Рита Браун - Whisker Of Evil

“If you haven’t heard of anything, then we’re all right. Now, you’re eating the kibble Harry puts out from time to time?”

Harry, as a dutiful hunt-club member, once a month put out kibble with wormer dripped over it. This knocked the parasite load right out of the foxes. She also would trap the cubs just before the fall and take them to Dr. Shulman for their first rabies shot. Getting the booster into them three years later was a lot harder.

News of an oral rabies vaccine, used extensively in France, had Harry and other foxhunters hopeful it would soon be allowed here in the States. Feeding foxes their vaccine would be much easier then.

“Yes. I’m grateful. Why do you ask about rabies?”

“Two humans have had it. Both dead, although one was killed outright. They discovered the rabies later, after the autopsy.”

“Two humans. That’s very strange.”

“What about the raccoons or the beaver? You all talk.”

“Everyone here is fine.” She looked lovingly at her litter. “They’re too young for their distemper shots or their rabies. Early fall.” She let out a long sigh. “Means I’ll have to get in the cage. They’ll come in it if I do, but, oh, Mrs. Murphy, those cages scare me.”

“ I know. They scare me, too, but a little fear is better than a lot of rabies,” the cat sensibly said.

“I know.”

“Foxes have long memories. Ask some of the old ones if their grandmothers or great-grandfathers ever spoke of Mary Patricia Reines.”

“She was buried up in the high pastures behind St. James under the stone wall. That’s the story I always heard. But whoever dragged her up there didn’t do a good job. That’s how come her arm was dug out. That’s what I was told by my grandfather.”

“Why didn’t anyone see the killer?”

“Grandpa said it was a wicked rainy night. No one with any sense was out. And that was one of the reasons the human got away with it. Not only were no other humans out, the pouring rains washed out all his tracks. You’d be surprised how many human remains we’ve found over time, all the way back to murders from the colonial era. One of those men is under the Clam parking lot down at UVA. That’s what my grandfather told me. Someone killed back in 1781. But these things are always troublesome when they come to light. Best to keep silent.”

“Did your grandfather say anything about a horse? Ziggy Flame, Mary Pat’s great stallion, disappeared when she did.”

“Ziggy was in the high pastures. He lived.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Murphy tilted her head to look directly down at one of the cubs, who shrank closer to his mother.

“Is Harry off on one of her toots?” The fox knew Harry could get obsessed.

“Yes.” Mrs. Murphy nodded. “She has more curiosity than I do.”

At that they both laughed, then Mrs. Murphy headed back toward the house. She was disturbed by the thought that some of Mary Pat’s bones had been scattered over time. A crow or some small predator must have taken the hand or a finger and dropped it near or in Potlicker Creek, and year after year the ring, finally off the bone, must have inched its way down to where Harry found it. Unless Barry had it. Dropped it. That was equally disquieting.

Being a feline, her senses were much sharper than Harry’s, although Mrs. Murphy knew Harry possessed remarkable hearing for a human and was able to hear into some of the cat range. She also possessed a decent nose. But what Harry could never possess was that extrasensory perception that even the lowliest feline had. And that sixth sense was warning Mrs. Murphy that danger was coming closer, closer in a fashion that not even she could suspect.

A startling swoosh overhead sent her crouching, eyes upward.

“Hoo, hoo, HA!” The great owl laughed as she landed.

“Flatface.” Mrs. Murphy breathed a sigh of relief.

Flatface lived in the cupola in Harry’s barn. She wasn’t especially social, but she was more social than the giant black snake who lived up there and had recently taken to interrupting her hunting circle to steal some of Simon’s treasures. Simon had saved a perfect little robin’s egg, which the black snake took right off his special towel.

But Flatface, like Mrs. Murphy and the vixen, was a predator. It was easy for predators to talk to one another honestly.

They discussed Barry Monteith and Sugar Thierry both having rabies.

“Something over there,” Flatface said. “And if it’s over there it may well spread throughout the county.”

“That’s just it. I asked the red vixen if there were any reports among the foxes. She said no, and same for the raccoons and beaver.”

“What about the skunks?”

“It’s difficult to ask them.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

“I’ll perch in a tree and ask next time I see one.” Flatface, true to the myths, was very wise. “And Sugar had no memory of being bitten?”

“No.”

“The silver-haired bat can bite you and you’d never know it.”

“Fair, Paul, and Tavener helped at St. James when the health department went into the cottages, barns, and outbuildings to look for bats and catch them to test them, but I heard—and this is really strange—there were none.”

Flatface turned her head almost upside down, then right side up. “Ah, that gets the kinks out.”

“There are all those caves in the Shenandoah Valley. I mean not just the Luray Caverns but caves all over. Just right up over these mountains. I know they’re full of bats. If you have any friends over there, maybe they could ask the bats if they know about rabies among them.”

“No owl will go into those caves. Fetid. Why humans do it is beyond me. The air’s not fit to breathe.”

“I thought some of them had fresh air piped in.”

“Mrs. Murphy, never breathe where there are bat rookeries. This is something every owl learns as an owlet. I pass it on to you.” Flatface walked along with Mrs. Murphy for a few paces, her side-to-side rolling gait amusing to the cat, who nonetheless respected how fear-inducing Flatface was in her natural element, the air.

The cat told her about Mary Pat’s remains.

“Ah, well, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. That was a long time ago. Before my time or yours.” Flatface lifted her head, opening her beak. “Storm. Be here within the hour.”

No sooner had she spoken than a light breeze tumbled down the mountains, ruffling Flatface’s feathers and lifting up Mrs. Murphy’s fur.

“If you do hear anything, tell me.” The tiger cat watched as the owl stood to her full height, opening her wings.

Just as Flatface lifted up, she said, “I will. Now, see if you can’t keep Harry from playing detective.”

“I’d be a miracle worker,” Mrs. Murphy called up.

“Hoo, hoo, HA.”

26

E motions are messengers.” Carmen, her own nails buffed to a high luster, filed down BoomBoom’s. “And I realized that the anger I felt was just covering up the sorrow and the loss. Which meant I had a lot of love, and I can love. I just have to get through this.”

“What are you going to do?” BoomBoom leaned back in the comfortable chair, the light jazz music in the background competing with hair dryers and conversation.