Whisker of Evil

1 Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out. Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first. Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him. "Barry, Barry." Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. "It will be all right," she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying. The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward. "Jugular," fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented. Gently, Harry took the young man's hand and prayed, "Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man." Tears welled in her eyes. Barry jerked, then his suffering ended. Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn't climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder. It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry. "Sweet Jesus." Harry wiped away the tears. That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise just curdled. Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek's edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall. "Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I'm going to run to Tally's and phone the sheriff." If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally's stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time. As she left her animals, they inspected Barry. "What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?" Pewter's pupils widened. "Perhaps." Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker. The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled. "I don't smell bear," Tucker declared. "That's an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick." Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry's corpse disturbed her equilibrium. "Let's be grateful we found him today and not three days from now." "Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks." Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. "You mean like car tracks?" "Yes, or animal tracks," Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. "Even though coyote scent isn't as strong as bear, we'd still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don't smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don't even realize they're there." Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. "No dirt arounBrown, Rita Mae is the author of 'Whisker of Evil', published 2004 under ISBN 9780553801613 and ISBN 0553801619.