Рита Браун - Homeward Hound

“Are there road improvements scheduled for Chapel Cross?” Sister wanted to know.

“No. I think Crawford and Kasmir have taken care of that. The DMV is overburdened as it is, so if the two largest landowners had contacted the delegates from our district, an improvement could be pushed back for a decade.”

“So you don’t have any indication of that?” Sister asked.

“No, but I can show you in detail the proposed route of the pipeline.” He tapped away for about three minutes and then the route appeared coming down from the top of the Blue Ridge, down behind Old Paradise, across the lower lands at a forty-five-degree angle, crossing the road, nipping a good part of Beveridge Hundred, and then following Broad Creek east.

“Isn’t this floodplain?” Weevil pointed to the route paralleling Broad Creek.

“Yes. That’s partly why this route was so stupid. I do think Crawford has solved the problem. Soliden will shift south. So we all owe Crawford and a lot of dead people our thanks.” Dewey nodded. “But real estate is still frozen. Until people know the exact route, little will sell or be put on the market. Trust me, real estate brokers are dipping into emergency funds.”

“Look here.” She leaned forward, placed her finger on land south of Chapel Cross, then placed her finger on the Carriage House.

As the map was large, these were dots, but one could gauge the distance.

“Um-m, six miles? It’s hard to tell when the territory is rough. You’re pointing out the hands?”

“I am. Now if those hands were found where they were, why can’t the cadaver dogs find the rest?”

“If I knew that, I’d be the sheriff.” Dewey brought the Carriage House close up. “Damnedest thing.”

“I told Ben to check outbuildings, even the old Gulf station. He did. Nothing. There has to be a corpse out there but the dogs can’t find it.”

“Which means there may not be a corpse out there,” Weevil suggested. “Maybe he was tossed somewhere else. The hands were cut off.”

“This is a lot of territory. If a body were carried to a ravine”—Dewey brought up a bigger picture of a ravine running down the mountains—“the cadaver dogs would be climbing the mountain. And then again, there’s rock outcroppings, sinkholes. That body could have been stuffed just about anywhere.”

“It could, but wouldn’t the killer have to have driven to get there? You’d think someone would have noticed. The vehicles out there belong to landowners and to the workers at Old Paradise. Someone would have seen something.” Sister put her hands on Dewey’s shoulders. “What if the body was dismembered in a safe place? Hands thrown here. Say a torso up by Brownsville.” She named a rural area up on Route 810, far away.

Dewey turned his head to face her. “You’ve seen too many horror movies. Can you imagine the mess, dismembering a corpse?”

Weevil piped up. “Not if it were frozen. It would take an electric saw or a lot of sweat but it wouldn’t be a mess.”

“Jeez, I hope you two never get mad at me.” Dewey shook his head.

CHAPTER 31

Hearing the trucks and trailers, Inky decided she’d stay inside her den this Saturday, February third. Target, under Tootie’s front porch, made the same decision. Both foxes lived in dens perfectly placed to know what was going on. The food was good, too. One could saunter into the stables at night, pick up tidbits left on a tack trunk or nibble on sweet feed. The sweet feed rolled in molasses was the best. Both Sister and Tootie put out table scraps. Inky, black as coal, and Target, flashy red, were spoiled.

Living such a good life did attract other foxes for overlong visits. Comet, a gray in the prime of life, paid just such a call last night. Comet created a backup den under the cottage. Fortunately there was so much food, the two males didn’t fight about it, but Target resented Comet’s dropping in and out. He should make up his mind and stay at After All. Comet, on the other hand, felt he had earned a spacious den near the covered bridge at After All. The den at Roughneck Farm he considered his second home, a condominium. Usually he came over for those extra treats as well as gossip.

“Is it true that Uncle Yancy sleeps above the mudroom door into the kitchen at the Old Lorillard place?” Target asked.

“Says he does. I haven’t gone over there to look,” Comet answered. “The good thing about the Lorillard place is there are plenty of escape routes. The bad thing is one is too close to Pattypan Forge. I hate that place.”

“Dark,” was all Target said.

“Dark and you have to put up with Aunt Netty.”

“Aunt Netty has many opinions all of which she wishes to share.” Target laughed. “Poor Yancy.”

Comet felt the same way. “I’m going to duck out for a minute and see what they’re up to. If I were the huntsman I’d cast toward After All. Always a lot of jumps, the stuff they like.”

“Tell me which way the wind is blowing. I’ll tell you how he’ll cast,” Target promised.

Comet left the den by the front entrance, slipped out from under the stone foundation, full of lots of fox-sized holes. The foundation lifted up the house, or rather the house was rested upon it and the newer portion, the clapboard part, had lattice around the bottom so the notched hardwood logs used as part of the foundation didn’t show. Sections of the log had been cut out to make it easy for a human to crawl underneath if something needed fixing.

Sitting perfectly still, the elegant gray observed a flurry of activity. Horses being backed off trailers, humans slapping a rag at their boots to knock off newly accumulated dirt, and, as always, two humans facing each other. Comet watched as a tall lady flipped over one end of a snowy white stock tie, then flipped it under the big square knot. The other side duplicated this so that the tails of the tie crossed over each other under the carefully tidied square knot, a big knot.

What a lot of work, the gray thought to himself.

He could hear half-grown puppies wailing, howling, bitter tears. “I want to go.” “I’m big enough.” “I know the horn calls.” The list continued at a high decibel range.

Comet slipped back into the main part of Target’s den. “You should see the people. A real mob.”

“It’s occurring to them that the season is flying along. Maybe six more weeks left.” He licked a paw. “They might remember that some of our worst snowstorms happen in March.”

“That and the wind,” Comet replied.

“And how bad is the wind and from what direction?”

“Steady but not a great force. Enough to ruffle your fur and it’s from the northwest per usual.”

Target lay down, paws crossed in front of him. “He’ll cast toward After All and then when he gets into the woods he’ll turn either north or south. He doesn’t want the wind at their tails.”

As Target predicted, Weevil, hounds, and whippers-in waited while the large field pulled themselves together. Shaker, back from the hospital, talked to people as they rode by. Then he climbed into Skiff’s car to follow as best they could by car. Aunt Daniella and Yvonne chose to miss today’s hunt, each having other obligations as well as wondering what might happen hunting today. They were happy to miss it.

“Master?” Weevil asked Sister.

Walter, out today, rode tail in First Flight, the best position for a doctor who doesn’t mind working on his day off.

“Let’s go.” Sister smiled at the young man.

“Come along,” Weevil called to the hounds, eager to get cracking.