Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

“No, I can do it. God, listen to that rain. It’s coming down hard again. We haven’t had a storm this fierce in years. I just hope the roof on the house holds up. Soon time to put on new shingles.” Hope dropped wearily into the deep cushioned sofa. “Ah.” Irritated that she forgot the cigarettes, she got up, walked to the front desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pack of Nat Shermans. Then she rejoined Sister.

Sister was surprised at the brand. “I used to smoke those. I’d have them sent down from New York.”

“If you’re going to fill your lungs with smoke, you ought to do it from really good weeds.” Hope lit up, closed her eyes, and inhaled. “Filthy night.”

Sister leaned back, enjoying the fragrance of her old brand. “Thank you.”

“Sister.” Hope smiled. “That’s my job.” Another long drag followed. “Actually, I like the tough cases. I like having to think fast. It doesn’t allow you time to worry about yourself.”

“True.”

“I’ve been thinking too much about myself lately, and I resent it, you know? I mean, I resent my divorce because in a funny way it has made me self-centered. Maybe we’re all self-centered to a degree, but I didn’t think I was all that awful about it.”

“I don’t think you are.” Sister crossed her arms across her chest, slid down a bit in the sofa, and stretched out her legs. “Oppression does that to people. It’s a kind of reverse narcissism.”

Hope was not one to think in social terms. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if you see the world through a preconceived belief—that women are mistreated or blacks and gay people are second-class citizens, take your pick—then in a bizarre way you’ve become self-centered. Divorce, in its way, is a form of institutional oppression and misery. It’s more than understandable, but if I think about the times I’ve been held back because I’m a woman, I’m not thinking about the Middle East, I’m not thinking about the true function of the Federal Reserve. So the folks in power—and we all know who they are—remain unchallenged.”

Hope drew on the Nat Sherman, then turned to Sister. “You have an original mind.”

Sister laughed. “No, Hope, I have a different kind of mind. You’re a scientist.”

“Now that you mention it, what is the function of the Federal Reserve?”

“To stabilize banking. It has no business tampering with the economy. Its function most assuredly is not to stimulate the economy but, people being human, those reservists, for lack of a better term, cave to political pressure. Anyway, that’s how I see it.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “You know, I have to get back to the farm because Violet is whelping and I left Shaker alone. Hey, you sit here, you did a lot more work than I did. Let me roll the cot into the operating room. Where is it?”

“Closet.” Hope didn’t protest this time.

It took Sister a few minutes to roll the little bed out and set it up, then she knelt down to stroke Gunpowder’s head and kissed him on the nose.

When she came back, Hope had fallen asleep. Sister took the cigarette out of her fingers in the nick of time. “Hope.”

“Huh?” Hope sat bolt upright. “I’ve never done that!” She viewed the stub in Sister’s fingers.

“How Jack Cassidy died.” Sister named a talented actor from the past. “Fell asleep with a cigarette and burned to death.”

Hope shuddered. “Awful way to go, but then there aren’t many good ones. Speaking of dying, the first thing I did when I left Paul was to change my will. If I die before the divorce is final he doesn’t get one red cent.”

Sister patted her on the back. “You’re too young to think of dying.”

They walked into the operating room, the double doors swinging to close behind them.

“At least Mo Schneider’s exit was spectacular. His last minutes had to be filled with exhaustion, pain, and fear,” Sister replied.

“Wonder if I could run Paul to death?” Hope kicked off her boots.

“Mo was proof that money can’t buy happiness. Remind Paul. Maybe he’ll lower his new set of demands.”

“Fat chance,” Hope growled. She stretched out. “How did Mo make his fortune?”

“Recycling. You know when you pull on a fake fleece coat or a Polar Tec blanket? That’s Mo.”

“I’ll be. He was smart.”

“About some things. Fundamentally, he was a cruel man, but my experience has taught me that apart from those who are born bad—and believe me, some are—most people who are cruel learned it early.”

“Mother’s milk that curdled.” Hope folded her hands over her chest.

“Something like that.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the house and sleep?” Hope offered. “You’ve got to be more tired than I am.”

“I got just wet enough out there with Gunpowder in the paddock that the discomfort will keep me awake. I can make it back to the kennel. Shall I cut the lights on the way out?”

“Yes, thank you. With the lightning we don’t need them.” As Sister flicked the switch and opened the door to the operating room, Hope called out, “You’re tough as nails, Sister. You know that?”

“So I’ve been told. Good night.”

“ ’Night.” And Hope was asleep before Sister climbed back in the dually.

The storm, seemingly tethered over the pastures, meadows, and eastern slopes of the Blue Ridge, had intensified again. Sister drove out slowly. It was four in the morning. At least no one would be on the road so she could go as slowly as she needed.

As she pulled out of the long driveway, she thought she saw a car parked on the macadam behind the large veterinary sign. She was too tired to look more closely, figuring someone had ditched the vehicle or the storm had scared them so bad they decided to sleep until it was over.

She peered over the steering wheel. A flash of lightning, lavender in its heat, knocked her back against the seat. Her eyes burned.

“Shit,” she muttered, then laughed. If her mother were alive and had been riding shotgun, a correction to Sister’s vocabulary would surely have followed.

Squinting, driving thirty miles an hour and even slower on the curves as water rushed across the low spots, Sister finally made it home to Roughneck Farm.

She got out, closed the door, and headed for the kennels. Might as well stay wet for a while as the rain, despite her efforts to keep dry, had found its way behind the collar of the Barbour coat and she was still clammy from her first dose of rain.

Shaker woke when she entered, even though she was quiet.

“Five. One was born dead.”

Sister came in, knelt down, and stroked Violet’s head. “It’s hard work, girl. I know from personal experience.” She looked closely at the young mother. “Still a little swollen. Might be another.” She gathered up the bloody towels and Shaker started to stand.

“Boss, what happened to you?” He noticed the bloodstains.

“Tell you in a minute.” She threw the bloody towels in the big hamper in the washroom, where an industrial-strength washer and dryer made life a lot easier. She returned with an armful of fresh towels and gave Shaker the report on Gunpowder, his horse.

“You should have gotten me.”

“Violet needed you. Hope and I were fine. I am bone weary, though. I’m going up to take a nap.”

As she walked through the still-driving rain she hoped the basement hadn’t flooded. She thought of Hope asleep near Gunpowder and knew that Dan would find her in the morning.

He did.

CHAPTER 6

Betty Franklin made a bracing pot of coffee and waited for the aroma to waft up the back stairway into Sister’s bedroom. She’d stopped by the kennels for hound walk to find Shaker asleep. He woke up, when hounds welcomed Betty, and told her about the night’s drama.