Harvest of Bones (36 page)

“I’ll get it,” Ruth said, and dashed downstairs. What else was she good for but to run errands?

The kitchen door slammed and Emily entered like a fresh wind. “Mom, it’s Dad. He’s here, at the inn. I went to ask for his room number. And the man said, ‘They.
They
are in room sixteen. He brought that woman with him, Mom. How could he do that?”

She burst into tears, and Ruth put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, I understand. Your father has to have a life, too.” And something caught in her throat.

Upstairs, there was a shout, and Emily said, “What’s going on here?” and when Ruth explained, Emily cried, “Oh my God! Can I go up?”

“Here. Take up this glass. She may throw you out. But if she does, try to understand. This is
her
show.”

She followed Emily up. At the door of the bedroom, Emily paused, put her arms around her mother. The soy milk dribbled on Ruth’s shirt, but it was all right. “Mom, I love you,” Emily whispered, and Ruth burrowed her face into the girl’s neck.

****

The veterinarian thought Vic would prefer to let the hawk go here, near the pasture where he’d been found. “This was her territory,” she said, smiling at the boy, and Vic nodded.

“I found her in the east pasture,” he said, “over by the fence.” He pointed. “You know, flying around her mate. Though I guess they must’ve come from the mountain— where they got that poison.”

“They have a wide range of flight,” the woman said. “You want to hold her? I brought an extra pair of mitts.”

She helped attach the jess straps so Vic could carry the bird out to the pasture. He saw she was wearing sturdy boots; she

strode right along beside him, while the hawk rode silent but straining on his mitt, like it knew something was about to happen. If only he could tame it... But the eyes were wild and unblinking, and Vic knew it had only one thought: to fly free.

It was a beautiful afternoon for a flight—a light fluffy snow dusting the wild aster and the scarlet sumac. The trees that bordered the pasture were that golden brown color they got in November. The black-and-white Holsteins looked on as Vic and the hawk approached. Zelda was out in front as usual, the others grouped behind her, like they were painted onto a canvas.

The vet unfastened the jesses from Vic’s mitt, and for a moment the hawk didn’t move at all, and Vic felt she’d stay, she’d stay with him! But the woman nodded, looking resolute, and Vic glanced once more into those fierce hawk eyes, and he knew what he had to do. He threw her up in the air and she let out a shrill scream and spread her reddish wings out full— like a huge unfurled fan—and soared upward. She was magnificent! Then she circled back, screeching—looking for her mate? Vic held his breath to see, thinking once more that the hawk might stay.

But she flew upward again, and Vic’s heart beat like a hundred hawk wings as he watched her soar westward toward Bread Loaf Mountain, her tail feathers gleaming red in the late sun that was pushing through the snow clouds.

* * * *

Afterward, Vic ran to the barn to see the calves. He just wanted to see them, that was all. There were only three still in the indoor pen: two heifers and the bull calf. The bull calf was lying by itself in the corner; he whistled and it raised its head.

“Don’t get to know it too well, Vic,” a voice boomed behind him. Hands pressed on his shoulders and he squinted up, to see Tim looking down at him, his cowboy hat riding on the back of his head. “Just don’t, now, I said,” and the hands gripped harder, then released, and Tim moved on out into the milk room.

Vic stood there, feeling numb. He looked at the bull calf. There was a circle of white around the wide nostrils—it looked like a little kid that had dipped its head into a bowl of cream. Strands of hay hung from its moving jaw; it was lying in straw and dung. Vic was about to go when suddenly the calf stumbled to its feet and its eyes gazed into his own.

Vic couldn’t seem to move his feet.

“Vic? Where’n heck are you, Vic?” a voice called from the barn door. It was his friend Gerry Dufours; he was picking Vic up to go trick or treating.

It doesn’t know, Vic thought, looking into the soft liquidy eyes; it doesn’t know.

But Gerry called his name again, and Vic got up, and without looking back, he moved toward the sound of the voice.

“Wait here,” he told Gerry, and ran up to the house. Wondering why a white tablecloth was hanging out the bedroom window. And then he heard a baby crying upstairs. It was a soft
la-la
sound; above it, the chatter of women. So it was here. Okay. But how was he going to get his costume? He had to pass that room. “Mom,” he shouted. But his mother held up a hand for quiet. She was in the kitchen, talking on the phone to his father.

“A girl, Pete,” she was saying, “six pounds, five ounces. She’s a week early, you know. Yes, yes, Sharon’s fine. She’ll want you to come over, see your new granddaughter. She’s a honey. Red hair, yes, that’s right. Well, my grandmother had red hair, Pete; that’s where it comes from. But Pete, give her a few hours to rest first, okay? Come around eight? And alone, Pete. Leave
her
at the Inn.”

Vic tiptoed past to his room; he grabbed his mask and red feathers and his candy bag. When he got downstairs again after a slight delay—Emily dragged him in to see Sharon and the baby, though it didn’t look like much of anything—a baby calf looked a lot more robust—his mother was still on the phone. This time, it was Colm Hanna. She was telling him about some “decision” she’d made; he could hear Colm say “Hooray!” on the other end.

“I’ll call you later, Colm, when Pete comes over.
You
can pick me up. So he can have time with the children alone. He’ll be bringing papers for me to sign, you know. But those can wait.”

She’d spotted Vic now, was grabbing his sleeve. “Your dad’s coming over at eight—he’ll want to see you.”

“But it’s Halloween,” he said. “They’re having a party at school after trick or treating. I can’t miss the party. He’ll be around tomorrow, won’t he?”

“Sure,” she said, sounding more agreeable than he could remember her lately. “I’ll tell him. They’ll have to stay one more day—that woman is with him, you know. But come straight home after the party, hear?”

She was still talking to Colm Hanna as he left, sounding flirty almost; it sounded dumb. But women were women. And here was Gerry, hurrying him up, and Garth Unsworth with his brother, Wilder, who was looking for Emily. Vic pointed upstairs. “Good luck,” he told Wilder. “You got competition.”

“What’s it supposed to be, Vic, that outfit? An Indian? The devil?” Gerry said, standing at the foot of the porch in a sheet with holes for the eyes.

Vic didn’t bother to answer. “Let’s get going,” he told his friend, feeling excited now, although he didn’t know why. “We’ll start with Larocque’s, next door. He’s always got red licorice. Then we’ll go to Flint’s.”

He raced on ahead, leaping, shouting “Yee hoo” into the air as he went. Like a bird. Like a red-tailed hawk.

Acknowledgments

I want to thank a number of generous persons who helped me develop an accurate ambiance for this novel. My appreciation goes to Harold Giard of Blue Slate Farm, Bridport, Vermont; to Ward B. Stone, wildlife pathologist for the State of New York; to Dr. Paul Morrow, state medical examiner, Vermont; to Scotti Devens of
SAVE
THE
GREYHOUND
DOGS
—Vermont; to Irene Poole, massage therapist, who, in her “chair-on-wheels,” gave me a massage and proved that “nothing is impossible”; to the Buttolph farm family of Shoreham, Vermont, for inspiring both books in this series; to Don Batchelder, whose bicycle and signs I borrowed; to Ed Barna for his expertise on catamounts in Vermont; to Joanie Cohen, postmistress of Hughsonville, N.Y., who kissed this manuscript for luck and sped it on its way; to my copy editor, Carol Edwards, who labored through the manuscript and kept me at task; and especially to my legendary editor, Ruth Cavin, who caught up the book in flight and compassionately edited it and gave me courage at a low point in the final stages. Finally, my love and thanks to my wonderful extended family, Vermonters all; and especially to my daughters Lesley and Catharine, and my husband, Dennie Hannan, who read the novel in early drafts.

Certain books were also helpful in providing atmosphere for the novel:
Hawk Hill
by Suzie Gilbert;
Cutting Hill
by Alan Pistorius; and from the Vermont Folklife Center:
Families on the Land,
edited by Gregory Sharrow and Meg Ostrum, and
Visit’n: Conversations with Vermonters.

In Memory of Evelyn Wright McGregor

of Weybridge, Vermont,

model for the Glenna Flint of this novel.

Copyright © 1998 by Nancy Means Wright

Originally published by St. Martin's Minotaur

Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.