“Give me the brat, you harlot!” the Black Robe sputtered, flailing at her.

Sarah stumbled to the ground, shielding Michael with her body, taking the blows that rained down on her back. Everyone around them made room, silenced by the Black Robe’s fury, unwilling to try and stop him. Christians did not lay hands on a Muslim cleric. Ever. She cried out as the Black Robe’s whip lashed across her kidneys. Her stunner was in her pocket, a palm-size device with enough juice to zap the Black Robe or anyone else into unconsciousness. Illegal for a woman to possess, of course. She reached for the stunner, felt it, but the Black Robe’s flail kept thrashing her. Like being stung by a swarm of wasps…

“Mercy!” Katherine approached the Black Robe, palms pressed together in supplication. “In the name of Allah the Merciful!”

The Black Robe spat in her face, raised his arm to strike Sarah again, and Katherine kneed him in the groin, the force of her knee lifting him off the ground, his robes fluttering around him like the petals of a black lily.

The Black Robe collapsed, lay there groaning beside a crushed snow-cone cup, his mouth making feeble movements as he tried to breathe.

Katherine pulled Sarah to her feet. Sarah’s veil had come undone.

Clutching Michael to her, Sarah ran through the crowd, Katherine right behind her.

“S-stop them!” The Black Robe stood partway, then fell back down, clutching himself. “Stop them!”

The crowd closed ranks after Sarah and Katherine, so that the fleeing women and child were lost from the Black Robe’s sight.

Chapter 23

Rakkim watched Bill Tigard heft a trash can full of slop, must have weighed two hundred pounds at least, and dump it into the pigpen. Watched him toss the empty can aside and reach for another one, Tigard grinning as the hogs rushed in, squealing. He lurched slightly as he moved down the fence, an old bullet wound in his hip, a souvenir from Tigard’s wilder days, he had told Rakkim once-a wink to his wife-before he found Florence and the Lord. Another wink-in that order. Sweat rolled down his bare arms as he worked, his skin shiny and black in the sunset, bulging with muscle. It had been ten years since Rakkim had last seen him. Tigard was still a powerhouse in faded overalls, but his short hair was sprinkled with gray and he had a tire around his middle.

Tigard sang to the pigs as he fed them, urging them on, as though they needed encouragement. Most of the big pork farmers used one- and two-acre concrete pens and automated food delivery systems, but Tigard was a small farmer, proud and independent, a traditionalist out of need and preference. His fat hogs wallowed in mud, his slops came from his fields, his kitchen, and bags of Indian Jack sorghum. He and his family fed the hogs with their own hands, butchered them with their own hands when the time came.

Tigard moved down the wire fence surrounding the pen, humming softly to himself. Rakkim moved closer, silent as a shadow. Step by step, closer still. Near enough now to see Florence’s precise stitching on his overalls. Near enough to see a single drop of sweat nestled behind his right ear. Near enough to recognize the song he hummed, a gospel tune…“The Old Rugged Cross.” Rakkim hummed along with him, insinuating his sound into Tigard’s deeper bass. Oblivious, Tigard hoisted up another trash can. Rakkim reached out a hand-

“Step away from him, mister, or I’ll blow yer balls off.”

Rakkim turned slowly. He heard the trash can drop but kept his eyes on Florence in the doorway, holding an assault rifle. He glanced down. Saw a tiny red dot centered on his crotch. Rakkim spread his arms wide. “Easy target, Florence, blessed as I am. You get more points for a brain shot.”

Tigard grabbed Rakkim by the front of his jacket, lifted him off the ground. “Who the…” He stared. A smile slowly arced across his broad face. “Rikki?” He wrapped his arms around Rakkim, half smothered him in his warm embrace. “Don’t shoot, Mother, it’s Rikki.”

“Rikki?” Florence walked quickly over to them, a slender woman whose high cheekbones seemed carved from mahogany. “Is that really you, boy?”

Tigard set Rakkim down.

Rakkim kissed Florence on each of her high cheekbones. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

Florence laughed. “You still kiss like a Frenchman.”

“You hungry?” said Tigard.

“Does a Muslim have calluses on his knees?” said Rakkim.

“Come in the house and wash up,” said Florence. “I’ll have dinner on the table soon as Bill’s done with the hogs.” She trailed a hand across her husband’s broad back. “I’ll tell the boys Rikki’s here.”

“I’ll stay out here a little bit.” Rakkim walked ahead of Tigard, picked up a sack of corncobs, and poured them into the trough. “Old man looks like he could use some help.”

“Just don’t hurt yourself,” said Tigard, scooting past him. “You probably haven’t done an honest day’s work since you left here.”

Florence went back to the house, shaking her head, the assault rifle across her shoulder. The house was two stories, small but well kept, with white sideboards and green trim. Flower beds ran down the sides, red and yellow tulips ablaze with color. Antique farm tools flanked the back porch: hay rakes, shovels, a huge scythe that only Tigard could have ever wielded.

Rakkim waited until the kitchen door slammed behind Florence. “Since when does she greet visitors with a gun?”

Tigard grunted, shifted the trash can to the other shoulder. “Been some trouble lately with raiders. Livestock taken, buildings burned. Next county over a farmer and his whole family were found shot dead, wife raped beforehand. City folk probably-wore out their welcome in Birmingham or Decatur and decided their country cousins were fair game. They come here, they’re going to wish they never left home.”

“You still have your dog?” said Rakkim.

“Jeff died a few months ago.” Tigard poured out the last of the slops. “I still get weepy when I think about it.”

“You should get another dog. It’s cheap security. Or, if you want, I could set up a basic system tomorrow. Nothing fancy. Heat-activated solenoid on the main access road would be better than nothing. We’ll go into town tomorrow and get what we need.”

“When did you get so smart?”

“I’m still waiting, but I’ve got help.” Rakkim beckoned to the edge of the barn.

Leo appeared from hiding, started toward them, high-stepping, trying to avoid cow pies.

“He walks like he’s trying to do the ground a favor,” said Tigard.

“He’s a good kid, a little out of his element, but when it comes to tech gear he can turn water to wine.” Rakkim waved to Leo. “Hurry up! Dinner’s ready.”

Leo picked up the pace, half slipped, face wrinkling in disgust. He hurried on, wiping one foot as he hobbled toward the house.

A half hour later, they all sat around the dinner table with their heads bowed. “Would you say grace, Rikki?” said Florence.

“Heavenly Father, we give thanks tonight for good friends and good food,” said Rakkim, head inclined, eyes closed. “Please watch over all of us in this house and keep us safe from harm. Amen.”

“Amen,” said Florence and Bill.

“Amen,” said their two sons, James and Matthew.

Leo mumbled something, reached for the mashed potatoes.

“I like a healthy eater.” Florence beamed as Leo piled on the mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and jerked pork. She nodded with approval as the kid poured gravy over it all.

“Thanks,” said Leo, food falling out of his mouth as he chewed.

Matthew cut his meat into neat, even chunks, watching Leo with obvious distaste. James seemed amused by the table manners of their guest, peering into Leo’s open mouth like a spelunker. The fraternal twins differed in almost all ways. Matthew was tall and lean, soft-spoken and intellectual, while James was shorter and more muscular, quick to anger, quick to love. James had just gotten a scholarship to the Atlanta School of Economics, the most prestigious business university in the Belt. James had enlisted in the Marines and was shipping out to basic training in a week.