Hounded to Death

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Hope, when are you going to come hunt with me?” Sister teased. “Think of how happy that will make your clients.”

  “When I have more time,” the diminutive vet replied. “But I will come to hound walk. I promise.” She pulled sandwiches out of the bag. A couple of bourbon labels were stuck to her plastic sandwich wrappers. “Recovered?”

  Sister knew Hope referred to the Kentucky show, finding Mo and then Giorgio. They’d had a phone conversation the day before, when Sister got home.

  “Pretty much.”

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  Sister shrugged. “The question is, Why did someone wait so long to kill him?”

  “Should have been strangled in the cradle,” Hope half joked.

  “If you think about it, Mo Schneider makes a good case for free abortion on demand.”

  Both women laughed, then Hope said, “Any more news on that point?”

  “No. And I heard from O.J. Fonz still has no memory of who attacked him or how he ended up in that shed at Keeneland.”

  “How’s Giorgio?”

  “Good. He liked driving back with me.” Sister pointed to the labels. “Where’s the bourbon?”

  Hope’s eyebrows lifted. “Be nice if I had all these brands. I’ve started lately to study them.” She pointed to an Evan Williams label. “Simple. Old-fashioned. Then there are bottles like Woodford Reserve. No labels. The name is on the glass.”

  “I like that.” Sister picked up a cream-colored label. “Not much information.”

  “No.”

  “You know who loves bourbon and I suspect is well versed in it, since he’s the type to learn all about something? Grant Fuller.”

  Hope stiffened slightly. “We’ve talked.” She looked up as Dan came back in.

  He replied to the unasked question. “Lab results in on Caroline Silverman’s mare. Negative.”

  “Good.” Hope smiled.

  “You need to eat lunch and I need to push on. Good to see you-all.”

  “Fair enough. Take care.”

  Sister left, bag in hand, and drove back home.

  The rest of her day passed in chores. She reminded Walter Lungrun, her joint master, to get a burn on the jump-building parties before the heat really became oppressive and the chiggers came out.

  Chiggers could make a woman question the wisdom of the Almighty.

  She wanted to clean the house because Gray Lorillard, her boyfriend, would be back Wednesday from visiting his aunt. She knew she’d not get to it tomorrow morning. Now or never.

  Back in the house, the phone rang: Felicity Porter.

  “Felicity, how are you?”

  “I’m fine,” the Custis Hall senior said. “Mom and Dad refuse to come to my graduation. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Sister wanted to slap Felicity’s parents. The girl was pregnant and would marry when she turned eighteen, next month. The Porters, having envisioned a brilliant career for their daughter as an investment banker or stockbroker, had turned their backs on her. She planned to get a job, go to night school if possible, and raise her child. The baby’s father, Howie Lindquist, quarterback on the Miller School football team, loved Felicity and seemed to be a responsible young man.

  “You’ll be my only friend.”

  “You have many friends, Felicity.”

  “My only older friend.”

  This made Sister laugh. “Well, honey, I’m a trustee. You know I’ll be there, but if you want other older friends why don’t you ask Walter Lungrun and Betty and Bobby Franklin? They’ll stand by you. I know it’s terribly upsetting, honey, your parents not coming, but you’ll pull through. I believe in you.”

  “Thank you.” A pause followed. “Pamela’s mother and father are coming. Pamela says her mother is going to make a last-ditch effort to get her to drop Ol’ Miss and go to the University of Pennsylvania. With her father’s money and her grades they’ll let her in even though it’s after the deadline. She was accepted there but turned them down.”

  “You-all got accepted at so many colleges.”

  “We really are the best class to graduate from Custis Hall.”

  “No, mine was.” Sister teased her. “Class of Fifty-three. We’re the ones who gave the school the gorgeous silver tea service. See if the class of 2008 can top that.”

  “We can try.” Felicity enjoyed the challenge. “The kitty is now at $1002.”

  At the beginning of last year’s hunt season, Val, Tootie, and Felicity agreed to pay a dollar to the kitty each time one of them swore. The bulk of that sum had been paid by Val. The goal was to throw themselves a huge graduation party.

  “Val apparently has not yet learned the virtue of restraint.”

  “Good for us.” Felicity paused. “Thank you, Sister. You helped Howie and me find a place to live, you got me a job, you—well, I promise you I will be worth it.”

  “Honey, all I did was open doors. You had to walk through them.”

  “I promise you I will support myself and I will support Jefferson Hunt. I swear it.”

  “I believe you will.”

  After Sister hung up she finished the cleaning, surprised at how fast she did it. Usually it dragged on because she didn’t want to do it. But talking to Felicity picked up her energy.

  Fortunate in the young people who hunted with her, she couldn’t understand people who complained about the young. It seemed to her that young people were like old people, good and bad in every bunch. She was surrounded by good ones.

  By nine in the evening, she had showered and was headed for bed when Golly, moving at warp speed, nearly knocked her down, heading for the closet.

  “The end is coming!” The long-haired calico declared.

  Sister couldn’t feel changes in atmospheric pressure as early as the cats, dogs, hounds, and horses, but there had to be a storm brewing. Golly always headed straight for the folded cashmere sweaters, burying herself underneath them at the first hint of a boomer.

  Sister opened the bedroom windows. The air felt oppressively still. The sun had set but a glimmer of gray colored the west, and she could still see the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains directly behind her. In the north sky she also saw enormous boiling black clouds.

  “Uh-oh.” She threw on her slippers and robe, ran downstairs, pushed opened the mudroom door, hurried outside, and closed the windows of the Forester.

  She hadn’t even gotten a foot out of the car when the first roll of thunder gave fair warning. What was odd was that it didn’t stop. The rolling thunder lasted for a full seven minutes. Lightning, still behind the Blue Ridge, was heading southwest. Within minutes it would be over the mountain, and then it would take fifteen minutes, tops, to reach the farm.

  She grabbed the phone in the kitchen just as another flash, a sheet of light, made everything stand out in sharp relief.

  “Shaker.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She hung up. She and Shaker were telepathic. She had called to tell him to get to the kennel, because often a storm can provoke a particularly sensitive hound into labor and Violet was sensitive. If the mother panicked she might roll on her puppies.

  “Oh, boy, this is going to be a whopper,” she told Raleigh and Rooster.

  Neither dog was afraid of thunderstorms. Sister wondered if fear is inbred somehow, just as some phobias seem to run in families. Then again, they could be teaching one another the phobia.

  A crash overhead rattled the glassware. This was followed by a bolt of lightning, which blasted Hangman’s Ridge, three miles distant from the house and eight hundred feet higher.

  Here was a thunderstorm of biblical intensity. Two minutes after the strike on Hangman’s Ridge the rain started. Water lashed at windowpanes. Coupled with the thunder, the sound made Sister jump a few times.

  Worried, she hurried back upstairs from the kitchen, the old winding wooden steps reverberating underfoot. Once in her bedroom she walked into her closet,
spying a fluffy tail hanging out from under the cashmere sweaters.

  “It’s all right, Golly. It’s all right.”

  “I’m going to die,” Golly cried.

  “I wish.” Rooster taunted her, as he followed on Sister’s heels.

  Under any other circumstances, Golly would have attacked Rooster.

  Sister patted the top of the cashmere sweaters. “You’re safe in here. You just sit tight.”

  “I don’t want to die,” Golly shook.

  By eleven-fifteen the storm was continuing, but with slower intervals between thunderclaps. Sister pulled on overalls, a slicker, and her green wellies and was in the kennels within minutes. “She all right?”

  “Four so far.”

  “You go, girl.” Sister smiled down at the lovely hound. “Shaker, I’m going to check the pastures. They all have run-in sheds, but half the time the horses don’t use them in a storm. I don’t get it.”

  She grabbed the large flashlight from the kennel office and walked to the first pasture. Aztec, Lafayette, and Matador were fine and, no, they weren’t standing in the run-in shed.

  She climbed the fence between pastures and walked toward Shaker’s horses. Gunpowder hung his head.

  She walked faster but didn’t run. Animals, especially ones as sensitive as horses, pick up human emotion. If you’re scared, they’re scared.

  “Gunpowder.” She stopped before him.

  Blood was everywhere. She ran the flashlight over his body until she found a deep wound in his upper inner thigh near his sheath. There was no way to determine the direction of the wound. The rain still came down, and even with the flashlight it was hard to see. She took hold of his halter, gently walking him toward the barn, lifted the kiwi latch on the gate, and got him into the wash stall.

  Oh, God, she thought to herself. Don’t let him have a perforated intestine. Please.

  She began to wash him with warm water. A spurt of blood rewarded her. She now had a better look at the site. A two-inch hole where the upper leg meets the underside of the animal gushed like Old Faithful.

  Gunpowder wobbled.

  She ran for the cell in the tack room and dialed Hope’s emergency number at the clinic. No answer. She called the home number.

  “Hello,” came a sleepy voice.

  “Hope? Sister. Can you get here?”

  “Be there as fast as I can.”

  She ran back in the wash stall, took a half roll of vet wrap and squished it to make it smaller, wrapped a thin old towel around it, and plugged the hole with her left hand while holding not too hard, above it with her right, to slow the bleeding. If he dropped, she’d never get him in the trailer. It was obvious he needed to go to the clinic, but first she needed the vet here. In a crisis, Hope could stretch out a plastic tarp, knock him out, and operate. But dropping a horse in a barn or pasture can lead to other injuries. That’s why Hope’s padded operating table was sheer genius.

  She waited for what seemed forever, praying she could stanch the flow, all the while talking to Gunpowder.

  Bitsy left her owlets to watch, and for once the tiny little thing had the sense to keep her beak shut.

  Headlights shone through the rain. Thank God.

  Hope appeared in the barn twenty minutes after Sister’s call. She must have driven like a madwoman to get there so fast. She removed Sister’s bandages, a second set.

  “Good work, you stopped the flow,” Hope said briskly; then, all business, she performed a brief exam. Blood had covered the washroom floor, filled the drains, and splashed all over Sister and Hope.

  “Let’s load him. No time to lose. He’s in shock.”

  The two of them carefully walked the wobbly big gray out of the wash stall and down the aisle. Sister ran out; the trailer was parked near the barn. She dropped the back walkway. They got him up. She didn’t tie him for fear he would drop during the ride. No need for his head to be yanked up.

  Driving as fast as they could in the rain, they arrived at the clinic in twenty minutes.

  One on each side of Gunpowder, the women walked him into the operating room. The outside garage door had allowed Sister to back right up to it.

  Sister marveled at Hope’s efficiency and skill. It’s one thing to see the vet at your farm for routine checks or small problems; it’s another to see her in a full-blown crisis.

  Hope hit Gunpowder with a shot of anesthetic. The big guy went to his knees, both women steadying him so he would go down with the wound side exposed. In a short time he was completely sedated. They stretched him out carefully.

  Hope pressed the hydraulic lift, and the operating table came up to waist level. She put on her coat and mouth cover, pointing to Sister to do the same. When she probed and cleaned the wound, a bit more blood came out, but thankfully the major artery there hadn’t been severed.

  Reaching in while Sister held the small snake light, Hope irrigated the wound again, checked to see if she’d missed any dirt, and sewed the wound closed.

  The major problem now was that Gunpowder was in shock. Hope quickly began to replace fluids intravenously. “Want a career as a vet tech?”

  “Be fascinating. You need steady nerves.”

  Hope removed her surgical gloves and Sister did the same; then she removed her mask and turned to the older woman. “He’s going to be out for a couple of hours. I’ll sleep in here. When he starts to rouse I can get him into a stall. ’Course, Dan or Lisa might be here by then.”

  “How are his chances?”

  “Good. I expect there will be swelling, and if there’s too much I’ll take out the stitches and insert a drain tube. I’d like to try to get him through without doing that. I’ve got to keep the IV bag on him for”—she swept her gaze back to the recumbent animal—“well, at least three days and maybe more. And he’ll be on a program of antibiotics for a full two weeks. After that, we’ll see. The last thing we want, Sister, is for this to turn into a full-blown infection. The wound itself is deep enough.”

  “Missed his intestines, thank God.”

  “Yes. And whatever he got into didn’t shred a lot of muscle. It’s a very deep puncture wound but no ligaments are torn; you know how bad that gets.” She paused. “He has to heal from the inside out, but I’d be surprised if it affects his movement at all. When I probed I didn’t find anything that set off alarm bells.” She exhaled. “I need a cigarette.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked.” Sister had removed all her paraphernalia, washing up after Hope finished.

  “When no one’s looking.” Hope walked over to check Gunpowder one more time. “You ever smoke?”

  “At college and in my twenties; then I gave it up. Every now and then, though, I miss it. Tobacco may be bad for your health, but it’s good for your nerves.” Sister followed Hope out of the operating room and into the small lounge. “Need me to help you roll in a cot?”

  “No, I can do it. God, listen to that rain. It’s coming down hard again. We haven’t had a storm this fierce in years. I just hope the roof on the house holds up. Soon time to put on new shingles.” Hope dropped wearily into the deep cushioned sofa. “Ah.” Irritated that she forgot the cigarettes, she got up, walked to the front desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pack of Nat Shermans. Then she rejoined Sister.

  Sister was surprised at the brand. “I used to smoke those. I’d have them sent down from New York.”

  “If you’re going to fill your lungs with smoke, you ought to do it from really good weeds.” Hope lit up, closed her eyes, and inhaled. “Filthy night.”

  Sister leaned back, enjoying the fragrance of her old brand. “Thank you.”

  “Sister.” Hope smiled. “That’s my job.” Another long drag followed. “Actually, I like the tough cases. I like having to think fast. It doesn’t allow you time to worry about yourself.”

  “True.”

  “I’ve been thinking too much about myself lately, and I resent it, you know? I mean, I resent my divorce because in a funny way it has made me self-
centered. Maybe we’re all self-centered to a degree, but I didn’t think I was all that awful about it.”

  “I don’t think you are.” Sister crossed her arms across her chest, slid down a bit in the sofa, and stretched out her legs. “Oppression does that to people. It’s a kind of reverse narcissism.”

  Hope was not one to think in social terms. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if you see the world through a preconceived belief—that women are mistreated or blacks and gay people are second-class citizens, take your pick—then in a bizarre way you’ve become self-centered. Divorce, in its way, is a form of institutional oppression and misery. It’s more than understandable, but if I think about the times I’ve been held back because I’m a woman, I’m not thinking about the Middle East, I’m not thinking about the true function of the Federal Reserve. So the folks in power—and we all know who they are—remain unchallenged.”

  Hope drew on the Nat Sherman, then turned to Sister. “You have an original mind.”

  Sister laughed. “No, Hope, I have a different kind of mind. You’re a scientist.”

  “Now that you mention it, what is the function of the Federal Reserve?”

  “To stabilize banking. It has no business tampering with the economy. Its function most assuredly is not to stimulate the economy but, people being human, those reservists, for lack of a better term, cave to political pressure. Anyway, that’s how I see it.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “You know, I have to get back to the farm because Violet is whelping and I left Shaker alone. Hey, you sit here, you did a lot more work than I did. Let me roll the cot into the operating room. Where is it?”

  “Closet.” Hope didn’t protest this time.

  It took Sister a few minutes to roll the little bed out and set it up, then she knelt down to stroke Gunpowder’s head and kissed him on the nose.

  When she came back, Hope had fallen asleep. Sister took the cigarette out of her fingers in the nick of time. “Hope.”

  “Huh?” Hope sat bolt upright. “I’ve never done that!” She viewed the stub in Sister’s fingers.

  “How Jack Cassidy died.” Sister named a talented actor from the past. “Fell asleep with a cigarette and burned to death.”