Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

“Sister, you divided killers into normal and abnormal categories. Hanging a man from a tree at the place of former public executions the night of a Halloween party in front of children, that doesn’t seem normal to me,” Amy remarked.

Christopher answered his sister, “Maybe that’s just what the killer wants us to think, that he’s some nutcase.”

“Sick as it is, I don’t think our killer is a nutcase. What we do know,” Sister’s voice was hypnotic, “is that he or she is strong, strong enough to string up a grown man. Bold. The killer was on that ridge not fifteen minutes before the girls and boys arrived. He knew the territory, never forget that. He knows us, and he understands symbolism.”

A long silence followed her assessment.

Charlotte pulled back her shoulders, saying, “Sister, there’s a reason you’re master of foxhounds, and I thank you for bringing us back on the line.” Her eyes swept the room. “Allow me to amend something Sister Jane said. Yes, he thinks he knows us, but what he doesn’t know is that nothing is going to destroy this school. Custis Hall survived the War of 1812, the War Between the States, two world wars, the Great Depression, Korea, and Vietnam. We will survive this, which is a different, personal threat, but we are more resourceful than this disgusting human being can know. He will be found, he will be brought to justice for what he’s done to Al, and we will come through this stronger.”

Knute Nilsson started to open his mouth but closed it. He was going to say, “We might be stronger, but we’ll probably be poorer for years. It will affect alumnae pledges.” Under the circumstances this very real concern seemed a little crass. He’d discuss this with Charlotte in private.

C H A P T E R 1 0

At sixteen pounds, Target qualified as a major fox. In the fullness of maturity, his coat fluffed out deep red, but his mask betrayed a few gray hairs near his dainty nose. Indian summer returned to central Virginia so he blew off the fact that the Jefferson Hunt Club would be at Mud Fence. With the mercury happily showing in the mid-fifties, skies of robin’s-egg blue, and, even better from his point of view, a stiff breeze from the west, scent would be awful.

So he dillied and dallied, rooting around the cornfields bordered by rows of tall fir trees to break the wind. Corn tasted delicious. Why burn calories chasing rabbits, mice, moles, and small birds when all he had to do was nibble kernels off the ears lower on the plant, for this was left as a silage field and wouldn’t be cut for months. He paid no attention to the mice chattering in their high voices when they got a whiff of him. He heard their tiny claws clatter over the husks fallen to the ground, stiff and brown now. He’d eaten so much he felt a little drowsy, but considered that it was a long way home and he ought to begin walking, as his den was on After All Farm, perhaps five miles as the crow flies. Target hated crows, which is not why he didn’t always travel in a straight line. Given his high intelligence there were so many enticements. He noticed a nest of digger bees, so he watched them fly in and out of their underground nest. Bears liked bees, but he avoided eating them. His aunt Netty would sometimes pick up what bears had left after they ripped open a tree, the side of an old building filled with honey. She liked the bee taste. He hated eating bees, although he liked honey well enough.

Target craved sweets.

He left the cornfield. The digger bees made their nest in a row and he strolled across the farm road onto the field of mown orchard grass, rolled up and tied. Goldfinches hurled a few rude remarks, as did the purple finches, cardinals, and blue jays. He paid them no mind. He listened to the loud tapping of the pileated woodpecker. He was tempted to go into the woods to seek out the very tree and have a discussion about grubs and wood-boring insects, too, but decided the dew was thick and might hold scent for a brief time.

The sound of Shaker’s horn pricked up his ears. Why didn’t the damned man cast into the wind? He was casting crosswind and Target hadn’t considered that. Well, he was far enough ahead. He decided not to linger even if he passed other foxes or the many bobcats who had taken over this part of Mud Fence Farm. This year crops flourished, as did game. There was enough for all and tensions among the hunters lessened. Usually the fights erupted over territory disputes. No one fought over water, as there was so much of it.

As Target walked northward, Shaker cast wide as he headed for the silage corn. If he was going to hit it today he had to hit it soon, for once the dew evaporated all scent would rise with it. Of course, being a man who loved his work, Shaker would draw along western banks where the sun hadn’t warmed the earth or he’d look for cold wind currents, but scent would be spotty even then. With such warmth at nine-thirty, he figured they’d be cooked by ten-thirty. But there was always the chance of pushing out a fox sunbathing minus bikini and sunglasses and stretched in full glory like any bathing beauty on the sands of Miami Beach. Foxes adored a good sunbath.

The field of thirty-nine riders was out for a few reasons. The real foxhunters on green horses figured it would be a slow day and therefore perfect for a green horse. The fair-weather hunters wanted to trot around in their lovely ratcatcher kits, so the sunshine appealed to them. The real foxhunters on made horses who loved hound work especially enjoyed watching hounds go to it on the difficult days. Any pack looks good on a good day; the great packs are the ones who do all they can on the hard days. Truth be told, one sees more good hound work on a “bad” day than on a good day.

Then again, as the red foxes always bragged, it doesn’t matter how great a pack of hounds may be, it’s foxes that make foxhunting.

Target was about to prove this, however unwillingly, because Cora, the strike hound, edged a little forward, springing into the cornfield. Shaker didn’t call her back as he trusted her. She wouldn’t shoot off. Her phenomenal drive salvaged many a so-so day.

The grackles in the corn flew up like pepper, black dots against a blue sky. Their irritation was evidenced by the curses called down to the pack, now all in the cornfield. They circled since they knew the hounds wouldn’t be in there long. The mice simply scurried out of the way of the hounds, diving into little bundles of corn husks if necessary.

“It’s Target!” Cora triumphantly inhaled a remnant of his scent.

The other hounds flew to her. Cora made very few mistakes.

Young Doughboy, in his second year out, yelped with excitement.

“Lower your voice, you twit,” Dragon growled. “You’ll sound like you’re on deer.”

“Sorry,” the chastened youngster replied.

“Dragon, you can be such an ass.” His brother and littermate, Dasher, picked up a lovely stream of fading scent. “Heading north.”

The hounds opened, honoring Cora’s initial voice. Shaker blew three quick notes in succession, waited a second, blew the call again.

Hounds were away.

Sister, on Rickyroo, a seven-year-old Thoroughbred, grinned. What could be better?

Behind her a few riders slipped their hands down to check their girths. Crawford had dropped his reins during the cast and when Czpaka bolted forward he fished frantically for them. Riders hadn’t figured on such a quick hit, but that’s the beauty of foxhunting: expect the unexpected.

Bunny brought six students today. Charlotte agreed when Bunny asked to go. They both thought keeping everyone in their routine, rewarding those who were making good grades and improving as riders, would be for the best; anything to dissipate the claustrophobia of nervousness.