Fox Tracks (17 page)

“These days everything seems upside down,” Betty said, voice rising. “People say they believe in the sanctity of life, then blow up an abortion clinic killing everyone in it. Other people say there’s only one God, theirs, and they fly airplanes into buildings. I understand hate, I truly do. What I don’t understand is double-think.”

“Me neither, but why assume that humans are rational?” said Sister. “I’ve done enough stupid things in my life to make me realize we can all be irrational. Mix in politics, power, profit, sex, or religion and the insanity goes global, doesn’t it?”

“Sure seems to. Well, this is a happy Sunday conversation.”

Sister laughed. “Sometimes you just have to get it off your
chest. Then I think of our friends, those in the hunt club, those in church, those at Custis Hall. We know so many people and most of them are straight up. So if we have good people here, there have to be good people everywhere.”

“You’re right.”

After ending the call, Sister returned to the kitchen table. Sitting down, she tried to concentrate. From down the hall, she could hear Tootie’s voice while she spoke on the phone, louder than usual. Sister drummed the tabletop with her fingers.

“That is most irritating,”
Golly said. Clamor of this sort really got on the cat’s nerves.

“You’re such a priss.”
Raleigh walked over to the sink and stood on his hind legs to reach Golly on her windowsill perch.

She exposed one sharp claw.
“Don’t you dare come closer.”

The Doberman didn’t, but he opened his jaws as though to clamp down on the cat.
“You’d be so tasty.”

Furious hissing drew Sister’s attention from the paper. “Raleigh, leave her alone.”

The dog dropped back to all fours, returning to his master.
“You always take her part.”

On her feet again, Sister walked to the phone. Even though the phone was close by, Golly ignored her. The cat licked her paw as though she hadn’t a care in the world, and pretty much she didn’t.

Pulling up a chair by the counter, Sister sat down after she dialed. “Ben, it’s the old lady.”

“Sister, good hunt yesterday, despite all.”

“Yes, hounds did well. The youngsters are stepping up to the plate. You can cuss me for this, but my nosiness got the better of me. Who identified Carter Weems?”

“Art DuCharme.”

“Funny, because Gray and I were talking last night, late, trying
to figure out who it might be. Gray told me about the jacket and I remembered, sort of, a fellow who sometimes helped Art haul stuff. Couldn’t think of his name, plus that fellow can’t be the only person in the area to wear one of those jackets. They’re just about indestructible.”

“They are, but the body wasn’t. One of the men who helped extract the body from under the deer recalled the man. I got hold of Art and he came right down to the morgue.”

“I don’t wish that job on anybody. Identifying remains.”

“Poor Art passed out. When we revived him, he said it was Carter Weems. He’d wondered where he’d gone, but Carter was a drifter. Only worked when he had to. Art said he never suspected anything like this might have befallen him. Those were his words, befallen.”

Art passed out because Carter was a grisly sight. Sister wondered whether Art also feared what might befall him.

T
he day’s hard hunting outside in the cold finally caught up with Sister. She leaned back in the kitchen chair to stretch out her legs.

Golly sprawled out on Lafayette’s equine gel pad, heard joints pop.
“Getting old,”
she said, reveling in the cozy spot.

Raleigh remarked, “
You’re no spring chicken
.”

“I’m no chicken.”

“A birdbrain, then?”
Rooster laid his head on his paws.

“I’d have a battle of wits with you, but you’re unarmed.”
Golly shifted on the gel pad.

“There’s an awful lot of noise in here,” Sister said to the three animals, then added, “and not much in the den.”

She rose, stretching her arms over her head before walking down the hall to the den. The dogs followed. Golly remained on the gel pad for it was comfortable, so comfortable that Sister, grumbling, let her have it. She’d buy another for Lafayette.

“Well?” Sister inquired of Tootie, who sat on the cushioned sofa, deep in thought.

“You know what he said? ‘You made your bed, you lie in it.’ Then he handed the phone to Mom. She recited all the reasons why it’s a bad idea, but she knew my mind was made up. It could have been worse.” Tootie looked from the fire to the deep darkness outside the window. “I’m not doing this to disappoint them. If I don’t follow my heart I’ll make a bigger mess later. Haven’t you ever noticed that the people who don’t do what they should—you know, don’t find the right work or follow their dreams—turn on themselves eventually or turn on everybody else?”

“Or both.” Sister sat next to her on the sofa. “You’re right, Tootie. It really could have been worse.”

“The first thing I’m going to do when I get back to Princeton is try to get Dad as much of his money back for this semester as possible.” A long pause followed. “That’s all he cares about.”

“Honey, that’s not true,” Sister said, taking the distraught Tootie’s hand. “Really. He loves you. He wants what’s best for you. He can’t see beyond what he believes is right. So everything comes out sounding like a financial transaction. You might say it’s your father’s metaphor for life.”

Turning her beautiful face to Sister, she said, “Well, he is right about one thing: I’m going to find out the value of money. Felicity sure has, but she has that kind of brain. You know she invested our kitty at Custis Hall? I don’t think like that, but I can pay bills. I can check my balance online. Like I said, I’ll learn.”

When Tootie, Val, and Felicity were students at Custis Hall, their senior year, each time one of the girls swore she had to put a dollar in the kitty. By graduation time, the sum neared one thousand dollars. Instead of having a party, the girls voted to let Felicity
invest it. She had, and even in these hard times, she was making about fifteen percent on their investment.

“You’ll figure it all out,” said Sister. “In time, your father will see that you made the right decision.”

“I don’t know.” She paused. “Felicity should have been his daughter.”

“She’s had her own troubles with her parents,” Sister reminded Tootie.

“Getting pregnant before graduation—yeah, guess she did. The funny thing is, I think Mom and Dad would have handled that better than this. I’m in my freshman year, already Mom keeps talking about a suitable boy, graduation. I can’t think about that stuff.”

“I didn’t either until I met Ray. Once married I thought, well, an unmarried woman is incomplete. When she’s married, she’s finished.” She laughed.

Tootie laughed, too. “But you always knew what you wanted to do, didn’t you?”

“Not as clearly as you do. I loved geology, loved teaching, but when RayRay was born, I loved being a mother. Beyond that, I didn’t have much direction in life.”

“Hunting.”

Pondering this, Sister finally answered, “Now I see that hunting provided the framework of my life, but I wouldn’t say it gave me direction. I’m not complaining. It’s all worked out and it will work out for you, especially if you don’t make a big drama out of it.”

“Do you think I am?” Tootie worried.

“No. I think you’re remarkably self-possessed. I know you’re strong under pressure, I’ve seen you in the hunt field. And in New York, you handled finding a murdered man. But that’s not quite the same as something inside the family or with romance. A lot of people, young or old, blow everything out of proportion, making matters ten times worse.”

“No time to be dramatic,” Tootie said, nodding. “Val’s dramatic enough for both of us.” She laughed a little.

“Yes, well, if she wants that political career she keeps talking about, she’d better learn to squelch that. What time do you want to leave in the morning?”

“I don’t have a class until the late afternoon so I thought seven.”

“All right then. I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Sister, you don’t have to do that. You’re doing so much for me.”

“I have to eat, too. Oh, before I forget, the body found during the hunt has been identified. Carter Weems. A drifter from North Carolina who picked up odd jobs, mostly hauling.”

“I’m glad I didn’t see that.”

“Me, too,” Sister agreed. “It has to be murder. Human bodies don’t wind up under deer. No word from the authorities about how he was killed, or they aren’t saying. Actually, I think Ben would tell me.”

“Sometimes I think about dying,” Tootie said, then quickly reassured the older woman: “Not doing it to myself, don’t you worry. I’m just glad I don’t know when I’m going to die. Would you want to know?”

“Takes the fun out of it.”

“Death?” Tootie was incredulous.

“No, it takes the mystery out of life. It is possible to know too much,” stated Sister. “Most of it doesn’t matter anyway. I think of that line in Ecclesiastes, ‘all is vanity.’ Still, finding a body in my hunt territory makes me want to know who did it and why. Maybe I want to know too much.”

She did.

“D
o you think they’ll try to kill you?” Crawford asked, voice emotionless as he leaned back in his cozy den chair. Dismay crossed Tariq’s face. “No. I’m not that important.” He paused. “At least I hope I’m not.”

“You’re important enough for Congressman Rickman to accuse you of fronting for the Muslim Brotherhood.” The older man, well dressed even at home, twisted a half smile. “He is, of course, an idiot hoping to get publicity, which he has, claiming this whole hullabaloo is for the sake of national security. All right, you’ve come to me for help. You owe me the truth.”

“Yes, sir.” From his perch on the edge of a Morris chair, Tariq lifted his deep brown eyes to Crawford’s light ones.

“Are you a member of the Muslim Brotherhood?”

“No. I am a Coptic Christian. There are twelve million of us in Egypt and we are under great stress. Churches have been burned. You may not remember but a little over a year ago in Cairo the
military publicly abused some of our women. Pushed them around. Mocked them and roughed them up.”

“Rape?”

“No one is saying that, including the victims, but our women were attacked publicly by the military in Cairo because they aren’t Muslim and don’t follow the dress customs of that faith. As for the Muslim Brotherhood, I fear them more than the military. I fear anyone eager to impose their religion upon another.”

“Hmm.” Crawford smiled as his wife Marty came in with a silver tray holding tiny china cups, a small pot of espresso, delicate little plates—upon which rested curled orange peels, lemon peels, and both white and natural sugar cubes—and a large plate with chocolate swizzle sticks. “Thank you, darling.”

Marty kissed him on the cheek, then said to Tariq, “I know we don’t make coffee like you get at home, but I think I’ve come close—and oh, would you like some clotted cream?”

“Clotted cream?” Tariq’s eyebrows rose. “How I loved that when I studied in England. No, thank you. But with great good fortune, I will visit you in the spring with fresh strawberries.”

She clapped her hands without making much noise. “And I’ll have the clotted cream. That’s perfect.” She then looked to her husband, whom she understood and loved despite all. “Anything else?”

He reached up to run his hand down her forearm. “Not a thing.”

She left the two men as her husband poured the coffee.

Tariq nodded slightly as he took the proffered cup. “You are a fortunate man.”

Crawford looked at his wife’s back as she moved down the hall. “One of the reasons I am where I am today is because I found her. I’m not exactly a warm and fuzzy guy. She makes up for it, and she rightly reprimands me for missing things about people.”

Tariq smiled. “My mother’s version of that was to say nothing to my father but to throw up her hands, roll her eyes to heaven, and leave the room.”

The two men laughed, then Crawford continued his interrogation. “For you and your people, it probably doesn’t matter who governs Egypt.”

“Yes and no,” said Tariq. It wasn’t often that he discussed Egyptian politics, even these days with his country in such a tumult. “Coptic Christians will always be a minority. Holding office, getting government or military jobs will be difficult if not impossible. Intermarriage, especially in places that are”—he considered his next word—“unsophisticated can bring death to young women or men. Oh, yes”—he looked at a surprised Crawford—“there are still people like that. Honor killings.”

“We don’t have honor killings in America, but we still have plenty of people that are narrow-minded.”

“Perhaps all countries have extremists,” said Tariq.

“Egypt baffles me. Like most Americans, I thought ridding yourself of Mubarak would solve the problem. It seems to have opened a very large can of worms.”

“That is always the case with dictatorships. Look what happened to Yugoslavia after Tito died. All the Balkans in chaos.”

“You’re right.” Crawford was beginning to appreciate this young man. “I suppose that’s another mess that will never be resolved.”

“And again, religion is a part of it. I remember when the Muslims were killing the Christians. I was just a child, but my father told me it could happen in our country. He said that when the Muslims killed the Christians they cut off the two fingers of their right hands, the index and middle fingers. That image stuck with me.”

“Why on earth would they do that?” Crawford was incredulous. “I mean I’ve heard of giving the finger but—”

“Because when Catholics and other Christians make the sign of the cross they use those two fingers.”

“So they do,” Crawford murmured.

“As I grew up, I learned there had been barbarism enough on both sides, but as we are only ten percent of Egypt’s population, my father’s fears propelled me.”

“Your father must be a rich man to send you to Harrow and Oxford.”

“He was the first Egyptian to import semiconductors. My father is an engineer.”