Full Cry (21 page)

CHAPTER 24

After that Sunday's church service many hunt club members gathered at the grand, modern Berry residence. Clay's wife, Izzy, graciously met everyone at the door and invited them in. Despite their travails, she served coffee, tea, cakes, and cookies.

Betty, who used to think Izzy was nothing but a gold digger, actually warmed to her thanks to this ordeal.

The dreadful news, depressing everyone, concerned the charred body found in the burned storage unit. Shaker spared people the details of his picking up the scent. Ben Sidell also kept his cards close to his chest.

The situation was distressful enough without people hearing what a burned corpse looks and smells like. The corpse at the morgue would be, they hoped, identified through dental records. Dr. Larry Hund was usually called to solve any mysteries involving teeth.

Marty, balancing cup and saucer, leaned over to whisper to Tedi, “Does Clay have enemies who hate him enough to commit arson?”

“It would appear he does,” the elegant Tedi responded, the Hapsburg sapphire gleaming on her third finger.

“Awful.” Marty shook her head.

Sam Lorillard briefly paid his respects. Knowing how close Clay and Xavier were, he didn't stay more than fifteen minutes.

Gray, always a calming presence, brought the hostess a mimosa. So busy tending her guests, she'd forgotten herself. Sister watched him, blushing slightly when he smiled at her.

Dr. Dalton Hill was there, which made Sister warm a little to him. As he was getting to know people better, he became less stiff. The fact that he expressed sympathy for a hunt member, new though he was, impressed her. Foxhunters should stick together.

Walter, five inches taller than Ben Sidell, leaned on the fireplace mantel to the right of the fire screen. He asked the sheriff, “Gaston working?”

“Mmm.” Ben nodded that the county coroner was on the case, then took a step away from the fireplace to get away from the heat.

“Pathologists always have the right answer—a day late,” Walter said with a rueful smile, stepping away with Ben.

“Not your thing, Doc?”

“No. I like contact with people. I want to help. We live in such a cynical age, probably, it sounds corny, but I genuinely want to help and heal.”

Ben smiled up at him. “Me, too.”

“Neither of us will ever run out of business,” Walter replied.

“Gentlemen, may I intrude?” Sorrel Buruss joined them.

“You're anything but an intrusion.” Walter bowed slightly to the lovely widow, now cresting over that forty-year barrier.

“Xavier's been so tireless. On the phones half the night, this morning. The investigator for the carrier, Worldwide Security, is flying down from Hartford tomorrow. X wants Clay to get up and running as fast as he can.”

“X is a good man to have in your corner,” Ben agreed. His cell phone beeped. “Excuse me.” He walked away from the group and listened intently. “Thanks, Gaston. I'll be right down.” Then he returned to Walter and Sorrel. “Walter, would you like to come on down to the lab with me?”

Walter knew what he meant. “Of course.”

Sorrel knew, too. Prudently, she asked no questions but observed the reactions of others as the sheriff and Walter left together.

One by one, the well-wishers left.

Sister—Rooster and Raleigh in the truck front seat— drove home. The plowed roads remained slick in spots. The sun shone, and the whiteness dazzled.

Not a churchgoer, although she grew up an Episcopalian, nature was Sister's church. Looking at the mirrored ponds, ice overtop, the dancing tiny rainbows glittering on snow- and frost-covered hills, the churning clear beauty of Broad Creek as it swept under Soldier Road—these things gave her a deep faith, an unshakeable belief in a Higher Power, or Powers. Sister wasn't fussy about monotheism or the intellectual comforts of dogma. To see such beauty, to observe a fox in winter coat, to inhale the sharp tang of pine as one rode fast underneath, to listen to Athena call in the night, to feel the earth tight underneath giving way to a bog festooned with silver, black, and beige shrubs shorn of raiment, such things convinced her that life was divine.

Even later when Walter called to inform her that the still unidentified corpse had not died of smoke inhalation, her faith in God's work remained undiminished. Of all God's creations, the human was the failure. Still, she hoped, in good moments, that with effort and a dismantling of grotesque ego, we might join the rest of nature in a chorus of appreciation for life itself.

She fed the dogs and put a bowl of flakey tuna on the counter for Golly.

“Pussycat, would you kill another cat for tuna?” Golly, purring, lifted her head, small bits of red tuna in her whiskers.
“No. I'd box his ears though.”

Sister stroked Golly's silken fur as the cat devoured the treat.

Then she slipped on her old Barbour coat over a down vest and walked outside. The sun set so early in the winter, the long red slanting rays reaching from west to east over the rolling meadows. Her horses nickered as she passed. She looked at the broodmare, Secretary's Shorthand, wishing the animal had caught. Secretary looked bigger than usual, but the vet had done an ultrasound two weeks after breeding, and again five weeks after the breeding. It seemed she was not in foal. But sometimes ultrasound doesn't give the right information. Horses can fool people. Secretary was a muscular, good-looking chestnut, and Sister desperately wanted a foal from her.

She rapped on Shaker's door.

“I know it's you,” he called.

“ 'Tis.”

“I don't want any. I gave at the church today.” He opened the door, then noticed her face. “What?”

“Shaker, the burned body's cause of death was not smoke inhalation. He was dead before the flames got him but they aren't certain yet just what happened.”

“Come on in.”

The two sat. Neither could imagine what was going on. After exhausting all theories, Sister brought up Tuesday's hunt. It was to be held at Melton, a charming old farm.

“If the wind is up, I say we make a beeline for the hollow. If not, let's draw counterclockwise. What do you think?”

He stretched his muscular legs. “If I draw counterclockwise, from the house, you mean from the house, right?”

“Right.”

“We'll go down the farm road and then turn right. Well, that meadow is pretty open, gets the morning sun. Could get lucky. Courting time.” He loved fox breeding season.

“I noticed.”

“Don't start. We're just friends.”

“That's what they all say.” Her voice was warm. “I'm glad you have someone you can talk to, enjoy.”

“Sari's a great kid. Wants to learn everything about the hounds.” This was the way to Shaker's heart, as well as Sister's. “And Lorraine knows some of the girls by name now. At first, Lorraine wouldn't touch a hound. She was too timid, but now she goes right in. Too bad Peter Wheeler's not still with us. If she could have gotten in the truck with Peter, I think she would have learned more than if she was riding.”

“Boy, that's the truth.”

“Oh, that ass Crawford called me. Says we need a flyspray system in the kennels for summer and he'll pay for it. Jesus, boss, why'd you let him be president?”

“Because if I didn't, the club would split into two factions concerning a joint-master. The larger faction would be against him, the smaller one for him, and you and I would be well acquainted with the misery.” She paused. “Leave the politics to me, Shaker. My job is to kiss toads and turn them into princes.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You're right. You're right. I would never do it.”

“What you do, you do better than anyone else. So what did you say? I hope you were civil.”

“You'd have been proud of me. I said, word for word, ‘Crawford, thank you for the offer. You do so much for the club. But the chemicals will be bad for the hounds' noses. That's why we have those big ceiling fans everywhere, keeps turning the air, and we don't have too much of a fly problem.' That's it, verbatim. How can people hunt and not know anything about a hound's nose?” He clapped his hands together.

“Because they hunt for other reasons, and that's fine. In any hunt field, and I don't give a damn what hunt it is, you can count on your fingers the people who have hound sense. Those are the ones who get the most out of hunting, I'm convinced.”

He dropped his arms over the overstuffed chair arms. “I was worried when Sybil came on board that she wouldn't have hound sense, even though she can ride like a demon. But she's stepped up to the plate. Give her one more year. Still makes some stupid mistakes out there. I've got to break her of going after one hound if the hound splits off, which thankfully doesn't happen too often. I don't know why it's so hard for someone to recognize the pack comes first.”

“She'll get it. On the other hand, there's Betty Franklin, a natural. And who would have thought years ago when, in desperation, we asked her to help us just because she had the time? Betty wasn't even that good a rider, but by God, she worked on it.”

His eyes lit up. “I thought you were crazy. But you know, I watched her in the summer on hound walks. We were lucky we had that summer together. We knew Big Ray wasn't going to be with us much longer, and he was a damned good whipper-in, despite his ego.” Shaker crossed one leg over the other. “Gave Betty time, and she really showed me a lot. She knew to get around them instead of going after them if a puppy squirted out, and the thing that impressed me the most, the most,” he slapped the chair arms, “she could read their body language.”

“You're born with it. I believe that. Like a sense of direction. You're born with it. One can be taught the basics, but some people come into this world with more. I don't know what we'd do without Betty.”

“Rock solid.”

“Well, you know how I feel about whippers-in. If I have to hear them, something's wrong. Nothing worse than hearing some fool rate hounds, crack whips, and charge around like a bronc rider.” She grimaced.

“Boss, sometimes you have to hear them.”

“Not much.”

He smiled. “We're on the same page. The best staff work is like the best team in any sport. They make it look easy.”

These two friends and coworkers talked for two more hours about hunting, hounds, other great hunts they admired. Left alone, their shared passion ignited and reignited ideas, thoughts, and much laughter.

CHAPTER 25

Plan your hunt, then hunt your plan. Every master and huntsman has heard this advice. Of course, the fox could care less. A good huntsman adjusts to the curves thrown by that prescient fox. An even better master doesn't criticize when the hunt is over.

Tuesday, a small field followed hounds at Melton, a new fixture southwest of what the Jefferson Hunt called the “home territory.” Wealthy new people, eager to make a good showing, spent a great deal of money rehabbing the old place. Many jokingly called Melton “Meltdown” behind their backs. The attractive owners, Anatole and Beryle Green, in their late thirties, rode today with Hilltoppers.

The small field kept moving.

Shaker knew he'd drawn over a fox in heavy covert, but he couldn't push the creature out. When first hunting hounds as a young man, he would have wasted far too much time trying to bolt the fox. Wise in the ways of his quarry and hunting, he now kept moving.

Half the D young entry hunted this morning. The other young entry stayed at home. They'd go on Thursday if conditions looked promising.

Sister, Tedi, Edward, Walter, Crawford, Marty, Sam, Gray, Dalton, and Ronnie composed First Flight. Bobby Franklin had only three people. Izzy Berry rode with Bobby to give herself a break from the crisis. Clay would be out next hunt, she said.

The temperature hovered in the low forties, the footing— slick on top, still frozen underneath—kept the riders alert and wary. What made this Tuesday difficult, apart from footing, was the strange stillness. Not a flicker of breeze moved bare tree limbs. As frost melted on the branches, the droplets hung like teardrops.

St. Just, the large crow, flew overhead. His hunting range covered half the county, less to do with the food supply than his relentless nosiness. Unlike Athena and Bitsy, St. Just rarely swooped down on prey. He would alight and walk on the ground, his gait rocking him from side to side. He'd pick up in his long beak anything that looked delicious. If taste disappointed, he'd drop the offending item. Most country people put out seed for birds in winter. He visited those feeders that he felt contained the better grade of seeds, thistle, tiny bits of dried fruit. One kind soul even put out desiccated grasshoppers.

One of St. Just's distinguishing features, apart from his vibrantly blue-black coat, was his burning hatred of foxes, and of all those foxes, Target had earned his special venom after killing St. Just's mate.

The crow alighted on a drooping, naked, weeping cherry branch, an ornamental tree flourishing at the edge of the covert, thanks to a bird eating the seeds of another cherry tree miles away, then depositing them here.

“Cora, Cora,”
he cawed.
“Visiting red heading back to
Mill Ruins. He crossed the old retaining walls at the pump
house.”
Having said that, he lifted to higher altitudes.

Diana, hearing this, asked Cora,
“If we don't get there
soon, the scent will be gone.”

Young Diddy asked,
“Why can't we just run over there?”

“Because Shaker, Betty, Sybil, and Sister will think we're
rioting. We have to find a way to swing Shaker to our
right,”
Cora informed her.

“Oh.”
Diddy now had another rule to remember. This hunting stuff was complicated.

“Well, we can feather, but not open and move that way,”
Diana sensibly suggested.
“We aren't lying. We aren't rioting. We haven't opened. Once we pick up the scent, then
we can open. Shaker will never know. Humans can't smell
a thing.”

“Hmm.”
Cora considered this, then spoke, low, to the pack.
“Follow Diana and me. Feather. St. Just swears a red
isn't far, moving east from the pump house. I think this is
our only hope of a run today. Don't open unless you really
smell fox. Dragon, did you hear me?”

Indignant, Dragon snapped,
“I do not babble.”

“Well, you do everything else,”
Cora snapped right back, then put her nose down.
“Follow me. We have to
move quickly. Noses down, of course, and feather. It will
give Sister and Shaker confidence.”

Darby, nose down, whispered to Asa,
“Is it true, really
true, that humans can't smell?”

“ 'Fraid it is, son. Can't run either. Now if the scent is
strong, mating scent, and it's a warm day, the scent can rise
up, then even a human can catch it. Of course, by then it's
over our head, so it won't be a good day's hunting.”

Doughboy, ears slightly lifted, questioned,
“But if they
can't smell, how do they survive?”

Ardent supplied the answer.
“Totally dependent on their
eyes. Their ears used to be okay, but the last two generations of humans, according to Shaker, have lost thirty percent of their hearing or worse before forty, which is like six
or seven years for us.”

“Why?”
Delight couldn't imagine such a thing: no nose and bum ears.

“Decibel levels. They've destroyed their hearing by turning up rock music, rap music. Just fritzes 'em right out.”
Delia could see they were nearly out of the heavy covert. The pump house was up ahead.
“Don't worry about humans. Worry about getting a line. If we can run a fox on a
day like today, young one, we'll be covered in glory.”

Dragon bumped Dasher. His brother, outraged, snarled and bumped him hard right back. Dragon bared his teeth.

“Settle!”
Cora commanded.

Neither dog hound would be so foolish as to cross the queen of the pack. She wouldn't hesitate to take them down, and Asa and Ardent would be right with her. The two angry brothers would then sport more holes than Swiss cheese.

Diddy, hearing the snarls, swerved to the right. Although young, she couldn't help but push up front with her marvelous drive and good speed. Heartening as this was to observe, Cora kept her eye on the gyp. In her first year, it would be easy for her to make mistakes. But Diddy couldn't keep herself in the middle of the pack where she'd be carried along by the tried and true hounds.

However, at this moment, Diddy's drive and position saved the day. She moved forty yards from the pack. Sybil on the right noticed this, carefully moving ahead of the hound in case she needed to push Diddy back. Anticipation is half the game. If you can prevent a hound from squirting out, it's far better than searching for the hound if she doesn't come back to the horn. And it's a foolish whipper-in who abandons the whole pack to turn one errant hound. Sybil also read Diddy's body language; the youngster wasn't going to bolt.

Suddenly Diddy stopped, rigid, her stern straight up in the air, nose glued to the ground not five yards from the crumbling stone retaining wall.

“What do I do? What do I do?”
Diddy thought to herself.
“If I'm wrong, Cora will let me have it, but . . . but
fox, this is a fox!”
She took a deep breath, her nostrils filling with the fading but unmistakable scent of a red dog fox pungent in courting perfume. Working up her courage, she said in a faltering voice,
“Fox.”
Then she spoke with a bit more authority.
“Fox, fading line.”

Cora lifted her head, raced to the young hound, put her nose down. Under her breath she praised Diddy,
“Good
work. It's Clement, a young red.”
Then she kept her nose down and spoke in her sonorous voice,
“Get on it. Fading
fast!”

The pack flew to Cora, opening as they trotted on the line. They crossed the other retaining wall, found the line again, and kept moving, not running flat out as scent was too thin. Better to keep it under nose than pick up speed, overrun, or lose it altogether. The hounds understood scent.

Sister might not be able to smell squat, but she knew to trust her hounds. Aztec pricked his ears, his own nostrils widening. He wanted to run.

“Steady,” Sister said in a low voice.

“But I know they're on!”
Aztec trembled.

Sam, on the new timber horse, Cloud Nine, realized he was going to need a tight seat if they took off. Tedi, hearing the snorting behind her, and possessing a keen sense of self-preservation, reined in for a second as Sam passed. No point in getting run over. She just hoped Sam wouldn't be on a runaway. Even the best of jockeys endure that at one time or another.

Once on the far side of an overgrown meadow, not yet tidied up by the Greens because it was far from the house, Nellie paused. Two scent trails crossed. Both were fox. If she called out, the youngsters might come up, get confused. She made an executive decision, pushed straight ahead on the stronger line, believing it was Clement's. If not, the humans would never know the difference.

A few yards from the convergence of scents, she let out a deep, deep holler.
“Heating up. Come on!”
Then she moved up from a brisk trot to a long, loping ground-covering run.

Sister and Aztec, happy to be moving out, kept the hounds in sight. Usually Sister would be a tad closer, but the footing was going from bad to worse.

A simple in and out, two coops placed across from each other in parallel fence lines, beckoned. Aztec hit the first perfectly, which meant the second was effortless. He didn't have to add a stride or take off early. Sister loved this young thoroughbred's sense of balance; he knew where his hooves were, which can't be said of every horse. He might do something a little stupid because he was still green, but he was smooth and careful.

Everyone made it over the coops, while Bobby Franklin lost ground opening two red metal farm gates, one crooked on the hinges.

Clement, hearing hounds, knew he was still a long way from his den. He'd been so intent on visiting the vixen, he hadn't paid attention to potential hiding places should trouble appear. He put on the afterburners, hoping to put as much distance between himself and the lead hounds as he could. That would give him time to think. St. Just shadowed his every move, signaling to Cora what was going on ahead. His cawing brought out other crows, themselves no friend to foxes. Soon the sky, dotted with fourteen crows, added to the panorama of startled deer, disturbed blue jays, and extremely put-out squirrels, chattering filth as hounds, horses, and humans roared under their trees.

When a run becomes this good, the pace this fast, the hell with footing. Sister moved her hands forward, crouched down, and hoped Aztec wouldn't lose his hind end on an icy patch.

On occasion it occurred to her that she could die in the hunt field. She didn't much mind, though she hoped it wouldn't be until she'd cleared her one hundredth birthday, which she envisioned as a five-foot log jump.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sam Lorillard struggling with Cloud Nine. He finally got the big gelding straightened out, prudently pulling him back, forcing him to follow the others. The horse, accustomed to conventional trainers, wanted to be first. If he was going to win races, he needed to be rated. This was a good time to learn.

Tedi, Edward, Walter, Dalton, and Gray kept snug in Sister's pocket. Crawford, Marty, and Sam fell farther behind with Ronnie in the middle between the two groups.

Ronnie saw Clement charge over the next hill. Hounds were far enough in front he need not worry about lifting their heads.

“Tallyho!” He hollered, taking his cap off and pointing in the direction in which the fox was traveling.

Sybil saw him, too. Sister did not, but she knew Ronnie knew his business. She pushed a little closer to the tail hounds, Delia and Asa, perhaps five yards from the main pack.

A large fallen walnut, as luck would have it, had crashed into the old coop in the next fence line. The branches fell forward of the coop so the massive trunk, its distinctive blackish bark, added a new look and height to the coop. Sister saw Shaker practically vault over it.

Aztec sucked back for an instant. Sister hit him with the spurs and clucked. Aztec knew if he refused it made for trouble behind him, but this jump might bite.
“Well, it
looks funny,”
the horse grumbled before sailing over.

Behind, Cora and Dragon with Dasher and Diana couldn't see the fox.

“You'll chop him!”
St. Just screamed with triumph.

Clement's normal arrogance evaporated. He now ran for his life, running for the covert up ahead. Maybe he could foul his scent in there somehow.

He made it, flying by a pile of dirt about eighteen inches high. Farther into the underbrush, thinned by the weight of the snows and frosts now, he smelled a cache of deer meat.

He was smack in the home territory of a female mountain lion. A cave or rock den had to be close by. If he could find it, he'd duck in. Better to face one lone female than a pack of hounds.

He didn't worry about young. Usually lion cubs are born midsummer.

As luck would have it, a huge rock formation in a slight swale of forest jutted out ahead. He leapt into the opening, large enough for the mountain lion and therefore large enough for hounds, one by one.

Awakened by the cry of the pack, the mature lioness weighed a well-fed two hundred pounds. She was just rising when the medium-size red fellow, all of seven pounds, invaded her home.

Panting, he looked up at her, crooning in his best voice,
“How beautiful you are!”

Vanity is not limited to the human species. She blinked.
“And who are you?”

“Clement of Mill Ruin, son of Target and Charlene, their
second litter from last year. I confess, I've ducked in here to
save my skin, but I had no idea I would find such a beautiful mountain lion. How could I have missed you? I thought
I knew everyone.”