The Hounds And The Fury

CHAPTER 29

Seven river otters played early Saturday morning on the feast of St. Agnes, January 21. Their philosophy of life contrasted sharply with that of the virgin martyr of Rome, dying in 305 AD. She refused marriage, for at thirteen she had consecrated her body to Christ. Her reward for such a gift was a sword straight through the throat. Like a lamb, agnus in Latin, pretty Agnes met her Maker.

The otters felt life should be frolic with a bit of sex in early spring. Mating, delightful as it could be, paled before running hard, flopping on one’s belly before reaching water’s edge, then sliding down at top speed to crash into the swift current, riding the little waves.

Bruce, the largest of the otters at thirty pounds, father of the brood, hit the cold water with a boom, sending two waves up at his sides. He bobbled along for fifty yards before swimming and scrambling out at an easy place.

“Whee!” One otter after another squealed as he or she roared toward the large creek’s edge then down the steep, slick slide they’d made.

Out they scrambled, each one hurrying to reach the starting place only to barrel down, hit the side of the bank, and fold forelegs next to the body. Down they’d go, furry toboggans loving every minute of life.

Crayfish, rockfish, all manner of delicious edibles swam in the deep, wide creek. Then, too, a berry now and then aided the digestion. The family, in splendid condition, had little competition for the food they prized.

Earl, a gray fox in his second year, sat on a log, the orange half moons of fungus protruding from the snow, more light snow still falling.

Trite though the phrase may be, it was a winter wonderland. As everyone sported thick fur coats with dense undercoats, the temperature was bracing.

Also watching the nonstop otter celebration were Athena and Bitsy, sitting high in a majestic spruce. Flying from Sister’s took them twenty minutes. For humans, hauling horses and dealing with roads that weren’t straight, the time from Roughneck Farm took forty minutes.

“Come on,” Bruce invited Earl.

“No, thanks. I only swim when I must,” the handsome fellow replied.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Lisa, the mother, revving her motors, called out.

“Do you think they’re simpleminded?” Bitsy asked Athena.

“No, just silly.”

“You’d think they didn’t have to work for a living,” Bitsy, fond of stirring the pot, remarked.

“They don’t. This place is one big supermarket for them.” Athena opened and closed her beak with a clicking sound.

Squirrels in the tree scurried along the boughs, snow falling off as they ran. They were not overly fond of Athena, who could kill and eat them if she wanted to. But they knew she was full, since she’d given everyone within earshot her menu. They leaped to the oak where they lived.

“Flying rats,” Bitsy giggled.

“Come on!” Bruce called Earl again.

“Nah, I need to save my energy.”

“You looking for a girlfriend?” Bruce thought keeping a mate the better course.

He thought a minute. “If I find the right vixen I have to help with food. I guess I can do it. I’m finally ready.”

“And a healthy young fellow you are,” Bruce complimented him, turned a flip, and reached the runway, speeding to zoom over the side.

Athena, eyes half closed, opened them wide. Swiveling her head, she listened closely. Bitsy, her ear tufts at full attention, mimicked the big owl.

“Trotting,” Bitsy said.

“Short stride, but hooves, yes, hooves. Every now and then you’ll hear the hooves hit a stone. The wind blows some places clean.”

“Deer.” Bitsy fluffed.

“No. Different cadence.” Athena thought hard, then said, “Haven’t heard that in many a year.”

“What is it?”

“A wild boar. A big one,” Athena replied.

“I thought wild pigs traveled in herds,” Bitsy commented. “Not that I’ve run into any, mind you.”

“Sow and her young, they do. They join up with other sows; but no, this is one boar alone. It’s mating season. Actually, it’s mating season for just about everyone. I heard you threatened to lay an egg or two at the end of the month.”

“It’s so much trouble. Laying the eggs isn’t so bad, it’s feeding them.” Bitsy, having never been a mother, thought it might be an enchanting experience and then again, it might not. She had bragged to Target and Inky that she intended to lay two eggs. She wished she’d kept her beak shut.

Athena chortled, a raspy sound. “True, so true.” Her deep voice filling the snow-covered woods, she informed the animals below, “There’s a boar heading this way at a fast trot. One boar, so I expect it’s a male.”

“He’s not going to eat us.” A saucy little otter raced for the slide.

“Root, hog, or die,” Earl remarked. “Guess it’s hard to root in the snow.”

“He can smell what’s underground, snow or no snow. He likes potatoes, turnips, and acorns.” Athena respected wild pigs, finding them highly intelligent—not in her class, but intelligent.

Way in the distance, two miles away, the piercing note of Shaker’s horn sounded “Gone away.”

Athena swiveled her head again, eyes black and full. “Foxhunters.”

“You mean they’ll shoot me?” Earl asked, horrified.

“No, you silly twit. They’ll chase you with hounds, American foxhounds to be exact. Very logical animals, but you’re far more clever. Run about, use water, foil your scent. If hounds get close, zigzag. And above all, don’t run into deep snow,” Athena counseled.

“In fact, you can crisscross this otter scent should hounds come this way. They’re on a fox now.” Bitsy loved the chase.

“How come I don’t know about this?” the young gray asked, troubled.

“Haven’t used this fixture for years. Problems with the DuCharme brothers. Foxhunters were here two weeks ago, but way on the other side of Paradise. You haven’t been prepared by cubbing. That’s when the humans in charge train the young hounds and young foxes, too. But if you do as I say, you should be fine. Duck into a den, any den, when you’ve had enough. Oh, hounds will dig and sing and curse you, but they can’t do squat. The huntsman will dismount and blow a funny, wiggly sound, and then they’ll leave. It’s harmless, really,” Athena reported.

Bitsy, eager to dispense information, told the gray fox, “There’s a tall, slender lady who rides up front. She leads the humans. Silver hair, even more silver than yours, and if you make friends with her, she’ll feed you.”

“How can I make friends with her if she’s chasing me?” Earl sensibly asked.

“She’ll be back, now that they have this fixture. She’ll probably be on horseback or in an ATV, and she might be with the huntsman, who has dark red curly hair, or she’ll be with her friend, Betty, who rides on the edges. It’s complicated, this foxhunting.” Bitsy puffed out her little chest.

“It’s a sacred thing to the humans.” Athena opened wide her fearsome beak. “Holy. You do your part and Sister will care for you.”

Way off, all the animals could hear hounds, a ghostly sound at this distance.

“Sounds like they are coming our way.” Bruce glanced at his family.

“Will they hurt us, those nasty hounds?” a youngster inquired.

“Hounds stick to fox scent. They won’t fuss you up.” Bitsy used a colloquial expression.

“It’s not the hounds you need to worry about; it’s the humans.” Athena burst out laughing. “The horses will be slipping and sliding. The humans will be lurching around up there, and you might even see a few go splat.”

“Oh, my, my, yes,” Bitsy seconded her heroine.

Hounds moved closer.

Lisa called to Bruce, who was still bodysurfing, “We’d better go home.”

“One more slide!” He quickly climbed out, graceful in his fashion.

“No, I don’t want to take any chances,” she insisted.

“You’re right.” He genially agreed, having learned it’s better to agree with your spouse.

Earl watched as the happy group walked to their den, which had overgrown entrances near the base of a large tree hanging over the creek. Thick roots, eight to twelve inches in diameter, burst through the banks where the water had eroded the soil. Entrances and exits were hidden under the roots on the bank side, too.

“You might want to head toward your den or a den you’ve seen along the way. The hounds track your scent. They don’t need to see you,” Athena told Earl.

“How far away do you live?” Bitsy asked.

“Mile and a half, southwards.”

The horn sounded closer now, perhaps a mile away.

“If you’re lucky they’re on a vixen, and she’ll duck in somewhere between here and where she is now. Then you won’t have to go far to find her.” Athena looked on the bright side. “But Bitsy is right; you’d best be going.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Earl used the otters’ slide and swam across the creek. Given the current, he climbed out thirty yards downstream.

“Worried about him?” Bitsy asked.

“A little.” Athena frowned, opened her wings, dropped off the branch, and with one downward sweep of her enormous wings glided over Earl. “If you encounter problems, run with deer. Use any other animal. You can’t mask your scent. It’s a good day for scent.”

Bitsy, needing many more flaps, caught up with the great horned owl. “Maybe we should stick with him?”

“Might bring those damned crows. You know how they like to mob foxes. Of course, I’d be happy to kill a few.”

Bitsy, saying nothing, stayed with Athena. She’d not forgotten her close call at pattypan forge.

Athena and Bitsy passed over a gray vixen, who raced through a large expanse of running cedar, much of it partially exposed from last night’s wind. Although it was calm enough now, with gentle flakes coming down, the scent would be true, not blown yards off. The vixen made use of the terrain, then ducked into a den, a few bones on the low pile outside announcing her gourmet tastes.

Cora reached the den first, and within half a minute everyone else crowded around.

Betty, on the right, stayed over in the meadow to the edge of the woods where the den was located. Sybil, on the left, stopped on ground level with the den as Shaker rode up.

The field, seventy people, enjoyed the spectacle of thrilled hounds, the blowing of “Gone to ground,” and the happy knowledge that hounds had accounted for their fox.

Sister, on Aztec, smiled.

The Custis Hall girls rode in the rear with Walter. Sister had asked Tedi and Edward whether they would mind if Jason rode behind her. She wanted to observe him to see whether he knew as much as he said he did. If nothing else, she’d be seeing his hunting manners close up.

Knowing that the club always needed money, the Bancrofts graciously rode behind Jason. As one of the main benefactors of the club, the Bancrofts hoped others would come through, especially now that Crawford had bagged it.

Sister nodded to Shaker when he remounted to go forward, then quietly turned to ask Jason behind her, “What do you think, red or gray?”

“Gray,” he replied, a smile crossing his handsome face.

“I do, too.” She smiled back.

If one studied fox tracks it didn’t take too much to discern the difference between a red’s foot and a gray’s, especially in winter. The red’s prints could be about two and a half inches long. The hindprint might be smaller, but the heavy fur around the paw would register on the ground or on snow. The toe marks and lobe of the pads would be a little indistinct.

The gray’s prints were an inch and a half long for a mature fox, the print sharper. The toes dug in deeper, it seemed, and if it weren’t for the toe marks, one could mistake the print for an overfed, much-loved pet cat like Golly.

She gave Jason credit for making the right call, but if he had studied prints all he had to do was look down at the snow. Still, thousands foxhunted and couldn’t recognize footprints or fox scat. He had done some homework.

She twisted all the way round to see if the field was together. They were, thanks to Walter and the girls pushing them up. If someone straggled, Walter sent them back to Bobby. No one in the field would disobey a master’s command if they wanted to keep hunting—not just with Jefferson Hunt but with any hunt. The masters would pass on who was a butthead as readily as they passed on who was a true foxhunter.

Bobby, hands full with green riders, green horses, and occasionally treacherous footing, just joined them as Shaker moved off. It seemed to go in spurts, the numbers of green riders or green horses, but shepherding them always fell to the hilltoppers’ master, the most unsung staff position in foxhunting.

Few would dream of going first flight if they couldn’t ride, especially at Jefferson Hunt. Sister enjoyed a formidable reputation—and who wanted to look a fool under her eyes?

The whippers-in usually rode hardest, but they were alone, an advantage under the circumstances. If they weren’t riding hard or trotting forward, they’d be immobile at a prime spot, and that spot always seemed to be the coldest damned place on earth.

The huntsman stayed with hounds as best he could. He, too, rode hard, but he rode straight behind the pack. Chances were, the whippers-in covered more territory than he did. This wasn’t to say he didn’t do things that Sister and the field would not. He did, but often no one saw him take a four-foot drop off a creek bed into the water. He stayed with his hounds if possible.

While Sister could do anything on a horse, her first responsibility was the field, not the hounds. Very few fields today were well mounted enough, with fearless riders, to do things that were routinely done thirty years ago. The reason was that so many people had taken up foxhunting who hadn’t grown up with horses. It wasn’t that they couldn’t clear the four-foot jump if they had the right horse, but only a few had the right horse. The right horse, nine times out of ten, was a thoroughbred or a thoroughbred cross, depending on territory. Those arriving late to the glories of riding often feared thoroughbreds. If you knew the animal, you loved its sensitivity and forward ways. If you didn’t, you thought you were on a runaway that would spook at a white stone pebble. The change in the field was as big a shift in foxhunting as the rise of the automobile, the sickening encroachments of suburbia.

As hounds searched for fresh scent, Sister looked behind again, noting that Gray was in the middle of the field, Ben back with Bobby. She was glad Ben had asked her not to tell Gray. He was right; Gray would have inched forward, sticking too close to Sister.

Athena and Bitsy peered down from a leafless sycamore, its distinctive multicolored patchy bark noticeable in a palette of white, gray, beige, and black.

“They’ll pick up Earl’s scent soon enough if they keep going in this direction,” Bitsy fretted.

“M-m-m.” Athena noticed Diddy tossing snow with her nose, then leaping up for it.

“This isn’t playtime,” Asa reprimanded the happy girl.

“Sorry.” Diddy reapplied herself to the task.

The treetops waved slightly as they dropped down a steep path to walk along the creek bed, flat and wide, the rushing water drowning other sounds.

“If we fly with the hounds, we won’t signal Earl’s position.” Athena was more worried than she cared to admit. “The crows will stay put. If Earl does need direction, we can move up to supply it.”

“Yes, yes.” Bitsy agreed, then lifted off to slowly fly along. No need for speed at this point.

A quarter mile down the creek bed they reached the otter slides.

“Gray, dog fox.” Dasher inhaled.

The otters, peeking out from under the big roots in the bank, listened as the hounds chimed in after Dasher.

They watched the whole pack go down their slide and hit the water, swimming across the frothy creek in one body.

“Bet they’ve made the slide bigger and slicker.” Bruce couldn’t wait to return to his game.

Darby, at the rear of the pack, heard Bruce’s voice and turned to see the otters looking at him. “You’re funny-looking,” the young hound blurted out.

“Not as funny as you are,” Lisa smartly replied as Shaker on Gunpowder jumped off the bank six feet away from the slide, where the grade was better for a horse.

The pack in full cry flew through the flatland on the other side of the creek and climbed up the gentle rise to higher ground to run southwards, wind at their rear, scent blowing away from them.

Earl knew enough to use the wind, but scent was strong and hounds were closing.

He kept on straight through the woods, but the pine needles, under snow, couldn’t help dissipate his scent. Hounds moved faster than he thought they could.

Nothing looked promising, so he picked up the pace, his brush now carried straight out. A rotted log ahead provided a break in his scent. He ran inside, straight through to the other end. He kept going.

A pocket meadow needed to be crossed quickly before he could escape into denser woods on the far side. He knew a few dens in there that could be used. If someone was in them, too bad. They’d be crowded for a time.

Snow lay eight inches in parts on the pocket meadow. He didn’t relish going across. At the last minute Earl skirted back into the woods, heading northeast, at a right angle to his former line of scent.

Old deer bones protruded from the snow. He ran into the middle of them, then sped away, turning again toward the meadow.

Hounds checked briefly at the bones.

Sister picked her spot and her moment.

“Jason, come up here beside me for a minute.”

He rode next to her, then stopped. “This corpse helped our fox, the reverse of Iffy’s corpse, which points her finger at you.”

Jason shrugged, laughing. “Sister, you have a good imagination.”

Hounds sped away. Sister followed. Jason fell in behind. Had she gotten it wrong?

This time Earl did go into the meadow, and it was his bad luck to founder in a deep spot that lay deceptively flat on the meadow. Struggling to extricate himself, he heard hounds draw closer, much too close. He could see them bursting into the meadow, clouds of snow churning up in front of their forelegs.

He finally clawed out of the hole, but the going was deep.

Athena and Bitsy flew over him now.

Athena saw the boar, all four hundred and forty pounds of him, yellow tusks long and sharp, arrive in the little meadow at a trot in the opposite direction.

“Go right!” Athena called down.

Earl, running for his life, pounded through the snow as the huge boar trotted straight at him.

“Duck around him. He’ll swing his head in that direction. Make a wide circle, then run like hell, Earl!” Athena commanded.

Shaker, up behind his hounds, saw the danger and blew three long notes to call hounds back, but not before half the pack was face-to-face with one ugly brute.

The boar lowered his head. He stopped. He paid no attention to Earl, who circled him, reaching the woods and freedom.

“Go back!” Ardent boomed, barely managing to pull back the pack.

Shaker, blowing his hounds to him, galloped away from the boar, pulling hounds back into the woods from whence they had come but far to the right of the field, who did not know what lay ahead. The field did, however, pull up at woods’ edge.

Jason rode up to Sister, already in the meadow, before she could turn to follow Shaker. He wedged his knee under hers, throwing her over the saddle. Aztec trembled in front of the boar, then turned, racing back through the field. He was only six, but even a seasoned horse would be scared once it got a whiff. Horses were blowing up behind Aztec.

Jason then bellowed, “Reverse.”

The field, not able to see over the meadow’s rise, obediently turned in the woods.

The only person who had a clear view of what had happened was Betty, on the right at the edge of the woods.

Aztec stopped at the rear of first flight. Walter reached over and grabbed his reins.

Tedi and Edward turned, but Edward stopped turning back.

“Jason passed us—but where’s Sister?”

They waited a moment, their horses becoming more restive.

Betty bolted out of the woods toward Sister.

Luckily, Sister had fallen on her right side. Her .38 rested in a holster on her left side under her jacket.

Slipping in the snow, she tore open her coat, black horn buttons popping off, to reach for the gun as the boar charged. No time.

“Roll, then run!” Athena directed, hoping the human might understand.

Betty, hurtling toward the boar, said to Magellan, “We might get hurt, but we have to do this.”

“I will,” the thoroughbred replied, all heart.

The boar turned his big head for a moment upon hearing Magellan.

Sister had rolled. Then she ran as fast as she could. The snow slowed her.

She turned while Betty occupied the brute by circling him. Betty’d drawn her gun. Sister at last drew hers.

Betty, cool, didn’t fire. “Get to the woods, Janie. I’ll pick you up there,” she hollered.

“No. What if you fall?”

“Dammit!” Betty rode in the opposite direction of Sister, the boar charging after her. Then she wheeled and spurred Magellan. The horse flew past the beast, who though large had quick reflexes. Betty reached Sister, who stuck her gun back in the holster.

Slowing Magellan, Betty leaned down, her left arm straight.

Sister grabbed Betty’s arm, ran alongside Magellan for two steps, gained speed, and swung up.

Thank God, Betty was strong. She held Sister’s weight as the older woman flung her right leg over Magellan’s hindquarters. Mounted, the two galloped into the woods. Tedi and Edward followed on seeing them.

Walter was moving forward with Aztec. He had no idea what was up ahead, since Jason hadn’t told anyone. Most had turned to follow Jason, thinking he was temporary field master.

The boar had no desire to chase the horse or the people. His mission was to find the female whose perfume had reached him a half hour ago.

Sister, not dismounting, slid from Magellan to Aztec, who had calmed down next to Clemson, Walter’s bombproof older hunter.

“Where’s the field?”

“I don’t know,” Walter said.

“Jesus!” Sister’s face reddened. “Listen!”

Hearing Shaker’s horn, Sister said, “Tedi, kick on. Edward, too. Take the field. Don’t listen to Jason.”

Walter turned to the horn, but he waited a moment for Sister and Betty.

Sister reached over to Betty. “It’s not over.”

“I know.”

With that, both women left Walter in the lurch. Angry, he squeezed Clemson to catch up, but their horses were younger and faster, so he followed Tedi and Edward, also moving fast.

Sister reached the hilltoppers first as Betty pulled away to go to Shaker, who didn’t know anything had happened.

“Ben, he got away,” Sister said, voice low.

Ben reached into his pocket and plucked out his cell phone to call the deputies on the road.

“Bobby, you have one hell of a wife.” Sister then blew by the rest of them, calling out, “Tedi and Edward will lead you. They’re coming up behind. Wait for them.”

She rode up to Shaker and filled him in. Betty had not done so, feeling it was more important to take her position at ten o’clock from the hounds. She was right in this, as there was nothing any of them could do about Jason at the moment.

“Let’s pick them up. He’ll kill anyone or anything in his way, and we don’t know where he is.” Sister told her huntsman, “Hold hounds for a moment.”

Trudy sat on her haunches. “What was that ugly thing?”

“Big old fat wild pig, that’s what,” Asa informed her. “He would have cut us up like flank steak.”

“Quicker than you think, those pigs,” Cora commented.

“How come we haven’t smelled them before now?” Diddy asked a good question.

“They keep to themselves except during breeding season.” Ardent hated boar.

“And they’re in the mountains. Paradise runs into all that billy-goat land we hunted last week. You won’t find them at Tattenhall Station or Tedi or Edward’s.” Diana studied game just as Sister and Shaker did.

“Well, they’ll come down if food is scarce. They’ll trot fifty miles and not think a thing of it.” Ardent thought it odd that a wild pig will hurry along to a foraging spot, then, when close, slow way down.

“Hope I don’t see another one.” Trinity had been scared out of her wits.

“Gather round.” Sister waited as the field made a semicircle around her. “Ben, do I have permission to announce our suspicions, which I believe are now confirmed? Everyone’s safety is at stake.”

“Yes.”

The sheriff’s one-word answer riveted everyone’s attention.

“We believe that Dr. Jason Woods killed Iphigenia Demetrios.” She waited while that sunk in. “He is armed, extremely dangerous, and highly intelligent. I want everyone to stick together on the ride back. In those places where it’s tight and you go single file, look to the person in front, then back. If anyone falls out of your sight line, holler. Loud.”

“Why won’t he just ride back to his trailer and take off?” Henry Xavier asked.

“Since he now knows that we know, he’ll assume I have officers at the trailers and on the crossroads in every direction. He’s going to keep clear,” Ben replied. “I will ride tail for the hilltoppers. I’ll be the last person in the line. I think we’d better move along.”

“Shaker…” Sister meant to tell him to move on. Then she suddenly exclaimed, “Where’s Sybil?”

“Still on the left, I hope,” Shaker, worried, replied.

“Did you blow her in?” Sister asked crossly.

“Of course I did.”

“I’m sorry, Shaker. I know better. I’m on edge.”

“If I’d nearly been gored by a boar, I’d be on edge, too, and we don’t know where that bastard is—the human, I mean.” Shaker removed his cap to wipe his brow, the cold air sharp on his sweating head.

“Blow again.”

Shaker put the brass horn to his lips and blew the notes that sounded like “Whipper-in,” two medium notes followed by one shorter one.

Nothing.

“We need to move on, Sister,” Ben firmly told her.

“I can’t leave her there, Ben.” Sister’s voice was low, soft.

Shaker spoke up. “I’m going with you.”

Tedi and Edward came to them, realizing their daughter had not come back to the horn. Walter also rode up.

“Tedi, you stay with the field. I’ll go,” Edward gently ordered his wife.

“No. This is my fault. He was quicker and more ruthless than I thought. I should have known better.”

“He was lucky,” Shaker said.

“Yes, but smart. He used the boar.” Sister respected her foe. She had underestimated him and desperately prayed that Sybil wouldn’t pay for it.

“I’m going. I’m a doctor.” Walter spoke firmly. “Edward, please help with the field in case someone makes a mistake.”

“What if he comes back to snag a hostage?” Betty had ridden in, since hounds rested.

“Ben’s with them.” Edward wanted to go.

“We’ll have too many people. We can’t risk him shooting all of you. You, too, Shaker.”

“I’m not letting you go!” Shaker noticed Gray riding toward them.

“We can’t risk the pack because I was stupid. He’ll shoot my hounds. No. You, Betty, go back. Edward, get Gray, and get him turned around before he knows what’s happening. Go back. I can outfox this son-of-a-bitch.”

“I’m going with you.” Walter, accustomed to command when necessary, faced her.

“I’m an old woman. If I die, so what? Walter, you’re young. Go back with the others.”

As the others turned, Shaker called the pack, and Betty floated out to the side.

Walter said, “I’m going.”

“I’ll see you back at the trailer, Betty. I owe you.” Sister realized that Walter would not be dissuaded.

Betty, deeply distressed, fought back the tears and nodded.

“Walter, unbutton your coat. You’re wearing a shoulder harness. Make sure you can get to your gun fast.”

He did as he was told. They cantered to where the riders were pulled up and circled until they found Jason’s tracks.

“I’m worried sick,” Walter confessed as they followed the tracks.

Sister replied, “With good reason. This is my fault.”

Before he could protest that it could have happened to anyone, she picked up the pace.

The deer paths were wide. She slowed at one point where fox dens were near a thread of a creek.

She noticed a glob of frozen blood, footprints.

She pushed Aztec from a canter into a gallop, pointing at the blood with her crop.

Walter looked down as he passed. A grim determination filled him. Sister had been caught off guard. He’d been duped by a colleague. He wanted to strangle Jason for that as well as for the harm the other doctor had done.

Jason, moving south toward Chapel Cross, slowed after a half-mile gallop. A sense of direction wasn’t his strong point, so he carried a small global positioning device, which he checked from time to time.

He knew the closer he got to Chapel Cross the more wary he needed to be. There’d be cops everywhere, but he thought he could elude them by dismounting and smacking Kilowatt on his hindquarters. That might divert them long enough for him to cross the road. Once on the other side of Chapel Cross he knew he could steal a car or truck from a farm as the county became more populated.

He’d change cars along the way. Arrogant, he felt he was smarter than everyone. He believed he could lay low, angling toward the Canadian border. He had his passport with him, a habit he’d learned when overseas. He also had a forged Belgian passport. He thought ahead. In time he figured he’d fly out of Canada. The money was safe in a bank in Zurich.

Jason hadn’t thought it would reach this point, but he always had backup plans. Iffy had screwed up the original plan by panicking and, worse, insisting they run away together. She’d paid for it.

He walked along, not realizing that Sybil shadowed him a quarter mile behind. She could have shot his horse when he galloped past her as she sat on a ridge.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill a beautiful animal who happened to have a criminal on his back. She knew she was wrong in terms of human justice, but she felt in her heart that she was right.

She knew Jason wasn’t a country boy, smart though he was. Tracking him would be easy enough. If she had a chance for a clear shot at him, she’d move up and fire. Her advantage lay in surprise.

The thick undergrowth forced them both to stick to deer trails. She stopped abruptly as Bombardier snorted when a deer approached downwind, their usual approach when their curiosity was aroused.

The doe stopped, looked at the horse, then bolted into the brush.

She had heard Shaker blowing for her. She wondered how Jason had gotten away. She told herself that one great thing about being a whipper-in was you became resourceful.

A soft flutter of wings startled her. She looked up to see, right over her head, Athena, low, followed by Bitsy, flying silently as only owls can do. Bombardier didn’t flick an ear. The owls were so close that the variations in feather colors showed clearly.

Jason, senses straining, also did not hear the owls, who gained altitude while staying behind him. The thick forest gave way to a rolling hay field. The only route to Chapel Cross was over that field. Fortunately, it was far off a state road—but still, how long before the helicopters would be looking?

Jason figured Ben had called in all the resources he had, but it would take the helicopter team at least forty-five minutes to reach him because the small airport was thirty-five miles away, and the team would need to suit up, mount up, then fly to Paradise.

He had a comfortable window of time to reach Chapel Cross. Even in his black frock coat he’d stand out crossing the white hay field, but if he skirted the edges he’d tack another fifteen minutes onto the ride.

He pushed his horse into a trot and risked it.

On reaching that same spot, Sybil pulled out the cell phone Sister insisted she carry in case of injury. She punched in Sister’s prerecorded number, which was 7.

At the vibration, Sister grabbed her phone out of her pocket.

“Sister, I’m at the edge of Binky’s southernmost hay field. Jason’s crossing it at a trot, heading for Tattenhall Station, I expect,” said Sybil in a low voice.

“Thank God, you’re all right. Don’t take any chances, Sybil. Walter and I are behind you, moving up. Half mile. Tops.”

“Right.” She clicked off the phone.

Jason heard a human voice, very faint. He turned to see Sybil at the edge of the woods. He wheeled Kilowatt, pulled out his gun, and rode hard straight for her.

Sybil slipped back into the thick woods. She rode off the deer trail to dip down into a swale. It would take him a minute or two to find her. She noticed boot prints at the edge of the swale.

Conventional wisdom would have dictated she run, but her entire back would be exposed. Steeling herself, she clicked off the safety of her .22, six bullets in the chamber instead of ratshot. Small though the caliber was, in the right place that .22 could stop a person cold.

She held the reins in her left hand, her right arm extended. All she needed to do was swing her arm to her target.

Jason assumed she would run away. Kilowatt, fast, would get so close to her that he could drop her. Then he would turn and race like mad across the hay field. He couldn’t lose more time.

He stopped to listen for the sound of her hoofbeats. Silence. Then he heard the rustle of leaves as Bombardier moved a little. Walking deliberately toward the sound, he, too, readied his .45.

Athena quietly flew ahead of him. As she passed over the lip of the swale she called, “Hoo, Ho Ho, Hoo.” Athena saw Donny Sweigart Jr. in camouflage fatigues, crouched in the bushes by the edge of the swale.

Bitsy, on the same vector, emitted one screech, her little beak agape. They circled and landed in a treetop.

Sybil looked in the direction from which they had flown. Three seconds later, Jason appeared at the edge of the swale from that same direction.

He had a smirk on his face that said, “Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

Donny pushed through the brush and startled Kilowatt, who took a step back. Jason steadied himself and turned as Donny threw a round ball of frozen blood. It hit Jason hard in the chest. His right arm jerked up. He squeezed the trigger.

Sybil fired as the blood hit Jason, that split second saving her.

Hit in the shoulder, feeling the sting that soon followed, Jason had to decide who to shoot first. Donny, a country boy, knew that running made him a target. If he stayed and fought, he’d have a chance. So would Sybil. Donny grabbed Jason’s leg.

Jason fired, just missing Sybil.

This time she rode toward him as he attempted to smash the butt of his gun into Donny’s face. Sybil patiently took a deep breath, making certain of her target since she knew two lives depended on her—or three lives: Jason might shoot Bombardier.

She fired, squeezing the trigger gently. Jason slipped backward off Kilowatt, who didn’t move, oddly enough. Nor did Jason.

Sybil reached him. His eyes stared up at the sky. A neat hole over his right eye testified to her marksmanship.

“Thank God for you, Donny. Thank God.”

She fired in the air three times, the universal signal of distress. Then her heart pounded and she shook.

“Steady girl, steady. We did it.” Bombardier nickered as he nuzzled Jason’s marvelous horse.

Three minutes later, flying through and over all obstacles, Sister and Walter reached the two humans and two horses.

Seeing the round frozen ball of blood, Sister understood. “Donny.” She half smiled.

Sheepishly, he smiled back, for Sybil had dismounted and was hugging him fiercely, a most thrilling feeling.