Hounded To Death

CHAPTER 17

“What do you suppose they’re doing? You think they’d have the sense to stay home,” the large father of an otter brood said to his mate.

“Checking trails, I suppose. Now that Sister hunts Franklin Foster’s land, she keeps up with it,” his mate replied. “They’ll be hunting in a month.”

“Ah, well, none of my business. Let’s play.” He raced to the creek bank, flopped on his belly, and slid into the deep creek with a splash.

“What’s that?” Tootie asked, her hands light on the reins, for which Aztec was grateful.

“Otters. Very jolly creatures.” Sister smiled.

The creek crossing, ragged and rocky, allowed them to feel the cool air from the water. Ben, accustomed to riding Nonni, a sensible older horse, felt a little trepidation riding Lafayette, Sister’s elegant Thoroughbred.

Lafayette could feel Ben’s thigh muscles tightening constantly, but he bore it with good grace.

Sister rode Matador, glad she’d persuaded Ben to get on Lafayette. If they had driven ATVs back into the huge expanse of Paradise and Franklin Foster’s adjoining property, they’d have scared game. This way they would see more, which could be helpful. Walking was out of the question, for it would take them days to cover what amounted to almost ten thousand acres, some of which touched on federal lands.

Sister’s territory, granted to her by the Master of Foxhounds Association of America, stopped on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Skyline Drive was roughly the dividing line. Glenmore Hunt had the west side of the Blue Ridge for Augusta County, with Rockbridge Hunt enjoying the west slopes farther south. The MFHA had settled many territory disputes since its founding in 1907. Fortunately, none of these clubs had fussed at one another in over a century.

“A lot of water here.” Ben noted the depth of the creek.

“Runoff from the mountains. Always water back here, and it’s crystal clear,” Sister replied.

Overhead, a red-shouldered hawk sounded its cry, high-pitched,doubled but not offensive.

Tootie leaned over, once they were on the other side of the creek. “Deer tracks.”

“The great thing about all these streams and creeks is you know the animals will come to drink. It’s a fast way to find out what’s in your territory, assuming the ground’s not loamy sand or baked as hard as clay.” Sister loved tracking, loved anything to do with being outside.

They followed the creek bed, its sides becoming steeper. There was no indication of wild boar, although signs of everything else were in abundance, especially wild turkeys.

The trail picked up five hundred yards north of the crossing. They threaded their way through trails already overgrown in just one season. Virginia, drought or no drought, could sprout pricker bushes with ease.

“We’ll have our work cut out for us here.” Sister sighed.

The work of keeping present territory open, as well opening new territory, never ended, taking many hands. Sister had a knack for finding willing volunteers, but coordinating schedules was a full-time job. How much easier it would have been to hire laborers, as the very wealthy clubs did. But Jefferson Hunt members watched the pennies, especially Ronnie Haslip, who hovered over the account books. Ronnie was just what a club wanted in a treasurer, although Sister might fret at times over his tightfistedness. They walked under a cliff overhang, cool from the huge rock outcroppings.

“Heading toward the scene of the crime.” Sister laughed.

Tootie, who’d ridden on the day the field came upon Arthur DuCharme’s illegal still, smiled. “At least it won’t explode.”

“I took care of that.” Ben, also on the hunt that day, had given Arthur a deal. He’d destroy the still and Arthur, recovering from cancer, had to promise not to reopen for business.

“He’s a sharp one,” Sister commented dryly.

“You mean because he made liquor all those years and didn’t get caught?” Tootie asked, a sweat bee suddenly finding her quite interesting.

“That, too, but with Arthur you have to listen to every single word. He won’t lie to you, but you have to read between the lines,” Sister replied.

“Glad Margaret’s not like that.” Ben was dating Arthur’s niece.

“Did Arthur put the still back here because it’s hard to reach?” Tootie thought making moonshine a touch romantic, rebellious.

“Partly, but you need a place where the water is good. It’s sweet here,” Sister answered. They rounded the last great hunk of rock, which hung out like a dislocated monster’s jaw.

“Jesus H. Christ on a raft!” Sister exclaimed.

Ben, trotting up behind her, was speechless.

Tootie simply said, “Looks like Arthur broke his promise.”

The three quickly rode down to the still, which was far larger and grander than the original.

Ben dismounted while Sister held the reins. He tried the door, found it unlocked, and went inside.

Tootie said, “Isn’t it kind of stupid to build a still where we hunt?”

“Not necessarily.” A trickle of sweat was sliding down Sister’s back. The mercury had already climbed to the low eighties. “The time we rode up on Arthur’s Glenlivet factory”—she winked—“he had no idea we’d gotten permission from Franklin Foster. He’d been undergoing cancer treatment and wasn’t up to speed. He knew we’d be hunting Old Paradise, but the chances of us winding up all the way here were pretty slim.”

“But why build here now?”

“Tootie, Arthur’s a countryman and he’s smart. On days we might hunt Foster’s land, all he needs to do is drag a trail of fresh blood in a huge circle around the still, say at a quarter-mile radius. The hounds will be baffled by the fresh blood. A fox can run through to foil scent, too. It’s an easy ruse. My money’s always on Arthur. I’ve known him all his life.” She paused. “He’s not worthless, he’s just—um, disinclined to pay taxes.”

Ben emerged, walking quickly up to Lafayette. He led the Thoroughbred to a slight depression in the ground to mount up, for Lafayette was taller than Nonni.

Once up he said tersely, “I’ll kill that son of a bitch. He lied to me.”

“Arthur wouldn’t lie, Ben, though he might talk sideways.”

“Well, he damn well lied this time. You should see that setup. Huge copper kettles! It’s a real distillery, not a couple of glass beakers and coils. He spent big money on this.”

“Ben, don’t jump the gun.”

“I’m not.” The sheriff was fuming. “I’m going to arrest him and throw his lying butt in jail!”

Sister decided to let him cool off a bit on the ride back to the trailers. She continued to look for boar tracks, any tracks really.

When all three had squeezed into the cab of the dually, Sister, cranking the motor, said calmly, “I called Binky before we came out here.” This was Arthur’s brother. The two did not speak to each other. “I also called Arthur and Margaret. Granted, I asked permission to ride over Old Paradise only to flag any work we might need to do to prepare for cubbing. If Arthur thought we were heading to Franklin Foster’s land, he gave no indication.”

“Of course not.” Ben, window down, reached up and held the top of the window frame, feeling the air on his hand.

“But if he was worried, he would have given some hint or tried to head us off.”

“That setup is too big to hide.”

“True.” She pondered this. “He could throw us off when we were hunting, but he couldn’t really throw us off now. Still, I think I’d sense it if he was concerned. I know Arthur.”

Not to be dissuaded, Ben allowed Tootie to clean up Lafayette for him, jumped in his personal vehicle, not a squad car, tore back to Old Paradise next to the Foster land, and strode into Arthur’s workshop.

Arthur gave him a big hello. He’d been making a chest of drawers.

Ben wasted no time. “You lied to me.”

“I did not.” Arthur, full head of hair still mostly brown, big walrus mustache, stood to his full six feet.

“I rode back to the old still site, and Arthur, what you’ve got there is four times as big as before, plus it’s full of damned expensive equipment. You’re stepping up in the world.”

“I did not rebuild my old still.” Arthur’s voice was level, his demeanor calm.

“Oh, come on. Who else knew about that location?”

“Sit down, Sheriff.” Arthur pointed to a stool by the workbench.

“I’ll stand.”

“All right, then. For one thing, when you set fire to my still, everyone out Chapel Cross way saw the flames and heard the explosion.”

“Sure they did. That’s why I called the fire department and told them not to worry, I was on the scene. I kept everyone away.”

“You think they didn’t know?”

“What, that I blew up your still? When I threw in that torch, hell, the whole damn place sounded like a V-Two rocket hitting London. But they didn’t know it was a still.”

“They did. You haven’t considered, Sheriff”—Arthur paused for effect—“that most of these folks were customers of mine. When everything went to hell, they knew, all right. Didn’t have to tell them.”

This was sinking in. “Had anyone been back to the still while you operated it?” Ben asked.

“I’m not going to incriminate my neighbors.”

“All right, all right. You got an ATV?”

“I do.”

“Then we’re going back in.”

It took them twenty-five minutes—the two men had to get out and walk around the massive rock outcroppings—but Arthur’s eyes about popped when he saw the still.

“Holy shit!”

“Don’t play me, Arthur.”

“I’m not.”

They hurried down. Ben threw open the door, and Arthur walked in like a kid in a candy shop. “This is beautiful. Beautiful.” He touched the copper kettles and sniffed the charred barrels. The fragrance of alcohol in the cradle excited him.

“Sheriff, you’ve got folks here who really know what they’re doing!” Arthur walked over to a full cask, pulled out the stopper, grabbed a small bottle and allowed some liquid to fill it, then quickly jammed the stopper back in. He held it to his nose.

“Well?”

“Trying to fake age, by the depth of the char in the barrel.” He took a sip and held the bottle toward Ben. “Try it.”

Reluctantly, Ben sipped. “Burns a little.”

“Yeah. High alcohol content, but that will come on down. They’ll cut it, obviously, or they’d kill their customers.” Arthur laughed. “They’ll cut it down to eighty proof. That’s what I think.”

“But I thought one of the attractions of moonshine was the potency.”

“Not moonshine, country waters,” Arthur corrected him. “For the uninitiated, sure, they want that full mule kick in the pants. For the connoisseur, it’s the smoothness, the flavor, the lingering taste on the tongue. Good country waters are as good as anything you’ll get from a major distillery and a damn sight more individual.”

“I almost believe you didn’t know about this.”

“I didn’t, but I can tell you a few things.” He looked around. “Whoever is making this hasn’t been back here for maybe two months, give or take.”

“How do you know?”

“Dust. Someone who cared would keep the place spotless and still probably have some grain fermenting. Here the process has stopped. The barrels are full, except for one.” He pointed to a deeply charred white-oak barrel. “Maybe they got scared off.”

“With this much money invested? I doubt it.”

“Well, whoever is making this knows a good bit about the process. He’s done this before, with other country people. Maybe he even once worked at a distillery.”

“Kind of stupid to come back here.”

“No. There’s a ready market here and many ways to lead you-all off when you’re hunting. All anyone has to do is let a fox go.”

“Never thought of that.”

“Sheriff, you’re not country. Furthermore, you’re from Ohio. No offense intended.” He closed his eyes and lifted the bottle to his nose again. “Another thing. Coloring agents.”

“For what?”

“You’ve got someone making cheap bourbon here and passing it off as high grade, I reckon.”

“Jesus H. Christ on a raft!” Ben echoed Sister’s earlier exclamation.

Arthur stroked his fulsome mustache. “Boy, you got a little country in you after all.”