Рита Браун - Full Cry

“I know exactly what you mean. And I want you for you. Of course, I also want torrential sex.”

“Oh that.” She sighed, a mock suffering sigh. “A sacrifice, but someone’s got to do it.” She waited a moment, took a deep breath. “I have felt both Big Ray and Little Ray. When my son was killed, I felt him strongly for months. I don’t know, could have been some kind of wish fulfillment, a way to fight the pain. But even now, there are moments, Gray, when I feel his kindness. I feel him smiling at me. I feel Mother, too. Less so Big Ray, but every now and then, usually in the hunt field, he’ll be near. I often feel Archie, my anchor hound. I know animals possess spirits. Archie is with me. And I can’t tell you how loving the sensations are, how restorative, and, well, I don’t know, I feel a blessing on me, a benediction.”

“Good.”

“You?”

He nodded. “My grandmother. Warmth, love, understanding, the same feelings you’re expressing. You can’t go about talking about this kind of thing, especially if you’re a man. Men aren’t supposed to sense ghosts, if you will, or spirits of love. But Janie, they are with us. And who is to say there aren’t loving spirits with us whom we didn’t know in this life but who have taken an interest in us, or whom we knew from another life? I rather believe that, past lives, I mean. I’m certain you were a queen.”

“Go on!”

“A king?” He shrugged.

“One’s as bad as the other.” She laughed. “If there are kind spirits, there are also evil spirits.”

“Like up at Hangman’s Ridge?”

“Yes. I don’t know if they’re evil or suffering.”

“Both. Lawrence Pollard, the first man hanged there, wasn’t evil, just greedy. It was 1702, wasn’t it? But some of the others, probably psychopaths, are evil. Or maybe some just broke bad, like Fontaine Buruss broke bad.” He named a hunt club member, now deceased, the former husband of Sorrel Buruss.

Fontaine, handsome, charming, devolved into sexual self-indulgence, seducing women he should have left well alone because of their youth. He paid for it with his life.

“Fontaine, what a son of a bitch, but a fun son of a bitch. I actually miss him.” She smiled. “He crumbled in middle age. I swear, what in hell are people afraid of? We are all going to get old. We are all going to die. So why does a man in his forties want to be attractive to twenty-year-old women. The women aren’t any better. They go about it differently, that’s all. You get old, period. In fact, Gray, I love being older.”

“You’re not old. You’re healthy. You’re beautiful.”

“Oh Gray.”

“You will always be beautiful. And sure, if a gorgeous twenty-year-old woman walked into a room, every man’s eyes would go to her, mine included. Do I want to sleep with her? No, I already have two children. I want a woman who can keep up with me, forgive the arrogance.”

“Me, too.”

“You want a woman who can keep up with you?”

“Haven’t tried that. Another life, perhaps. For this one, I’ll stick to men.”

“I’m so glad.” He kissed her again.

“Gray.”

“Hmm.”

“I think I know who the killer is, might be two, not one. Might even be three or four, but I know the locus of greed. I just don’t know how to root it out.”

“Logic or instinct?”

“Both. I’ve used both. I don’t have proof, but you asked me if I felt my son. What is that? An openness, clear channels? Whatever it is, it leads me to my best hounds, my best horses, and I usually know where my fox is laying up. A kind of sixth sense. I’m not eschewing logic. Logic, too, brings us to Clay, Isabelle, if she’s in on it, X, possibly, and possibly Dalton Hill.”

He sat up straighter. “Clay makes sense because of the warehouse. Isabelle, well, hard to say. Why Xavier and Dalton, unless you think this is an insurance fraud?”

“No. I think this is about illegal drugs such as steroids, HGH, OxyContin, stuff like that. Dalton has the knowledge, he can get that stuff readily.”

“Then Xavier would look better.” Gray half laughed.

“I don’t know, but I am ninety-nine percent sure I’m on the right track. If only I could figure out a way to flush them out, get them in open territory.”

“Jane,” he said sternly, “this isn’t a foxhunt. This is murder.”

CHAPTER 39

February, although two steps closer to spring than December, feels far away from that first bright crocus. Usually the coldest month of the year in central Virginia, February dragged some folks down into a bad case of the blues. Fortunately, foxhunters usually escaped this dive in emotional fortunes because hunting reached its apogee. Only the toughest hunted, the others having retired to their fireplaces or even to Florida until spring. The foxes gave delicious sport. By now the pack worked like a well-oiled machine; the young entry were part of the pack, bringing vigor and curiosity to the hunt. The horses, hunting fit, were keen. The humans, if they hadn’t eaten themselves insensate over the holidays, were also lean and mean. Truly, February was perfect.

Sister loved whatever day she was in: cold, hot, cloudy, sunny, rainy, dry, she didn’t care. She was alive, healthy, and doing what she loved. This particular day, February 6, she fought off the sadness of Ray Jr.’s birth by remembering her labor. Doctors tell you, as do psychologists, that you won’t recall physical pain. Clearly, they had never given birth. To this day, she could remember the contractions. For a brief period there, she would gladly have killed Big Ray for getting this upon her. Then Ray Jr. made his appearance after eight hours of nausea, heaving, and pushing. Red, wet, wrinkled, he was a shock until she held him in her arms. Mother love is the most powerful, the most irrational force on earth, even more powerful than sexual love. However, one does lead to the other, so best not to spurn the former.

She had had fourteen years with a boy of uncommon good humor and generosity. Little Ray loved animals, loved sleeping with kitties, loved falling down in the kennels as the hounds swarmed over him, licking him. He gurgled to the horses even when he was in his mother’s arms. He kissed their soft noses and laughed if they blew air out of their nostrils. He held her hand when they walked, even into his fourteenth year. He kissed his father without embarrassment. He hugged his friends, boys and girls, without thinking twice about it. His path was physical, touching, connecting through flesh. He showed his love by touching your arm, smoothing a hound’s head, patting a horse’s hindquarters. Like all happy people, Little Ray was a magnet to others, as well as animals.

She loved him even when he committed the childhood sins we all commit—telling that first lie, stealing a candy bar from Roger’s Corner, doing someone else’s homework. Ray always polished off his homework in record time. When he erred, she’d discipline him, and Big Ray would back her up. Then, when the first flush of puberty showed on her son’s cheeks, father and son drew much closer. The minutiae of masculinity is best taught by a loving father, which Big Ray was.

He showed his son the difference between a regular tie knot and a Prince of Wales. He instructed his son in the duties and courtesies due women. Given that they lived in central Virginia, of course, this process had really begun when the boy was a toddler. Southern men, especially Virginians, adhere to a strict code concerning the ladies. Doesn’t mean they can’t keep a harem busy, but the proper tokens and forms must be observed.

Both parents worried about sex. Young Ray hadn’t quite gotten to that yet; his voice was only beginning to crack when he was killed. But she and her husband wondered what would happen because he was so affectionate and loving. They worried that he’d be misunderstood, and they worried that he wouldn’t understand himself. Learning about sex, love, lust, and friendship with the opposite sex takes restraint, compassion, and a wealth of common sense. There’s not one of us who doesn’t learn a few of those lessons the hard way. They prayed the hard way wouldn’t mean a baby born out of wedlock.