Ten Little Bloodhounds

by Virginia Lanier

  “Jealous?”

  “Of course not,” I said quickly. “You know she just broke up with that bruiser who lives over in Collins. I’m just worried that he might return and break his guitar over your head.”

  Hank chuckled with satisfaction. He had received confirmation that I was still interested.

  “Jeff and I will be there around eleven.”

  “Hank, will you do me a big favor?”

  “It depends.”

  “Ask Sheriff Beaman to leave the helicopter there and let you drive him out here. It’s only three miles.”

  “Why?”

  “There are ten suspects, and the pilot is one of them. I don’t want to meet him in a social situation where I would be forced to shake his hand. He may be the perp.”

  Hank accepted my explanation and agreed.

  That should thwart Mr. Randall Finch if he was planning on meeting a simpering grateful woman who would fall all over him for an invitation to dine. I smiled with relish.

  Sometimes I’m much too devious for my own good.

  When Hank and Beaman arrived, it was obvious I would have my work cut out for me. The sheriff was on his high horse and not being subtle.

  “Glad you could come, Sheriff. I appreciate you bringing me a copy of your files,” I said, beaming, as I offered my hand.

  He ignored both my hand and my gracious smile.

  He spit.

  “I didn’t have a choice in the matter,” he uttered, looking over at the kennel.

  “Howdy, Jo Beth!” Hank was acting friendly and pumped my hand several times. “You sure have a nice place here.”

  I gave him a severe glare. You ought to know, you ninny, you lived here once for six weeks!

  He was tall, slim, and trim. He wore a uniform of tailored gabardine. He didn’t have to wear a uniform, but he knew that the long creased lines showed off his lanky figure to perfection. His dark hawklike eyes and ebony hair, his gift from an Indian ancestor, made him tall, dark, and handsome. There was only one problem: He knew it.

  I had to bite back a retort. He was enjoying his friend’s sour manners.

  “Would you like me to give you a tour of the kennels, Sheriff?”

  “Never could abide bloodhounds,” he commented, not facing me. “Hard to raise and a mangy breed. Never used them and never will. They are lousy with coons, and can’t fetch a squirrel if you drop one at their feet.”

  He punctuated his comments with another spit, looking at Hank for his approval. Hank gave him a wan, noncommittal smile. He was careful to stay neutral. He knows how far he can push and my low boiling point when someone shows contempt for my animals.

  Now I can abide an angry attack on me personally, but my bloodhounds? Never!

  “Sheriff, you have every right to be angry with me. You don’t want any woman poking her nose into one of your cases. I can live with your disapproval of me, but don’t disparage my bloodhounds. Every word you utter about them points out your ignorance of both law enforcement advances and the breed.”

  “You calling me ignorant?”

  “If the shoe fits,” I said, giving him a Cheshire grin, “then wear it!”

  “Well, that sure is something, you getting hot and bothered about those hounds of yours. Jackson came back from seeing you, and gave me a cock-and-bull story about how those bloodhounds could have found Miz Cancannon’s killer if they could smell the air in her bedroom. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, telling such big whoppers, and the damn fool believed you. I can’t get over it, thought he had more sense.”

  “Every word I told him was the gospel truth. Several cases have been written up and published in most of the periodic police journals, which you obviously don’t read.

  “The man I bought the scent machine from lives in New York. He has personally presented bloodhound evidence to the courts in over three thousand cases, in which he achieved convictions in every case! Quite an enviable record, don’t you think? I’ll give you his name and address, if you wish. You just might learn something to help you get a conviction now and then. And one other thing. Bloodhounds’ testimony were convicting felons in court a hundred years before you were born!”

  Beaman turned to Hank. “I’ll be in your car, when you’re ready to leave.”

  He turned and trudged back to Hank’s car.

  I threw up my hands in disgust. “Leave!” I yelled. “You just might learn something if you stay!”

  “Hush,” Hank hissed softly, “you’ve done enough damage for one day. Don’t make matters worse.”

  I glared at him and stalked back inside. I slumped at my desk. No reports, and no statements of alibis. Sidden’s big mouth strikes again. I was a total screwup. I tried to laugh and ended up with my head on my desk, bawling with frustration.

  I heard the door open, and Hank enter without knocking. I jerked my head up and surreptitiously tried to wipe my tears while I pretended I was straightening my hair.

  Hank advanced with a bulging file folder.

  “Beaman asked me to give you these,” he said, placing the file on my desk. He looked up and noticed my tear-stained face and probably red eyes.

  “Hey,” he uttered softly and came around the desk with his arms open. I slid into them like it was a common occurrence. He held me, murmuring my name. It felt so good, I put my arms around his neck, pulling his face toward me. He kissed me, and it felt better than good.

  Hank groaned. “He’s waiting on me.”

  “So go.” I pushed him away with a smile.

  “I shall return,” he promised.

  “Not tonight, big guy. I was up all last night with the puppies.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  I watched him hurry out. Another complication in my busy schedule, but I’ll tell you true, it was a great kiss.

  18

  “Searching for a Viper”

  October 10, Tuesday, 6:05 A.M.

  Jasmine and I stood on the back porch while I gave her instructions on the search. It was a cool forty-seven degrees, with hardly any wind. I had on my bright rescue suit in neon yellow. It felt good now, but later in the morning I would be sweating heavily. The temperature could get up in the eighties. All the gear was packed; I’d checked the puppies, and I was trying to point out our departure spot to Jasmine.

  “It’s no use, I’ll have to call you when I reach where we’ll be going in. Since they have put up all those new street signs on every turn-in in the county, I have no idea what the sign says.”

  “When did the county say they would have the new maps?”

  “When I called last week, they said it was at the printer’s and promised they’d be ready in six weeks. I know it’s the third dirt road to the right off the Woodpecker Route, after you pass Tom’s Creek Road.”

  “If it becomes necessary, I’ll find you,” Jasmine assured me.

  “I know. I hate to leave the van exposed during hunting season, or I’d leave it in open sight. It’s only legal for bow hunters now, but they shoot and then look to see if it looks like a deer.”

  I looked down at Bobby Lee. He was wiggling his whole body in anticipation, clutching both leads in his jaws. I had on my rescue suit and he knew I was going to work, and unfortunately, he thought he was going also.

  “Oh God,” I murmured to Jasmine. “Look who thinks he’s going mantrailing.”

  “I’m glad I’m not the one who has to tell him,” she whispered, and quickly moved a discreet distance away.

  “Bobby Lee,” I said softly as I knelt beside him, “you can’t go. It’s a no-no. You can’t go.”

  I removed his leashes from his mouth and hung them back on their respective nails. I didn’t look down at him when Jasmine returned, I knew what I would see. He would sit there looking forlorn in a constant vigil until I returned.

  “You’re nervous about this search, aren’t you?”

  “Nah, just getting more careful as I mature,” I said, smiling.

  I was antsy, and didn’t know why.r />
  “Don’t get alarmed if we don’t come out tonight; there’s a possibility that we’ll camp out. If I think we’re getting close, I want to use all the daylight I can, instead of hiking out and then hiking back in.”

  “If the radio doesn’t work, and if you don’t show up tonight, when should I start looking?”

  “If I haven’t contacted you by six P.M. tomorrow, send in the Boy Scouts. Where is the captain? It’s six-fifteen already. I thought he would be here with bells on, as gung-ho as he seemed yesterday.”

  The first gate alarm sounded.

  “About time,” I grumbled.

  I walked to the back of the van and peered through the aluminum cage.

  “You ready to go, big guy?”

  Stanley’s nose was pushed against the wire. I slipped a finger inside and rubbed his face. I watched Captain Evan Danglish, USAF, drive across the tarmac.

  He left the car and walked over.

  “Am I late?”

  “Not enough to matter. Ready to find your plane?”

  “I sure am,” he replied.

  I looked him over. He had on fatigues and boots, with the pants tucked in tight. I reached into the van and pulled out a rescue suit, holding it out to him.

  “No thanks, it looks hot. I’ll be fine.”

  “I wasn’t offering you a choice,” I said. “Put it on. It deflects blackthorn barbs and snake fangs. It’s supposed to be bulletproof, but only for small-caliber rounds. I don’t think it will deflect a forty-ought-six rifle cartridge or a steel arrow, but at least it lets them know you’re not a deer, if they bother to scope your movement before they fire. Personally, I wouldn’t stand in the middle of the Woodpecker Route road, which is forty feet wide, with camouflage markings like you’re wearing for a million bucks. We want them to see us, we don’t want to hide.”

  “Hunters wear camouflage,” he protested mildly.

  “And get shot with increasing frequency. I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell me how to conduct a search in the Okefenokee, and I won’t tell you how to fly a plane safely back to your base.”

  “Low blow.”

  “I thought you were in the Air Force. Don’t they teach you how to follow orders without question?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, adopt the same procedure here. I want to pull a Frank Buck, and ‘Bring ’em back alive!’”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He executed a snappy salute.

  “That’s better,” I said with satisfaction.

  After I pulled out, I started telling him the rules.

  “You walk behind me and don’t wander off of the trail. Watch for snakes. They feed at night, and continue until full daylight. They sometimes hang from low limbs and thick brush. Don’t brush against anything if you can avoid it.

  “After the dew dries from the foliage they are less of a threat. When you walk in water, drag your feet slowly, and don’t make splashing noises. It attracts alligators.”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” He looked uncertain.

  “About the snakes?” I was being deliberately obtuse.

  “Alligators,” he replied with a grimace. “They wouldn’t attack us, would they?”

  “Only if they’re hungry and puppies and piglets aren’t available, and they’re always hungry,” I answered wryly. “Don’t you view scary swamp movies?”

  “Not if I can help it,” he replied.

  I laughed.

  “Did you bring a scent article?”

  “Sure. Have it right in my pocket.” He patted his chest.

  “Let’s go over the procedure on how you collected it,” I suggested.

  “I put on thin rubber gloves, reached way down into the rag bin, and grabbed a handful of waste that hadn’t been handled. I dabbed it on a small oil spill, and then poured jet fuel on it. I quickly closed it up in a Ziploc storage bag, and sealed it.”

  “You did good. This is what I’ll let Stanley sniff, so he will know what smell he is seeking. If you had touched it with your bare hands, he would have smelled your scent and pointed you out, thinking he had done his job. Stanley has a lazy bone or two in his body. He likes to knock off early.”

  “I thought bloodhounds were trained to find people by smelling their body odor.”

  “That’s true, and I wouldn’t have even attempted to have one of my other mantrailers smell oil or jet fuel to find a plane, but Stanley is different. He was first started as an arson dog. Rosie, a former employee of mine, handled him, and became impatient because he acted lazy, and didn’t pay much attention.

  “I switched him to drug work, and he picked it up fast. A while back, I had him on a drug sweep when he alerted on a lunch box, which contained no drugs, but was a homemade bomb. He has a ‘scent memory’ for several types of fuel. It’s a rare gift. Only one other dog I’ve ever trained has this talent, but his is with human scent.”

  “Does Stanley bite?” I saw him glance back and eye Stanley briefly.

  “No. Bloodhounds are gentle and are not trained as guard or attack dogs. He would lick a burglar in the face if he were breaking in.”

  “Ugh!”

  “A little slobber won’t hurt you. Just say to yourself, this is the dog that’s gonna try to find my plane. That should make him look a lot better to you.

  “Another thing I forgot to mention. Be careful to watch where you are stepping. Avoid fire ant beds and a leafy path. The ant beds could collapse, and leaves can hide vines and armadillo holes. If you turn an ankle, I’ll have to drag you out on the rescue sled. It wouldn’t be any fun for either of us.”

  “I’ve heard that some people who live here eat those animals.”

  “Armadillos are big in Texas. They have hunts, and barbecues. Some people like them around here. I had two brothers that cleaned ten for me once. The meat is supposed to taste like rabbit. I cooked the meat for safety. Had it ground, and mixed five pounds of pork shoulder with it, then mixed it with dog food.

  “I had this plan that would cut my meat bill in half. Not a single bloodhound ate it, even ground with pork. I’ve been told that no breed of dog will eat it. I decided that any meat that a dog won’t eat would never appear on my menu.”

  “Nor on mine,” he agreed.

  I was driving down the Woodpecker Route, checking out the street signs without slowing my speed from thirty miles per hour. It was the best speed to navigate this road. It was forty feet in width and alternated from soft, deep white sand to hard-packed red clay. This is our dry season and the rains would start soon. When dry like it is now, the deep ruts from logging trucks become hills and deep valleys of slippery shifting sand. Meet a deep rut head on and the sand would jerk the wheel and try to slide you sideways into a deep ditch.

  I had to slow often to keep the van on the road. This road compared to a wide boulevard in the city. Small three-path roads radiated like spokes from a wheel in every direction. Some were so narrow that you had less than a foot tolerance on each side of the tires, and this slim margin of safety could have deep washed-out gullies. Hit one of those babies wrong, and you usually deposit two wheels in a ditch.

  North Florida county roads, now all sporting signs, had been labeled sensibly with numbers. So when you’re far out in the boonies and you chance upon 145th Street NE, you can reasonably assume that the next parallel road would be 144th or 146th, depending on which direction you are driving. Not so with South Georgia. They kept the old names that people called the roads, whatever that might be.

  I was passing signs with Big Gator Road, Cow House Lane, Pineland Bluff, and Pokey Spillway. I couldn’t wait to see the road map they would produce. They may get it correct in the next millennium.

  Bumping along on a small three-path road named Bees and Bears, I spoke to the captain.

  “I could ask you if anything looks familiar, but it would be laughable to think you could recognize where we are. We have almost arrived at our jumping-off place.”

  “I haven’t a clue. I couldn’t even fi
nd my way back to civilization driving this van. You lost me after nine or so turns. If it weren’t for the sun, I wouldn’t even know which direction we are currently traveling. It sure looks different from down here than it does from up there.”

  “Captain, you have said a mouthful quite succinctly.”

  “Please call me Evan.”

  “Fine, I’m Jo Beth. And Evan, we have arrived.”

  19

  “The First Leg”

  October 10, Tuesday, 7:30 A.M.

  I had pulled just past a turnaround and stopped.

  “Evan, are you in shape; do you have a regular routine of exercise?” I asked as we both exited the van.

  “I do some isometrics, run a few laps on a cinder track at the base from time to time, nothing elaborate.”

  I was glad he wasn’t trying to pass himself off as an athlete. You’d be surprised how many males standing at the start of a search would lie through their teeth about their physical condition.

  “I’m afraid you’re gonna think I’m a direct descendant of the Marquis de Sade before we return to the van.”

  “I’ve been dreading this since yesterday. At least I’m in better shape to hike than I was two weeks ago, I still have some fading bruises to prove it. I landed in a pine tree and snapped off several limbs on my way to the ground.”

  He helped me unload two backpacks, the rifle, two machetes, and four water bottles. I pulled the zipper of my jumpsuit to my waist, pulled up my T-shirt, and untied the large red bandanna I had fastened around my middle. I carefully placed it in a closed Baggie and tucked it under the driver’s seat of the van.

  Evan watched my actions with fascination. He had seen the .32 snub-nose in its holster, and was curious about the bandanna. “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s a precaution I hope is never needed. If we don’t return in the allotted time, Jasmine, my assistant, rides to the rescue.”

  “The bandanna?”

  “I’ve worn it since I dressed this morning to place my scent on it. Jasmine lets the bloodhound smell it, and he mantrails right to us.”

  “I’d think he knows your scent already.”