Рита Браун - Full Cry

“It’s extremely important. It may be able to dramatically slow aging. I personally think it needs to come onto the market. We have done enough testing on the stuff. But it is abused by athletes because it will grow muscle and it is theoretically safer, in large doses, than steroids. Some people react to steroid abuse with rages, ’roid rage. Taking HGH doesn’t produce rages. It builds a stronger body, stronger ligaments, which are more important than bulk, as I said before. If abused, the taker will get a lantern jaw, larger hands and feet. You know the look.”

“I do. Acromegaly.”

“HGH is gold on the black market, pure gold.”

“If HGH and steroids create better bodies, what about plain old testosterone?”

“Up to a point, that will help. The body has its limits. You can go over the limit, but you aren’t going to get the kind of dramatic, rapid gain you’ll get with isolated steroids—think of them as turbo testosterone. And all this stuff affects one’s cholesterol levels and liver. There is no free ride.”

“These drugs are on the black market, I suppose, along with mood elevators and stuff like that?”

Again, he nodded. “The odd thing is, Sister, every single person is a different cocktail. Let’s throw out numbers: not real but as examples. Let’s say the so-called average woman pumps out ten cc’s of estrogen and one cc of testosterone. Okay? The so-called average male pumps out ten cc’s of testosterone and one cc of estrogen. If I pulled blood from every member of our hunt club, I probably wouldn’t find one person with an average ratio. Okay, that ratio is made up, but you know what I mean. We really don’t know nearly enough about the human body as an individual unit. You pick up the newspapers or listen to TV and hear the latest scientific study,” he paused, “be wary. You can’t make policy or prescriptions based on tests of even ten thousand people. Yet this is done regularly and on test groups of far fewer numbers. It’s insane. I’m a physician, and I’m telling you it’s utterly insane.”

“Why is it done?”

“Money. Mostly it’s the drug company’s hot desire for ever-escalating profits, but also it’s from public pressure. They want instant answers and easy answers. There is nothing easy about it. One tiny example, the human heart. It’s supposed to be here, right?” He tapped the left side of his chest. “Well, most of the time, it’s actually here.” He tapped just to the left of the breastplate. “Often it’s here.” He tapped his chest, dead center, a bit high. “And you’d be amazed how many times I find it over here.” He tapped the right side of his chest just off center line.

“Amazing.”

“Circadian rhythms. You’re a hunter. You know how important the diurnal rhythms are, the seasonal rhythms, even the phases of the moon. Right?”

“Right. I live by them.”

“Medicine reacts differently in the body according to the time when it is administered. But you’re instructed to take a pill in the morning or three times a day. The truth is, that might not be the optimum time to administer that drug, a drug, prescribed by your physician, that you’ve just spent hard-earned money buying from your pharmacist. And we sure don’t know enough to make the kind of outrageous pronouncements and promises you see every day in advertisements.”

“Now, would you like to know why I’ve asked you these questions, which have nothing to do with horses, hounds, or the weather for Tuesday’s hunt?”

“I would.” He smiled.

“A stray fact wandered in through someone Sam Lorillard knows, one of the alcoholics who hangs around the station. Ben Sidell told me this. When Mitch and Anthony picked up odd jobs delivering furniture for Berry Storage, Donnie Sweigert always drove the truck. Nothing too strange about that, but what is interesting is that those men only made deliveries to coaches or trainers.”

“Ah.” He held his breath for a moment. “You’re thinking this has to do with performance-enhancing drugs, maybe even recreational drugs. Have you said anything to Ben?”

“He’s smart. I expect he’s there ahead of me.”

“It’s deeply disturbing. Not only are three people dead, but other lives are being ruined. The chances of a high school athlete and then a college athlete making it to the pros are tiny, infinitesimal. But every kid thinks he can do it. Even more damaging, less than twenty-five percent of black male basketball players at Division 1A schools graduate. Graduate!” He exhaled loudly, which made Tonto stand up on his hind paws to make sure Walter was okay. “Here, bud.” Walter gave him a small piece of pumpernickel. “I guess every one of us needs a dream. I don’t mean to sound negative, but more than a dream, they need a degree.”

“Not negative, just realistic. I probably have this fact wrong, but I remember reading somewhere that of all the college male basketball players, less than three percent will make it to the pros, and out of that percentage, most will wash out in five years.”

“Sounds close enough to me.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to say anything. That would be stupid, kind of showing my hand too early. This is inside our tent, I think. The finger points at Clay Berry or Xavier. Possibly Sam, because of his connection to the railroad station gang. From time to time Sam would help deliver furniture. I guess those who had any muscle power left took a job with Berry Storage from time to time. Makes me sick to think of it. I’ve racked my brain to see if anyone else could be doing this, using the Berry Storage as a distribution point. When you think about it, it’s pretty smart. Furniture with drugs hidden inside.”

His voice remained even, then rose. “Hard to think of Clay or X being involved in drug sales.”

“Yes. Well, I don’t know anything, but I have this instinct, like when I know where my fox is.”

“Your instincts have kept us all going.”

“And now I know something else.”

“What?”

“Professional athletes are on everything but roller skates.”

CHAPTER 35

Each time he blew the horn, Shaker’s ribs hurt, taped though they were. Yesterday’s rare day of sunshine was followed by more gray clouds this Tuesday.

In the far distance, the grand estate of Rattle and Snap, a Georgian pile, red brick with massive white Doric pillars, reposed on a hill overlooking its snow-filled acres. While it was exquisitely beautiful, everyone who bought it lost pots of money, eventually leaving it to the next rich outsider.

Sister, back leading the field, wondered if places didn’t have good spirits or bad spirits. Maybe the Chinese were correct in lining up their buildings and doorways according to their ideas of energy. Feng shui made as much sense as any other system for attracting luck.

The hunt club enjoyed a bit of luck as Alexander Vajay, owner of Chapel Cross, purchased a lottery ticket, one of the scratch kind, and won a thousand dollars. He happily gave half to the hunt club before the hounds took off this frosty morning.

Alexander, with his dark Indian skin, white teeth, and expressive eyes, delighted Sister and the members. He and his family had been members for only a year, but their exuberance, matched by their warmth and sophistication, had made the family quite popular.

Tuesday’s field consisted of twelve people: Tedi, Edward, Sam, Gray, Crawford, Marty, Alexander, Xavier, Clay, Ronnie, Jennifer, and Sari. The girls lucked out with a snow day. Two flakes of snow make principals shaky, the result being kids make up snow days well into May and sometimes June. It was one way to learn that one pays for one’s pleasures, but Sister always thought if a child had mastered the work, let him or her go.