to get to his knees without bringing back that searing pain. He waited there, breathing slowly, feeling moisture run down the collar of his pajamas. He closed his right hand around the gun barrel, felt for the safety, locked it and used the weapon like a cane to push himself up.
The world turned round as though it had been swept up by a tornado. Randolph shut his eyes and let his body adjust to standing. His mind was already replaying what had happened. He had let himself get cold-cocked. Hopefully, that was all the intruders wanted. Anyone from around here knew he had nothing of value in the house. All he owned were two-dozen pigs of varying size, from newborn piglets to full grown 250 pounders.
âJennifer? Sharon?â
Those were two of the four young sows he kept for breeding. They tended to be the most vocal.
There was still no sound save for ringing in his ears. He had to get over there and see why they were not responding. Even sleeping pigs made occasional sounds. Randolph took a tentative step. Flame shot from the base of his neck up his skull. He winced, took another step, then another. Whirlpools of brownish-red swirled in front of him. He felt his supper rise in his throat. He kept going.
The farmer knew something was wrong when he was still twenty yards away. He couldnât hear and he couldnât see but he could smell and feel. The soil grew damp beneath his slippers. Each step released a faint metallic smell, like rusted iron.
âOh, no.â
The farmer increased his pace despite the lancing pain. He reached the door and, breathing heavily from the exertion, he snaked a hand around the frame and tugged the string of the wall-mounted lamp.
Covered with dust and spots of mud, the bulb threw a pale, murky light on the nearest of the pens. Everywhere Randolphâs eyes moved, it looked like one of Matthew Bradyâs photos of the Civil War. Bodies were strewn here and there, each of them nestled in a puddle of blood. Boards had been ripped from the stalls and used to beat the pigs before they were slain; he could see the bruising, the places where nails had penetrated their flesh. There were ragged tracks leading from each point of impact. Struggling to get away, they had been ripped deeply by the rusty nails. But that was just for fun. The pigs died from having their throats slashed ear-to-ear. He could tell they had struggled for breath: there were deep indentations under their bodies. They had flailed up and down, unable to rise, unable to breathe, for the long seconds it took for them to fall unconscious.
The pen doors had been opened so they could be chased and beaten. He could see the prints their flight had made in the earth. Now the pigs lay helter-skelter as far as the light could see. Flies flitted around them. As his hearing returned he could hear their buzzing. It occurred to him to look for human footprints. A flashlight hung from a nail on the wall under the light. He switched it on, cast it along the ground.
There were large, vague impressions in the earthânot so much footprints as depressions. The attackers had probably worn plastic bags on their feet. This wasnât a drunken assault. It was premeditated.
Why ?
It was the only word, the only question he could think of. Randolph looked away. He began to sob. The tears were partly from the pain in his head, partly from the loss of his herd, but mostly for the unfathomable cruelty of the people who did this.
He finished turning around, walked back to the house, and called the police.
C HAPTER N INE
Ward was tired but he couldnât sleep. The reality of his situation had begun to take hold, and with nothing to do but think about it thatâs what he did. Fear had never been a part of his world, even on the most dangerous undercover operations. Those had been marked by an adrenaline surge, hyper-alertness, hair-trigger reflexesâbut he was never afraid. He could live with being wrong but he didnât
The world turned round as though it had been swept up by a tornado. Randolph shut his eyes and let his body adjust to standing. His mind was already replaying what had happened. He had let himself get cold-cocked. Hopefully, that was all the intruders wanted. Anyone from around here knew he had nothing of value in the house. All he owned were two-dozen pigs of varying size, from newborn piglets to full grown 250 pounders.
âJennifer? Sharon?â
Those were two of the four young sows he kept for breeding. They tended to be the most vocal.
There was still no sound save for ringing in his ears. He had to get over there and see why they were not responding. Even sleeping pigs made occasional sounds. Randolph took a tentative step. Flame shot from the base of his neck up his skull. He winced, took another step, then another. Whirlpools of brownish-red swirled in front of him. He felt his supper rise in his throat. He kept going.
The farmer knew something was wrong when he was still twenty yards away. He couldnât hear and he couldnât see but he could smell and feel. The soil grew damp beneath his slippers. Each step released a faint metallic smell, like rusted iron.
âOh, no.â
The farmer increased his pace despite the lancing pain. He reached the door and, breathing heavily from the exertion, he snaked a hand around the frame and tugged the string of the wall-mounted lamp.
Covered with dust and spots of mud, the bulb threw a pale, murky light on the nearest of the pens. Everywhere Randolphâs eyes moved, it looked like one of Matthew Bradyâs photos of the Civil War. Bodies were strewn here and there, each of them nestled in a puddle of blood. Boards had been ripped from the stalls and used to beat the pigs before they were slain; he could see the bruising, the places where nails had penetrated their flesh. There were ragged tracks leading from each point of impact. Struggling to get away, they had been ripped deeply by the rusty nails. But that was just for fun. The pigs died from having their throats slashed ear-to-ear. He could tell they had struggled for breath: there were deep indentations under their bodies. They had flailed up and down, unable to rise, unable to breathe, for the long seconds it took for them to fall unconscious.
The pen doors had been opened so they could be chased and beaten. He could see the prints their flight had made in the earth. Now the pigs lay helter-skelter as far as the light could see. Flies flitted around them. As his hearing returned he could hear their buzzing. It occurred to him to look for human footprints. A flashlight hung from a nail on the wall under the light. He switched it on, cast it along the ground.
There were large, vague impressions in the earthânot so much footprints as depressions. The attackers had probably worn plastic bags on their feet. This wasnât a drunken assault. It was premeditated.
Why ?
It was the only word, the only question he could think of. Randolph looked away. He began to sob. The tears were partly from the pain in his head, partly from the loss of his herd, but mostly for the unfathomable cruelty of the people who did this.
He finished turning around, walked back to the house, and called the police.
C HAPTER N INE
Ward was tired but he couldnât sleep. The reality of his situation had begun to take hold, and with nothing to do but think about it thatâs what he did. Fear had never been a part of his world, even on the most dangerous undercover operations. Those had been marked by an adrenaline surge, hyper-alertness, hair-trigger reflexesâbut he was never afraid. He could live with being wrong but he didnât
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