

“The Jefferson Hunt is one of the hubs of the county. Can you think of any one or any group who might be involved in a high-class theft organization or involved with drugs? For example, and I certainly don’t mean she would do this, just as an example, can you imagine Betty Franklin buying illegal diet drugs in this country on the black market?”

“No.” Then Sister chuckled. “Bobby would be thinner.”

Ben smiled.“Keep your eyes open. Keep thinking. We’re right next to it, Sister, but we can’t see it.”

When Ben walked away, she thought about the ghosts on Hangman’s Ridge. She shuddered. Those ghosts appeared when someone was going to die. She used to think it was a tall tale, but over the years she had learned to believe it.

She moved around the party. Marty Howard caught up with her for a moment.“Thank you for coming. If you ever have any time, Sister, we’d love for you to read. It’s not just books we need, but magazines and newspapers. It’s often hard for the blind to keep up with current things.”

“I never thought of that. I could read for an hour to two. Let’s see how I do.”

“I’ll call Monday and we can check calendars.”

As Marty moved away, Dalton Hill joined her.“The hunting has been very good. I’m glad I joined.”

“Me, too.” Sister noticed he wore an English school tie, quite expensive. “Beautiful tie.”

“Eton.” He blushed slightly. “Actually, I didn’t attend Eton. I went to St. Andrews College, Aurora, but I liked the thin Eton blue diagonal stripe.”

“I can see why. I heard you purchased the Cleveland bay.”

“Yes. I’m going to have my two hunters brought down from Hamilton, too.” He named the town where his horses were boarding. “I want to hunt as much as I can. One of the great things about teaching is I can set my schedule, so I have arranged all my classes to be in the late afternoon.”

“Perfect.” She paused, then addressed him. “Dr. Hill—”

“Do call me Dalton. I’m trying to downplay the doctor,” he interrupted, a conspiratorial note in his voice. “I really don’t want to hear about someone’s gallbladder.”

“I promise never to discuss mine.” She smiled. “In Canada certain drugs are available that aren’t available here, am I right?”

“Not hard drugs, of course, but yes. Canada’s laws are more patient-oriented. Forgive me a bit of national pride, but in the United States, Master, everything is driven by profit, by the huge pharmaceutical companies.”

“Call me Sister. But surely those mega companies—and not all of them are American, I mean the Germans and the Swiss have giant pharmaceutical companies, all those companies do business in Canada.”

“They do, but we have them more in check. The whole point is to heal the patient. If you can’t heal the patient, then you make him or her as comfortable as possible; it’s cruel to deny a suffering person relief.”

“What about performance drugs? Not drugs for illness, but drugs to enhance performance?”

“Sexual performance?” His eyebrows rose.

“Now there’s the elixir of life as well as profit,” she wryly exclaimed. “I wasn’t thinking of that, but let’s include it. I was thinking along the lines of drugs to retard aging, and yes, I would be the first in line.”

“No need.”

“Dalton, thank you. You’re fibbing, but it falls sweetly upon the ear.” She smiled broadly. “I was thinking of anti-aging drugs and athletic-performance drugs. Guess I was remembering that fabulous runner, Ben Johnson, the Canadian sprinter who set a record for the hundred-meter dash at the 1987 World Championships, and won the Gold Medal at the 1988 Olympics, and then forfeited it when he admitted to steroid use.”

“Athletes are far beyond that. The coaches, the team doctors—everyone is more sophisticated now, and the drugs are more sophisticated, too.”

“And some of these drugs are legal in your country?”

“Not steroids.”

“Do you condone their use?”

Hesitating, he replied,“There is no way any professional athlete can make a living, can hold down his or her job, without chemical help. I find nothing wrong in trying to advance human performance. The caveat is abuse. Aspirin is a drug. Caffeine is as well. Bodybuilders routinely drink a cup of coffee before working out. Actually, I find your country’s drug laws backward, repressive, opening a wide door for crime.”

She sighed deeply.“I’m afraid you are right.”

“The entrenched interests here, meaning those people making tax-free billions, have churches and politicians on their side. It’s hypocritical. It’s shocking. It’s big business.”

“Prohibition on a higher plane.” She sighed again.

“Exactly.” His lips compressed. Then he relaxed. “I apologize. Being an endocrinologist, I study human chemistry. We really can improve performance with drugs. We really can retard aging. And we really can begin to solve the riddles of some dreadful degenerative diseases with stem cell research.” He threw up his hands. “I cannot for the life of me understand why any human being would deny a cure for Parkinson’s to another, and yet that’s exactly what’s happening.”

“For many people, these are complex moral issues.”

“There’s nothing moral in watching a human being die by inches.”

“I agree, Dalton, I totally agree. But I am one lone woman in Virginia without one ounce of political clout.”

“You can vote, and you are a master. Masters are members of Parliament in training.” He was warm to her now. “Same skills.”

“Perhaps they are.”

“Why did you ask me about drugs?”

“Oh, Ben and I were talking about the university basketball team. One thing led to another. And then you said you wanted to shy away from being called a doctor. I thought I’d better ask while I could, especially about the aging stuff.” She laughed as she evaded telling the truth.

“I’ll tell you what. If you come to my office, I’ll pull blood, run an EKG, do a few other tests. I can tell you, with accuracy, the true age of your body. Not your years but the true age of your body. In fact, you’d be a fascinating subject. Without the tests, I’d hazard a guess that internally you are between fortyfive and fifty. You have never abused alcohol, drugs, or smoked. Am I correct?”

“You are.”

“Come see me.”

“I shall. I appreciate the offer.”

“You’d be doing me a favor.” He paused a moment. “I believe, no, Iknowwe can live longer, stronger lives than we imagine. Aging must be recast in our minds as a slow disease that can be fought. I can envision a day when men can live to be a hundred and fifty with full productive lives.”

“Women?” she asked slyly.

“Ah.” He smiled. “A hundred seventy-five.”

“Right answer. Can you envision a future where a woman can run the hundred-yard dash, well, I guess it’s a hundred meters now, in nine seconds?”

“Yes. And a man will do it in seven and a half.”

“Are you being sexist?”

“No. Men really are faster. Yes, the fastest woman in the world will be faster than eighty percent of the men but, at the top, the men are faster. That’s the real difference in professional tennis. It’s not upper-body muscle, which people focus on, it’s speed. Men can return shots that women can’t. So if a woman plays a man, she’s not used to her ‘winners’ being fired back that fast.”

“Never thought of that.”

“In your favor, women have much more endurance, and, this I can’t quantify scientifically, but also much more emotional strength.”

She studied his earnest features.“Perhaps. But there’s so much we can never know accurately because our concepts of male and female are formed in a rigid cultural grid. Even scientific research reflects unconscious bias.”

“I agree. It does.” He noticed a pretty woman talking to Marty Howard.

“That’s Rebecca Baldwin, Tedi Bancroft’s grandniece. Thirty-one, I should say. Used to hunt, but she went back to school to get her doctorate in architectural history. Lovely girl. Allow me to introduce you.”

After Sister performed this service, she smiled to herself at how Dalton’s demeanor changed in the presence of a pretty woman. Ah yes, though he was an endocrinologist, his hormones pumped just like in the rest of us.

She found Gray, whispered in his ear.“You are so handsome. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m having fun.”

He slipped his arm around her waist for a moment, inhaling her fragrance, her hair.“I’m walking on air. And I do want to take you to a proper dinner. Let’s go Sunday. And sometime, too, let’s go up to the Kennedy Center. I have season seats, box seats, for the opera. Do you like the opera?”

“I can learn.” Sister knew nothing except she loathed recitatives.

He hugged her tighter.“We’ve both got a lot to learn. We’ll never be bored.”

Tedi noticed this exchange and prayed silently.“Dear God, let this be something special. Bring love into her life. She deserves it. And help us all get over this black/white stuff.” Then she glanced across the room, filling with more people, catching sight of the man she had loved for fifty years. Her eyes misted over. When she had stood before the altar next to a black-haired Edward Bancroft, she could never have dreamed that fifty years later she would love him more deeply, more passionately, with more insight into the man than when he slipped that thin gold band on her finger. She prayed again, “Thank you.”

Sister checked her watch as she made the rounds. Time to get home. She thought to herself that she didn’t give Gray much of a chase. So many men love the chase. Well, seductive gamesmanship wasn’t her style. Then she thought to herself, Admit it, I’m seventy-two. I haven’t any time to waste. She nearly laughed out loud at the thought.

As she was ready to leave, she overheard Clay and Xavier inside the cloakroom.

“… a real bind.”

“Clay, I know. I’m doing everything I can. I can’t just write a check out of my company’s funds.”

“It’s not just the money, X. It’s the suspicion. People are looking at me like I’m an arsonist, a scam artist, like I’m a murderer. Do you know what this is doing to my wife and children?”

Xavier’s voice rose, almost pleading. “What can I do? Neither Ben Sidell nor the investigator can figure it out. What can I do?”

“Can’t you write me a small check? Even five thousand dollars?”

“You’re putting me in a terrible position. If I do that, I’m undercutting the carrier. I have hundreds of clients placed with them, and Worldwide Security has been excellent. I can’t screw up that relationship for myself or my other clients.”

“So you’ll screw up our friendship?”

“Clay, my hands are tied.”

CHAPTER 33

At five-thirty Sunday morning, the snowflakes swayed as though on invisible chains. Heavy clouds blocked the pale light of the waxing moon, this February 1.

The winter solstice was forty-one days behind this morning; roughly forty more minutes of sunlight washed over central Virginia since then. Gaining that minute of sunlight a day put more spring in Sister’s step, though she wouldn’t see any sun today.

She walked through the fresh snow, tracks beginning to fill even as she lifted her boots out of them. Raleigh and Rooster faithfully accompanied her, although both were loath to leave the warm house.

“Rooster, leave it,” Sister softly said, for she spied Inky carefully exiting the stable. She’d been eating up the gleanings, the sweet feed being a particular favorite, as well as the little candied fruits she craved. “Morning, Inky.”

Inky turned a moment, blinked, then scampered toward the kennels where the hounds slept. Occasionally, Diana would be up walking about. Inky enjoyed speaking with her. She didn’t like Rooster, though, but then he wasn’t behind a chain-link fence. Being a harrier, Rooster was keen to prove his nose could follow fox scent just as readily as rabbit.

“Bother,”Rooster complained.

“Can’t do much in the snow anyway,”Raleigh commented.

Although not a hound, Raleigh possessed a good nose, but his obligation was to protect Sister, her other animals, and her property. He took this charge quite seriously.

Most animals operate on an internal clock. Sister’s alarm sounded between five and five-thirty every morning regardless of when she crawled into bed at night. A day’s work is more easily accomplished if one has had seven or eight hours sleep, so Sister was usually in bed by ten.

She noted that Shaker’s old Jeep Wagoneer was gone. Scrupulous about Sister’s equipment, he wouldn’t use the old Chevy truck unless he asked her. As many times as she told him to take a day off, he’d be at the kennels no later than seven-thirty in the winters, usually six in the summers. He was a huntsman to the bone.

She whistled at the paddock. The horses ran up, their hoofbeats muffled in the snow. She brought Lafayette and Keepsake in, then Rickyroo and Aztec. Each had his own stall, nameplate prettily painted and fastened to its door. Then she brought in Shaker’s mounts: Gunpowder, Showboat, Hojo.

Although puffs of breath came from her mouth, the temperature hung right around forty degrees in the barn. The barn, well built and well ventilated, provided enough warmth to keep the horses happy but not enough to make them ill. Each horse had his blanket on with a thin white cotton sheet underneath, sort of an equine undershirt. Too tight a barn causes respiratory problems for horses, plus they shouldn’t be overly warm in cold weather.

Pawing, snorting, and whinnying filled the barn as Sister rolled the feed cart to each stall, sliding the scoop through the opening to dump the crimped oats with a bit of sweet feed into the bucket. Everyone received the amount appropriate to his weight and level of work. As all of these horses worked hard, they received as much high-quality hay as they wished and one or two scoops of food depending on their individual metabolisms. If an animal needed a special supplement, it was crumbled into the oats. Usually, the good grain and particularly the hay kept them tip-top. Of all that they consumed, hay was the most important. It kept the motility in their intestines. So many people—not horsemen, but horse owners—fed pellets or too much grain in the winter. Their poor animals would come down with blocked intestines.

Sister had grown up with horses and hounds. She didn’t even know what she knew, for it was like breathing to her. However, she was still willing to learn and never minded reading about hoof studies, new medications, new exercise therapies. She noted that many horsemen were fanatically resistant to new methods. She thought a lot of the new stuff bunk, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t keep abreast. Occasionally there was value in something new.

She could think in the stable better than in the kennels. With the hounds she was busy talking to them, assessing their abilities or working with them one on one. But with the horses, she could truly think. She’d adjust a blanket, check legs, listen to breathing just in case. The large animals relaxed her, their scent intoxicated her, and her love for them was unconditional. She had always loved horses, hounds, cats, and dogs more than 99 percent of the people she had met in her life. She was, however, wise enough to keep this to herself, or she thought she was. The human race is so grotesquely egocentric that any human who finds another species more worthy of affection is branded a misfit, a misanthrope, someone with intimacy issues, oh, the list went on. She paid them no mind. She knew she was closer to God when with his creatures than she ever would be with chattering people.

She needed that closeness this morning. Bouncing between elation and worry, her chores helped her concentrate.

Thinking of Gray made her smile, while the thought of the club’s troubles caused distress. The hostility between Xavier and Sam upset her. She also secretly worried about working closely with Crawford. He would not easily set aside his large ambition. She hoped he wouldn’t work to undermine Walter. The tension between Clay and Xavier was a new cause for concern, and this dreadful mess at Berry Storage made her sick. With the instinct of a good foxhunter, she knew the two deaths at the railroad station were connected with Donnie’s. She felt as though the snow was covered with tracks that ran in circles.

If Jennifer and Sari could get through the roads, they’d arrive after church to groom each horse, so she didn’t attend to that. Instead, she walked into the tack room, dogs behind her, and sat down in the old, cracked-leather wing chair, the heady fragrance of leather, liniment, and horse filling her nostrils.

With the door closed, the tack room was pleasant. Its small gas heater looked like a wood-burning stove; a glass door in front kept the fifteen-by-fifteen room toasty. In the old days, tack rooms had real wood-burning stoves, but sparks flying out of the chimneys, in a downdraft, could swirl onto the roof or find their way into haylofts. Constant vigilance and many buckets of water were necessary.

“Could I have a bone?”Raleigh asked. He’d left the house without breakfast, as had Sister.

“Me, too,”Rooster begged.

“I know, I didn’t feed anyone. I’ll make a good breakfast when we get back up to the house. Just let the horses eat, give it another half hour. I always like to see how much each has eaten. You know how fussy I am with them.” She rose from the chair, opened a midsize dark red plastic garbage can, almost a little art object in its own way, and handed each dog a large milkbone.

She sat down again, talking to them as they chewed.“Boys, I keep thinking about all this. There is such a thing as the criminal mind. I can’t say that I understand that mind, but Ben Sidell does, I’m sure. There are people born without a conscience, psychopaths, sociopaths, I don’t know all the technical terms. It boils down to a criminal brain. I don’t necessarily believe a criminal mind is an insane mind, although some are. If you think about it, every single society on earth since B.C. has faced criminal behavior and destructive people. We think we’ve advanced in our handling of it, but I think we’ve backslid, abandoned our responsibility to the law-abiding. That’s not what worries me at this moment. You see, boys, I’m thinking about Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony, especially Anthony. Three people who have died of unnatural causes in a short period of time. Three people loosely connected by work.”

Raleigh stopped chewing a minute.“I’m listening.”

“Are these deaths the work of a nutcase? I think not. What is this about? There’s no element of passion. That shows on the corpse. This is cold murder, just getting people out of the way and trying not to make too big a mess out of it. With Mitch and Anthony, it appeared natural until the autopsy. Then, the question: Is it murder? Of course it is. I think so. They were thought out. But they weren’t thought out quite well enough, were they? Could Donnie really have been stupid enough to soak the warehouse and light a match without making sure of his escape? That’s pretty stupid. This mess isn’t about love, lust, or revenge. It’s greed. So I ask you, my two friends, where is the money? Show me the money.”

CHAPTER 34

“Are you dog tired and ready to bite?”

“Tired. No biting. Not you, anyway.” Walter gratefully accepted the hot soup Sister placed before him. He’d had an emergency call with a patient at four in the morning, Monday. He had finally reached home at eleven to find Sister waiting for him with food.

Tonto, a bundle of energy, ran laps in the big old kitchen as Rooster and Raleigh watched. Bessie stayed in her carpet-covered box. She didn’t like Raleigh and Rooster.

“You’ve transformed this kitchen. I wish Peter could see it.” She admired the patina of the hand-polished maple cabinets, the granite-topped counters, the built-in appliances, unobtrusive except for the huge Wolf stove, gleaming in stainless steel. A welling of lust for this stove filled her.

“Maybe he can.” Walter waited for Sister to sit before putting the large spoon in the chicken rice soup. “This is exactly what I needed.”

From the small bowl in front of her she tested the soup, which she made last night.“Not bad. Soups seem perfect in the winter. This has been one hell of a winter.”

“The roads are bad. I sure appreciate your coming here.”

“Drove slow. It’s four-wheel drive, not four-wheel stop.”

He broke off a bit of pumpernickel from the fresh loaf.

“Do you have a bread oven?” she asked.

“No.” He pointed to a square machine, two feet high and built in flush with the wall. “I put the ingredients in, set the timer, the bread is ready. It’s remarkable.”

“What’s remarkable is that you think of it.”

“I like cooking. A transitory art form.”

She smiled.“Extremely transitory. Well, I am in love with your stove. Forgive me, it’s rude to ask prices, but how much is that thing? I mean, it has six gas burners, a griddle, which is perfect for me, a big oven. It’s really impressive.”

“That particular model was nine thousand dollars. There are less-expensive models, four burners instead of six.”

“Good God.”

“A lot of money, but it should last generations, and you saw how wonderful it is to work on. You can get them without griddles, but you like the griddle.”

“I do.” She drummed her fingers on the farm table. “Nine thousand dollars. And where does one purchase this thing?”

“You can go online or shop around, but I wasted too much time doing that. I finally went down to Ron Martin and got it. They delivered, installed it, the gas company came and hooked up the line after burying the gas tank. It wasn’t nearly as big a mess as I thought it would be. Kind of like plumbing. You know, I fooled around and then woke up and went down to Maddox in Charlottesville, bought my shower, hot tub, old restored 1930s sinks. Had some of the sinks and johns that were here rebuilt for me. They stand behind what they do. That’s the problem with online shopping. The only person you can call when something goes wrong is the manufacturer, and he’ll bounce you to the dealer, and, if the dealer is in Minnesota, you’re cooked. Forgive the pun.”

She smiled.“I agree. Always do business locally. Nothing can replace that connection to another person.” She scratched Tonto’s head as he bounced over, sat down, then put a paw on her thigh.

“Too cute,”Raleigh sneered.

“Gag me,”Rooster coughed.

“I love everyone in the world!”The half-grown Welsh terrier cocked his head as Sister scratched him.

“Terriers are mental.”Rooster closed his eyes, feigning boredom.

“Born to dig. That’s it. Dig.”Raleigh felt his calling in life of far more importance than ridding the world of vermin.

“Tonto is a most engaging creature.”

“I’m a terrier man,” Walter said, then hastily added, “hounds first though, I know that.”

She laughed.“Working with a pack is different. But yes, I love foxhounds. I’ve spent most of my life studying them, and I’ll still never know as much as the late Dickie Bywaters.” She looked up from the dog and beamed at Walter. “Wonder if Rooster likes being back here?”

“I do, but I miss Peter,”Rooster replied.

The two humans looked at the harrier.

“Maybe he heard you,” Walter said.

“I expect they know a great deal more than we give them credit for knowing. Which is one of the reasons I’m here— not about dogs, I mean.” She leaned forward. “Tell me about athletes and drugs.”

“How much time do you have?” He rose to ladle more soup in his bowl.

“I made it. I should have done that.”

“Miss Manners isn’t here.” Walter pointed to the pot of soup on the stove. “More?”

“Yes.” She handed him her bowl.

As they started on their second bowls of soup, Walter tried to answer her broad question.“Football, basketball, baseball, weight-lifting, and track and field would collapse without drugs. For runners or endurance sports, um, not as prevalent. Well, let me put it this way: they aren’t on steroids or human growth hormone. Those are the drugs of choice.”

“What about women’s sports?”

“To be competitive, you’ve got to be strong and fast, as strong and as fast as your competition. Gender is irrelevant.”

“Do these drugs really work?”

He put his spoon down.“Without a doubt.”

“I see. So if you truly want to compete at the highest levels, it’s better living through chemistry?”

He nodded.“If you’re the defensive tackle for the Oak-land Raiders, facing someone in the trenches, and you haven’t taken drugs and he has, he’ll beat you seven out of ten times—or more. For one thing, his ligaments will be stronger.”

“Bigger muscles?”

“Yes, though that can be a disadvantage. One of the problems we’re now seeing, especially in football, is the number of injuries has escalated because these men now have bodies that are so big and heavy, they slam into one another like a train wreck! Three hundred and twenty pounds of lineman beef, say, a center, crashing into two hundred and eighty-nine pounds of defensive guard. And they’re quick. Big as they are, they’re quick. They’re slamming into each other at speed. And then if one of the linebackers really clocks a halfback, it’s ugly.”

“Do they take painkillers to play?”

“Yes, legal and illegal.”

“And the efforts of the governing bodies are ineffective?”

He nodded.“The coaches are scientists. And then again, let’s lay it on the line, Sister, the American public craves violence. If the mayhem dries up, there go the advertising revenues; there goes the ticket sales to say nothing of all those empty skyboxes. I don’t think the commissioners of any of the professional sports—men’s or women’s—are going to try too awfully hard, although they’ll talk a good game. Again, forgive the pun.”

“Was that a true pun?” Her brow furrowed.

“Uh.” He wondered now, too.

“No matter. Okay, next question. As profit has transformed professional sports, what about college sports?”

“College sports are nurseries for professional sports. Only baseball supports and pays for minor leagues. For the rest of them, they siphon the players right out of college without pouring money into the colleges. A good deal for the NFL and NBA.”

“Why is baseball different in your opinion?”

“It’s such a difficult game to play well. Apart from the phenomenal hand-eye coordination, for every situation there are maybe three possibilities. You really have to think in baseball. It’s not enough to learn your position. I love baseball.”

“Thought you were the halfback on Cornell’s football team?”

“I was, but I played center field for the baseball team. Love baseball.”

“Actually, I do, too.” She sipped her tea. “So the college athletes are taking steroids and whatever?”

“You bet. The coaches are right in there with it or turning a blind eye. You can’t have a kid go home during the summer of his sophomore year, return for football practice thirty pounds of muscle heavier without drugs. Just throwing hay bales on the farm isn’t going to do it, although, truthfully, it will give you a better body.”

“Really?”

“Sure. More flexible. Natural muscle is different than muscle enhanced by steroids. Once you get used to looking for it, you can always tell the difference.”

“Why so?”

“An athlete who has taken steroids has a rounder, fuller look. Essentially, the muscle cell has been pumped up with fluid. I won’t bore you with a long explanation. You and I don’t have muscles like that. Our muscles are less full but have a harder, almost shredded look.”

“I thought the bodybuilders were the ones who got shredded.”

“They do. Lots of purging water from their systems before a contest, but you can still see the difference. The only way I can explain it is those steroid bodies have a real roundness to the muscle.”

“Dangerous?”

“Sure. In excess, the drugs can shut down the liver, shrink the testicles on a man, give men what they call ‘bitch tits.’ For women, we know much less. In fact, we know much less about women on so many levels of medicine that it’s a sin. Man has been the measure of all things.”

“This is fascinating. I had no idea.”

“Sister, kids are using steroids in high school. A kid wants to make All State and then wants to play for Nebraska. He starts shooting up.”

“With the help of the coach or the trainer?”

Walter shrugged.“I really hope that a high school coach knows better, acts as a father to those kids, but,” he said, holding up his hands, “a high school coach is under pressure, too. Although not nearly as severe as the college coach at a PAC Ten school who makes one million dollars a year in salary andGod knows how much in benefits.”

“Good Lord, I picked the wrong sport.”

“Far from it.” He patted Tonto, who now pestered him. “One of the things I most love about foxhunting is that it can’t be corrupted by money.”

“But racing can. Three-day eventing. Show jumping. Drugs?”

He shrugged.“Not steroids. Not for people, anyway. You know more about the horse end of it than I do. I know some racehorses have been loaded with the stuff. Saddlebreds, too. But the drugs in the horse world for humans are almost always alcohol, cocaine, or some kind of painkiller.”

“Makes sense.”

“I have yet to meet a horseman without broken bones.”

“Me, neither.” She sat for a moment. “You haven’t asked why I’m on this track.”

“You’re the master.” He grinned, his white teeth straight, although a few had ragged edges from his playing days.

“Before I get to why, what about human growth hormone? What’s the deal there?”

“It’s extremely important. It may be able to dramatically slow aging. I personally think it needs to come onto the market. We have done enough testing on the stuff. But it is abused by athletes because it will grow muscle and it is theoretically safer, in large doses, than steroids. Some people react to steroid abuse with rages, ’roid rage. Taking HGH doesn’t produce rages. It builds a stronger body, stronger ligaments, which are more important than bulk, as I said before. If abused, the taker will get a lantern jaw, larger hands and feet. You know the look.”

“I do. Acromegaly.”

“HGH is gold on the black market, pure gold.”

“If HGH and steroids create better bodies, what about plain old testosterone?”

“Up to a point, that will help. The body has its limits. You can go over the limit, but you aren’t going to get the kind of dramatic, rapid gain you’ll get with isolated steroids—think of them as turbo testosterone. And all this stuff affects one’s cholesterol levels and liver. There is no free ride.”

“These drugs are on the black market, I suppose, along with mood elevators and stuff like that?”

Again, he nodded.“The odd thing is, Sister, every single person is a different cocktail. Let’s throw out numbers: not real but as examples. Let’s say the so-called average woman pumps out ten cc’s of estrogen and one cc of testosterone. Okay? The so-called average male pumps out ten cc’s of testosterone and one cc of estrogen. If I pulled blood from every member of our hunt club, I probably wouldn’t find one person with an average ratio. Okay, that ratio is made up, but you know what I mean. We really don’t know nearly enough about the human body as an individual unit. You pick up the newspapers or listen to TV and hear the latest scientific study,” he paused, “be wary. You can’t make policy or prescriptions based on tests of even ten thousand people. Yet this is done regularly and on test groups of far fewer numbers. It’s insane. I’m a physician, and I’m telling you it’s utterly insane.”

“Why is it done?”

“Money. Mostly it’s the drug company’s hot desire for ever-escalating profits, but also it’s from public pressure. They want instant answers and easy answers. There is nothing easy about it. One tiny example, the human heart. It’s supposed to be here, right?” He tapped the left sideof his chest. “Well, most of the time, it’s actually here.” He tapped just to the left of the breastplate. “Often it’s here.” He tapped his chest, dead center, a bit high. “And you’d be amazed how many times I find it over here.” He tapped the right side of his chest just offcenter line.

“Amazing.”

“Circadian rhythms. You’re a hunter. You know how important the diurnal rhythms are, the seasonal rhythms, even the phases of the moon. Right?”

“Right. I live by them.”

“Medicine reacts differently in the body according to the time when it is administered. But you’re instructed to take a pill in the morning or three times a day. The truth is, that might not be the optimum time to administer that drug, a drug, prescribed by your physician, that you’ve just spent hard-earned money buying from your pharmacist. And we sure don’t know enough to make the kind of outrageous pronouncements and promises you see every day in advertisements.”

“Now, would you like to know why I’ve asked you these questions, which have nothing to do with horses, hounds, or the weather for Tuesday’s hunt?”

“I would.” He smiled.

“A stray fact wandered in through someone Sam Lorillard knows, one of the alcoholics who hangs around the station. Ben Sidell told me this. When Mitch and Anthony picked up odd jobs delivering furniture for Berry Storage, Donnie Sweigert always drove the truck. Nothing too strange about that, but whatisinteresting is that those men only made deliveries to coaches or trainers.”

“Ah.” He held his breath for a moment. “You’re thinking this has to do with performance-enhancing drugs, maybe even recreational drugs. Have you said anything to Ben?”

“He’s smart. I expect he’s there ahead of me.”

“It’s deeply disturbing. Not only are three people dead, but other lives are being ruined. The chances of a high school athlete and then a college athlete making it to the pros are tiny, infinitesimal. But every kid thinks he can do it. Even more damaging, less than twenty-five percent of black male basketball players at Division 1A schools graduate. Graduate!” He exhaled loudly, which made Tonto stand up on his hind paws to make sure Walter was okay. “Here, bud.” Walter gave him a small piece of pumpernickel. “I guess every one of us needs a dream. I don’t mean to soundnegative, but more than a dream, they need a degree.”

“Not negative, just realistic. I probably have this fact wrong, but I remember reading somewhere that of all the college male basketball players, less than three percent will make it to the pros, and out of that percentage, most will wash out in five years.”

“Sounds close enough to me.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to say anything. That would be stupid, kind of showing my hand too early. This is inside our tent, I think. The finger points at Clay Berry or Xavier. Possibly Sam, because of his connection to the railroad station gang. From time to time Sam would help deliver furniture. I guess those who had any muscle power left took a job with Berry Storage from time to time. Makes me sick to think of it. I’ve racked my brain to see if anyone else could be doing this, using the Berry Storage as a distribution point. When you think about it, it’s pretty smart. Furniture with drugs hidden inside.”

His voice remained even, then rose.“Hard to think of Clay or X being involved in drug sales.”

“Yes. Well, I don’t know anything, but I have this instinct, like when I know where my fox is.”

“Your instincts have kept us all going.”

“And now I know something else.”

“What?”

“Professional athletes are on everything but roller skates.”

CHAPTER 35

Each time he blew the horn, Shaker’s ribs hurt, taped though they were. Yesterday’s rare day of sunshine was followed by more gray clouds this Tuesday.

In the far distance, the grand estate of Rattle and Snap, a Georgian pile, red brick with massive white Doric pillars, reposed on a hill overlooking its snow-filled acres. While it was exquisitely beautiful, everyone who bought it lost pots of money, eventually leaving it to the next rich outsider.

Sister, back leading the field, wondered if places didn’t have good spirits or bad spirits. Maybe the Chinese were correct in lining up their buildings and doorways according to their ideas of energy. Feng shui made as much sense as any other system for attracting luck.

The hunt club enjoyed a bit of luck as Alexander Vajay, owner of Chapel Cross, purchased a lottery ticket, one of the scratch kind, and won a thousand dollars. He happily gave half to the hunt club before the hounds took off this frosty morning.

Alexander, with his dark Indian skin, white teeth, and expressive eyes, delighted Sister and the members. He and his family had been members for only a year, but their exuberance, matched by their warmth and sophistication, had made the family quite popular.

Tuesday’s field consisted of twelve people: Tedi, Edward, Sam, Gray, Crawford, Marty, Alexander, Xavier, Clay, Ronnie, Jennifer, and Sari. The girls lucked out with a snow day. Two flakes of snow make principals shaky, the result being kids make up snow days well into May and sometimes June. It was one way to learn that one pays for one’s pleasures, but Sister always thought if a child had mastered the work, let him or her go.

They’d had a few good runs in the snow but nothing longer than fifteen minutes. It was one of those hunt-and-peck days, but still, anything beats a blank. The temperature nudged up to the midforties and then skidded right back down into the midthirties. Sister wondered what was behind it. Probablyanother storm, more snow. No one would be likely to forget this winter.

Shaker circled back toward the outbuildings behind the mansion. He might have a chance to pick up a line going in or out of the hay barns. The puddles in the dirt road were shining ice. The ice, close to an inch thick, could bear the weight of a hound, but not a horse.

Aztec, careful with his hooves, mistrusted the shine off the frozen puddles. He’d try to sidestep them, but too many puddles filled the road. Sister squeezed him on. He did it, but complained by flicking his ears back and tightening the muscles along his spine as though he was going to hump up.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I don’t like this,”Aztec answered.

“Oh, come on.” She hit him with her spurs.

“I’m doing it, but I still don’t like it.”He vaulted the puddle instead of going through it.

Fortunately Sister had a tight seat.“Wiener.”

“I’ll take any jump in anyone’s hunt field, but I don’t likeice.”He kept going, his trot eating up the yards.

This chase, out of a trot for all of five minutes, ended a mile and a half from the mansion, the fox ducking into the abandoned mule barns. Back before World War I, Melton supported a workforce of over three hundred laborers— men, women, and children. The main crops—apples, hay, corn, and some tobacco—needed many hands to plant, nurture, then pluck. All the old tobacco barns, built of heavy stone, stood, the lingering smoky scent tangible even to the human nose.

Mindful of Shaker’s ribs and his pride, Sister felt they’d been out for two hours, shown some sport on a dicey day. As he dismounted, blowing “Gone to Ground,” she waited for him to finish.

Riding on Showboat, she signaled him by tapping her hat with her crop. He nodded. He hurt more than he cared to admit.

The field, feeling the precipitous temperature drop now that they weren’t moving along, sighed with relief.

Gray rode with Sister as they turned back.

“What I most like about Melton is the mile-long drive lined with sugar maples.”

“It’s a beautiful estate,” she said.

“Did you watch Westminster last night?”

“Glued to the set. Loved the English setter in the hunting dog division. Thought the corgi was fabulous in the herding group. Course tonight we see hounds, terriers, and toys. And then the Best in Show. I guarantee it won’t be a hound, no matter how spectacular the hound. Just makes my teeth hurt, I hate that so much!” She laughed at herself. “I’ve half a mind to take my hounds to Madison Square Garden and really give the audience a show!”

Crawford joined them.“Sister, I have an idea about the staff.”

Her eyebrows rose.“Love to hear it.”

“What if we advertised in Horse Country’s newspaper and The Chronicle of the Horsefor an intern? You know, someone in vet school or a college kid who rides on the show-jumping team. You and Shaker would have help in the summer, and it wouldn’t cost as much as full-time help.” He caught his breath, the cold air stinging his throat. “If it proved efficient, then in the fall we could organize some fund-raisers for a permanent position.”

“Excellent idea,” Sister replied. “Even if we couldn’t hire full-time help, we’d make progress. Excellent,” she repeated.

Sister turned to see how the others were coming along behind them. Sam and Marty rode well to the rear, far away from Xavier, Clay, and Ronnie, all three in an animated discussion.

Back at the trailers, Sister asked Ronnie,“What was that all about?”

“Sam Lorillard.”

“Oh.”

Ronnie loosened his horse’s girth. “X swears he’s drinking again, but X hates him so much we’re taking it with a grain of salt. I don’t know.” He shook his head.

“Here.” She took the saddle as he took off the bridle, then slipped on a high-quality leather halter from Fennell’s in Lexington, Kentucky.

“You know, Ronnie, when you were a Pony Clubber with Ray, I told you to keep the saddle on the horse, but to loosen the girth. They get cold-backed in this weather if you take the saddle off.”

“I know, I know,” he answered as though he were still twelve, pony in hand. “But Regardless,” his horse was named Regardless, “is cold-backed. I have this big gel pad.” He took the saddle from her, stepped up into his trailer tack room, put the saddle on the saddletree and the bridle on the bridle rack, and plucked out a blue gel pad wrapped in warm towels. “Feel it.”

“Still warm.”

“These things are amazing. They’ll stay warm for hours.” He stepped down, put the pad on Regardless’s back, looped a soft web overgirth over it. Then he draped on the sweat sheet, pulling a sturdy blanket over all. “This really works.”

“I should have known not to chide you. You were my best Pony Clubber, even better than Ray Jr.”

Ronnie beamed.“Thanks.”

“Ronnie, forgive me for asking you this. I don’t want to put you on the spot, but, well … can you in your wildest imaginings think that Clay could be part of a criminal ring, whether it’s furniture or something else?”

He faced her as he stood on the other side of his horse, putting his arms over Regardless’s back. “No. But having said that, do we truly know anyone? I guess we’re all capable of things that aren’t pretty. But no. He makes enough money honestly.”

“Greed. It’s a vice like lust. Or maybe I should say it’s one of the seven deadly sins.” She stood close to Ronnie. “It’s irrational—obviously—and Izzy has expensive tastes.”

“That she does. Wraps him around her little finger.” Ronnie grimaced for a second. “Still, I can’t imagine Clay as a crook. Just can’t. Now,” he lowered his voice as he rubbed Regardless’s forehead, “I can imagine Izzy doing many out-of-the-way things.”

“Yes, I can, too. Think she’s faithful to Clay?”

After a long pause, Ronnie replied,“No. Do you?” “No, but I can’t judge these things.” She sighed, then brightened. “Let me tell you again that your lottery ticket idea was just the best.”

“How about Alex winning a thousand dollars?”

“I know. Five hundred for the club, and every dollar helps as you well know.”

“Yes.” He smiled sheepishly. “Obviously, I don’t have the gambler’s gene.”

“That’s why you’re treasurer.”

On the way back to the farm, driving slowly on roads that remained slick in some spots, while the slush turned to ice in others, Sister and Betty rehashed the day’s hunt.

Betty fretted,“I hope that kid of mine is being sensible.”

“She’ll be at the stable. She left before we did, and she’s a good driver.”

“She’s young. She hasn’t seen as many bad roads as we have.”

“Betty, there are days when I look like nine miles of bad road.” Sister laughed at her. “Stop worrying.”

Betty scrunched back down in the passenger side of the truck.“You could never look like nine miles of bad road.”

“Aren’t you sweet?”

“Ha.”

They rode in silence for another mile, then Sister said,“You never know the length of a snake until it’s dead.”

“Huh?”

“My dad used to say that. I was thinking about the fire, all that. Might be a long snake, you know?” Sister answered.

“Whoever is behind this will screw up sooner or later. They always do.” Betty crossed her arms over her chest.

“But that’s just it,” Sister became animated. “They already have. If everything’s running smoothly, seems to me, you don’t have to kill people.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Get rid of people or partners, and the money is all yours, if it’s about money. And when you think of it, why two drunks and one, well, working-class guy. Doesn’t seem to me much money there. Sorry to call Anthony a drunk. Seems disrespectful somehow.”

“He was.” Sister gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I keep remembering his laugh, the time he threw the basketball from half court when the buzzer sounded in the game against Lee High his senior year. Jesus, what happens to people?”

“Life,” Betty said.

CHAPTER 36

Back at Roughneck Farm, Sister had just hung up the phone after a glowing conversation with Gray. She glanced out the kitchen window. Snow was falling heavily.

She reached across the counter to turn up the radio, 103.5. Mozart’s “Turkish Rondo” played.

“Always makes me think of fat people dancing.” She laughed, then performed a rumba across the uneven heart pine floor.

“Mental!”Golly giggled, but followed Sister, batting at her legs.

Raleigh and Rooster, ever attuned to Sister’s emotions, jumped out of their fleece-lined dog beds to dance with her. Raleigh turned in circles as Rooster hopped on his hind legs, only to suffer a whack from Golly on his swishing tail.

“Hey!”

“Anything that moves is fair prey to Golly, Killer QueenAmong All Felines!”The calico sang her own praises.

As the short musical piece continued, the four became sillier and sillier, each influencing the other until the music stopped. Sister, laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks, dropped to her knees, hugged the squirming dogs, wildly happy, then scooped up Golly as she stood up. She held the cat like a baby, burying her face in her longhaired tummy. If anyone else did this, Golly would rearrange his or her face. She purred.

“Are we nuts or what?” Sister then turned the cat over, putting her on her shoulder.

“Yeah!”Raleigh danced to the next selection on NPR, another Mozart.

“So ungainly.”Two tiny streams of air from Golly’s nostrils brushed Sister’s hair.

“I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard since we ran up on Donnie Sweigert drenched in fox pee! Course, I couldn’t laugh then.”

“Never did bag a deer,”Raleigh said.

“Weather,”Rooster, doing his best to dance, replied.“Messed up the last of deer season.”

The phone rang again.

“Gray, did you miss me?” She insouciantly spoke into the mouthpiece.

His heavy voice lifted a second.“I did. But I called to tell you that Dalton Hill just phoned me to say he’s with Sam on Garth Road in Charlottesville. He stopped when he noticed Sam’s Toyota off the road right there where you turn to go back to the Barracks,” he said, referring to the famous show stable, its turnoffbeing right after a deceptive curve in Garth Road. “He said Sam is drunk, blind drunk.”

“Oh. Gray, I’m so sorry. Would you like me to come over?”

“Well, I’ve got to get my brother.”

“I’ll pick you up. One of us can drive Sam’s truck back if it’s not wrecked.”

“Weather’s bad.”

“I’ve driven in worse.”

By the time Sister and Gray had reached Sam and Dalton, Dalton had managed to dislodge the truck, which was now parked on the shoulder.

Sam, sprawled on the front seat, was out cold.

“Dalton, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Dumb luck. I happened to be heading home this way. Given Sam’s record, I thought if the sheriff found him, he’d lose his license for good.”

“And be put in jail.”

“Perhaps that’s not a bad thing.”

Gray took a deep ragged breath.“I know,” he said as he fought back tears. “I thought he’d beat it this time. I really did.”

“Gray, drive my truck. I’ll drive the Toyota with Sam in it.”

“No, we’ll do it the other way around. If he comes to and pukes or gets belligerent, you won’t have to deal with it or clean it up.” He paused as snowflakes whitened his salt-and-pepper hair. “This is it. This is the last time I help him. I can no longer be my brother’s keeper.”

“Gray,” Sister put her hand on his shoulder. “You did more than your share for him. More than your share by far.”

Gray dropped his head, then looked up,“Getting worse, the storm.”

“I can follow you to wherever you’re taking him.”

“Thanks. We’ll turn left at Owensville Road, and I know you’ll go straight to get home.” Sister smiled. “Thank you, Dalton.”

“No need.” He nodded and climbed back into his Land Cruiser, a vehicle that can get through just about anything.

Sister followed Gray as he negotiated the twisty road, snow blowing across it as the winds intensified. She was sick at heart for Gray and for Sam, too.

Gray helped his brother to bed at the old home place. He and Sister took off Sam’s clothes, tucked him in, and put a wastebasket by the bed in case he did get sick and couldn’t make it to the john.

“I’m not staying with him. I’m afraid I’ll kill him when he wakes up.”

“Good decision.” She looked down at Sam, oblivious to the grief he was causing, and felt a rustle of anger at him. “Come home with me. You don’t have to entertain me or vice versa, but tonight’s the kind of night when you need a friend.”

He lightly placed his hand on the back of her neck.“You’re a good woman, Jane.”

That night as the winds howled, Sister held Gray as he fell asleep. She stayed awake for another hour and thought about the miseries people inflict upon others when they won’t be responsible for themselves.

CHAPTER 37

China lined the two cupboards. Glasses sparkled next to them. A glass display case up front across from the checkout counter protected antique pieces. On the left side of these treasures, men’s furnishings and ladies apparel stood out from the paintings and paneling. On the right side hung hunt whips, both knob end and stag horn, professional thongs—eight-plaited or twelve-plaited—and beyond, bridles and saddles, their vegetable-tanned leather emitting a satisfying fragrance.

A change of venue usually stimulated Sister’s brain. So that morning she took Gray and drove the ploughed-out and ever-overcrowded ribbon of Route 29 north to Warrenton, a town she loved, where the courthouse alone was worth the two-hour drive, to visit Horse Country. Fauquier County, its rolling foothills, restrained estates, was currently braving an onslaught of Washington, D.C., money. Like lemmings, Washingtonians scurried out Route 66 West, hooking left on Route 29, down to Warrenton. This trip without heavy traffic could be accomplished in an hour or even less; with traffic, it was anyone’s guess. Like Loudon County, infested with developments where verdant land used to delight the eye, Fauquier staggered and faltered. The money was too good: people sold or subdivided their estates.

Each time Sister drove up to Horse Country to visit Marion Maggiolo and her staff, like a family really, Sister felt her credit cards burning in her pocket.

Gray, spirits somewhat restored, rejoiced in Sister’s company. Marion, who knew Gray from his days of hunting in Middleburg, was pleasantly surprised to see how attentive he was to Sister. The two friends caught up for a while before Marion went back to her office and Sister started shopping.

She picked out a blue tattersall vest, and a shirt off the men’s pile, then she discovered a pair of gloves that had been handmade in England. A true glover put these together: it wasn’t two or even four pieces stitched together, but over twenty. The stitching was done in such a way that the threads never touched the inside of the hand. Between the third and last fingers a special patch was sewn on, just where the reins rubbed. The soft inside palm also had another layer, cut to conform to the lay of the thumb. The spectacular gloves made of Capibara leather carried a spectacular price. Sister touched them, pressed them to her nose, put them back, picked them up.

“Dammit!” She cursed under her breath, picking them up for the last time and placing them with her ever-growing pile on the counter.

Gray, his own credit card in hand, perused her pile.“I thought you were just coming to visit Marion.”

“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” She pointed to his mass of breeches, socks, stock ties, and shirts resting on the counter. “And I see that you, too, bought these gloves. Gloves that cost as much as a car payment.”

They burst out laughing as Wendy, behind the counter and a fixture at the store, totaled up their bills.

Charlotte strolled by, and in her hand was a lovely Moroccan bound book, its rich burgundy leather soft to the touch. She ran a bookstore; gorgeous antique hunting volumes and other equine objects were her speciality.“While you’re spending money.” She dangled the book in front of Gray.

“Ask Momma,”he read the title aloud, a classic from the nineteenth century.“Charlotte, you’re such a temptress.”

“Yes, everyone says that about her.” Wendy kept ringing up items.

Gray addedAsk Mommato his pile.

Driving back down Route 29, they laughed at their impulsiveness.

Gray took a deep breath, slapped his hands on his thighs.“I worked hard enough making it. I might as damn well spend some of it.”

“Hard to resist those gloves.”

“I know.” He whistled appreciatively.

“We’ve driven all the way up; we’re driving all the way back. I can’t stand it. What did Sam say when he was restored to his senses?”

“When he called this morning on my cell phone,” Gray paused. “First, I didn’t tell him where I was. Second, I didn’t tell him you and Dalton helped him. He’ll find out in good time. Third, do you have your seat belt on?”

“I do.”

“He swore he did not take a drink.”

“What?” She was incredulous.

“Swore on our mother’s soul!”

“But he was blotto. Gone.”

“He swears it. I asked him what he remembered. He said he left the AA meeting with two other men, whom he couldn’t name because he’s not supposed to tell.”

“How convenient.”

“Right. And the next thing he remembers is waking up in bed, head thumping, stomach churning.”

Her voice softened.“Do you believe him?”

“Jane, he’s lied to me for close to thirty years. It’s hard to believe him.”

“That it is.”

“And I didn’t feel like talking about it when we left. I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It’s just,” he rested his hands on his knees, “I’m so sick of it.”

“I understand.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“For what?”

“For picking me up in a snowstorm, for driving up to Garth Road, for driving back and putting Sam to bed, for putting up with me last night.”

“I like your company.”

He breathed in deeply, turned to her, and ran his left forefinger along her right cheek.“I like you, Jane. So much.”

They drove in silence to where Route 29 and Highway 17 converge, 29 going south and 17 stretching on to Fredericksburg.

Sister finally spoke.“Can’t stand it. My curiosity’s getting the better of me.”

She punched in Ben Sidell’s number, speaking into the truck’s speaker phone when he picked up. “I’m a nosy twit, but is Donnie Sweigert’s autopsy complete?”

“Yes.”

“Was he shot or knocked over the head or stuffed with a knockout drug?”

“He had been in a fight shortly before his death. His neck, deep tissue, had been bruised. A deep bruise on his thigh, a cracked rib. He was most likely unconscious and then died from smoke inhalation.”

“Do you think he started a fire with a gas can next to him?”

“I don’t know.” Ben cleared his throat. “The can, although mostly empty, blew up from the small amount of gasoline in the bottom. Maybe the fire got away from him. Granted, Donnie wasn’t terribly intelligent, but he didn’t appear to be that stupid.”

“So now, Ben, three men are dead. They knew one another. They worked together sporadically. Maybe they were closer than anyone realizes.”

“Perhaps.”

“I assume you have contacted the people Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony delivered furniture to?”

“Yes.”

“We have four suspects, don’t we?”

Ben thought a moment.“Sister, you haven’t been idle. If you count Isabelle Berry, yes.”

“I do and I don’t. Wives can go along for years and know not one thing about the business of their husbands. Not their bailiwick.”

“True.”

“Have you checked Dalton Hill’s background?”

“He is what he says he is. Highly respected in his profession and in his hobby, the decorative arts of the eighteenth century. Guess that’s what you call it.”

“It’s possible his coming here is a coincidence.”

“I don’t know.” Ben’s voice grew louder as she drove through an area of better reception. “What I do know is that you had better keep your mouth shut. Forgive me for being blunt. For one thing, I’m piecing this together, and I don’t want you upsetting the applecart. It’s tough enough as it is, and our killer or killers don’t shy away from murdering people.”

“Afraid he or they will fly the coop?”

“Yes. I’m worried about that and I’m worried about someone getting in the way or another murder, if this is some sort of vendetta.”

“Ah.” She absorbed his comment about who might become a victim. “Can you think of anyone else in particular who might be in danger?”

“I don’t know. My hunch is that this is a falling-out among thieves.” He waited a moment as the reception cackled. “I beg you to be careful, please, Sister.”

“We’re talking about millions of dollars, aren’t we?”

“Yes. And people have killed for less.”

She pressed the End button.“Shit. Excuse my French.”

“If this is a falling-out among thieves, I’d think that Donnie, Mitch, and Anthony would have had money.”

“Donnie flashed around an expensive rifle.”

“He did, but if you want to know my hunch, it’s those three men who may have figured out the scam. Maybe they blackmailed the real criminals.”

“Yes. I wonder if any of them knew how much money was at stake.” She stopped for the light where Route 28 connects with Route 29. “It’s close, this evil.”

CHAPTER 38

Sunny, cold, and crisp, Thursday’s hunt at Orchard Hill unfolded as though Nimrod himself had written about it. Tomorrow night’s full moon would illuminate the snowy fields. Predators, hunting in full force, pursued rabbits, field mice, even ground nesters among the avian family. Why the tempo of hunting accelerated before a full moon, Sister didn’t know. She just knew it happened. Also that people’s emotions swung higher and wilder; sexual attractions heated up, too. Artemis possessed powers, as did her twin, Apollo. His were more obvious, hers commanded study.

On that glorious February 5, as hounds streamed across the thirty-acre hayfield, its imposing sugar maple, solemn as a sentinel in the middle of the snowy field, Sister thought how little glory remained in modern life. War, so technological and covered by reporters as an entertainment, had room for heroism, but not glory. Only sport and art retained the concept of, as foxhunters would say, throwing your heart over the fence. Professional sport—micromanaged, increasingly scientific—was like a salmon pulled out of the water: its colors were fading, and with it, glory. There’s a heedless, sunny aspect to glory, a disdain for profit and even the applause of others that appealed to Sister. Not that she minded applause or profit, but that wasn’t why she raced across the clean whiteness this morning. She wanted glory.

The field, large for a Thursday at twenty-one, looked like a nineteenth-century aquatint; the packed snow flew off hooves like large chunks of confetti. Faces, red from cold and exertion, radiated intensity and happiness.

The fox, a quarter of a mile ahead of the pack, swung round the other side of the hayfield, turning back toward his den not far from the simple Federal-style house.

Sister, in her eagerness, had gotten a bit forward of her field. She soared over the black coop, snow still tucked along the planks, then paused a moment to watch others take the obstacle.

Tedi, perfect position, arched over the coop, the sky bright blue above her. Edward followed, derby on his head, hands forward, eyes up—not as elegant as his wife, but bold. Behind Edward came Ronnie, light, smiling, another one with perfect position. Xavier followed Ronnie, lurching a bit on Picasso. Xavier really had to lose weight. It was affecting his riding. After Xavier, Clay took the jump big. That was Clay, clap yourleg on the horse and devil take the hindmost. Once Clay cleared, Crawford, keen to be up front, tucked down on Czpaka and thundered over: not pretty but effective. Walter on Clemson, his tried and true, took the fence in a workman-like manner, no muss, no fuss, all business. Sam took his fences like the professional he was, with as little interference with the horse as possible.

She heard the horn, figured she better move along. She asked Keepsake for speed, which he readily supplied despite the snow. Keepsake had a marvelous sense of balance.

Sister looked for brain first, balance second. Anyone could pick apart a horse, a hind end a trifle weak or a shoulder slope too straight. For Sister, conformation was a map not a destination. The way the horse moved meant everything to her. As her mother used to say,“Movement is the best of conformation.”

Another jump, an odd brush jump, level on top, sat in the turkey foot wire fence that enclosed the back acres. Keepsake glided over, smooth as silk. They turned toward higher ground, while a soft grade upward, given the snow, burned calories.

On top of that meadow, the 1809 house and outbuildings in clear view, Sister saw a red fox running toward the toolshed. The outermost building, its white clapboard matched all the others.

She said nothing as hounds were speaking. It’s incorrect to call out “Tallyho” if the hounds are on.

Viewing the fox is as good as a twenty-minute run. The field excitedly looked in the direction of Tedi’s outstretched arm, her lady’s derby in her hand. Tedi did not yell out but did the proper thing when viewing a fox. She removed her derby, pointing it in the direction of the fox. She continued this for four or five strides as there was no slowing down, then she clapped the derby on her head realizing she’d snapped her hat cord in her eagerness to confirm her view.

“Bother!” she muttered under her breath as the hat cord swung from side to side on her neck, its small metal snap cold when it touched bare skin.

Within four minutes the fox popped into his den, hounds marked it, Rassle turning a somersault of delight, which made the whole field laugh. Shaker blew“Gone to Ground,” praised his charges, mounted with a wince, and looked at Sister.

Like a schoolgirl bursting with eagerness, she said,“Let’s hunt the back acres. If we don’t pick up anything in twenty minutes, we can call it a day. I mean, unless you’re hurting.”

He shot her a baleful stare.“Who’s hurting?” He spoke softly to the hounds, “Good hounds, good hounds, pack into me now.”

“More?”Ruthie, sleek and fit, was as eager as Sister.

“Yes,”Cora happily told her.

“Yay!”the young entry cheered.

“All right, now. No babbling,”Asa gruffly instructed them, although he was as thrilled as they were. A good hound always wants to hunt.“Discipline, young ’uns. Discipline’s what makes a great foxhound and a great fox.You’re a Jefferson hound, you know, not some raggle-taggle trash.”

They obediently quieted, but Ribot, Ruthie, and Rassle couldn’t help themselves. As they walked to the next cast, they’d jump up to look over the pack, to see Shaker.

“Jack-in-the-boxes.” Tedi, alongside Sister, smiled.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Sister had tears in her eyes from the run, from happiness.

“Yes.” Tedi rode a few paces, then said, “Pity so few people feel that way.”

Sister, without rancor, replied,“Their own damn fault for the most part.”

“I agree,” Tedi said, thinking back to the joy she and Edward shared when both their daughters were alive, the family following the hounds, the pace like lightning. She’d had her share of happiness and her share of sorrow, and she thanked God for both. She knew Sister did, too.

Tedi wondered if this was a function of age or intelligence. She set aside age: she knew far too many immature, selfish, querulous old people. They’d been bloody bores as young people and had grown worse with the years.

Some people figured out the secret to happiness. Others didn’t. The problem with the ones who didn’t was they got in the way of the ones who did. Like psychic vampires, they’d swoop down on the happy. Eventually, one learns to dispense with their entreaties, manipulations, and excuses.

Tedi thought Nola, had she lived, might have become panicked in middle age as younger beauties challenged her fiefdom. Whether Nola could have gotten through it, she didn’t know. She wondered, too, how young Ray would have matured. He had had an uncommon sweetness to him, far sweeter and softer emotionally than her own eldest daughter. Tedi loved Sister for many reasons, not the least because Sister was lovable. But what bound them like a steel cable was the shared loss of their children.

Hounds found another line on the southwestern side of Old Orchard, down by the remains of a railroad spur bridge, the railroad long defunct. This run, although brief, took them over hills like camel humps. When folks made it back to the trailers, they were tired but exhilarated.

Tedi, Isabelle, and Ronnie had brought a tailgate. Despite the cold, people grabbed sandwiches, hot coffee or tea, and Ronnie’s signature brownies, chewy with tiny bits of bitter chocolate scattered throughout.

Sam, quiet and withdrawn, took a sandwich back to the tack room of Crawford’s large trailer. He sat on an overturned bucket, sandwich in one hand, while dipping the bit of Nike’s bridle in a bucket of warm water with the other hand.

He was surprised when X’s large bulk loomed on the other side of the door window.

X opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.“You’re one lucky bastard.” Sam kept at his task. X continued, “I know you were drunk, drove off the road, and once again your brother saved your black ass.”

Sam glared up at him.“You know a lot, don’t you?” “Cars passed you until you were hauled out. No one told Crawford. You’re lucky.”

“And are you going to tell Crawford?”

“No.” X folded his arms across his broad chest. “No, I’m not.”

“White of you.”

X leaned down.“Listen, you worthless piece of shit. You’ll fuck up again. You’ll do yourself in. Why should I get my hands dirty?”

“That why you came back here? To tell me this?”

“No, actually. I came back here to tell you that I think you know more about what’s going on than you’re telling. For all I know, you killed those winos and Donnie. I know Donnie was in AA but couldn’t go thirty days without a drink. I know a lot more than you think I know.”

“Let me tell you what I know.” Sam stood up, hung the bridle over its hook, put the sandwich on the saddle seat. “I know that you and Clay Berry are old friends, right ball and left ball. I know that Clay will receive a six-figure check from the insurance company. And I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you two split that check.”

X grabbed Sam by the throat, choking the wind out of the small, wiry man.“I could kill you. Wouldn’t bother me.” He released Sam, whose hands fluttered up to his bruised neck. “You aren’t worth a jail term. Tell you this, you keep your mouth shut, so shut I don’t even want you to say hello to Dee. Don’t even look at her. You hear?”

Sam nodded in affirmation and coughed, his windpipe searing with pain.

As X opened the door, Sam whispered hoarsely,“She’s too good for you.”

X spun around.“For once we agree. She would have never—” He stopped; he couldn’t say it. “—if I’d paid attention to her as I should have. She would never have looked at you.”

“I did you a favor,” Sam replied.

“Oh?”

“I woke you up to what a self-centered bastard you are.”

X took a menacing step toward Sam, who grabbed a crop.“I did wake up. I worship that woman. Worship her. I’ll never make that mistake again. She’s the most important thing in my life. You keep well clear of her.” X turned, stepped outside on the plastic mounting block as Sam closed the door. He’d lost his taste for the sandwich.

That evening Sister and Gray dined out. Gray decided he couldn’t wait until Saturday. They talked about everything under the sun. He had his perfect Manhattan; she had Earl Grey tea.

They wound up back at Roughneck Farm in bed. Afterwards, they sat up, covers pulled around their shoulders. Even with the fire in the fireplace, the cold sneaked inside. Outdoors it was bitterly cold, a full moon bathing the world in silver.

“My nose is running.” Sister wiped her nose with a Kleenex.

“Well, you better catch it,”Golly, snuggled on the foot of the bed now that they were done, smarted off.

“Think it’s the dust?” he said.

“Probably.” She leaned against him, sliding down so her head was on his shoulder.

He wrapped his arm around her.“I feel like a teenager.” “Act like one, too.” They laughed, and she asked, “Okay, give me hell if I’m rude, but isn’t it true that all men will have prostate troubles sooner or later?”

“It is. Why, do you want to know if I have to get up five times in the night to go to the bathroom and not much happens?”

“Actually, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Took care of it. Well, I mean I’ll continue to take care of it. But all is well.”

“I know that.” She giggled. “Want my medical history?”

“Well.” He hugged her. “I suppose at our ages that’s germane.”

“Broken right leg, three places, clean through, 1962.

Fractured ribs, too many times to count, starting in the fourth grade. Broken toes, but that’s no big deal, wrap them in vet wrap. Can’t do anything else. Two discs, L4 and L5, are crumbling—enough to make me stiff if I’ve been sitting in one position too long. Other than childhood diseases and the occasional flu and cold, that’s it.”

“Impressive.”

“You could play dice with my bone chips.”

“Broken wrist, college basketball. Hmm, tore my anterior cruciate, left leg, must be eleven years ago. Fixed it. I’d say we’ve both been lucky. I take that back. We’re active, so we haven’t rusted out.”

“What’s the point of having a body if you don’t use it?” Sister smiled as Golly walked over her to rest on her lap.

“I know you’ve missed me,”the cat purred.

“Nobody misses you, Golly, you’re—”Rooster began.

“Don’t start. It’s been a pleasant evening,”Raleigh said quickly.

“Are you surprised that we’re here?” Gray asked.

Sister propped on her elbow to look at him.“No. I know you. There’s been a thirty-year interval from when you moved away for good, but even then, I’d see you from time to time. It’s not like we’re complete strangers.” She paused. “Even if we were, who is to say we wouldn’t wind up in bed together? The chemistry is either there or it isn’t.”

“It’s there.” He sighed deeply.

“Thank you, Jesus.” She laughed. “Thought I’d never feel that rush again.”

“It’s a terrible loss, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” She changed the subject. “Had a moment to watch people take fences today. I always say people ride like they live, and you know it’s true. There was Tedi, cool, elegant, in control. Edward, bold as brass, keen. Ronnie, another elegant rider, relaxed. X, getting the job done, hampered by his weight but enjoying himself. Clay, I swear sometimes I don’t think he has a brain in his head. He doesn’t think too much out there, just goes for it. I used to pound into Little Ray’s head, ‘First reckon, then risk.’ Never could get that message through to Clay. Walter, improving, not a chicken.”

“Did you see me?”

“Not today, but I’ve watched you. Good position, hands forward, you pick your spot. You reckon.”

“I’m flattered. I love watching people ride in the hunt field.”

“I usually can’t do it unless I’m in someone else’s hunt field.”

“Who were the riders you admired when you were up and coming?”

“Ellie Wood Keith, Baxter now, she married a Baxter; uh, Judy Harvey; Jill Summers; Mary Robertson; Rodney Jenkins, of course, but he was a show ring rider. Sometimes I’d see him out with Keswick. The list could go on and on, but my focus was always how people rode in the hunt field. Impressive as show riders are, they’re hitting fences on level ground. It’s math; they count their strides, stay in that infuriating canter, in the hunter classes, I mean. I’d need a No-Doz to sit through a hunter class. In the field you and your horse encounter everything, often very fast. Yougrow a set of balls out there, or you don’t make it. Maybe I should say ovaries, given the circumstances.”

He laughed, his body shaking.“Jane, you can be wicked in your way. Too bad most people don’t really know you.”

“I can’t very well go about saying what I think and be an effective master, now can I?”

“No.” He thought a moment. “You’re lovely to watch on a horse. Fearless, but not foolish.”

“Thank you, but let me tell you my secret: I have fabulous horses. I just sit there.”

“Don’t be modest.”

“I mean it. Sure I can ride a bit, but if you’ve got the right horse, everything is peachy. Ray, Little Ray, went through his peachy phase, and it stuck with me. Thirteen— remember when your kids were twelve and thirteen, and you endured the word play, the horrible puns, and the really dumb jokes? They get fixated on words. Peachy. Totally. What were some of his others? Used to drive me crazy until I remembered my mother still said ‘swell’ until the day she died. Funny.” She pulled her arm from under the cover to pet Golly. “Tomorrow would have been Ray’s forty-fourth birthday. I can’t imagine him as a middle-aged man.”

Gray kissed her cheek.“He would have been fortunate if he looked like his mother, which he did.”

“He did, didn’t he? Walter looks like Big Ray.” She stopped. “You knew, I mean, I didn’t let the cat out of the bag?”

“Everyone knew. Even the black folks.”

“Thought the black folks knew everything first.”

“Pretty much do.”

“Wonder if anyone knows what’s going on about these deaths?”

“No. I asked around.”

“Ah-ha, so you’re curious, too.”

“Of course. That could have been Sam, you know?”

“I do.”

They lay awhile, watching the fire.

Gray spoke up as a log crackled.“Jane, have you ever felt the presence of your son or your husband?”

She sat up. Golly grumbled.“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You ask the damnedest questions. The only other people in my life who would ask something like that are Tedi or Betty. I’m not mad—don’t get me wrong—just, uh, warmly surprised. I’m not accustomed to people truly wanting to know about me. They want things from me, but they don’t wantme,if you know what I mean. Tedi and Betty love me for me.”

“I know exactly what you mean. And I want you for you. Of course, I also want torrential sex.”

“Oh that.” She sighed, a mock suffering sigh. “A sacrifice, but someone’s got to do it.” She waited a moment, took a deep breath. “I have felt both Big Ray and Little Ray. When my son was killed, I felt him strongly for months. I don’t know, could have been some kind of wish fulfillment, a way to fight the pain. But even now, there are moments, Gray, when I feel his kindness. I feel him smiling at me. I feel Mother, too. Less so Big Ray, but every now and then, usually in the hunt field, he’ll be near. I often feel Archie, my anchor hound. I know animals possess spirits. Archie is with me. And I can’t tell you how loving the sensations are, how restorative, and, well, I don’t know, I feel a blessing on me, a benediction.”

“Good.”

“You?”

He nodded.“My grandmother. Warmth, love, understanding, the same feelings you’re expressing. You can’t go about talking about this kind of thing, especially if you’re a man. Men aren’t supposed to sense ghosts, if you will, or spirits of love. But Janie, they are with us. And who is to say there aren’t loving spirits with us whom we didn’t know in this life but who have taken an interest in us, or whom we knew from another life? I rather believe that, past lives, I mean. I’m certain you were a queen.”

“Go on!”

“A king?” He shrugged.

“One’s as bad as the other.” She laughed. “If there are kind spirits, there are also evil spirits.”

“Like up at Hangman’s Ridge?”

“Yes. I don’t know if they’re evil or suffering.”

“Both. Lawrence Pollard, the first man hanged there, wasn’t evil, just greedy. It was 1702, wasn’t it? But some of the others, probably psychopaths, are evil. Or maybe some just broke bad, like Fontaine Buruss broke bad.” He named a hunt club member, now deceased, the former husband of Sorrel Buruss.

Fontaine, handsome, charming, devolved into sexual self-indulgence, seducing women he should have left well alone because of their youth. He paid for it with his life.

“Fontaine, what a son of a bitch, but a fun son of a bitch. I actually miss him.” She smiled. “He crumbled in middle age. I swear, what in hell are people afraid of? We are all going to get old. We are all going to die. So why does a man in his forties want to be attractive to twenty-year-old women. The women aren’t any better. They go about it differently, that’s all. You get old, period. In fact, Gray, I love being older.”

“You’re not old. You’re healthy. You’re beautiful.”

“Oh Gray.”

“You will always be beautiful. And sure, if a gorgeous twenty-year-old woman walked into a room, every man’s eyes would go to her, mine included. Do I want to sleep with her? No, I already have two children. I want a woman who can keep up with me, forgive the arrogance.”

“Me, too.”

“You want a woman who can keep up with you?”

“Haven’t tried that. Another life, perhaps. For this one, I’ll stick to men.”

“I’m so glad.” He kissed her again.

“Gray.”

“Hmm.”

“I think I know who the killer is, might be two, not one. Might even be three or four, but I know the locus of greed. I just don’t know how to root it out.”

“Logic or instinct?”

“Both. I’ve used both. I don’t have proof, but you asked me if I felt my son. What is that? An openness, clear channels? Whatever it is, it leads me to my best hounds, my best horses, and I usually know where my fox is laying up. A kind of sixth sense. I’m not eschewing logic. Logic, too, brings us to Clay, Isabelle, if she’s in on it, X, possibly, and possibly Dalton Hill.”

He sat up straighter.“Clay makes sense because of the warehouse. Isabelle, well, hard to say. Why Xavier and Dalton, unless you think this is an insurance fraud?”

“No. I think this is about illegal drugs such as steroids, HGH, OxyContin, stuff like that. Dalton has the knowledge, he can get that stuff readily.”

“Then Xavier would look better.” Gray half laughed.

“I don’t know, but I am ninety-nine percent sure I’m on the right track. If only I could figure out a way to flush them out, get them in open territory.”

“Jane,” he said sternly, “this isn’t a foxhunt. This is murder.”

CHAPTER 39

February, although two steps closer to spring than December, feels far away from that first bright crocus. Usually the coldest month of the year in central Virginia, February dragged some folks down into a bad case of the blues. Fortunately, foxhunters usually escaped this dive in emotional fortunes because hunting reached its apogee. Only the toughest hunted, the others having retired to their fireplaces or even to Florida until spring. The foxes gave delicious sport. By now the pack worked like a well-oiled machine; the young entry were part of the pack, bringing vigor and curiosity to the hunt. The horses, hunting fit, were keen. The humans, if they hadn’t eaten themselves insensate over the holidays, were also lean and mean. Truly, February was perfect.

Sister loved whatever day she was in: cold, hot, cloudy, sunny, rainy, dry, she didn’t care. She was alive, healthy, and doing what she loved. This particular day, February 6, she fought off the sadness of Ray Jr.’s birth by remembering her labor. Doctors tell you, as do psychologists, that you won’t recall physical pain. Clearly, they had never given birth. To this day, she could remember the contractions. For a brief period there, she would gladly have killed Big Ray for getting this upon her. Then Ray Jr. made his appearance after eight hours of nausea, heaving, and pushing. Red, wet, wrinkled, he was a shock until she held him in her arms. Mother love is the most powerful, the most irrational force on earth, even more powerful than sexual love. However, one does lead to the other, so best not to spurn the former.

She had had fourteen years with a boy of uncommon good humor and generosity. Little Ray loved animals, loved sleeping with kitties, loved falling down in the kennels as the hounds swarmed over him, licking him. He gurgled to the horses even when he was in his mother’s arms. He kissed their soft noses and laughed if they blew air out of their nostrils. He held her hand when they walked, even into his fourteenth year. He kissed his father without embarrassment. He hugged his friends, boys and girls, without thinking twice about it. His path was physical,touching, connecting through flesh. He showed his love by touching your arm, smoothing a hound’s head, patting a horse’s hindquarters. Like all happy people, Little Ray was a magnet to others, as well as animals.

She loved him even when he committed the childhood sins we all commit—telling that first lie, stealing a candy bar from Roger’s Corner, doing someone else’s homework. Ray always polished off his homework in record time. When he erred, she’d discipline him, and Big Ray would back her up. Then, when the first flush of puberty showed on her son’s cheeks,father and son drew much closer. The minutiae of masculinity is best taught by a loving father, which Big Ray was.

He showed his son the difference between a regular tie knot and a Prince of Wales. He instructed his son in the duties and courtesies due women. Given that they lived in central Virginia, of course, this process had really begun when the boy was a toddler. Southern men, especially Virginians, adhere to a strict code concerning the ladies. Doesn’t mean they can’t keep a harem busy, but the proper tokens and forms must be observed.

Both parents worried about sex. Young Ray hadn’t quite gotten to that yet; his voice was only beginning to crack when he was killed. But she and her husband wondered what would happen because he was so affectionate and loving. They worried that he’d be misunderstood, and they worried that he wouldn’t understand himself. Learning about sex, love, lust, and friendship with the opposite sex takes restraint, compassion, and a wealth of common sense. There’s not one of us who doesn’t learn a few of those lessons the hard way. They prayed the hard way wouldn’t mean a baby born out of wedlock.