Рита Браун - The Hunt Ball

“Let me understand, a human being can kill millions of other human beings if it’s called war and that’s okay. But a human being can’t eat another human being?” Georgia paused. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“No one ever suggested it did. But that’s humans for you,” Diana said. “There was a dead human under St. John’s of the Cross, but we couldn’t pull it out. Now, that is kind of unusual. Even if they kill, and kill in numbers, they do their best to bury or burn.”

“Couldn’t a human have crawled under there to die?” Georgia already knew how some animals chose to die.

“They don’t die like that. They flop down and croak.” Cora giggled. “I mean they just flop around like a chicken. It’s because they don’t listen to their bodies so they don’t know when they’re going to die. They deny it and then they just die in front of everyone unless they’re in a hospital or something. We’ve been talking, those of us who hunted that day, about the body at St. John’s. We didn’t see it. Smelled it. The humans couldn’t.”

“Is it a bad thing?” Georgia asked.

“It is,” and Diana fretted over this. “And Target has a ring. We’re pretty sure it came from that body because he said it was on a finger. He doesn’t have the finger anymore. He’s been bragging to everyone about the ring. He hoards stuff.”

“He even has a Day-Glo Frisbee.” Inky laughed.

“Charlene made him find his own den.” Cora mentioned Target’s mate. “She said she couldn’t stand the clutter. He won’t give up anything.”

“Are all dog foxes like that?” Georgia really was a youngster.

“We’ll talk about males some other time,” Inky replied as Cora and Diana laughed.

“I heard that,” Ardent called from the boys’ run, which made them all laugh more.

C H A P T E R 2 8

All living things, plants and animals, have optimum living conditions. Even plants have patterns; in their case it’s when they pollinate, bloom, and bear fruit. For the higher vertebrates the patterns center on food, shelter, mating, and rearing the young.

Sister rested her hands on Keepsake’s withers. Her white string gloves warded off the cold. The snow rested in crevices of rocks, down in the crease of ravines, and on the north side of those hills that received little sun because of the winter angle of the sun. Winds had blown off some of the snow; bald patches of ground dotted the meadows.

The sky, crystal clear, brilliant blue, heralded one of those high-pressure systems that delight the eye but make scenting difficult.

Knowing her quarry, Sister searched for evidence of last night’s hunting, a tuft of feathers here, a hank of cottontail fur, sweet little berries, dried now, nibbled off lower branches of bushes and scrubs. If hunting had been spectacularly good, whole pieces of the kill would be strewn around as the fox ate the best parts and took other delicacies home to stash. Foxes, like humans, believed in bank accounts.

She caught her breath, for they’d had a fifteen-minute burst at top speed and they were lucky to have it considering the day. The hounds threw up, which is to say they lost the line, and Diana as well as Shaker were trying to figure out if they overran the line or simply zigged when they should have zagged.

When a high-pressure system is in place, the air is dry, almost light. Sound carries true to origin whereas in heavy moisture the ear can be fooled by the horn, the cry, or even the chatter of birds. It sounds as though it’s coming from one direction, but in fact it’s coming from another. Even on a high-pressure day, sound ricochets off mountains, hillocks.

Sister was a good field master. She kept the huntsman and the hounds in sight most times. Sometimes, though, she couldn’t. St. Hubert himself would fall behind. On those days, she used her ears and her knowledge of quarry.

She knew the fox was close by. She also knew the luxurious trail of scent wouldn’t hold on this bright meadow, which was the very reason the fox bolted from the covert only to cross the meadow. Sybil gave out a “Tally ho,” but by the time hounds were set on the line, the saucy red devil scurried a healthy seven minutes ahead of the hounds.

Sister thought of the meeting the previous night with Charlotte and Ben, who joined them later. She was especially glad that Gray was with her as he possessed a logical mind.

Ben suggested the meeting. Since Sister and Gray had discovered the body, there was no point in pretending to them that it wasn’t Professor Kennedy. While they couldn’t identify the body given the leaves and such covering it, they could see enough to know the corpse was slight, perhaps female.

She knew that Ben, waiting for conclusive lab evidence in making an I.D. before relating more information, was trying to figure out the pattern of his quarry.

Charlotte, on the other hand, wanted to see if there was a connection between Al Perez and Professor Kennedy. She couldn’t find one. They may not have known each other, but she believed the second death was related to the first.

Gray took in all the conversation, then laid out what they knew and what they didn’t know like the excellent tax lawyer he was. Trained to look for loopholes, he found an oddity, perhaps not a loophole. The first death had been staged. The second death had been hidden.

They batted around the possible meanings of that but could go no further than the seemingly obvious, which was the first death was a gaudy warning before an entire audience. The second removed a person who somehow got in the way.

Gray suggested there could be more than one type of irregularity. The artifacts could house illegal drugs, or pharmaceutical drugs from Canada here to be resold at cheaper prices than American prices. Smuggled diamonds might be on certain clothes or items like sword hilts without arousing suspicion. Hide it out in the open.

Ben wanted to keep the artifacts intact. He didn’t want to go through them just yet. He asked Charlotte to check each night, then each morning, to see if anything had been disturbed.

“We’re in a waiting game” was all he said.

It gave them all a lot to think about.

Diana loped on a diagonal and the pack fanned out. Shaker liked for them to cast themselves. This nurtured their self-confidence. Not all huntsmen do that. Some direct their hounds, lifting them, setting them down in another covert, directing their every move. This was a matter of personality as well as the type of hound.

Both Sister and Shaker believed the American hound would figure it out faster without their interference.

As she watched her hounds work, she remembered it was December 8, one of the principal feast days of the Blessed Virgin Mother. Today was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary in the womb of her mother, St. Anne. She mused about these immaculate conceptions, a bizarre twist in a patriarchal religion. She thought it an odd manifestation of male self-hate as well as a perverse nod to female power, to the remnants of matriarchy that even a religion as violently antiwoman as Islam can’t quite eradicate.

Sister did not think of herself as a religious woman, although she attended the Episcopal church. Her deepest belief was that religion is in the service of political power. Spirituality is not. She couldn’t imagine foxes dying for their version of God or blowing themselves up among the Infidel, believing they would immediately ascend to paradise and be rewarded with forty fat chickens.

The longer she lived, the more she pitied the human animal and admired the fox.

These ruminations evaporated as Diana, with an assist from the steady Asa, found the line again. Barely perceptible it was, but as the two determined hounds trotted across the meadow, down the hillside, frost visible on the bare patches, the aroma of fox intensified. They opened, the others honored, and off they ran.