Sleep Softly. Gwen Hunter

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СКАЧАТЬ ears and neck. “Good dog,” I said, my voice thick with misery. “Yes, you are. Good, good dog.” I cleared my throat and forced my shoulders to relax, talking to the dog for the comfort it gave me. “Those stupid men didn’t know what they gave up when they put you out to pasture, did they, Cheeks? Yes, Cheeks is a good dog.” I was supposed to give a tracker a treat when he was successful, but I had forgotten to bring dog treats. Cheeks didn’t seem to mind, pleased with the praise I heaped on him until I felt able to stand again.

      Mabel looked at me and seemed to smile when I hooked the tote back over the horn and tried to lift a foot to the stirrup. I was several inches from success. Mabel’s shoulder was a full six feet from the ground. I stood five feet four. In shoes. And I wasn’t as limber as I used to be.

      Leading the mare to an old fence post, I hooked Cheeks’s leash to the post and pulled Mabel around. She kept going, around and around. “You think this is funny, don’t you?” I said as I tried to position her for mounting. Cheeks sat and watched, his canine grin only egging Mabel on, I was sure of it. I climbed down off the post and tried again to get her into position, then climbed back up the cedar post. Mabel moved again, stopping just out of reach, her eyes on me over her shoulder.

      I laughed, the sound shaky. Cheeks woofed happily at my tone. And suddenly I was okay again, or okay as one got when carrying a child’s toe in a bag. “Let’s try this again,” I said to Mabel, making my voice more commanding and less imploring.

      When I got the Friesian to pause long enough for me to throw a leg over her back, I slung my body up and landed half in the saddle. Mabel was moving again, around in circles. By the time I got both feet settled in the stirrups, she had circled away from Cheeks, who sat panting in the rising warmth, but I had done it. I had retrieved evidence that might have been destroyed by rodents or birds, and gotten back on the mare.

      Taking control of the situation and the reins, I retrieved Cheeks’s leash and ordered him once again to find. An hour later, after a meandering traipse through the west forty and onto fallow land, the old hound stopped near a creek and lapped at the water, as did Mabel. In horse and dog years, they were both in their seventies, content to be working as long as they didn’t have to move fast and there was plenty of water and liniment at day’s end.

      The sycamores were just ahead, pale green leaves and curling bark and spinning seeds just released from the stems. It was spring, and everything was sprouting out green. As if he sensed that the day’s work was nearly done, Cheeks pulled on the leash and headed directly to the trees. The earth beneath the stand was stripped of growth, windswept, the center tree ancient, bigger around than I could reach, its bark curled and hanging loose from the trunk like pages of a book.

      There were no toes on the bare ground. There was no sign of a body under the copse of sycamores. But there was a strong, musky odor, skunk-like, rank and bitter. Cheeks lost the scent.

      Enough time had passed that I thought the Crime Scene team had probably arrived at the farm, so I tied off dog and horse under the trees and checked the cell phone. There were four bars of reception this close to the I-77 corridor, and I called the barn number. The phone had a loud outside bell with a distinctive chime and Johnny Ray picked up on the fourth ring.

      “Davenport Downs,” he said. I could tell he had started drinking and I wasn’t really surprised. Johnny Ray didn’t much like cops. The thought of law enforcement on the premises would drive him to the bottle.

      “Johnny Ray, are the cops there yet?”

      “They’re here,” he said sourly.

      “Let me talk to the officer in charge.”

      “It’s your boyfriend.”

      “I’m sorry?”

      “Your boyfriend. The FBI agent. He’s done took over. And let me tell you, the sheriff’s stomping around, cussing under his breath. He’s mad as a dead hen.”

      “Wet hen.”

      “Huh?”

      I shook my head in frustration. “Let me talk to Jim.” A moment later I heard his voice in the background as Jim directed the unloading of some sort of equipment. Closer, directly into the old black receiver, he said, “Ramsey.”

      I felt an unreasoning sense of relief at the single word, as if someone had given me a hug and told me he would take care of me and any problem I might have. That was a feeling that didn’t last. “Hi. I’m glad you’re—”

      “Ash? What the hell do you mean, taking off and ruining a crime scene. Damn it, don’t you know how hard it’s going to be find this body?”

      “You have dogs?”

      “Do what?” Jim said.

      “Dogs. Do—you—have—tracker dogs?” I said it sweetly, so sweetly my mama couldn’t have sounded more sugary. Jim Ramsey knew what I sounded like when I was ticked off. About like I did now. “You know, to find this body? Or does the FBI have another way to locate a body in the rough? Like, oh, I don’t know, psychics?” When Jim didn’t answer, I said, “No. You don’t have any dogs. Because the dogs are up near Ford County. But I have one of the best tracker dogs in the state on my farm and he’s managed to follow the trail to the edge of my property. And he found another toe while he was at it. The site is marked clearly with bright orange paint.”

      Jim sighed. “I’m acting like an ass, aren’t I?”

      “Yes, you are,” I said pleasantly.

      He chuckled. “I’m sorry. I have a good reason.” His voice lowered. “Guess what local is running this gig, because the county investigators are up at the bank thing in Ford County. Sheriff C. C. Gaskins, himself.”

      “Johnny Ray told me. Gaskins is a bona fide male chauvinist pig, but you didn’t hear it from me. It’s been years since the sheriff had to do fieldwork.”

      “And it shows, but you didn’t hear it from me. Couple deaf folks talking on cell phones. Head west, huh?”

      “Yes, and while you’re at it, I’ll try to get Cheeks to find the scent again. We ran into polecat scent and his sniffer shut down.”

      “Polecat…”

      “Oh, yeah,” I grinned into the morning light, knowing Jim would hear the laughter in my voice, “and it’s quite, ummm, potent. Hope you brought overalls and boots to put over your fancy FBI suit and tie. It’s aromatic and a mite damp out in the west forty.”

      “Well, hell.”

      “Yep. I reckon that says it all fairly well. Bring some Tylenol and Benadryl, will you? I’ve been up too long, the glare is giving me a headache, and the dog is going to be sore from the exercise.”

      “Will do. On the way.”

      It was only after I cut the connection that I wondered why Jim was on the farm. What was the FBI’s agent coordinator of the Violent Crime Squad, from the Columbia field office, doing answering a call about a red shoe and two toes? On first glance, I would have assumed that someone in local law enforcement, probably C.C. himself, had called him in. FBI worked only on cases at the behest of local law, unless there was a task force already in place. Yet Johnny Ray had said C.C. was unhappy at Ramsey’s presence. Interesting.

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