Fox Tracks: A Novel

by Rita Mae Brown

  “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 hi
ll. 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.

  He and the boss texted in code for pickups and deliveries so Art knew the call would provide more information.

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Art, can you go up next Tuesday?”

  “Sure can.”

  “Donny?”

  “He’s a good hand.”

  “That’s what you said about Carter. I trusted you and I’m still trusting you, but if Donny proves shaky, we got a problem.”

  “He’s solid,” said Art. “Also, he doesn’t drink. I didn’t know Carter fell off the wagon.”

  “For good.”

  That was the end of the conversation. When the sheriff had questioned Art, he told Ben some of what he knew about Carter. Not all, of course. He was afraid to ask the boss about the journeyman’s end. Now his fears were confirmed. He sat there wondering if he could get off the merry-go-round. As long as he did his job, kept his mouth shut, asked no questions at pickups or deliveries, he thought he’d be okay. But what if something went wrong?

  CHAPTER 28

  “I apologize for citing Tariq Al McMillan as a member of the Muslim Brotherhood,” said Congressman Rickman, looking utterly distressed. “In my zeal to root out terrorists, I have done a disservice to fellow Christians. As a born-again Christian, I was not aware of the Coptic Sect. Although their religion is in many ways unlike Western Christianity, they are still Christians, and are under assault. The Coptic Christians comprise about 10 percent of Egypt’s population but the official figure given is 8.6 million. I apologize for being unaware of the scale of persecution.

  “As a member of the United States Congress, I will use my office to do what I can to help besieged Christians everywhere.”

  On network TV, Congressman Dave Rickman ate a large portion of crow but did his best to make it look like pheasant.

  Sister, Gray, and Tootie watched the news report Wednesday morning.

  “I’ll be damned.” Sister clapped her hands, which made the dogs bark.

  “I’m eating,” Golly complained. “Let’s be civilized.”

  “I wonder who got to him?” Gray said.

  “Crawford,” Sister answered. “I don’t know how he did it, but he did it. True to his word. At our emergency board meeting, he said he’d take care of it.”

  This in-studio report was followed by a news correspondent in Cairo reporting on riots on the streets of Egypt.

  Tootie watched in horror. “When I talked to Tariq the last time he hunted with Jefferson, he said he was going to try and get his parents and sisters out of there. I can see why.”

  After Gray left for a meeting in Charlottesville, the two women finished the outside chores, then drove to Mill Ruins. Sister had asked Walter if she could feed the foxes on his property, and he’d agreed.

  With the truck bed carrying twenty-five-pound bags of kibble, the first stop was in front of the old mill. Tootie hoisted the bag on her shoulder and they walked behind the mill, where a large wooden feeder box was tucked under heavy brush.

  Sister fought the branches and creeper, lifting up the large door on top. “I make this hard for myself.”

  Tootie set the bag down, sliced off a corner with her pocket-knife, then lifted it up, pouring the kibble into the feeder box.

  “They cleaned this out, didn’t they?” Tootie could smell fox.

  “It’s been a month. If the weather is bad, with nothing left out there—which is usually the case in February, early March—I step it up to every three weeks. But it’s been such a warm winter until now.”

  They walked back to the truck, crunching little ice crystals below in the mud. The low farm road ruts were half filled with melted snow, a skim of thick ice on top.

  The second stop was way back at the edge of the property’s pastures. Sister crawled over a coop and took the bag from Tootie, who then lifted herself over. Then they filled another big box in the woods.

  Walking back, both women breathed a little heavier than when they started.

  “I thought I was in good shape.” Tootie smiled.

  “Two legs. You’re usually up on four when you’re covering distance,” Sister said. “Okay. Two more buckets at Mill Ruins, then we’d better drop some food at Tattenhall Station.”

  The thick mud made getting back to the big shed difficult: The bed of the truck fishtailed, but that four-wheel-drive did the trick. Finally, they made it. The door to the shed was not locked.

  “No feeder.” Sister got up on the back of the truck to hand down two five-gallon buckets with lids. A small hole was drilled at the edge, two inches from the bottom.

  She handed these to Tootie, then jumped down to pull off a bag of food.

  “I thought you put food a ways from the den. Make them travel for it,” Tootie said once they were in the dimly lit shed.

  “I do, but I think we’ll have babies here come early April,” explained Sister. “So I�
�m going to put one bucket by the two openings and we can walk another one to the woods’ edge. When we hunted here we jumped a dog fox I didn’t know. He’s here with our vixen. Oh, hey, will you go get me baling twine? There’s a roll on the floor on your side of the truck.”

  “Right. Along with the hair dryer.” Tootie left quickly, returning with the twine.

  Sister tied the bucket through the handle to an old nail sticking out of a support post. This way the foxes could fish out the food but not overturn the bucket.

  “Ready?” Tootie then poured part of the feed bag into the five-gallon buckets.

  Sister clamped the lid on top.

  As they drove out after taking the other bucket to the woods, they again fishtailed left and right. A quarter of a mile from the turnoff, Art DuCharme was driving straight for them. Surprised at seeing them, he backed out—no easy task.

  Sister waved as she reached the paved road. He waved back while trying to appear nonchalant.

  “Wonder what Art’s doing back here on Walter’s land?”

  After driving down the much better farm roads and filling up four huge feeders at Tattenhall Station, they returned to Roughneck Farm. She needed to make her draw list, the list of hounds to hunt, and give it to Shaker to compare. Tomorrow they’d hunt at Little Darby.

  Before that, she phoned Ben Sidell. “Ben, I was at Mill Ruins filling up feeders. I ran into Art DuCharme on the road to the shed, the one that was locked up.”

  “I thought I told you not to go back there or to the abandoned road at the Lorillard place.”

  “You did, but time has passed and I need to feed the foxes. I’m sorry, I should have called you first.”

  “You should.” He waited. “Art?”

  “Right.”

  “Was he surprised to see you?”

  “I’d say so. Probably as surprised as I was to see him.”

  “Well, thank you for calling me.”

  “Is Art a person of interest? Isn’t that what you say now?”