The helicopter landed in a nearby pasture. Landed gently and quietly as a dandelion seed. Two raiders dragged the body of their dead comrade into the rear compartment. One lagged behind, a beefy raider tugging the ring off Florence Tigard’s finger.

“Here, pig-pig-pig,” Gravenholtz grunted, expertly calling to the pigs, and they shuffled and snorted happily toward him. “That’s a good piggy.” He quickly reached down, grabbed a small feeder pig by the fat around its neck, hauled it out of the pen.

The pig screamed.

Gravenholtz laughed, tucked the twisting pig under one arm as he started toward the helicopter. “Great God Almighty, I dearly love fresh pork.” He pointed and the others double-timed after him. “Come on, Nelson…rest of you boys, get your ass in the bird. Breakfast’s on me.”

Rakkim watched them pile into the helicopter. Watched them clap each other on the back, their faces distorted by the flames from the farmhouse. Watched the helicopter lift off. “Keep your head down,” he called to Leo.

The helicopter floated high above for an instant, then a missile flashed and the house exploded. The pigs boiled around the pen, grunting and churning up mud, as flaming debris fell from the sky, Rakkim hanging on to the sow to avoid being trampled. The chopper veered overhead, machine guns strafing the pen, sent chunks of meat flying.

When Rakkim looked back up, the chopper was heading north at full speed. Not west. That meant Gravenholtz wasn’t interested in the recipient of the call Leo made, he was only interested in the man he thought made the call-Jeeter. Or maybe things were heating up on that mountain in Tennessee and he had no time to waste. Either way, Annabelle and Leanne were safe. For now. Rakkim stood up, bruised and muddy, splattered with blood and not sure how much of it was his own.

Leo stayed on his hands and knees, coughing. No…he was crying.

Rakkim walked over to the horse trough, started washing off the mud and pig shit. The cold water sluiced off the filth but didn’t cool his rage and frustration. He splashed his face, wanted to tear his hair out, still seeing Tigard on fire, still hearing him tell the redhead that he knew whom he’d invited into his home. The words of a dying man…and for the life of him, Rakkim wasn’t sure if Tigard was telling the truth.

Leo slowly got up. “Why…why did they stop? Why didn’t they keep on shooting until they killed us?”

“They didn’t know we were here.” Rakkim couldn’t look at him. “If they had known, we’d already be dead.”

“So they just shot up the pigs for fun?” Timbers in the burning farmhouse collapsed and Leo flinched. “You…you think it’s my fault, don’t you?”

Rakkim didn’t answer.

“I…I was talking with Leanne. We talked for hours, told each other everything there was to tell and I still couldn’t stop. I love her. You probably think that’s ridiculous…”

Rakkim walked toward Tigard, walked straight into the heat rolling off the farmhouse.

“I checked for tracers,” called Leo. “I pulled two tracker chips. There weren’t any more.” His voice broke. “I didn’t want to use the Tigards’ phone…didn’t want there to be a record. I…I was trying to protect everybody.”

Rakkim fell to his knees beside Tigard’s body. Wished him a rapid journey to Paradise. As the smoldering farmhouse hissed and popped, Rakkim bowed his head and apologized to Tigard, begged his forgiveness for bringing death to him and his family.

“I wanted to tell Leanne about Mr. Tigard,” said Leo. “I wanted to tell her how he offered me a job working on the farm. I wanted…I wanted her to be proud of me.”

Rakkim moved over and knelt beside Florence Tigard, straightened her limbs. Held her hand, feeling the heat from the burning house against his back. He whispered how sorry he was. It was too late for sorry, but he wasn’t saying it for her. He was saying it for himself, and it was too late for him too. Much too late. He folded her hands in prayer.

“I’m going to kill that redheaded son of a bitch,” said Leo. “Once we get to where we’re going…I’m going to find Gravenholtz, and I’m…I’m going to kill him.”

Rakkim felt the burden of tears lighten by an eyelash. A few days ago, Leo had been horrified at Rakkim taking care of the two Rangers. Now he was filled with the urge for righteous murder. Spider wasn’t going to recognize his son when Rakkim brought him back home.

Chapter 25

The sun edged above the horizon and Rakkim felt the tug of prayer. Wanted to kneel before Allah, press his forehead into the dust and ask for His blessing and protection. All across the planet good Muslims were rushing to mosque, or prostrating themselves in their rooms, the fields, the desert itself, from General Kidd to the lowliest goatherd. One heart, one faith, one God. Bound together by their devotion, a current running from the Creator to every believer, intimate as a kiss. Rakkim turned his face to the sun. Except for the warmth of first light, he didn’t feel a thing.

“I need to sit down for a minute,” said Leo.

“You going to throw up again?” said Rakkim.

“No.” Leo tossed his shovel aside, flopped onto the ground. Sweat ran down his smooth, beardless cheeks. “I’m just tired.”

“I told you, I’ll finish,” said Rakkim. “Just relax and-”

“I want to help. I have to help.” Leo sat at the edge of the grave he was digging for James Tigard. He had barely gotten past the topsoil. “I owe it to them.”

“It’s not your debt. It’s mine.” Rakkim kept digging, piling the dirt onto the grass; Florence Tigard’s grave was four feet deep now. Right alongside the one for her husband. “I was the one who brought us here.” Another shovelful tossed up. “I lied to them.” He worked faster, a smooth, steady motion in the soft earth. “I used them.” Dirt and pebbles flying. “You made a phone call you shouldn’t have, but I was the one who got them killed, Leo, not you.”

Honor, revenge, hospitality-the three hallmarks of the tribal man, according to one of Sarah’s former academic associates, a fussy sociology professor who considered rationalism to be a sign of superiority. Yes, honor was a burden, as was revenge, and Bill Tigard and his family weren’t the first or the last to be killed by their own hospitality, but the world was dead without such virtues. A place of musty books and empty promises.

Rakkim shoveled more dirt beside the grave. Almost deep enough now. The two of them had been working nonstop since the helicopter left. They had rinsed off the mud and pig shit, then Rakkim had gone to the bunkhouse, gathered bedsheets from storage, carefully wrapped the four bodies, and carried them over to the hill overlooking the river. A good spot to rest until the Day of Judgment. Leo sobbed quietly as they worked-the shovel was awkward in his hands, and he already had blisters, but he kept at it.

“Why don’t you get some wood and wire in what’s left of the barn?” said Rakkim. “You make some crosses for the graves, and I’ll keep digging.”

Leo hesitated.

“The Tigards are good Christians. Can’t bury them without a cross to mark the spot.”

Leo nodded, ran toward the shed.

Rakkim got back to work, digging steadily at the moist earth, eager to lose himself in the effort. When they got to the next town, he would call the minister at the Tigards’ church. Tell them where the bodies were buried, so they could give them a genuine Christian burial. A Muslim and a Jew digging graves for devout Christians, saying their own prayers over the dead…say what you want, God might not be merciful, and he had way too many rules, but he did have a sense of humor.

Rakkim had half expected the neighbors to show up, but the next farmhouse was four or five miles away, and with the storm and the lightning…if the neighbors had heard the guns and the explosions, maybe they just thought it best to wait until morning.