Fox Tracks (20 page)

“Right.” He rubbed his chin. “Those are today’s taxes. As this depression we’re in deepens, some states will raise what they call ‘sin taxes.’ Never works.”

She turned off the computer, returning to the cozier chair opposite Gray. “Exactly.” He looked at her puzzled, so she continued, “Contraband. The murders are in the states with superhigh taxes. It’s no different than moonshine. Bring in a high-tax product and sell it with no taxes—people will snap it up. I’ll bet there are studies on lost revenue because taxes have climbed too high.”

Gray, as a CPA, chuckled in appreciation. “A good accountant can help the state or the nation figure that out, but I promise you the state or the federal government isn’t going to make those statistics readily available.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because then they’d have to admit their programs aren’t working.”

“But that’s so stupid,” she blurted out. “If you’re losing revenue, why not fix the problem?”

“Honey, I ran campaign finances, remember? There are people whose entire purpose in life is to vilify a candidate. They have got to find something wrong. Why give them the ammunition? My job was secure. No elected official’s job truly is, and it’s when they think they’re invulnerable that they blow it. Look at George Allen. He became a little overconfident in 2006.”

“George.” She grimaced for a moment. “One of the most likable
fellows I’ve ever met. More to the right than myself, but you know all that’s bull, too. You throw red meat to the nutcases in your party, and both parties have them. It’s always a mistake to cater to extremists.”

“True,” said Gray. “And then later people simply can’t admit they’re wrong.”

A long pause followed this. “You did. You divorced your first wife.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Touché.”

She laughed, too. “And am I ever glad you did.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.” He smiled at her, loving how the light shone on her silver hair. “I’m trying to think of any politician who has admitted he’s been on the wrong track.”

“You’d be thinking for a long time.” She then asked, “So what do you think about my idea?”

“Tell me your idea again.”

“Did you not listen to me?”

“I did, honey, I did, but I may be missing something.”

“Maybe these murders are about contraband cigarettes brought in and not taxed.”

“Ah. So someone could steal cartons from a warehouse or even a store here and carry them up north?”

“Why take that risk?” she said, puzzling it out. “Why not make a pact with growers who hold back some tobacco for you? I mean if people can make moonshine, why can’t they cure tobacco and make cigarettes, or shred the tobacco so people can roll their own? That’s a lot safer.”

Gray studied the woman he loved for a time. “Janie, did anyone ever tell you you could have made a good criminal?”

Upstairs, another good criminal knocked over Sister’s silver tray with a brush, comb, and small perfume bottle on it that had been given to her by her mother. Golly evidenced no interest in
perfume, she wanted to nestle in the alpaca sweater her human had put on the bureau instead of in it.

Sister had been in a hurry when she left the sweater there, which she would regret. In kneading the sweater, for Golly loved the cool feeling of the alpaca wool that then turned warm, the cat tore a big hole.

Later, when they went to bed, Sister spotted the damage and saw red. She likely would have stayed mad, too, if Gray hadn’t reminded her that it was mating season. He never failed to make her laugh.

S
ister and Shaker walked fifteen couple of hounds, thirty hounds single, on foot. Hunting hounds are counted in couples, a practice dating back to ancient Egypt. Sometimes after a rousing hunt, huntsman and master would walk out those hounds that had not hunted the day before, as well as a few who had. Mostly, the hunted hounds relaxed while the others enjoyed some exercise.

Pookah and Pansy had hunted, but their youth invited a bit more instruction from their trainers. Hounds being pack animals, as are humans, need to learn to work together. Veteran hounds, Dragon, Diana, and Diddy also walked out to give the youngsters some ballast.

It was 31°F under clear skies at nine in the morning on February 8 as they headed for Hangman’s Ridge.

Sister liked long walks. She felt they worked out the kinks. Also, walking didn’t pound her feet as did running, although she
and Shaker would trot with the pack in bursts. Fearing old age was not in her nature, fearing laziness was.

Dragon led, Diddy’s nose on his flanks.

“If I’d been out yesterday, we would have brought down that coyote,”
said Dragon.

“Right.”
Diddy agreed, although she didn’t believe him.

“He could run,”
Pansy exclaimed. They hadn’t been there, how could they be so confident?

“I’m faster than any ugly coyote.”
Dragon puffed out his chest.

Raleigh chortled.
“Dragon, you’re a conceited ass. I’m faster than you are.”

The house dogs accompanied the pack walks, serving as canine whippers-in. Hounds knew the Doberman and harrier would enforce the huntsman’s commands.

“
If I didn’t have to walk with everyone, I’d take you down
,” the well-built American hound threatened. Dragon followed that with a low growl.

“You and what army?”
Raleigh laughed, as did Rooster on the other side of the pack.

“Shut up, you miniature foxhound,”
Dragon snarled at Rooster.

Medium-sized, Rooster did appear to be a smaller version of the foxhound, but then most scent hounds bore some resemblance to one another, even a beagle, an especially engaging animal.

“That’s enough.” Shaker quietly reprimanded Dragon, who shut up.

The hounds behind Dragon wished the huntsman would have smacked the braggart hound with the butt of his crop, but Shaker rarely struck a hound, and he wouldn’t do so for chatter. Dragon would push in front of other hounds, most of whom ignored him. Sooner or later a young, strong male would gain
enough confidence to challenge him. The fight would no doubt be ugly.

The slippery and steep climb to the top of Hangman’s Ridge had everyone puffing. Minks, on their hind legs to observe the humans and hounds, scurried into their dens.

“All these minks. Years ago there wasn’t a one,” Shaker noted.

“There were always a lot at Pattypan Forge,” Sister recalled. “Small though they are, they can be ferocious. They’re weasels.”

“Apart from dinosaurs, I reckon we have just about everything in our territory.”

“Give it a few years. The elk released in the reclaimed mining lands in southwest Virginia will be here, too.” Sister swept her eyes over the long flat ridge, the hangman’s tree moaning in the breeze. Up here, there was always a slight wind, even on a calm day.

“Repent,” a ghost whispered, but only the hounds and dogs could hear.

“Don’t they know there are spirits up here?”
Twist shivered.

“I think they can feel them,”
Rooster answered the youngster.
“They deny it.”

The tricolor, Twist, was surprised.
“Why?”

“Quirk of the species.”
The harrier stuck with the humans, covering the large expanse of ground.

“Coyote tracks,” Shaker called out. “Fresh. Not from yesterday.”

Sister walked over and took a look. “Very fresh.” She put her gloved hands on her hips. “The coyotes are using this as a crossover. Pop over Hangman’s Ridge and hit up Foxglove or us. At least they can’t get into the feeder boxes. We’ve got plenty of fox tracks by the feeder boxes, which is a good thing.”

“No, but they can stick their paw in and pull out food.” Shaker pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. “It’s always colder up here. I’ve read too many horror books. Spirits. Makes it colder.”

“Well, who knows what’s in this world that we can’t see?” asked Sister. “But we sure can see coyote tracks. Shaker, if there’s one, there’s a family and probably a couple of families.”

“Yep.” He took a deep breath. “The air’s good though, isn’t it?”

“ ’Tis.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the coyote found Carter Weems first. Didn’t Gray say there wasn’t much left of the doe?”

“Meat gone. Then the carcass collapsed. But if the coyotes ate the deer, you’d think they would have pulled out the second corpse.”

“I don’t know.” Shaker headed toward the path down. “It’s funny. You don’t think about stuff like that. Something happens and I try to come up with answers based on what I know. As to why he was killed, I’m not going to figure that out.”

Moving to the other side of the pack, Sister stated, “Doubt I will either. You know, Shaker, I have this feeling more’s to come or something. I don’t know why. It’s probably this place giving me the willies. God knows, there are, what, eighteen unquiet souls up here?”

“You really believe in ghosts?” he asked.

She thought about this, then said, “Of course, no one can prove an afterlife, but throughout history so many inexplicable events have happened. What about the apparition of Joan of Arc to the French soldiers in the trenches of World War One? Thousands saw her and described her the same. Was that her spirit? Was it some mass delusion? Sometimes when I come up here to check for tracks or to see if there’s a new fox den, I could swear I hear whispers from that tree. I’m just suggestible, perhaps.”

“I don’t want to hear them,” said Shaker.

“Who does?”
Raleigh sensibly said.

Shaker, unusual for him, murmured to Sister. “Are you afraid to die?”

Without hesitation, she replied, “No. I’m more afraid of not living, I mean really living: full gallop, devil take the hindmost.”

He laughed. “You have nothing to fear.”

“Want to hear something really silly?” She patted the left side of her chest. “I stick that cigarette case from World War One over my heart when I can. Makes me feel good.”

He brightened. “Well, if you believe in spirits, then each man who signed that old cigarette case and the officer to whom it was presented, they’re all watching over you.”

Back at the kennels, each hound eagerly received a treat as his or her name was called, then the happy animal walked into its particular run.

Raleigh and Rooster needed a treat, too. After all, they whipped-in.

Raleigh dropped his treat upon hearing a vehicle.
“Stranger.”

Rooster considered stealing it, but then thought,
“Perhaps not.”

Hearing the vehicle later than the dogs, Sister glanced out the kennel office window. “Shaker, Tariq Al McMillan is here.”

He looked up from checking Thimble’s paw. “Did he drive up to the house?”

“Did. Let me get on up there. All’s well here.”

It was in the kennel, it wasn’t at the house.

Sister trotted up there as Tariq turned back to his car after knocking on the door, Golly bitching and moaning inside about the noise.

“Tariq! Hold up,” she called to him as though he were a hound.

“Sister.” He smiled. “Forgive me for coming here unannounced.”

She opened the back door and took his coat, hanging it up on
a peg as well as her own. “Please come in. I can offer you all manner of libation.”

The dogs checked him out as he gingerly stepped inside while Golly turned her back on the kitchen counter. Her morning beauty rest had been disturbed.

“I don’t want to put you to trouble and I should have called or emailed,” said Tariq.

“Sit down. You look a little peaked.”

“Beg pardon?”

She motioned to a chair. “You look a bit pale. Peaked. How about if I make you some coffee, tea? It’s early in the morning, but I can rope coffee with the best of them.”

Tariq again looked puzzled. “Rope coffee?”

“An old Southern expression for when people lace their morning coffee with whiskey, bourbon, or scotch. God knows, you can’t use gin or vodka for that.”

“People really do that?” He sat down, amazed.

“Every day. I don’t, but I rarely drink. I actually like the taste, but I never saw that it did me or anyone else much good.” She paused. “How stupid of me. Tariq, if you’re Muslim, please forgive me.”

He smiled at her. “I’m not. I’m Coptic Christian.”

She put up the pot of water for tea, placed bone china before him, and quietly remarked, “Egypt can hold an election each year. It can bounce between the Muslim Brotherhood and the former regime, but you’ll always lose, right?”

He appreciated her insight. “To a greater or lesser degree. It’s not easy being a Christian in Egypt.”

She put out various sugars and honeys. “It’s not easy being a Christian here either, but for vastly different reasons. Have you ever considered what a difficult religion it is to practice?”

He nodded. “That I have.”

“What can I do for you?” She sat down, waiting for the water to boil.

“I suppose you read about the attack on me by Congressman Dave Rickman, where he accuses me of being a member of the Muslim Brotherhood, stating he will protect America from the likes of me.”

“I did,” said Sister, concerned. “There’s no trouble at Custis Hall, is there?”

“No, though I must go up to the embassy in Washington.”

She rose to pour the tea. “Why?”

“Well, for one I’ll need their help if Rickman keeps this up. He’s made more recent statements about municipalities refusing to allow permits for mosques.”

“It appears he has found his issue.”

“Yes.” Tariq gratefully accepted the tea. She put out cookies, too.

“It’s a cheap shot,” Sister forthrightly declared as she sat down.

“I still must present myself at the embassy because I have been personally named. I received a call yesterday from our vice-ambassador. My father knows I have a good relationship with the embassy and the New York consulate. I hope they will help me.”

“Is there a possibility they won’t?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I am a citizen of Egypt. I’m here on a work permit. The government doesn’t wish any embarrassment. There are enough”—he paused—“sensitive areas with your government.”