Рита Браун - Hiss Of Death

“You can’t give a damn about Thadia.”

“I didn’t like her, but I would hardly wish her throat slit.”

“Harry, she was a complete fool. One of those subjective people who sees everything through their emotional needs. An idiot. People ruled by their emotions always are.”

“That’s cruel.”

“Life is cruel. Consider how people who impede progress are removed. The natives who lived here got in our way. We killed them. Now, a century and more from that time, the dominant party, you and I, feel guilty about it. If we were alive in 1835, we’d feel differently. You can only go forward if you remove whatever obstacles are in the way of progress, be they obstacles of time and travel, geography, or people. Unfortunately, Paula, Thadia, and Cory became obstacles.”

“I don’t feel that way. How did you trap Thadia?”

“She called and said she’d tell people about my affair with Cory if I didn’t end it. I told her we should talk about it somewhere quiet and safe. Like I said, the woman was an idiot. I put a wrapped box of OxyContin in the car, thought it might send law enforcement in the wrong direction, but it was never mentioned in the papers.” Annalise took a deep breath. “I feel a little guilty about killing Paula. I really wish Paula and Cory hadn’t presented problems.”

“I don’t need to know about Cory. I know how you did it, and now I know why. Annalise, you’ll be here for maybe an hour or more, and I’m not going to move you.”

“My spinal cord is snapped. I’m a doctor, I know my back is broken and I can’t move my legs. End of story.”

“Well, I can’t drag you, so you’ll have to lie there.”

As Harry turned to go, Annalise propped herself up on one elbow. “Harry!”

“Yes.” She turned, as did her animals.

“I didn’t underestimate you. Your mind moves very fast, and like I said, you trust your instincts.”

“An—” Harry didn’t know what to say.

“And you’ll beat the cancer. You will.” She stayed propped up as she watched Harry recede.

• • •

When Coop, Rick, and Harry arrived at the scene, horses still grazing in the next meadow, Annalise was dead. She’d gotten her pocketknife, a three-and-a-half-inch sharp blade, out of her jeans and tore her throat. Given the state of her right hand, it was not a clean slice, and it must have taken her time.

“Jesus.” Coop looked at the blood. “The willpower.”

“The delusion,” Harry sadly noted.

F unny how things work out.” Harry sat under the walnut tree outside the house, the sun setting.

Fair, enjoying the Sunday evening, nodded. “Yes, it is. When Nita and Al won the BMW at the five-K ball, it seemed a kind of recompense.” He turned to her. “You had your last treatment. My wife is her healthy, beautiful self.”

Harry beamed. “You are such a flatterer.” Then she hastily added, “Don’t let me stop you.”

He rose from his chair, bent over, and kissed her. “Beautiful.”

“Fair, I’ve had a lot of time to think. You and I endured a rough patch way back in what I think of as our time of troubles, but we ironed it out. I don’t think I would have gotten through all this as well as I have without you.”

“Hey, what about me!” Pewter, sprawled on another outdoor chair, piped up.

“Magic powers,” Tucker, under the chair, teased her.

“It’s been a wild ride.” Harry held Fair’s hand as he perched on the wide arm of the wooden chair. “And, you know, the biggest shock was Annalise. I still can’t believe she did what she did.”

“Me neither, but since B.C. people have justified killing in the millions by saying it’s for the greater common good. The millions doing the killing believe it, but the dead always remain dead. I swear the spirits return for vengeance. It may take centuries, but more misery is created.”

“Justice,” Harry simply replied.

“Revenge.”

She looked up at her husband. “Revenge. Justice. It’s the same to me, anyway.”

He smiled. “Many would argue differently, but I’m with you. The same. What we call justice is dressed-up revenge, and it’s necessary. You can’t have a society where wrongdoing isn’t punished.” He took a deep breath, beheld the mountains, then leaned over to kiss her again. “I thank God you’re alive.”

“We saved her.” Pewter puffed up.

“Shortro and Tomahawk had a lot to do with it.” Tucker watched the two buddies out in their paddock.

“They sure did,” Mrs. Murphy, in another chair, agreed.

“I think it’s fine that Fair thanks the Almighty” —Pewter paused, then a beatific expression passed over her gray face— “but he should remember that in ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped. Really, I think the practice should be reintroduced, along with daily heapings of catnip.”

Quick on the draw, Mrs. Murphy said, “Means you have to have your ears pierced and wear earrings.”

“No way!” Pewter’s ears swept back.

“She’s right, Pewts. All the statues and mummies wear gold earrings. My, you’d look so-o-o fetching.” Tucker laughed.

Rising, Pewter peered over the seat of the chair. “Name one place where dogs were worshipped.”

“None. We won’t wear earrings.”

Pewter’s pupils enlarged as she puffed up even more.

Mrs. Murphy counseled, “Pewter, will you calm down.”

“Well, we were worshipped. Who will worship this worthless, fat dog?”

“And how shall I address you? Your Eminence? Mother Pewter? I know, the Great Puss Bottom,” Tucker sassed.

Off the chair, Pewter hit the dog with her considerable weight. The two rolled over each other. Wrenching free of Pewter’s claws, Tucker took off like a shot, Pewter in hot pursuit. The corgi dodged, feinted, keeping Pewter running.

Mrs. Murphy joined in. Pewter made a big show of her anger, but by now it was all pure fun.

Shortro and Tomahawk watched the two cats and dog. So they chased each other.

Fair and Harry laughed, then Fair said, “I’ll give you a head start. Bet I can catch you.”

“Ha.” Harry bolted out of the chair.

Everybody was chasing everybody else.

Life is good.

Afterword

Like you, reader, I have lost friends to cancer. We all have, and in the last year it seems, in my life, these numbers are increasing, particularly among young people.

Cancer is also cropping up in horses and hounds, and I have lost some animals to this horrible disease, in all its guises.

Is there more of it, or are we better at identifying it, or both? You can be the judge.

Given that medical terminology is cumbersome, I kept things as clear as possible while being as accurate as possible. The various forms of cancer treatment change rapidly. The treatment Harry undergoes in this book is different from that endured by one of my friends, who suffered breast cancer six years ago.

By the time you read this mystery, some of the information may be outdated or superseded.

As this mystery involves cancer, more than usual we feel the presence of the Angel of Death. There is a one hundred percent chance that I will perish, and so will you. Let me pass on the wisdom of my late mother, Julia Ellen Buckingham Brown:

“You’re going to be dead a long time. Do it now.”

She never identified what “it” is, leaving that up to me, as I leave it up to you.