Fox Tracks (25 page)

He smiled, then acknowledged Tootie. “You can’t stay away from Virginia, can you?”

“No,” she replied.

“Education is a passport.” He had heard about her dissatisfaction with Princeton as some of his students, seniors, stayed in contact with Tootie.

“I want to be a veterinarian,” she called over the running motor.

“I see.” Deciding to address that another time, Tariq asked Sister, “I know you can’t discuss the meeting but did you ever see
Lifeboat
?”

“Yes. I watched the original with Tallulah Bankhead and Walter Slezak. What a powerful film.”

“I hope I’m not going to be thrown overboard.” He looked up at her as the truck was higher than his Saab.

“I don’t think so.” She smiled.

The teacher in him emerged. “Is it not an impossible problem? The sum is greater than any of its parts, which means some people must die so many can live.”

“Impossible,” Sister agreed.

Tariq frowned for a moment, then pressed on. “In my country if an elected official made a statement such as Congressman Rickman he would be being supported by the state. It would be an opening gambit to prepare public opinion for more reprisals against the person defamed.”

Sister, in a strong voice, said, “Rickman does not speak for the government although he obviously speaks for repressive elements in his district. They keep reelecting him.”

“I pray you are correct.” Tariq smiled weakly as he rolled up his window, then waved goodbye.

Sister rolled up her window. “Poor fellow. He’s having a helluva time.”

Tootie wondered aloud, “How do people like Rickman get elected?”

“Honey, that’s a long discussion for another day. I’ll give you a preview: It’s much easier to be against someone or something than for it. Quirk of our species.”

“I looked on your calendar,” said Tootie to lighten the moment.
“Today it says Catherine dei Ricci. I like knowing the saints’ days—not that it has had anything to do with the board meeting or hunting.”

“Let me see, I read it this morning,” Sister mused. As the car headed up the hill, she recalled the Florentine lady. “Born in the sixteenth century and lived a good long time.”

Tootie had the dead black hair dryer in her lap, which she fiddled with. “What I don’t quite understand is why, in the calendar, do they give her name and other saints, too, and after the name, it says ‘Virgin.’ I mean, how could they know?”

“That’s a good question.” Sister laughed and so did Tootie.

A
rt and Donny both grumbled that they wished they had a narrow hay elevator. Art had backed the truck into the Old Paradise barn as Donny closed the doors. The floor, packed dirt, would ruin the bottom cartons of cigarettes so they carried them up the heavy wooden ladder to the hayloft.

“Damn, when we come back for ’em, let’s throw these things down.” Art removed his heavy jacket, since he was sweating.

“Can’t do that. We’ll crush the cigarettes.” Donny stepped off the top rung.

Art passed Donny as he headed for the ladder and a trip down. “Was this my idea or yours?”

“Mine.” Donny thought he should take the blame. “But it’s a good place and there’s no reason we can’t come up with a hay elevator later. That would make this job easy. Just put the carton on, give it a push, and up she goes.”

“Used to have one,” said Art. “Like everything else on this
damned farm, it broke. Christ, I hope Crawford and Dad and Alfred sign those papers soon.”

Donny just nodded as he, too, headed back down the ladder for another carton.

Although light, a man could carry but one carton at a time. He needed one hand to hang on to the ladder.

For all the huffing and puffing, the job took only an hour.

“Hand it up.” Donny, on his stomach, leaned over the top of the ladder as Art pushed up a heavy brown canvas tarp.

Four more of those and the cartons were covered. The problems weren’t the elements, but bird poop, as quite a few winged creatures inhabited the barn.

The two men put rolls of insulation in front of the tarp.

Roger, a gray fox, also used the barn, but neither man knew of or discovered his den in a back stall. No reason for them to look in the stalls. The fox was fascinated with the men’s cussing, the smell of tobacco, and the noise of feet on the ladder. Wisely, he kept his head down.

Finally, the two finished upstairs, climbed down, took some two-by-fours off the truck bed, and laid them on the floor. They leaned for a moment on a cobweb-covered stall door.

“When do we have to drive up to New Jersey?” Donny asked Art. He had contact with the boss whereas Donny did not.

“Next week.”

“Wouldn’t we get more money if we made the drops in the city?”

“We’d be sitting ducks with our Virginia license plates. It’s bad enough we drive into New Jersey or up to western Massachusetts. Takes forever using the back roads, but we can’t risk a weigh station,” Art said.

“I guess you’re right, but the weight of the tobacco is so much less than the stuff they’re really looking for at those stations.”

“Can’t take the chance,” Art said. “This is a good gig. Besides, there’s always a state trooper at those stations.”

“Fat, too.” Donny laughed.

“Do you know some states are setting weight rules for cops? Bet the gym owners are glad about that.”

Donny smiled. “Bet the troopers’ wives are, too. Man, can you imagine having some three-hundred-pound guy smashing on top of you?”

Art shot him a dirty look. “No. Why, can you?”

“Oh, sure.” Donny grinned as a little part of him enjoyed setting off Art, a man of limited imagination.

“Perv.”

Donny changed the subject back. “Have you ever seen the trucks that smuggle the stuff into the city?”

“Once when Carter drove with me up to Massachusetts, three vans—plumbing company logo painted on them—off-loaded straight from my truck. These guys are pros. Any city we go to, I mean the actual delivery men, they don’t just deliver smokes, they drop off ’shine, probably weed, and some of the trucks are outfitted so guys can actually cook meth on the road.”

“That shit is nine miles of bad road.” Donny looked up at the roof beams, hand-hewn and tremendously thick. “Would have liked to see this barn getting built.”

“1816. Used saw pits and muscle power. Works as good as anything we do today, it’s just slower.”

“Yeah, but would you want to be the guy on the other end of the saw down in the pit?” Donny laughed.

Art laughed, too. “Guess not, but I wonder if those men had fewer injuries than today. You pushed and pulled the saw, the speed was as fast as you could go. I mean, if you take your eye off a saw today—even a band saw—no fingers!”

“Yep. Well, buddy, when do you want me back here?”

“Tuesday or Wednesday next week, but I’ll text you.”

“Okay. Ready to push off?”

Art drove the truck out; Donny closed the massive doors behind him. The minute the humans left the barn, Roger popped out of his den, climbed the ladder, a piece of cake for a gray fox, trotted across the hayloft to the canvas-covered cartons.

Sniffing around, he sneezed.
“Whoo.”

“It’s who.”
The barn owl called down to him.

“
Have you gotten a whiff of this stuff?
” Roger asked the bird.

The barn owl glided down to a crossbeam above him. As she, too, was a predator, she thought the better of landing too close to the lightning-fast fox. Not that Roger had ever disturbed the bird, but why take the chance?

“The smell is sweet.”
The barn owl widened her eyes.
“But there’s a tang there. I smell smoke, too, can you?”

“Some of the old outbuildings around here and on close-by farms have this smell,”
said Roger.

“ ’Bacca sheds. Curing sheds.”
The owl volunteered this information.
“I’ve overheard people calling them that. Alfred DuCharme had an old Irish Setter—really old—and he said he remembered the last time one of those sheds was used. That was a good dog.”

“Ah, this is the stuff I see them stick in their mouths and puff, you know, when one passes in a car with the windows down. It’s a human ritual I can’t figure out.”

“I’ve heard them say, ‘Blowing smoke up your ass.’ ”
the owl sagely noted.

The fox blinked, then giggled.
“But how could they do that while driving a car?”

While Art and Donny unloaded cigarettes, on horseback, Crawford, Marty, Sam, and the young huntsman, Patrick, cast hounds behind Crawford’s house. Tariq and Marty consisted of the field. A few desultory
flakes twirled down. The big black-and-tan hounds picked up scent and a decent run followed.

Tariq followed Marty. She was a good rider, confident over all the various jumps Crawford had built. It was like a cross-country course, and gave Tariq occasion to be grateful to his borrowed horse.

Crawford’s huntsman Patrick missed a chance to swing his pack into a southerly wind, which might have helped them after they lost the first fox. A warmer wind could send forward some scent as the temperature was dropping. But that was the day and Tariq knew the only way he’d find the kind of hunting he liked would be to occasionally go down to Deep Run or up to Piedmont, if he could cap there. Not that this was bad, just slower than he enjoyed and much of the fun was being with other people.

Nonetheless, afterward, he thanked the master, chatted with Marty for a bit, untacked and cooled down the horse borrowed from the Howards, then headed back to Custis Hall.

Sister also hunted on Tuesday. Crawford picked Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays to purposefully conflict with her schedule. Adjoining hunts, if possible, tried to select days different from their neighbors. Not Crawford.

In most respects, the Jefferson Hunt had the same kind of day that Crawford did, although the hounds found a second fox, thanks to the long experience of Shaker, as well as a bit of luck. Ultimately, any hunt is up to the fox.

In order to save gas, Sister rode in the horse trailer with Betty while Tootie rode with Shaker in the hound trailer. Sister preferred to follow with her truck or Jeep. Should a hound need to be rushed to the vet, it was easier. Otherwise, she’d have to find an unhitched vehicle or unhitch one of her trucks, which meant the horses or hounds would have to await her return. Fortunately, few accidents
occurred. Given rising expenses, she played the percentages and rode in the truck on weekday hunts, although on Saturdays she would drive her personal truck or Jeep. As there were always so many people, you never knew when a last-minute errand would be in order.

Cruising along in the big dually, Sister unbuttoned her coat. They stopped at a convenience store. She and Betty liked the barbeque there so they bought up a mess to eat back at the farm. Sister opened the cigarette case, pulled out a credit card, and paid for their purchase.

“That’s a good idea,” Betty noted as they crossed the parking lot.

“I take this with me everywhere now,” said Sister. “It’s my good luck charm.”

“Umm. Where do you think we lost that second fox?”

The two hopped back into the truck, which then slowly pulled away.

“I don’t know where that fox went,” said Sister. “I heard hounds go silent when I got up on the hill. What about you?”

“I was below you, but that’s where I think we lost him. He ran up on high ground where the wind and little flurries wiped out scent.”

In another twenty-five minutes, they’d reached the barns. A half hour after that, the horses were put up, clean and dry, faces buried in hay flakes.

The four of them gathered at the house for the barbeque.

“Did you look at the weather?” Shaker asked as he piled his plate high with barbeque, a touch of vinegar evident.

“Did,” Sister replied, from the table. “Thursday cold, Saturday snow, but it’s not supposed to get heavy until evening.”

Sitting across from her, Betty smiled. “I love to hunt in the snow.”

“Don’t you think the hounds love it?” Tootie asked Shaker as he took a seat next to Betty.

“They do. Hounds have a lower ideal temperature than we do. We like it in the low seventies. And for horses, it’s much lower.”

“I love to see them play,” said Sister, “throw up the snow with their noses, jump up to catch snowflakes.” She could get just as excited as they could. “Hey, you all, don’t forget it’s St. Valentine’s Day.”

“I bought Bobby five sessions with a personal trainer,” said Betty. “He is losing weight, but I think working with another man will push him along.”

“Why?” Tootie asked Betty.

“Competitiveness. He doesn’t want to lose face in front of another man.” Betty prodded Shaker. “Am I right?”

Shaker smiled devilishly. “I don’t know. I never have to lose weight.”

The three women gave him the raspberry, then laughed.

“What’d you get Gray?” Betty asked.

“A box of Cohibas. Real Cuban Cohibas.” Sister held up her hand. “Don’t ask.”

When everyone finished, Sister asked them to leave the dishes—she’d do them—but to hold up for one minute. She ran up the back kitchen stairs, coming down with Golly in tow, who awoke too late to be a pest at the table.

“You missed the barbeque,”
Rooster said, grinning with glee.

“I could care.”
The cat leapt onto the counter to lick out the cartons, immediately making a liar out of herself.

Sister placed a small box in front of each person. “Good luck.”

Tootie tore hers open. “St. Hubert!” She held up a pretty medallion.

Betty opened hers. “Mine is red enamel. Yours is green. Hurry up, Shaker.”

“Blue.” He held up his medallion.

“Didn’t you get one for yourself?” Betty asked.

Sister pulled a chain out from her shirt. A bright baby blue St. Hubert’s medal hung on it.

The ladies kissed their master. Shaker gave her a bear hug.

“I want everyone safe and sound,” said Sister. “St. Hubert’s been watching over people for over one thousand years, so I think we’re in good hands.”

That night, under clearing skies, Art texted his boss, who texted back to call. Security was better with a landline and if one was technologically smart, which Art was, he knew the lines were clear, no taps. He called from home.