“Let’s tie these two up.” Shank helped Sulli down as Martin pulled out William. William refused to cooperate so Martin cuffed him, leapt onto the bed of the wagon, and kicked his ass out of the wagon. Shank looked out of the corner of his eye as once more he had to fire up the potbellied stove in the groom’s quarters. “Sorry son of a bitch, ain’t he?”
“He’ll be sorrier when we get him back to Mrs. Holloway.” Martin grinned. “Wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of that woman.”
The sparks caught in the kindling.
“You know once I saw a potbellied stove that sat in the corner of a house, rich people, Swedes. The damn thing wasn’t iron, and it was huge, filled up half the wall, went to the ceiling. White with gold corners, kind of like a pattern. Huge and it heated most of the house. Don’t know why we can’t do that.”
“Well, the Swedes do.”
After tying up Sulli and William to a sturdy post, they went inside, ate a good meal, then brought out potato salad and some sliced turkey for the two runaways. Shank untied their hands so they could eat.
The two talked for a while as their captives silently ate. Martin noticed that Sulli rarely looked William in the eye. As for William, he grew increasingly more sullen.
After they ate, Shank stood up and William grunted that he needed to go outside.
Martin handed Shank the flintlock as the slender man walked William outside where he relieved himself. Then he walked him back in, tying him with one leg, hands pulled behind his back.
The pallets, about the same everywhere, allowed some comfort. But William and Sulli’s hands behind their backs, that hurt. Sulli, more tractable in the eyes of her captors, was allowed to have her hands tied in front of her.
“See you in the morning,” Martin said, then checked on the mare as he left, closing the doors behind him.
Martin, awake before sunup, ate pancakes in the inn and then walked out to the barn to find Shank sound asleep but the other two awake.
“I’ll bring you some food. Shank, up.”
“Yep.” Groggily the younger man sat up, looked around. “Good food?”
“Good as last night’s. You go on in. I’ll sit with these two. Bring something out when you’re done.”
Shank must have inhaled his food because he was back out shortly, carrying an old bucket, clean, full of pancakes and syrup. Untying their hands, they waited for the two to eat.
“I’ll check on the mare. Maybe we can make fifteen miles today. Twenty miles would be better.” Martin opened the wooden door to the center aisle.
Shank turned slightly to watch Martin shut the door. William saw his chance with his hands untied. He leaned over to untie his one foot, which Shank saw as he turned around.
Advancing on the much younger man, Shank underestimated William’s dexterity. He’d untied his foot and that fast bolted by Shank, knocking him down in the process. Sulli stayed rooted to the post. Shank rolled, got up, ran outside the room.
Martin, in the stall with the mare, saw William run by. “I got the gun.”
“Let’s get him.” The two flew out of the barn, oblivious to Sulli. William running through the four inches of snow, six in spots, was maybe one hundred yards away.
“Bugger is fast.”
Martin said to Shank, “Not as fast as a bullet.”
“You can’t kill him. He won’t be worth a penny.”
“Don’t worry. You run ahead of me, distract him if you can, turn him if you can.” Martin checked his flintlock.
Shank tore after William, not gaining ground. The snow covered bad footing underneath. William went down, snow all over his face. He hurriedly rose as Shank closed on him and so did Martin, not far behind him.
Martin fired in the air, which made William drop facedown. He then got up again, ran to the left, but Martin had gained a bit more and so did Shank, who wasn’t slow.
Stiff from sitting in the back of the wagon, William struggled. Youth was on his side but not much else.
Martin took careful aim and fired again, this time hitting William in the buttock. His hand flew to his backside; he stumbled. The pain burned but he got up again. Too late, for Shank reached him and kicked him, knocking him back over. Both men grabbed him now. William couldn’t fight them off. He swung but missed and fell down again. This time Martin and Shank each grasped an arm as they dragged him back. William hopped from foot to foot.
Once back in the stable, Shank realized he’d left Sulli. Blasting into the grooms’ room, there she was, foot still tied, resigned to her fate. Sulli had sense enough not to get beaten. She knew her captors carried a gun. She also believed they wouldn’t use it, keeping her alive to deliver her to her fate.
Martin dragged William into the room, shoving him down face-first.
Sulli felt no pity for him. In her mind he was her enemy, as were Martin and Shank. At least Martin and Shank didn’t beat her. Not yet anyway.
“Hold him down,” Martin ordered.
Shank knelt in front of William as Martin pulled down his pants.
“Butt?”
“Yeah. Keep holding him. I’m going to make sure he never runs again.” Martin walked to his pack and pulled out a sharp hunting knife. “Keep holding him.”
Martin then rolled up his pants leg, carefully placing the blade behind his kneecap, measuring. Then with one swift motion he sliced his hamstring in two as William screamed. Martin rolled the pants leg back down.
“He’s not running anywhere.”
Shank nodded.
“Let’s get the wagon ready. Tie him up again.”
“Sulli, do I need to tie you?” Shank asked.
“I am tied,” she replied.
“Your hands? I expect you don’t want anything painful to happen to you?” Shank warned.
“No, sir.” She watched William sobbing, his hand reaching back to touch the sliced hamstring, but it hurt so bad he couldn’t do it. She found she enjoyed watching him writhe and she also swore no one would ever touch her again. If Maureen beat her, nothing much she could do, but if anyone promised love and did her like William, never. She felt strangely calm and peaceful.
Mare hitched up, fed and watered, Martin doused the fire in the stove, grabbed his gear and Shank’s as Shank, hand under William’s armpit, dragged him to the wagon. He lifted him up as William whimpered, shoving him onto the wagon, making him crawl to the front.
Sulli, hands untied, walked out with Martin. She hoisted herself up into the wagon.
Martin, voice soft, reminded her, “If you don’t try to escape or hurt either Shank or myself, I’ll leave your hands untied. You’ve seen what we can and will do. It will be easier on both of us and your wrists won’t be rubbed raw.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you agree to be quiet?” Martin wanted a clear answer.
“Yes, sir, I agree to be quiet.”
She moved up, leaning against the backrest, pulled the blanket around her as Martin pushed up straw. The day was going to be cold.
Martin threw William’s blanket at him, which William pulled around himself. Then Martin tied William’s hands together in front of him. He pushed some straw up.
“I won’t kill you,” Martin promised. “But I’ll cut your other hamstring or I’ll geld you if you really bother me. If anyone kills you, it will be Mrs. Holloway, but I expect she’ll work you until you die. Since you can’t run away, you’re probably worth more than before. You’ve been stupid, beyond stupid.” He then climbed up into the front as Shank picked up the reins. It would be days before they reached Big Rawly. Days of suffering for William. Days of determination for Sulli.
It wasn’t lost on Martin or Shank that she had not spoken to him since their capture. She evidenced no interest in his welfare. They each concluded that she hated him, which would make their job easier, b
ut then he brought it on himself. He was hardheaded.
26
June 21, 2019
Friday
Solstices wriggle between three days. Same with the equinoxes. The span is usually between the twenty-first and twenty-third, but it’s easiest to remember as the twenty-first, at least it was for Harry.
She considered these events moments of repose. A new season started. She liked to consider that, which is what she was doing early this morning as she walked through her house garden patch.
For income she had acres of sunflowers in the rear of the farm, along with hay, but she used the hay for herself. Now she scrutinized the shoots peeking up at her. Corn, potato, tomato, all in the grade school stage.
Pewter, flopped under the large walnut tree, thought vegetables a bore. Tuna, that’s what mattered. Chicken and beef weren’t so bad either, but fresh tuna was heaven. Mrs. Murphy tagged along with Harry, as did Tucker and Pirate.
“Pirate, honey, walk between the rows,” Harry instructed him.
He gingerly stepped off the little line of peeping plants and stepped into formation. Mrs. Murphy went first, then Tucker, then himself, now on the narrow walk between the rows.
Kneeling down, Harry poked her fingers in the soil. “H-m-m. If we don’t get rain in the next few days, I’d better water this.”
The hose, coiled up at the house, wasn’t that far away.
“Let’s pray this doesn’t turn into a drought year.” Harry stood up.
“Won’t,” Mrs. Murphy predicted.
“How do you know?” Tucker asked.
“Same way you do. I can smell it and I can feel it. They can only feel it when it’s a few miles away or the sky darkens. I wonder if once upon a time they could feel changes?” Mrs. Murphy replied.
“We’ll get rain tomorrow.” Tucker sniffed the air.
Pirate, taking baby steps since the two in front of him lacked his long legs, lowered his huge head, asking, “What do you mean, humans can’t feel what’s coming?”
Mrs. Murphy hopped onto the row next to the big fellow. “If they could, we’d all know it. Harry wouldn’t forget an umbrella or she’d throw snowshoes into the car. She listens to the Weather Channel, she goes outside and feels the air, but she’s behind. I think in order to survive, they once could read these changes, maybe not as well as we do but they could.”
“It’s terrible that they lost that ability.” Pirate frowned.
“They did it to themselves,” Pewter called from under the walnut.
“How can that happen?” Pirate had learned to take anything Pewter uttered with a grain of salt.
“Breeding,” Pewter replied with relish. “Instead of breeding stronger animals, they’ve bred weaker. The stronger ones died first in all their stupid wars. The cowards and weaklings lived. Bred more of the same.”
“Pewter, that’s awful,” Tucker barked.
“No one wants to hear the truth.” The gray cat flicked her tail in irritation. “Plus they bred stupidity as well. Lots and lots of stupid people.”
“Pewter, there are courageous people on earth now. Look at what Mom reads in the papers about protesters jailed in Russia or China or God knows what Middle Eastern country. Those people are willing to stand up and take the consequences.”
“Where are they here?” The gray fatty licked her lips.
“In the military,” Tucker fired back. “And our mother is not a coward. She’s faced danger.”
“O, la. The only reason she’s alive is we saved her how many times? She’s not the brightest bulb on the tree, you know.”
“You can’t compare humans to us. They are limited, but if they stay within their limitations they do pretty well,” Tucker thoughtfully said, then turned to Pirate. “Maybe one way to look at how you lose sense or senses is to look at some purebred dogs. Bassets used to have beautiful voices. The hunting bassets still do, but most of the show dogs have lost it. They are dwarf dogs, which I am, too.” He glared at Pewter. “You shut your mouth.”
Pewter replied with delightful maliciousness, “If the shoe fits, wear it.”
Mrs. Murphy warned Tucker. “Ignore her.”
“It’s hard to ignore someone that fat. Parts of her are in the next zip code.”
Pewter shot upward, tearing after the corgi, not bothering to sidestep the tiny little corn shoots.
“Hey!” Harry yelled.
“I will bloody that long silly nose of yours.”
Tucker had a head start and she could move along. After all, she was bred to herd cattle. Pirate, dumbfounded, watched the drama as Mrs. Murphy rubbed on Harry’s leg, hoping to calm the human.
“Kill!” Pewter sounded terrifying.
Tucker dodged to the left but the cat, fat or not, could easily change course.
Harry stopped to watch the drama. “She can run. Give her credit.”
Pirate lifted a paw and patted Harry, as the wolfhound had stepped back into the same row as the human.
“You’re a good dog, Pirate. God knows what any of us would do if you were a bad one.”
“I will always be a good dog to you. I will protect you and defend you for all my life,” the youngster murmured.
Mrs. Murphy, now under the big dog, called upward, “Good thing, Pirate, because you’ll have to. Harry gets into the damnedest messes.”
Tucker circled back to the little group as Harry left her garden, what she thought of as her best food garden, walking toward the barn. All the horses grazed in the verdant pastures. Every door and stall door had been flung open for the breeze. The upper doors where hay was stored were also open. The barn owl, asleep in the cupola, opened one eye, given Pewter and Tucker’s screams. She shut it. This was old news to her.
The tack-room door, open, allowed the beguiling scent of cleaned and oiled leather to drift into the center aisle. Harry loved visiting stables and barns. When she’d gone to Kentucky, she marveled at the Thoroughbred barns, some of them so grand, the cost must have been punishing. Those places were built for people who were not horsemen but who wanted to enter the racing game. Show impressed them. They naturally believed the owners had made money. Some had. Others inherited it. Others were smart enough to make money from other people’s money. No matter what, horse racing was tremendously impressive. Harry believed everyone should make a pilgrimage to Lexington, Kentucky, to take a stable tour. Maybe then they’d realize how important horses were to the economy. Of course, nothing was more important than dogs, who protected horses and humans, chased rats and other varmints, and even watched over children. Dogs truly were the center of the universe.
The center of Harry’s universe, or so she believed, trotted into the tack room, but it wasn’t a dog. It was Pewter, who had never lacked for self-regard even as a kitten.
“Scared the poop out of her.” She triumphantly jumped into Harry’s lap, looking straight into her eyes. “No one messes with Number One.”
“Aren’t you nesty.” Harry stroked her sleek head.
Despite the weight, Pewter was a deep gray with electric green eyes. She was pretty.
Mrs. Murphy followed in, jumping on the old tack trunk.
“Terrified. That dumb dog is terrified,” Pewter crowed.
“I’m sure,” the tiger cat fibbed.
The old dial phone rang. Harry picked it up. “Haristeen.”
“I know that.” Susan’s voice sounded over the line. “Why don’t you say Farm Queen? Have you seen that show FarmHer?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you when it comes on. Won’t do me any good to tell you now. You’ll forget.”
“My memory’s good.”
“Okay.” Susan took a breath. “But what I’m going to tell you will push other thoughts out of your head. Did you know Jeannie Cordle suffered from diabetes?”
“No. I wasn’t that close to Jeannie. A warm acquaintance but I rarely saw her. Is that what killed her?”
“No. Frank asked for an autopsy because he was worried about the diabetes. Would the kids, adults now, be subject to it? It does run in families.”
“Seems to.” Harry was not very medical even though she was married to a vet. “How are Frank and the family?”
“About as good as can be expected. They waited for the funeral until the autopsy, of course. Also people are so far-flung now, it takes time to get everyone here.”
“Did the diabetes contribute to her death?”
“No. Ned called me because he can reach people in Richmond and he wanted to know. He has some good contacts in the medical examiner’s office. They wouldn’t tell him anything until the family was notified. Fair enough. But something about the way whoever was on the phone said it set off an alarm bell in my husband’s busy brain.”
“And?”
“Ned called his contact back after the family was notified. I hope I can pronounce this right but she was poisoned—” Susan paused.
Harry interrupted. “What?”
“I’ll try this. Atropine and scopolamine. Strong toxins.”
“How in the world did she, what, eat that stuff or rub up against it? Wait a minute. If she ate poison at the auction, wouldn’t we all have gotten sick or died?”
“Well, let me keep going here. Again, this is all new stuff to me. Those two substances I mentioned can act fairly quickly depending on how much is ingested. Again depending, it could take a few hours. The GI tract absorbs it and I think if you’re active it might speed the process along. We need a real doctor here, but she was definitely poisoned. Ned, of course, has to be concerned with safety in his district. But what they told him was, ‘Think of belladonna, deadly nightshade.’ ”
“What the hell?” Harry was incredulous.
“The Solanaceae family is large. These damn words are hard to pronounce. But she had ingested poison, a natural poison. The question is how?”
“Don’t they have tissue samples?”
“They do, but they don’t tell anyone how she came by it.”
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