Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I can work.”

  “Good,” Harry replied.

  It took her an hour to reach the farm, the waters in creeks and streams at the top of the beds but not over them yet.

  Everyone was soaked running from the truck to the house.

  “I need a dryer,” Pewter complained in the kitchen.

  “Go roll on a rug,” Tucker told her.

  As that wasn’t a bad idea, both cats did.

  Harry took Snoop into the basement, where a small room contained a shower, a bed, a dresser. She never used it, but sometimes if Fair had a late night and was particularly dirty, he’d shower down there.

  “Snoop, clean up. There’s a disposable razor in there and I’ll put fresh clothes at the top of the stairs.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  By the time he came up, shaved, in clean clothes that hung on him, as Fair was so tall, he smiled, for Harry had made lunch.

  Pewter, fur spiky, sat next to Harry, for she could smell the chicken.

  Feeling like a human being again, he finished his sandwich.

  “Did the work-crew bosses say what the jobs were?”

  “No. Only that there was damage. I don’t want to be out there. I don’t know if they were looking for me exactly, but they knew where I was.”

  “How long before they know he’s here?” Tucker sagely commented.

  May 11, 2015

  Lilac scent filled the air. A soft breeze gently touched the spring-green leaves of trees, causing a slight flutter. A high spring day almost guaranteed to lift spirits.

  Harry, Cooper, Snoop, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker piled into Harry’s Volvo station wagon. Although retained for driving people in comfort, it had racked up a lot of miles over the years. The animals had special car beds in the back but preferred to leap over the seatbacks to sit in available laps.

  They drove in silence until reaching Crozet. Passing through, they stayed on Route 810, which was getting built up like the rest of the county.

  “Turn right,” Cooper directed.

  Harry bumped along a gravel road.

  “Whoo.” Mrs. Murphy felt a big bump.

  Pewter sat up to look out the window. “Potholes. Guess they don’t want people coming down the road.”

  Pewter was right, they didn’t. Up ahead a white clapboard farmhouse with gable windows and maroon shutters awaited them. Parked in the simple driveway rested a van with a big painted blue water drop on it but no writing.

  “Here we are.” Cooper got out quickly as a burly man opened the farmhouse’s screen door. “Hey, Riley.”

  The porch stairs shook as he stepped down. “Deputy. Who’ve we got?”

  “Snoop, like I said when I called.”

  Snoop stepped out of the station wagon, as did Harry. The dog and cats looked and listened, for Harry partially rolled down the windows.

  Riley grew up here and knew Harry, and vice versa. “Hello, Harry.”

  Riley worked for the sheriff’s department. “Snoop, you’ll be safe here,” Harry reassured him.

  Snoop smiled but said nothing. He wanted a drink. He wanted to stay with Harry, but he understood the wisdom of a safe house. He’d try to stay on the wagon.

  “We go around in that van, which looks like an old plumbing van. We don’t draw attention to ourselves and most of the time you’ll be here. But if there’s a baseball game you want to see or something, we try to do it. Put you to work. It’s not bad and the food’s not bad either.” He laughed. “I’m proof.”

  Harry, sensing Snoop’s worry, reassured him again. “You’ve got my card. You’ve got your cell and I’ll come by. Snoop, we hope this gets resolved quickly, but until then, you have to be kept in a safe place with someone who knows how to protect you and others.”

  “Who else’ve you got?” Cooper inquired.

  “Only one other guest.” He smiled when he said guest.

  “All right, then. Snoop, you’re in good hands.” Cooper spoke to Snoop and then to Riley. “Good to see you.”

  Harry reached for Snoop’s hand, squeezed it, and whispered, “It will be okay.”

  Bumping back down the road, Harry said, “I feel bad leaving him here.”

  “You can’t protect him.”

  “Yeah, I know, but he’s a lost soul.”

  “All drunks are lost souls.” Cooper, having arrested, handcuffed, and hauled in plenty of aggressive drunks during her years of service, figured they did it to themselves.

  “Ever pick up one who froze to death?”

  “Not yet. Ever notice how many miserable people there are in the world?”

  “Can’t say that I have, but then you’re in a profession that deals with them.”

  “Yes, I am. I never thought of that when I went into law enforcement. I thought I would be helping people.”

  “You do,” Harry insisted.

  “Sometimes.” She avoided one pothole but hit the other, strategically placed. If you avoided the one on the right side, you were bound to thump into the one on the left.

  Pewter raised her voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Harry smiled. “We’re getting an editorial comment.”

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about,” Pewter complained.

  “If I were you, I’d be grateful,” Tucker said.

  “Coop, let’s drive down to The Barracks. We’ll be coming in from the opposite direction. Maybe we’ll see something or think of something we’ve missed.”

  “ ‘We’? You’re on the case now?” Cooper held on to the armrest on the door. “Damn, this road seems longer on the way out than the way in.”

  “It does. Ever notice how distances seem longer at night?”

  Cooper nodded in agreement. “Sure. Let’s go on down to The Barracks.”

  Farms along the way, houses closer to the road, caught the eye as lilacs, dogwoods, tulips bloomed. Especially lovely were lavender lilacs interspersed with the white.

  Harry turned left and within a few minutes reached the fork in the road to the stables. Driving up, she saw a fellow she went to high school with on the roof of the office at the stables.

  Getting out of the station wagon, Harry called up, “Winnie, what are you doing?”

  “Mrs. Bishop wanted the roof repaired. Got to do this in the light, too.”

  “Still working down at the county offices?”

  “Yep,” the burly fellow answered.

  Cooper, now beside her, looked up. “That’s a lot of roof to keep up at the offices.”

  “I’m a jack of all trades.” He stood up, as he’d been bending over.

  “Hey, Winnie, you ever see Frank Cresey down there?” asked Harry.

  “The old drunk? The halfback?” He started laughing. “Yeah, he’d walk along and he’d break into an open-field run, then zigzag. He’d crouch low. He was a trip.”

  “Did he ever ask you for chains?”

  “No.” Winnie was puzzled. “Like car chains, tow chains?”

  “We don’t know. Did he ever come into the maintenance area?”

  “Ah, poor guy, a couple of times he tried when the weather was evil, but the boss would throw him out. Guess he went into the building, curled up in a hall if he could get away with it.”

  “Do you keep chains there, at the offices?” Cooper asked.

  “We do. We have different weights, sizes, depending on the job. A good chain can get you out of a world of trouble.”

  Claiborne emerged from the office, looked up. “Winnie, don’t waste your time on these two.”

  “Claiborne,” Harry asked, “do you mind if we walk to the back of the property?”

  “No, not at all.” She nodded to Cooper. “Do you need anything?” Claiborne was ready to offer help.

  “No. We’re going back to see what we can see of Continental Estates. Back near the old milepost.”

  “You can pretty much see the development once you get over the rise.”

  “Claiborne, does your land go up
to the milepost?” Cooper wondered.

  “Almost. That was part of the old Garth estate. It’s where the old Garth and the Ashcombe lands joined. I think, anyway.”

  “I suspect history students must come out here from time to time,” Cooper thought out loud.

  “They do. When Ginger McConnell was teaching, he always brought his students out. He said he’d been doing that since he was hired at UVA. Before my time.”

  After a bit more chat, the two women and the animals trekked all the way to the rear of The Barracks on the eastern side.

  “There’s still dew.” Pewter picked up each paw. “Eeew.”

  “Buy tiny Wellies,” Mrs. Murphy said, mentioning the famous rubber boots beloved of horsemen.

  “Oh, shut up,” the gray cat shot back. “You don’t like it either.”

  Tucker ran ahead of the humans and the cats, ignoring Pewter.

  Cooper stopped. “Ah, you really can see the development. This part anyway.”

  “It’s huge,” said Harry, observing Continental Estates from this different angle.

  “They’re working on a weekend.”

  Harry said, “The earthquake and then the storm did some damage.”

  “That was some storm, too.” Cooper appreciated that. “So where’s the milestone?”

  “Not far. Let me show you.” Harry dipped down into a narrow gulley, worked her way up at a diagonal, then waited.

  “No way a car is going through that.” Cooper caught her breath. “I guess an ATV could do it. I’m just wondering about a back way into The Barracks.”

  “There really isn’t one.” Harry stopped at the milestone. “Isn’t it amazing to think that these are still up and down the original thirteen colonies?”

  “It is,” Cooper agreed. “But I don’t see how anyone could travel this way.”

  “Three bridges had been built, two of short span for this gulley and the one up ahead, and then a longer one for the ravine.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “When I was in high school, Ginger took our history class out here as a special treat for our history teacher and us. He loved doing this and what I remember is his saying the bridges allowed foods and supplies to come into the prisoner-of-war camp and save time.”

  “Efficient.”

  Harry heard a whoosh in the distance. Suddenly, a hot air balloon—colorfully red, white, and blue—came into view.

  “They are so noisy,” Pewter grumbled. “I hate those things.”

  “I don’t really know when The Barracks fell into disrepair. Guess there was no use for them,” Harry said.

  They turned, walking back.

  Cooper stopped, looked again at the topographical obstacles. “Harry, maybe they used chains and draft horses to haul logs, beams into place.”

  “Could be, but what would Frank want them for? Or what did he hope to know?” Harry shrugged, then pulled her cellphone out of her jacket pocket. “Maybe Trudy knows.” She called her.

  “Trudy. Harry.”

  “I know. Your number came up on my phone. How are you?”

  “Fine, and you?”

  “Doing as good as I can,” Trudy honestly replied.

  “Forgive me for asking questions again, and I have Deputy Cooper here with me. Did Ginger ever talk about ironworks, forges, how people made chains, nails, stuff like that?”

  “Actually, he visited those that still stand. There’s one down at Oak Ridge.” Trudy named an estate in Nelson County. “Every big farm had its own forge. The historic places often restore them. In those cases, some are in use only for show, obviously.”

  “Did he mention any of this close to the time of his death?”

  “No, he was focused on prisoners of war, as you know. You’ve seen his desk and his editor’s bin. I expect there was a forge at The Barracks.”

  “Yes,” Harry agreed. “Sorry to bother you. It was a long shot.”

  “Do you mind telling me?”

  “It’s odd. Deputy Cooper has questioned the people who live on the mall who knew Frank Cresey. Frank would go to the library and read, read about the Revolutionary War and afterward. Ginger’s influence stuck, I guess. Anyway, Frank also mentioned to someone on the mall that he was going down to the county office to look for chains.”

  “How very odd.” Trudy’s well-modulated voice registered surprise.

  “Again, Trudy, I’m sorry to bother you, and thank you.”

  As they headed back to the stable area, clear in the distance of a half mile, Cooper sighed. “It was a long shot. Maybe the two murders aren’t connected.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Harry said, “but I’m not ready to give up yet.” She thought for a moment. “Today is Mother’s Day. Did you send flowers?”

  “Called. Sent flowers.” Cooper smiled. “Mom loves living in New Mexico, but it’s so far away. Most older people go to Florida, places where it’s warm. Snows in New Mexico. She’s happy, that’s what counts.”

  “Does. I miss my mother. You’re lucky to still have yours.”

  Cooper put her arm around Harry’s waist. “Your mother did a good job with you.”

  September 1, 1781

  A light rain didn’t dampen John Schuyler’s spirits. Hurrying to his quarters, he carefully packed what little gear he had in a small campaign trunk. Kept under his cot, so small his feet hung over the end, the two treasured books Catherine had given him, the paper in which they were wrapped, and the raffia all rested in the trunk, along with a letter from his mother. She had paid to have it written in a good hand. John sent his parents what he could spare when he was paid. Not often.

  The second small book on good paper contained two of Shakespeare’s plays, Macbeth and Julius Caesar. Catherine had selected the dramas for him because of their military themes.

  Having few possessions, he packed in twenty minutes. He pushed the trunk back under the cot, walked to Lieutenant West’s barracks. Although early evening, the air remained warm, a light breeze making all pleasant.

  “Lieutenant,” Schuyler called, outside West’s barracks.

  Inside and barefoot, Charles heard the familiar voice and walked from the housing, Piglet at his heels. “Captain.”

  A broad grin crossed John Schuyler’s face. “I have been assigned to Lafayette. The war most definitely is in Virginia, and I leave at daylight.” He laughed. “The commandant won’t give me a horse.”

  “That will be a long walk to the coast, I assume.” Charles had gained an understanding of Virginia’s geography.

  John smiled. “I will hire a wagon. I am allowed to do that. Finally, free from this place. You are not the only one imprisoned here.”

  “Just different sides of the fence, so to speak.”

  “I am hoping to pass through large towns, and I would like to buy and send a book to Miss Ewing. Can you suggest something?”

  The two discussed the contents of Aesop’s Fables and the two Shakespeare plays. The Englishman was impressed with how the captain grasped the essence of each play, even as he struggled with the language in spots. In this way, those few times when the dark-haired man could speak with Catherine, he could hold his own during literary discussions, constrained though they were. John and Catherine grew closer in mind through the readings. Charles knew how quick her mind was. Schuyler, adept at anything involving arms, was now proving adept at reading for pleasure. He had never before read for pleasure.

  “I don’t know books,” he complained. “What would she like? I can’t give her more plays. She’s read them all.”

  Charles said, without hesitation. “The Sonnets. Buy her the best bound volume you can afford of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.”

  “Do you not think she has read everything he has written? She prizes him above all others.”

  “Captain, the volume will be from you and the work is very beautiful. The Sonnets it must be.” Charles held out his hand. “May my pistol protect you. May you be well.”

  “And you also.”

  A
mischievous smile played on Charles’s lips. “Our paths will cross again. Not in war, I trust.”

  Impulsively, John took both of Charles’s hands in his. “I pray it be so.”

  He turned and walked off with Charles’s good wishes and his father’s expensive flintlock.

  Walking back into the barracks, the dust still warm between his toes, Charles noticed Piglet standing still, watching the tall captain disappear in the distance.

  September 3, 1781

  The sun, up for an hour, bathed the corn, the apple orchards, the wheat in gold.

  Captain Schuyler jumped out of the wagon. He’d had to pay the driver a bit extra for the stop. Fortunately, he had not far to travel, although he couldn’t tell Charles West that. He was to connect with a few troops on the east side of Charlottesville. With them, he would be moving to the coast. In Virginia, intent on rampage, Cornwallis was getting his wish. He would also get battle. His commander-in-chief, Sir Henry Clinton, was unable to restrain Cornwallis. The two British generals barely communicated, their mutual disregard having arrived at an unhealthy distaste.

  Knocking on the door, hat under his left arm, as he had learned from Charles, John awaited the Garths’ butler.

  Opening the door, Roger, beautifully dressed, smiled slightly. “Captain.”

  “Might I have a word with the master?”

  “I shall see if he is available. Please, come in.”

  Within moments, Ewing, an early riser, told the butler to invite Captain Schuyler into the breakfast room for, of course, breakfast.

  The room, flooded with light, seemed to create a halo around Catherine as the good captain walked in. It lent Rachel a glow as well, but John’s focus was on Catherine.

  Bowing to the father, with a chair pulled out for him by Weymouth, John sat down.

  Wonderful though the food was, he was so tense he had to force himself to eat it, or to make conversation. When the dishes were cleared at last, fine bone china at that, he dabbed his lips with a napkin and began, “Sir, you have been so hospitable to me. I can never repay your kindness.”

  “Oh, my dear captain, after four bridges and two roads, I fear it is the opposite,” Ewing nearly gushed.