Рита Браун - The Hounds And The Fury

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.

CHAPTER 30

Personal cataclysms take many forms. All provide the same result: you’re tossed into the air. Some people fall hard, others hit the ground but rise and learn, a few land on their feet, and fewer still bounce back higher than they had been cast down.

Sister usually fell into the last category. Yesterday’s event, though distressing, energized her.

“People are like teabags. You never know how strong they are until you put them in hot water,” she said to Shaker as they finished power washing the feed room. “Betty and Sybil are strong.”

“Hell of a way to find out,” Shaker grunted. “I should have been with you when he first knocked you off Aztec.”

“First of all, honey chile”—she used the Southern nomenclature with warmth—“how could you know? You pulled the hounds from danger. You did the exact right thing. From the safety of the woods, there’s no way you could know. It all turned out right.” She paused. “He used an old dirty polo trick, actually. He put his knee behind mine and kicked my leg up high and hard. Over I went.”

“No polo where’s he gone—unless they play with pitchforks.”

“By the grace of God.”

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help,” Sister smiled. “Sybil, Betty, and I are lucky, lucky women.” She shrugged, tears filling her eyes.

Shaker misted over, too. “You never know, do you? You never know what’s around the corner.” He rolled the power washer back to the corner. “We could eat off the floor.”

“That’s a thought.”

“Boss, I didn’t get a chance to really talk to you yesterday, what with the police and all. I did pop my head in last night to see that you were okay.”

“Three-ring circus, wasn’t it?” She rolled up a hose.

“How did you know?”

“At first, I didn’t. Iffy’s behavior kept me focused on her. I’m convinced she tried to shoot Gray. Wasn’t a hunter catching the last days of deer season. Can’t prove it, but I believe it to be so.”

“Gray was on to her.”

“Well, he was on to someone cooking the books. He couldn’t discuss it, but I knew something was amiss. I thought maybe Garvey was stealing the cream. That idea soon faded, but Iffy could have worked with Garvey and discovered she was going to take the fall. A lot of thoughts flitted through my peabrain.”

“But she was guilty?” His thick eyebrows moved upwards.

“Yes, she was—and what’s even more disgusting is she killed Angel. Jason gave her the scopolamine, the stuff that’s used for motion sickness and arthritis.” She walked into the kennel office, Shaker following. “Tell you one thing, Ben Sidell is good. He put his nose down and followed every scent trail.”

“Thorough.”

“That he is. He figured out the insurance scam. I had no idea about that. Ben and his staff interviewed every living patient on Jason’s roster. Jason did save lives, but there were people on his roster who feigned symptoms, including Alfred DuCharme. They were never sick in the first place. Jason wrote up treatment in collusion with the phony patient, and the money rolled in. When Ben went through his patient roster, since some called Jason, that tipped him off to the fact that he was under suspicion, but he was confident he’d covered his tracks.”

“Two crimes?” Shaker dropped in the chair by the desk, turning it so he could face Sister as she sat behind the desk.

“More than that. One attempted murder. I’m counting Iffy shooting Sam. One murder: Angel. Then Iffy’s murder. A brilliant insurance scam, two million dollars pilfered from Aluminum Manufacturing. The insurance companies will get involved with their own investigation, but Ben’s estimate is that Jason sucked up about nine million dollars.”

“Nine million!” Shaker exclaimed.

“It’s obvious you haven’t seen a hospital bill in a long time. Jason specialized in cancer. The diagnostic tests, the chemo and radiation if needed, the operations if needed, the aftercare, the pharmacy bills. It’s insane. Really, it’s easier to die. It’s certainly cheaper.”

“I’ll remember that.” His wry smile was engaging.

“Here’s the thing I don’t understand. By all accounts Jason was a good doctor. Why wasn’t that enough? Doctors make a good living. But he must have had some kind of instinct, some sixth sense of who could be corrupted. Someone might have a few cancer cells on the skin. He’d talk them into letting him invent a major cancer, and they’d split the insurance money. He even went so far as to perform some operations, not cut-open-the-chest stuff, but still, in-office procedures on healthy people. Mostly he threw patients into a fake radiation and chemo program and raked in the money. Walter—who is tremendously upset, by the way—said it’s not that hard to acquire x-rays and records. He thinks Jason took those of deceased people. He’d x-ray his ‘patient’ later, and lo and behold, the tumor or the cancer would be in remission. The cleverness of it, the attention to detail—it’s almost admirable.”

“Nine million dollars.” Shaker fixated on the loot.

“Think what we could do with that money?” Sister sighed, then glanced out the window. “Sun’s up.”

“Clearing up.” He rose and walked to the hot plate. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea.”

“Angel loathed Iffy. How could Iffy kill her without Angel knowing? I mean, Angel wouldn’t take motion sickness stuff from Iffy, I don’t think.” Shaker returned to the main subject.