Full Cry Read Free

grueling hours of medical school and his internship, he had worked out religiously. Sister stood next to him. At six feet, she was almost as tall as he. She’d lost an inch or so with age.
    Those meeting Jane Arnold for the first time assumed she was in her middle fifties. Lean, strong, her silver hair close cropped because she couldn’t stand “hat head” from her hunt cap, she had an imposing yet feminine presence.
    Walter repeated the question. She thought a moment, then replied as she touched Jennifer’s shoulder. “I expect a deer or any of us can be fooled for a little while, but sooner or later your real odor will rise on up, and then you’ll be standing like truth before Jesus.”
    On weekends Jennifer Franklin, a senior in high school, and her best friend, Sari Rasmussen, cleaned and tacked up the horses for Sister, Shaker, and Betty. When the hunt was over, the girls would cool down the horses, wash them if necessary, clean all the tack. When the horses were completely dry, they’d put on their blankets and turn them out, an eagerly anticipated moment for the horses.
    The two attractive girls would then attack five pairs of boots, which included their own two. However, this Saturday their high school was having a special late-afternoon basketball tournament, so Sister had given the two girls time off.
    During weekday hunts, Betty saw to the horses while Sister and Shaker fed the hounds after a hard hunt. This gave them time to check each hound, making sure no one was too sore or had gotten torn by thorns or hateful barbed wire. If anyone sustained an injury, he or she would be taken to the small medical room, lifted on the stainless steel table and washed, stitched if necessary, or medicated. The hardy hounds rarely suffered diseases, but they did bruise footpads, rip ears, cut flanks.
    When Betty finished with the horses, Sister would usually be finished with the hounds. Then the two women would stand in the stable aisle cleaning their tack, the bucket of warm water loosening stiffened, cold fingers as well as softening up the orange glycerin soap.
    While the ladies performed this convivial task, Shaker used a power washer on the kennels. Sister would clean his boots when she cleaned hers during the weekdays.
    The familiar routine was comforting, but the hunt club really did need at least one more employee. While wealthy members like Crawford would build show grounds because it was flashy, they didn’t throw their money in the till for a worker. An employee lacked the social cachet of a building, and the slender budget left no room for another pair of hands. Since Sister and Shaker performed most all of the work, their days were long: sunup to past sundown.
    Sister and Betty stood side by side, cleaning their bridles. They were almost finished.
    â€œRead the paper this morning?” Betty asked.
    â€œI don’t get to it until supper. What have I missed?”
    â€œOh, those antique furniture and silver gangs are at it again. The
Richmond Times-Dispatch
had an article about how they’re moving through the west end.”
    â€œEvery couple of years that happens in Richmond. Smart thieves,” Sister said.
    â€œWell, what I found interesting was these rings work full-time. They move through Richmond, Charlotte, Washington, even the smaller cities like Staunton or ritzy places like Middleburg. Apart from knowing real George II silver from silver plate or a Sheraton from a Biedermeier, they’re obviously well organized.”
    â€œI get the Sotheby’s catalogues. Some of those pieces sell for the gross national product of Namibia.”
    Betty laughed. “I’ve always wondered why people become criminals. Seems to me if they put all that energy into a legitimate career, they’d make enough money.”
    â€œI wonder. I can understand a thirteen-year-old kid in the slums not wanting to work for McDonald’s when he or she can realize a