“Okay, okay,” Ronnie 'fessed up. “My walks on the wild side were furtive and unsatisfying. It's a different day now. You all know who and what I am. I gave up hiding and lying. Maybe I will find a good man.”
“A good man who rides hard,” X corrected him.
“A hard man who rides good,” Sister mischievously added.
They laughed.
After the boys killed the second bottle, they readied to leave. Wives waited. It was Friday night, and both X and Clay faced social obligations. Ronnie had a church vestry meeting, and then he'd join X and Dee at a small dinner the Vajays planned.
As they gathered their coats, Sister nonchalantly said to all, “Fellas, I'm no spring chicken, so I've been doing research about human growth hormone. What do you think about my asking Dalton Hill to bring me some from Canada? I can't get it here. I want to try it.”
“I wouldn't mind either,” Ronnie chimed in, “but you look great. You don't have to take anything.”
“
The Wall Street Journal
carried an article about it June 2003, I think.” X's brows furrowed. “I'm interested in it myself.”
“Supposed to help you with muscle, lean muscle,” Sister said.
“Don't talk to Dalton Hill.” Clay held up his hands. “He is so goddamned fussy. He's the last person to talk to about something like that.”
“Well, he is a doctor, and he is Canadian. He can get it up there,” she insisted.
“Not him. Really. Let me think about it.” Clay smiled. “It's like everything else in the world. If there's a market for it, then there's a way.”
“A huge market, I'd think.” Ronnie clearly had no idea what was going on or why Sister was throwing out a baited hook.
She had done her research about HGH. If she could get it, she would. That wasn't her purpose though, and she wondered if she was right to do this. Too late now.
“Clay, you think Dalton is âprissy,' for lack of a better word? You think he'd be offended?”
“He'd go off about stuff being illegal in the United States. But maybe you could get a referral from him and fly to Toronto.” Clay's voice kept even. “That's better than risking, well, you know.”
“I've read where you can buy it online, out of the country, but online.”
“You can,” Clay spoke again, a bit more volume, “but you don't know what that is. How do you know it wasn't harvested from monkey glands? You don't want that. How do you know it wasn't taken from the pituitary gland of someone who died of AIDS? Come on, now, if you're determined to do this, you have to be careful. You have to find medical-grade HGH. None of this online stuff. You're much too valuable to us.”
“I'm so glad I brought this up. I've been a little embarrassed to bring it up with Tedi or Betty.”
“Well, Tedi could buy the entire laboratory,” Ronnie interjected. “She'd take it if she knew about it. Even if she already looks like a million bucks.”
“Never tell a billionaire she looks like a million bucks.” Clay punched Ronnie.
“Now, now, Tedi doesn't have a billion dollars,” Sister gently chided him.
“Triple digit millions,” Clay said, pulling on his coat.
“More power to her.” X bore no one the least amount of envy.
“Clay, instead of Wake Forest, you should have gone to Columbia or New York University, one of those northern schools full of rich kids,” Ronnie teased him.
“Damn straight. Yankees taught me the value of money by keeping it all to themselves. But, hey, I learned a lot at Wake. I'll be a Deacon until I die.”
“Actually, Clay, I think your father taught you the value of money,” Sister gently inserted this observation.
“He did, he did,” Clay agreed. “Sister, let me look into this. And whatever you do, don't go to Dalton.”
“You're right. I knew you'd know.” She kissed Clay on the cheek as he went out the mudroom door, then kissed Ronnie and X, too. Ronnie gave her a bear hug.
She watched as they drove down the snow-packed road, then she closed the door, leaning her head against it, tears falling on the floor. Corruption and greed had claimed one of the boys as surely as death had claimed her son.
CHAPTER 40
“Hear me out.” Sister sat in the kitchen at Sam's house. She'd called him at work and told him she'd be there at six-thirty.
Sam shifted in the wooden kitchen chair; they sat at the old porcelain-topped table.
“I didn't take a drink. Not knowingly.”
“I hope you're telling me the truth. You have got to tell me who you left the AA meeting with and where you went.”
“I can't do that.”
“All right then, let me tell you what I think. I think someone who we don't realize is a recovering alcoholic, like, say, Clay Berry, left with you. And you were hungry. You went to eat. I think you looked away or got up to go to the bathroom and that person spiked your drink. What was the old phrase? âSlipped you a mickey'? And whoever did this is behind the killings of Anthony and Mitch.”
Sam's face registered a flash of fear. “Why?”
“They knew something, those guys. And you were friends with them. You used to perform odd jobs with them, didn't you?”
“Sure.” He shrugged.
“But you're back. I mean, your senses are restored. You've got a good job. Why would anyone want to take you down?
Think!
” she commanded.
“My memory might return.” He stopped, leaned toward her. “But I didn't do that much with Anthony and Mitch. I rarely worked for the same people they did. They were big guys or bigger than I am. I wasn't going to be able to lift the stuff they could. The jobs I picked up were mostly janitorial or the odd tack cleaning and repair job. Mostly I tried to keep some horse contact going, even when I was down at the station.”
“You know that, but the killers might not. They might think that Anthony and Mitch told you a lot. Did they?”
“No. Every now and then they'd get money. Seemed like a lot then. Anything over fifty dollars was a lot to us. I never asked. Hell, Sister, I was too drunk or too hungover to care.”
“You're sure?”
“I'm sure. And if these people are that worried about me, why don't they just kill me?”
“Good question. I think I have the answer.” She folded her hands together on the tabletop. “They've done enough damage, taken enough chances. They either need to set you up as the killer or kill you with booze.”
He passed his hand over his eyes. “Christ.”
“You might want to pray to him because you're in danger.”
“Did you tell Gray?”
“No. He's worried enough as it is, and he thinks you're back on the bottle.”
“I don't blame him,” Sam's voice lowered.
“Will you help me catch them?”
“Yes,” Sam said with conviction.
“It's a funny thing, Sam. Call it loyalty to an old dance partner, but tattered as Anthony's life was, no one had the right to take it away from him. He didn't deserve to die like that. None of them did.”
“No. What do you want me to do?”
“I've drawn over our foxes, lying tight in a covert. They know I've drawn over them, and they think I've gone. With me?”
“Sure.”
“I'm going to swing back around and draw in the opposite direction. I think I can flush them out.”
“Who?”
“Dalton, Clay, and Izzy. I'm damned certain she's in on this, if not behind it.”
He swallowed hard. “Oh.”
“And one of them was with you at that AA meeting, am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well, keep to your rules. I guess I don't need to know exactly which one. What I want you to do is to get into a fight with Xavier.”
“That's easy enough.” He laughed.
“Yes and no. It means you two must cooperate.”
“Have you talked to X?”
“I've come directly from his house. He agrees.”
“He likes to hit me.” Sam smiled ruefully.
“With good reason, but you know what I always say. Send the past into the ocean; let the waves take it away. He can't change it, you can't, Dee can't. Done is done.”
“He doesn't see it that way.”
“Not now. He might later. X is a good man. I love him very much.”
Sam sighed deeply. “And I once hurt him very much.”
“You did, but that's over.”
“Why do you want us to pick a fight?”
“A diversion and a shake up. Next hunt. I'll turn and lift my crop up over my head. I think of the three of them, Clay's the shakiest. While you two put on your show, I'll go for Clay. I think Dalton and Izzy will be mesmerized by your joint performance, and they won't look to help Clay.”
“You're taking a risk.”
“Life is a risk.”
“You must have loved Anthony once.”
She blinked, then slowly said, “He was the first man I ever slept with, and at eighteen, I thought it was love. Perhaps it was.”
“You're something, Sister.”
“Know something? So are you.”
CHAPTER 41
“What's the difference?” Xavier angrily countered Marty Howard.
“The difference is your life, the quality of your life,” she fired right back, secure in the righteousness of her cause.
“Marty, I like you. Understand that. I do.” Picasso's reins were draped over his shoulder. “But I'm going to do as I damn well please. I'm smoking and that's that. And don't give me crap about filtered cigarettes or low tar. All that crap. All you do is inhale the tiny fibers from the filters or whatever they treat the tobacco with. I'm better off smoking straight cigarettes. The others are for wimps anyway.” Defiantly, he blew a puff of blue smoke.
“Then at least smoke good tobacco.” Crawford emerged from the trailer's tack room. “Addictive personalities. You know. If they don't do drugs, they turn to God. Forgive the cynicism. If they drink and give it up, they smoke. You're an addictive personality.” He handed Xavier a pack of Dunhill Reds. Same cigarettes he bought for Sam, now lurking on the other side of the trailer since he didn't want to get into a run-in with Xavier.
“Thanks.” X didn't think he was an addictive personality.
“How could you?” Marty felt undermined.
“Honey, people will live as they see fit, and you can't improve them. Besides, I'd rather have him or Sam smoothed out by nicotine than not, wouldn't you? Life is too short to put up with other people's irritations. Seems to me our efforts should be directed toward steering young people away from smoking. I don't think you can do much to change older ones. X is my witness.”
“Lung cancer is hardly an irritation,” she snapped.
“His lungs.” Crawford shrugged.
“What's Sam got to do with this?” Xavier was now irritated, edgy.
“I buy him a carton of Dunhill Reds each week. A bonus. Keeps him happy. Rather have him smoking than drinking.”
Xavier opened his mouth to say once a drunk, always a drunk, but he shut it, then opened it again. “I'm smoking again to lose weight.”
“There are better ways.” Marty was persistent.
“Tried them all.” He paused. “Although last night Sister mentioned HGH. I went home and looked it up on the Internet. Might work. I'm not going to the gym. Christ, I hardly have a minute to myself now. Foxhunting is my solace, and if I have time for only one sport, this is it.”
Crawford, familiar with strategies to stay young, had his HGH flown in from England, and no one was the wiser for it. “Xavier, get a stationary bike and ride it while you watch the news. Better than nothing. And try the Atkins Diet. I'm serious.”
A rustle from the kennel alerted them to the hounds walking out in an orderly manner.
“Damn.” Crawford tightened his girth.
As Crawford and Marty hurried to pull themselves together with Sam's help, Xavier walked Picasso back to his trailer, mounting block by the side, and heaved up just as Clay and Izzy rode by.
“Didn't hear you grunt that time,” Clay said.
“Shut up,” said X.
“What's the matter with you?”
“If I hear one more lecture from Marty Howard about cigarettes or women's rights or sugar or Free Tibet, I'll spit in her face, so help me God.”
“Umm,” Izzy murmured as if in agreement, furtively looking for Dalton. She caught his eye. He smiled, then looked away.
Ronnie rode up. “If you all don't want to ride in the back of the field, hurry up.”
“X is having a snit.”
“I'm not having a snit!” He breathed deeply, petted Picasso, and said, voice low, “I'm tired of being middle-aged and fat.”
“Nothing we can do about the middle-aged part, but fat, that's fixable.” Ronnie walked on toward the kennels.
“Come on.” Clay rode next to Xavier. Izzy rode a little behind them.
This Saturday's fixture was Roughneck Farm. Apart from being full of foxes, Sister and Shaker enjoyed hunting from home because they could luxuriate in an extra hour of sleep. Also, they could load up the pack with the young entry, since, if someone did take a notion, the young ones knew the way back to the kennel. This year's class had made great progress since September's opening day of cubbing. The fact that it had been a moist fall greatly helped them enter properly.
Sister figured the day would be start and stop, hunt and peck, since last night was a full moon. Contented, stuffed, most foxes were curled up in their dens, a tidy pile of bones and fur outside the opening. Inky had buried her debris, not an unusual habit, though most foxes kept their own open garbage pit.
A field of fifty-nine showed up, formal attire creating a timeless tableaux of elegance. Bobby counted twenty-three Hilltoppers. He asked Ben Sidell if he would mind riding tail along with Sari Rasmussen, who volunteered for gate duty today. Jennifer rode tail with First Flight. Sister liked having someone to close the back door, as she put it. Also, if the field straggled; it wasn't good. They might turn a fox or, if the pack turned, hounds would have to run through horses. So Sari pushed up the Hilltoppers while Jennifer pushed up First Flight. Much as the girls liked being in First Flight, as close to the front as they could get without offending the adults, these days doing tail duty led to squeals of laughter back in the barn when they recounted what occurred. The tail rider sees everything: the misdeeds, the bobble in the saddle, the split britches, the bad fences.
When the field walks out, a hierarchy lines up behind the field master. For the Jefferson Hunt, this meant that Tedi and Edward rode in the master's pocket. As the oldest members with colors, they were entitled to pride of place. Also, they rode divine horses, so they could keep up. As the hunt unfolded, this hierarchy altered. Whoever could really ride, whoever was well mounted, could move up without censure, although few ever passed the Bancrofts. Occasionally Tedi would pull back if she sensed someone behind her who was antsy or who couldn't control his or her horse.
During joint meets, the visiting master, if that master did not hunt hounds, rode with Sister. Guests then rode forward as Jefferson members graciously fell back for them. Again, once the hunt unfolded, if some guests weren't well mounted, the Jefferson Hunt members could pass them without being considered rude.
The American way of hunting, most particularly in the South, involved manners, hospitality, and strict attention to the pleasure of one's guests. Hunts in other parts of the country could be equally as welcoming, but the southern hunts believed they performed these services better than anyone. And of course, the Virginia hunts took it as an article of faith that they towered over all other hunts, a fact not lost on other states, nor especially admired.
Many was the time that Sister repented being a Virginia master when she hunted, say, in Kentucky. So keen were those masters to show their mettle that they gleefully rode out in twelve-degree snowstorms, taking three- or four-foot stone fences.
The “By God, I'll show these Virginia snobs” attitude meant that the Virginians had to ride quite well in order to survive. Yet it was all in good fun. There is not a sport as companionable as foxhunting.
Sister looked over her shoulder at the line of well-turned-out riders snaking behind her as they briskly walked toward the peach orchard next to the farm road.
She remembered hunting in Ireland one fall after she and Ray had been married four years. The Irish rode right over them. She never forgot her first hedgerow jump with the yawning ditch on the other side. That night she thanked God for two things: One, she was an American. Two, she had rented a superb horse who took care of her.
Clay and Xavier whispered between themselves as hounds were not yet cast. Ronnie, riding just ahead, paid no attention. He'd listened to Xavier's wails of frustration over his poundage every day. Just because X was his best friend didn't mean there weren't times when X bored him to tears. He always thought that Dee was a saint, and he envied X his partner in life. Funny, too, for of all the original four friends, X, average-looking, would have seemed to be the last one to attract a marvelous woman.
Ronnie liked Izzy well enough, but she was impressed with her beauty and impressed with money a bit too much for him. His eyes darted over the field today. He'd known some of these people all his life. The newer ones brought fresh ideas and energy, and he had to admit that he learned from them. Pretty much he liked everyone out there, although Crawford irritated him. He wasn't overfond of Dalton Hill either.
Hounds reached the field across from the peach orchard, the low gray clouds offering hope of moisture and scent. The temperature clung to a steady thirty-nine degrees. The layer of fresh snow had had enough time to settle in, pack down a bit. The going might be icy in spots but mostly, if the horses had borium on their shoes, they should be okay.
A blacksmith charged $105 to shoe with borium, a bit of metal powder put onto the shoes. Some people put caulks in their horses' shoes, a kind of stud. Some could even be screwed in and then screwed out. Sister hated studs, refusing to use them. Like most horsemen, she had strong likes and dislikes. She had visions of her horse tearing the hell out of himself with studs if he overreached or stumbled, then scrambled, hitting his forefeet with his hind or catching the back of his foreleg. It wouldn't do.
As she watched Shaker cast hounds into the field, a wave of envy swept over her. Shaker was right. Once you hunt the hounds, you never want to go back. Still, she was a sensible woman. He was a gifted huntsman, and Jefferson Hunt was lucky to have him. She'd content herself with leading the field.
Trident picked his way over the snow. Trudy, Tinsel, and Trinity were out, along with Darby, Doughboy, Dreamboat, Dana, Delight, Diddy, Ribot, Rassle, and Ruthie.
Cora hoped the youngsters would keep it together. She, like Sister, felt good about their progress. A day like today could be tricky. The conditions seemed favorable, but the full moon last night generally made for a dull hunt. Cora hoped they could pick up a visiting red dog fox.
Nellie, Diana, Delia, Dasher, Dragon, Asa, Ardent, and the other veterans, like a scrimmage line sweeping forward, moved over the terrain.
Back in the house, Raleigh and Rooster were furious because Sister locked their dog door to the outside. Both dogs would shadow the hounds if they could, and they had no business doing that. Golly relished their misery.
“Maybe we'll pick up Grace?”
Trident said.
“Too far for her on a cold night like last night. She's over
there at Foxglove by the water wheel.”
Asa had a fondness for the small red.
“What about Aunt Netty?”
Ribot inhaled rabbit odor.
“Figure that any scent you get will most likely be dog
fox,”
Delia instructed Ribot.
“The vixens sit because they
know the dog foxes will come to them. If you do get a
vixen's trail, chances are she hunted a bit; you're picking
her up going back to her den, especially now.”
“Then why did we get long runs on vixens in late October?”
Ruthie puzzled over this.
“The young fox entry, so to speak, left home to find their
own dens. Don't you worry over that now,”
Delia instructed.
“I'm telling you what I've learned over the years,
though if there is one thing I have learned about foxes, it's
to expect the unexpected. For all I know, Ruthie, a vixen
will show up and give us a ripping go today. They are peculiar creatures, foxes.”
Nellie, another old girl, giggled.
“That's what Shaker
says about women: They're as peculiar as foxes.”
“Hasn't said much like that since he took a fancy to Lorraine.”
Ardent laughed.
The hounds laughed with him. If the humans heard, it would have sounded as though they were letting their breath out in little bursts.
Dragon, although pushing up front, was subdued. He kept half a step behind Cora, off to her right. For her part, next time he challenged her, she'd kill him. She was the head bitch as well as the strike hound, and she was in no mood to put up with any more bad behavior.
They pushed through the field heading east, toward After All Farm.
“Not much.”
Ardent caught a faint line.
“It's Comet.”
“Let's follow it, Ardent. Might be all we'll get today. If
we're lucky, it will heat up.”
Cora trusted Ardent completely.
The hounds moved with Ardent as he turned northward. The scent warmed but remained faint until they crossed over the thin ice, breaking it, on a small feeder into Broad Creek.
“Better. Better,”
Asa called, and hounds opened.
Bare in the winter light, old silky willows, some fourteen feet high, dotted the path of the stream. Lafayette picked his way through the trappy ground, took a hop over the stream, trotting after hounds who were moving steadily but not with speed.
For twenty minutes, hounds pursued this line until they wound up at the base of Hangman's Ridge. Scent turned back along the edge of the farm road, heading back toward the peach orchard. Hounds took the half leap off the road, sunken with time and use, up into the peach orchard.
Betty, out in the open field on the left of the road, wondered if the fox might be close by. She was in a good spot to see him break cover.
Sybil, on the right, was at the edge of the peach orchard. Hounds moved through, baying stronger, moving at a faster trot. They cleared the orchard, crossed the grassy wide path separating the peach orchard from the apple orchard, then plunged into the apple orchard. They began a leisurely lope, Cora square on the line, but she no sooner reached the halfway point in the apple orchard than she turned a sharp left.