The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 26

What remained of Iffy lifted into the air under the huge oak tree at Hangman’s Ridge. Gray dust and bits of bone that Dragon had passed over rose upward, then scattered as a great gust from the north sent ashes flying.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Sister pulled the collar of her coat up.

Shaker watched the dispersal of Iffy’s remains. “Sorry little life.”

“So it would appear.”

“Should we say a prayer, anyway?” Shaker, a good Catholic boy, folded his gloved hands together.

“You do it.”

“Heavenly father, into thy hands we commend this spirit. She didn’t do much in this life. Iphigenia Demetrios was a thief. But since Christ pardoned a thief suffering with him on the cross, perhaps you will pardon Iffy. Amen.”

As they climbed into the Chevy 454, both shivered.

“Iffy’s made contact with the other criminals,” Sister joked as Shaker slid behind the wheel.

He turned on the motor, heater cranking up again. “They’re here.” He lightly touched his toe to the accelerator and headed toward the farm road on the southeast side of the wide flat ridge.

“Feast day for St. Prisca, a Roman lady from the first days of Christianity. She’s attended by the two lions who declined to eat her or even take a swipe. Ah yes, those Romans thrilled to entertainments that make the NFL and the NHL look like Tupperware parties.”

He laughed as he carefully descended the side of the ridge. The farm road, frozen, demanded attention.

“Where’s the real January thaw? The big one?”

“Damned if I know.” She looked up at a light blue sky. “Too bad Gray couldn’t be with us for Iffy’s decanting. Electrician’s coming to his place, so he’s there.”

“Sam’s making a good recovery.”

“Yes, he is. He’s invaluable, too, telling us when and where Crawford will hunt. Sam has said he’s seen an abundance of fox at Beasley Hall. I feel sorry for the hounds even if there are a lot of foxes. Hounds need a good huntsman. They need to trust the person with the horn. That’s why we have such a good hunt. You.”

He smiled. “You, too.” He slowed even more as a big ice slick glittered on the farm road. “Think he’ll tire of it? Disperse the pack?”

“Not any time soon.” She reached for the Jesus strap when the hind end skidded. “Some pumpkins yesterday.”

Shaker laughed out loud. “Alfred’s face crumpled. Did you ever see anything like it?”

“No.” She laughed, too. “What a rogue.”

“Shrewd, not putting the still on his property.”

“He’d risk Paradise if he did that.”

Sister felt her toes warming. “I expect he shipped most of it out of the county.”

“Could Iffy have organized that for him? Shipping?” Shaker asked.

“She probably could have. Iffy was smart, organized.”

Shaker breathed out once they reached the bottom of the ridge. “Whew.” Then he said, “Think Garvey is in on this somehow?”

“Moonshine?”

“No,” Shaker replied. “In on whatever Iffy was doing. She’d fake purchases, say, and they’d divvy up the money.”

“I’ve thought of that, too. Be a good scam.”

Shaker drove slightly faster. “Garvey doesn’t seem like the type to loot his own business, but I guess you never know.”

“Ben said there wasn’t one incriminating article in Iffy’s house, old barn, car. No hidden account books. Even her computer was innocent. Ben said it was so old he thought it was slowly dying of fatigue. Now, on the other hand, Garvey has been on a buying spree these last years, snapping up smaller companies. Still…” Her voice trailed off.

“Reminds me, you said you were going to buy a new computer for the kennels.”

“Yes, once Christmas was over. Know what you want?”

“Same as yours. The iMac G5.”

“By now they’re probably better than mine. Take the farm credit card and buy what you want.”

“Great.” He smiled as they passed the apple orchard, the kennels coming into view. “We’ve got a drop-in.”

“Damn. That’s one I’d like to drop-kick.” Sister recognized Jason’s mighty Range Rover.

They pulled beside the white SUV. Jason kept the motor running as he talked on his phone. The Rover was wired for a phone, so he spoke up toward his rearview mirror, where a tiny microphone was located. He signed off as Sister stepped out of the Chevy.

“Hello, Sister, Shaker.” He closed the heavy door behind him. “I called but no one answered, so I thought I’d take a chance and run by.” He paused. “Long night at the hospital.”

“You must be able to sleep on your feet.” Sister motioned for him to follow her and Shaker into the kennel.

They filed into the office. Sister sat behind the desk.

“Boss, I’ll see to Dragon.”

“Fine. Sit down, Jason. It’s basic but comfortable.”

“Feels good. If I can get fifteen minutes of sleep here or there, I can power through. It’s my feet that hurt. I’ve caused you trouble, and I’m sorry for it.”

“You’ve already apologized.” She wondered what he wanted.

“As you know, I have a friendship with Crawford.”

“Yes.”

“If I walk out hounds with you, learn your routine, it will imperil that relationship. As it is, he’s trying to make me resign from the hunt. I won’t do it. I’m hoping over time I can lower the hostility threshold.” He smiled, pleased with his choice of words.

“Thank you for coming to tell me.”

“If you have any weakness, any crack in your armor, he’ll find it.”

“I expect he will.” She did have one, which she sidestepped.

Peter Wheeler’s will, which had bequeathed the Chevy 454, his estate, and fifty thousand dollars a year to the club, had been made in 1976. She had been forty-three, and Peter, having a bout of illness, thought he might be leaving the earth. He recovered. But he put in his will that she couldn’t take a joint-master. He’d realized his mistake in the last year of his life, but with so many other concerns, he hadn’t revised his will in time. She saw no reason to speak of this.

“Hopefully, Crawford will find a positive outlet for his energies,” she evenly replied.

He noticed the chewed-up ashes box, whose remnants were in the large wastebasket at the side of the big teacher’s desk built in the 1950s. He’d seen enough of such boxes. Peering down, he made out part of Iffy’s name on a typed label. “Iffy?”

She said without being asked, “It is. Was.”

“What happened?”

“No one would take her. We said a prayer for her at Hangman’s Ridge.”

“What happened to the box?”

“A hound grabbed it.” She declined to give the full story, which was funny to her but perhaps not to Iffy’s physician.

As he walked to the door, Sister threw this out. “Do you think Iffy wanted to live?”

“She did,” he replied, and left.

Felicity walked across the quad from the infirmary. Talking with animation to Howard on her cell phone, she planned their weekend date. This wasn’t easy, since neither had a car.

She ended the conversation as she went up the stairs to her dorm floor.

Tootie came into the hall when she heard Felicity’s footfall. “Are you contagious?”

“No.” Felicity smiled.

“So?” Tootie held her palms upward, flaring out her fingers.

“Food allergy. Mrs. Norton called in an allergist, and they scratched my back with all kinds of stuff. Dog dander, grass, things you don’t even want to know about.” She rolled her eyes.

“And?” Tootie leaned against her doorway.

“Bleached flour.” Felicity leaned against the other side of the door, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Wouldn’t you have gotten sick before now?”

“That’s what I asked, and the doctor said sometimes these things don’t show up until a person is older. So she gave me this.” Felicity pulled stapled sheets from her voluminous handbag. “If I follow the plan, I won’t be nauseated.”

“Well, that’s good. I was worried.”

“I was, too. It’s an awful feeling. And when I listed what I ate those mornings, what I could remember, I mean I don’t think about what I eat, but I ate white bread or rolls, stuff like that.”

“Can you eat any bread?”

“Dark. Pumpernickel. It’s weird.”

“You’re weird.” Tootie punched her.