The Hounds and the Fury

by Rita Mae Brown

  The windshield wipers clicked against the ice as Gray drove on good roads to Crozet Veterinary Clinic.

  "Think he'll make it?"

  "He will. The wound is deep; he's lost blood. I don't want him to go into shock. I checked his gums when I put my coat around him. But Marty can handle it. He's dealt with worse cases than this." She filled Gray in on the coyote, on Uncle Yancy in the tree, and on the possibility that the graveyard had been disturbed by more than a coyote.

  "After Betty called me," said Gray, "I called Sam. He'll be there when Ben arrives."

  "He can't drive, can he?"

  "He shouldn't, but my little brother will manage. Crawford may allow Rory to go with him, but if he doesn't, you know Sam."

  Once they were inside the scrubbed clinic, Marty Shulman checked Dragon, put him under anesthesia, and thoroughly cleaned the wound.

  Sister would need to pick him up tomorrow, but Dragon would be good as new once the wound healed. He'd be out for the season, which would hurt Dragon more than his wound. Yes, he was arrogant and could be hardheaded, but the hound breathed fire like a dragon. He lived to hunt, and his nose and voice were outstanding.

  Driving west back toward Roughneck Farm, Gray sighed deeply. "Funny, we haven't been apart that long. I didn't realize how much I look forward to our weekends together until now. You spoil me."

  "I do," she agreed lightheartedly.

  "This last year has been one of the happiest years of my life."

  "Mine, too."

  "I can't wait for Friday."

  "How about if I make that pork roast you like so much? Your mother's recipe?"

  He smiled. "How about if I bring you a gardenia bush in full bloom?"

  She turned to stare at him. "That's major."

  They pulled into the farm as Shaker walked out of the kennels. Gray stopped. "Get in the car, Shaker; the ice is coming down too hard." Shaker hopped into the back, where the seats were laid flat, and sat with his legs straight out.

  "How's the boy?"

  "Being sewn up as we speak. Pick him up tomorrow."

  'You should have seen it." Shaker leaned forward.

  "Sister told me it was dramatic."

  "And funny. On the way back, Uncle Yancy followed us. He hung back with Bobby and Lorraine. No fool. Going home is a lot easier for him if he can follow in our footsteps, since this will probably turn worse. And the wind was in his face. Hounds couldn't get a whiff. Amazing creatures."

  "Did Bobby notice where Uncle Yancy left them?"

  "The big sycamore at the second creek crossing."

  "Changed dens." Sister liked knowing where her foxes lived.

  "Gray, honey, I need to see to Aztec. I'll have to leave you."

  "Girls did everything. Cleaned your tack, too. Cleaned up after Felicity," Shaker remarked.

  "What did she do?"

  "Threw up coffee."

  "I'm going to call Charlotte. Felicity might have a bug. This is the second time she's thrown up."

  "Well, don't be so fast. She took a bet from Val that she couldn't chug the thermos full of coffee. Val bet her ten dollars. She said it's much harder to chug a hot drink than a cold drink. So Felicity took the bet. She held it down for about fifteen minutes. Dumb kids." He laughed.

  "Felicity is in charge of the kitty. Guess she's trying to fatten it up. I'd think Val's profanity would be doing that," Sister said.

  "I never hear Val swear. She's a lady." Gray was surprised.

  "Among her peers she swears like a trooper." Sister filled him in. "So Val, Tootie, and Felicity each put in a dollar if they swear. At the end of the semester, they're going to throw themselves a party."

  "Good idea." Gray nodded.

  "Need any help in the kennel?"

  "No, Boss. All done. Lorraine's got the fire going. She said she's making navy bean soup." He winked. "By the time that's done she won't be able to drive home. These roads aren't going to get better."

  "Lucky devil." Gray laughed. "Wish I could say the same, but I need to get home and see if Ben is there."

  "Something's not right." Shaker rubbed his hands together. His joints hurt on a day like today.

  "Damn kids. They knock over the tombstones. I guess this time they've dug up someone, or tried to. What's the matter with them?"

  "Last year two kids dug up a lady buried back in the 1930s because they'd heard she was buried with her jewelry on." Shaker found it gruesome but titillating. "What they found wasn't jewelry but the sheriff, who came up on them at the right moment. Remember?"

  "I do." Gray paused. "Did you notice which grave had been disturbed?"

  "Not exactly disturbed. Coyote dug a hole. But the earth was packed down. Recent. Too recent." Shaker wondered what was going on at the old Lorillard place. He put his hand on Sister's shoulder. "Good hunt."

  "It was pretty good. I'm high on the second-year entry. They've got it now."

  "So do you." Shaker patted her, then opened the door, stepping into a stiff wind.

  Gray drove to the house. "I'll drop you at your door. Shaker forgot to tell me which grave was messed up."

  "Jemima Lorillard, 1761 to 1847. A good long life."

  "One of the white Lorillards. You know, I think we may be the only family where the white Lorillards are buried with the free black Lorillards as well as the slave Lorillards. It's quite a history, our family."

  "Most people think Jemima is a black name. It was quite popular in England and here in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Pretty name, really." She stopped. "Gray, I know you can't tell me details. But let me tell you what I think, since you're sitting in the middle of it down there at Aluminum M." She shortened Aluminum Manufacturing to "M."

  "Okay." Gray said only that.

  "Iffy is missing. I expect she's been milking money out of the company for years. I suggested to Ben that he get an order to exhume Angel Crump's body."

  "What?" Gray's eyebrows darted up. "That will upset Garvey as much as everything else."

  "Well, let me go on here. Angel thought little of Iffy. Iffy hated Angel. I expect Angel caught on. At any rate, Iffy's disappeared."

  "Looks like she got away with it."

  "That's just it, Gray. What if she didn't get away with it?"

  CHAPTER 22

  A wall calendar, new, large pages as yet uncurled on the bottom, hung in the coroner's office. Lyle Aziz, MD, liked his work but wished for more pay, a common desire among state employees. However, as a teaching physician in the pathology department down in Richmond at the Medical College of Virginia, he made enough to support his family. Better yet, he would never return to Egypt.

  One of the dangers of people coming to the United States to study was that they might not return to their former countries, especially if those countries seethed with internal dissent. As a Christian Lyle never felt secure. But he missed the ways of his country, the warmth of everyday encounters, the raucous gossip. He realized that living in the American South he was as close as he could get to these qualities among peoples of European descent, colder peoples than his own.

  "She is in such good condition," he enthused over the state of Iffy's body.

  Only a pathologist would make such a statement. Anyone else viewing human remains unceremoniously buried in a shallow grave for four days would feel otherwise. Thanks to the cold and the three feet of dirt she had been under, Iffy still had her nose. Her extremities, swollen and discolored, blood pooled there, contained all her digits. Patches of decay showed in spots, and gases filled her, but she could have been much worse. No flies in the winter. She remained intact, if not a cover girl.

  A single shot to the head had sent Iffy to the hereafter.

  Ben always carried a small jar of Vicks VapoRub in his jacket. As Iffy thawed he made use of it.

  "Looks simple enough."

  Lyle, gloves on, carefully inspected the wounds. The gun had been placed at her right temple. The bullet exited on the other side of her head. "True, but my fathe
r used to say, 'Suspect a trap where the sand is smoothest.' "

  Tattoo markers dotted the left side of Iffy's chest where radiation had been administered, square blocks within. Any physician or cancer patient would recognize the markers.

  "I'll leave her in your capable hands," said Ben.

  "Even though she's missing part of her skull where the bullet exited, how do you know she wasn't slowly poisoned? She could have shot herself in despair over her sickness. You never know until the evidence is in. Every autopsy is a detective story." Lyle's black eyes met Ben's. "Were these more primitive times, if I didn't have a state lab at my disposal, slow though it is, I'd go with cause of death is gunshot. Not self-inflicted. No powder burns. Her arms are short. She couldn't have held the gun far enough away to produce this wound. If you're going to do yourself in, you put the muzzle smack up to your temple or your mouth. She was murdered."

  "I figure Saturday night, early Sunday morning." Ben was a good judge of a corpse's condition and the time it took to reach that condition relative to season. "Thirty-six. Suffering from lung cancer."

  Lyle nodded then said, "Well, I'll start in. If I find anything unusual, I'll call you."

  "Thanks for coming in. I know this isn't your regular day."

  "I teach only Tuesdays and Thursdays. Friday's no problem. I'll get right to work."

  Three hours later, Ben's cell phone beeped. "Sheriff Sidell? Lyle here."

  'Yes." An expectant note rang in Ben's voice.

  "Iffy Demetrios did not have lung cancer. When I found no tumors, to be certain I sectioned out quite a bit of both lungs. This isn't to say there might not be a cancer cell that the lab will pick up, but you said she had lung cancer. I found no evidence of disease in her lungs."

  A long, long pause followed. "Lyle, that's the most interesting thing I've heard in this new year."

  Within fifteen minutes, Ben stood in front of Jason Woods. As it was his office day, Jason had graciously agreed to see the sheriff immediately.

  'You treated Iphigenia Demetrios for lung cancer. Correct?"

  "I did. She was responding beautifully. We caught it early."

  "May I see her records?"

  Jason balked for a moment, then said, "Under normal circumstances one must ask the patient or next of kin."

  "These aren't normal circumstance." Ben's voice conveyed authority.

  "Of course." Jason buzzed his secretary, who brought in a color-coded file. "Let's start with the x-rays." Without being asked, Jason walked to a wide metal file cabinet and pulled open a drawer much like those used in graphic arts businesses. Flipping through large manila envelopes, he pulled out Iffy's and then put it up on the light box. "Note the small but discernible mass right here, lower portion."

  'Yes. I see it."

  "This was the first x-ray. Naturally, I ran a battery of tests, although I've seen enough of these to feel I can recognize a malignant tumor. Still, one must be prepared for the anomaly." He pulled out another x-ray. "Here is the lung after her last series of treatments."

  "Which were?"

  "The first protocol involved radiation and chemo. The side effects troubled her. Once started, you must finish the exact number of treatments. She did. In view of her adverse reaction, I gave her more time to regain strength. Three months later she submitted again to radiation and chemo. I do the treatments here, which makes it much easier for the patient. This is the result." He pointed to the area where the tumor had originally been diagnosed. It had vanished.

  "Remarkable."

  "Like I initially said, early detection was critical. However, each day we make progress. As you may know, this is the third most common form of cancer. I'm proud of my success rate, and apart from aggressive treatment I think putting a patient on the chemo IV here in more pleasant surroundings raises a patient's spirits. I'm involved with them. My nurses offer support. It makes a huge difference."

  "What are the odds of the lung cancer returning?"

  "Well"—Jason stroked his chin—"the rule of thumb is if it doesn't recur in five years, you're home free. My feeling is the cancer may not return to the original site. It can migrate. Sometimes a tumor will send out seeds, if you will. The patient celebrates the five-year mark, yet three years after that the cancer manifests itself in a new site. We know when a patient comes in that if the cancer has metastasized into the lymph nodes that's usually the end of the journey. What we don't know is why some tumors create other cancers in other parts of the body and some don't. Maybe I shouldn't say this, but I don't know if we can conquer cancer, say in the way we have conquered TB. But we may advance to where cancer is a chronic condition that can be managed. A patient can enjoy a good life."

  "Did you think Iffy was cured?"

  'Yes, of the tumor." A troubled pause followed. "She had other complications."

  "Oh?" Ben found medicine fascinating.

  "Her platelets were higher than they should have been. That raised my suspicions that some cancer cells had established themselves elsewhere, but her tests were clean." He pointed to her bulging chart. "After her first round of chemo and radiation, she experienced trouble walking. Occasionally, radiation creates neurological side effects. Sometimes the side effect doesn't go away when the patient recovers. It's rare, but it does happen." He paused. "Granted, in time her legs might have become stronger, but that's one of the reasons I kept running tests on her. She wasn't bouncing back as fast as I'd hoped. If she was on her feet too long she'd become fatigued."

  "What about drugs? They can cause odd responses in some people."

  "Illegal, you mean?"

  'Yes."

  "Clean." He rustled through her folder, plucked out a sheet, and showed Ben Iffy's latest blood tests, pointing to the bar graphs on the page from the lab. "Clean as a whistle."

  "What about alcohol?"

  "She drank socially, but here"—Jason pointed to that test result—"within the boundary. Iffy was a challenge."

  "Could some of her behavior have been psychologically motivated? Some kind of neurosis?"

  Jason shook his head, a light smile on his lips. "That's not my field, Sheriff. Was she insane? No. Was she moody, erratic, cantankerous? All the time."

  "Some of that could be a result of her medications, you think?"

  "When she was undergoing chemo and radiation, yes. After she recovered, no."

  "One last question. You've been very good to give me your time. Did you like Iffy?"

  A broad smile covered Jason's face. "I did. Even when she was at her most uncooperative, I really did."

  "Ah." A shadow crossed Ben's strong face. "I'm sorry to tell you, Jason, your patient is dead."

  Confusion, doubt, suspicion registered in Jason's face. "What happened to her?" He sat down abruptly. "After all she'd been through."

  "She was shot."

  "Good God."

  "I'm sorry. I hope you understand that I'll ask more questions over time. I may even have to requisition your records, but I am sorry. You saw her through a great deal."

  'You know"—Jason's voice was misty—"nasty as she could get, there was a kind side to Iffy. She would talk to other patients during chemo. She'd bring fruit and candy. She complained ad infinitum to the rest of us, but with other cancer sufferers, she was marvelous. Why would anyone kill her? I can't understand it."

  "My job is to find out."

  "I'll help you any way I can."

  'You already have." Ben left. For the time being, he'd keep Lyle Aziz's revelation to himself. Best to wait for the lab reports from Richmond.

  Driving to Aluminum Manufacturers, he wondered how Garvey would take the news. After all, he was missing two million dollars. The culprit most likely had been shot in the head.

  He wanted to talk to Sister Jane, too. She used all her senses in a situation like this. Most people used only their eyes and ears.

  As he turned into the parking lot he remembered it was Friday the thirteenth.

  CHAPTER 23

  Wi
nter's gray skies depressed many people but not fox-hunters. Low fleecy clouds, ranging in color from pearl gray to gunmetal gray, cast their darkening shadows on the snow.

  Sister sat quietly on Lafayette as the huge tree, over three hundred years old, on Hangman's Ridge waved its branches in the breeze as if beckoning.

  The fixture card, printed on heavyweight good paper, had been sent out before Opening Hunt, the first weekend in November. The Jefferson Hunt tried to stay close to St. Hubert's Day, November 3, for their opening. Crawford had left the club a few days before Christmas. Today they would have hunted from Beasley Hall, Crawford's estate. That had to be changed. The easiest thing to do would be to hunt from the kennels. Since foxes flourished around Roughneck Farm, After All Farm heading east, and Foxglove Farm heading north, it should be fine.