Рита Браун - The Big Cat Nap

Fair picked up her faded, worn red ball cap, handing it to her. She clapped it back on her head. “I shouldn’t let it get to me. Guess I’m tired and maybe still upset over finding that body. Tara Meola’s funeral service got to me, too.”

“All of us. You never know.”

“No, you don’t.” She looked up at him, wondering what would happen if he died first.

For all their former troubles, Harry couldn’t imagine life without Fair. For one thing, he was much more attuned to emotions than she was. She blocked emotion, even while being aware that sooner or later those stashed-away pains and troubles would inevitably leak out.

“Sounds like he was impressed by your sunflowers and the ginseng.”

“It’s still early in the season, but so far so good, and I have laid them all out properly.”

“You’re good at what you do, honey.”

She smiled at him, loving the praise. “Here comes the good part. Hampton asked me about when and how I fertilize. I said I use turkey or chicken poop and I put it down usually in the fall. I always read The Farmer’s Almanac , though, and if they predict a drought for the fall, I wait until spring.”

“And?”

“You would have thought I said the earth was flat. The Farmer’s Almanac . He cited all the studies I should read, all the computer-generated statistics, and then—oh, this is what really fried my two remaining brain cells—he excoriated me for using chicken and turkey poop, because who knew what parasites might be thriving in the poop? I just about lost it.”

Fair breathed a mock sigh of relief. “But you didn’t, so he has his front teeth, thank goodness. You have a mean right cross, sugar.”

“I counted to ten. A few times. I replied that my father used natural fertilizer and it has always served us well. Actually, when I was little, Papaw used to get muck from the Chesapeake as well as crushed seashells. Can’t do that anymore, but each year Papaw and Dad would vary which field received what. Well, he didn’t want to hear any of that. He lectured me on the proper nitrogen, phosphorus, selenium, you name it, balance in soil, depending on crops, and why commercial fertilizers are better. Yes, and right now they are three hundred dollars per ton more than last year, too. So I just said I would continue to use natural fertilizer, which reduces my reliance on foreign oil.”

Fair clapped his thighs with his hands and laughed. “Good one.”

“Hey, it’s the truth. All that stuff has a lot of gunk in it, for lack of a better word. Given that Yancy is the type that uses curly lightbulbs and feels superior to the rest of us, he had to shut up. Ass.”

Fair laughed again, moved over to the tractor, and gave his wife a big hug and a kiss. “Have I told you today that I love you? I never quite know what you’re going to do and say, but I’m never bored.”

She kissed him back.

As this heated up, Mrs. Murphy leaned way over to try to snatch Harry’s ball cap off her head.

Pewter, whose bulk was an impediment, coached, “A little to the left. You got it.”

Mrs. Murphy hooked the cap, tossing it on the crusher run.

Harry didn’t notice.

The three friends observed the two oblivious humans.

“Aren’t they odd creatures?” Tucker commented.

“One minute she’s ready to kill Yancy Hampton, and the next she’s wildly in love with her husband. One extreme to the other.”

N ick Ash by lavished attention on his 2009 Subaru Impreza WRX STI. He figured for one-third the price, he got 70 percent of a Porsche’s performance. Since he was six feet two, the pocket rocket forced him to bend over just to get in. Fortunately, he carried no fat, or the steering wheel might have bisected his belly.

The amazing acceleration and fine suspension made up for a somewhat hard ride. Okay with Nick. He didn’t want a luxo-barge. His black coupe sped through the night, twisting up Route 22 near Cismont Manor. After work, he’d search out the best roads to push the car and himself, back roads like the old Route 635 in Nelson County or the old roads in Albemarle to Greenfield. He’d put the windows down just to listen to the engine, out of which he’d wrung more horsepower, thanks to his mechanical skills. The 305 horsepower off the lot had been bumped up another twenty horsepower and married to the six-speed manual transmission. Nick would wind that sucker up or down.

He needed all his skills at 9:30 P.M. on Wednesday, May 30. Behind him roared the new yellow Chevy Camaro with its big V8, sold at 426 horsepower, tweaked to 444. Nick knew the car and its driver well. Sweat rolled down his face. He could feel the heat of his body as he tried to tear away from the larger car. His one hope was that the STI proved more maneuverable; plus, the Camaro suffered from dreadful sight lines. He could hope the big car would spin off the road, but so far it had not. Chevy hit a home run with the Camaro if one loved muscle cars. Except for the sight lines, the damned thing was about perfect.

Muscle cars had made a spectacular comeback with the Dodge Charger, the ever-cool Ford Mustang, and the Camaro. Those Americans who loved cars loved powerful, quick cars, and no amount of gas prices could quite kill that love.

The STI hung a curve—no slide, no nasty feedback from the steering. Nick heard the Camaro break slightly, then the roar of the engine as the driver made up for the slight slowdown. That man, too, knew the capabilities of the STI. Much as the pursuer scoffed at anything manufactured by the Japanese, he appreciated what the machine could do.

Nick knew this part of the county well. There was a dirt road a quarter mile up ahead, just after a sharp right curve off a bit of a rise in the road. It was well hidden. If he could get on that, he could cut his lights and keep moving, as he had long ago disabled the computer chip that kept lights on at night whether you wanted them on or not. As the pursuing Camaro rode up the rise, its lights might just miss him. Nick floored it, flew over the rise—wheels off the ground—and came down with a thud, despite the good suspension. Cutting his lights, he turned a hard right. He peered into the darkness, slowed, then stopped to listen. He heard the huge engine in the Camaro whine by.

Putting his head on his sweat-soaked hands, he slumped back on the seat. He laughed a short dry laugh. If nothing else, that son of a bitch in the Camaro had learned Nick Ashby could drive with the best of them. Creep never would give him credit at the drag strip, either. He waited until he could no longer hear the rumble of the Camaro, cut on his motor, cut on the lights, and drove at forty miles an hour down the dirt road. It would get him out to Black Cat Road, where his new girlfriend, Hilary Larson, lived.

He crept out onto the tarmac of Black Cat Road, drove two miles, then turned left onto her dirt driveway. He’d been planning to stop by earlier, so once he hid his car behind her house, he explained that he’d run into some trouble. He didn’t tell her what trouble. And he apologized for tardiness, for parking behind the house.

A fright, a sporting event, anything that ramps up the adrenaline, also ramps up the sex drive. She forgave him, didn’t seem all that put out, and Nick had a great night. He’d worry about tomorrow tomorrow. He thought he’d be safe at work. Granted, Walt Richardson hadn’t been safe at work, but Nick figured Walt had just taken too big a bite out of the pie.

The next morning, Hilary made a quick breakfast, then left for work before Nick. She needed to get to the west side of Charlottesville.