We were in civvies and wearing our web belts that morning, and each of us had an M4 beside us in the cab of Armanti’s pickup. There weren’t many vehicles on the roads, but the pickups we passed were piled high with firewood and one was hauling a steer. I wondered if it was stolen.
We followed the little ribbon of asphalt into the hills. When Angelica Price’s house came into view, we saw three cars parked nearby. One looked as if it were about eight years old, the other two were show-room new. The new cars didn’t have license plates.
We coasted on by for about fifty yards, then Armanti stopped and I got out with my M4. “I’ll go look the cars over. How about you snuggling up against the bank there and give me cover if I need it.”
“Notice that there are only two cows in the pasture now?”
I hadn’t, but a quick scan showed he was correct.
I strolled back with the M4 under my arm, just in case. The new cars weren’t locked. One had 170 miles on it, the other 180. The older car, a gray Toyota, wore a Maryland license plate.
“Hey, man!” A black guy with a rifle was walking toward me from the house. At a glance, the rifle looked like Angelica Price’s old lever action.
“Get away from them cars!”
I was partially shielded by the front end of the old one, and I retreated one step to get a little more metal between us. I snicked the safety off the M4.
“Where’s Mrs. Price?”
“Never heard of her.”
“This is her house.” I was scanning on both sides. I could see someone at the window of the house watching, and the window was open. If there were anyone to the right or left in the pasture or garden, I didn’t see him.
“You mean that old white woman? She’s out in the chicken coop, man. Gave us some shit, she did.”
“She dead?”
“Not yet. If you don’t get the fuck outta here, you—”
That’s when I swung the M4 up and fired a burst at his legs. He went down hard and lost the rifle.
Someone fired from the house. I heard the bullet smack into the car. The report sounded like a pistol to me. The distance was about sixty yards, and whoever fired wasn’t a good pistol shot.
I couched down, used the car hood for a rest, and put a burst into the window. Silence followed.
On my right, I could see Armanti removing two AT4s from the back of his pickup. Apparently sneaking up on the house and taking a chance on getting shot didn’t appeal to him, either. I hoped the thug lying in the yard had told the truth about Mrs. Price.
Armanti ran up the road, using the embankment of a drainage ditch as cover.
To keep their heads down, I fired another burst through the window.
The guy lying in the yard was moaning, holding on to his left thigh. I could see blood at this distance, about twenty yards. Looked like a bullet had clipped an artery.
I moved aft along my mobile fortress, with just the top of my head showing. Armanti was about a hundred yards away now, looking back at me. I gave him a thumbs-up.
He stood. He had one of the AT4 tubes on his right shoulder. Five seconds, six, then the exhaust blast behind him raised a cloud of crap from the road.
He had fired at the base of the chimney of the house, which was probably the only thing hard enough to trigger the detonator of the armor-piercing missile warhead.
The windows blew out, flame gushed forth, and the roof rose a few feet, then crashed down. In seconds the house was on fire.
I began a bent-over trot toward the house. Looked at the guy lying in the yard with blood pumping between his fingers.
“Help me, man,” he pleaded.
I grabbed the pistol in his waistband and left him there.
The house was blazing nicely. No one in the yard or garden. One of the exterior walls of the house was tilting out, falling slowly. I glanced through the open door into the fire. Anyone in there was too far gone to save, even if I wanted to be a hero, which I didn’t. Near the garden was a hole with a fire smoldering. Looked like a barbecue pit. Pieces of cowhide and half a carcass were lying near it.
I went on around to the chicken coop, the M4 ready to go. Only one chicken was in sight.
Mrs. Price was lying on the hay in the shed. She had been smacked in the side of the head with a pistol several times; one of the blows had laid open her scalp. Now her gray hair was matted with blood.
Beside her were a dead white man and an unconscious white woman. Sparks from the house were causing the hay to smoke. I stepped on the hot spots, and pulled the two women and the dead man out of the shed.
“Mrs. Price. Mrs. Price, it’s Tommy Carmellini. We were by to see you a couple of days ago. Remember?”
Armanti walked up, looking grim. “The one in the front yard is still alive.”
“Find out who these people were,” I said. He trotted off.
I went through the dead man’s pockets. His driver’s license in his wallet, which was empty of cash, said his name was Lincoln B. Greenwood, of Clarksville, Maryland.
Mrs. Price was stirring. She was a tough one.
“They killed him for the fun of it,” she said. “He refused to beg. That’s his wife, Anne.” Only her left eye tracked. “They got here an hour before the others showed up.”
“Mrs. Price, I’m going to carry you to the pickup. Then I’ll come back for Mrs. Greenwood. We’ve got to get you two ladies to a doctor.”
She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. After I deposited her in the truck, I stopped by where Armanti was squatting beside the wounded man.
“He says they’re from Baltimore,” Armanti told me. “Four guys and a whore. Stole the new cars from a dealer and hit the road. Nothing to eat in Baltimore. Stopped here because they were about out of gas.”
Blood was still pumping from that hole in the guy’s leg. He had three or four other holes in his legs, and the right leg was obviously broken, but the one high in his left thigh was a real bleeder. His jeans were sodden. He was lying back on the grass and had relaxed his hold on his thigh.
“Let me have the keys to your truck. Got to get two women to a doctor. I’ll be back for you after a while.”
Armanti handed me the keys from his pocket. “This one’s gonna be gone soon.”
“They pistol-whipped the women and killed the man driving the gray sedan,” I told him. “Don’t forget Mrs. Price’s rifle.”
I went on to the chicken coop, picked up Anne Greenwood, who had been struck at least twice recently. She also had an old welt across her face. I carried her to the pickup. The wreckage of the house was completely aflame when I drove off.
Dr. Proudfoot was in at the clinic in Greenbank. I carried Anne Greenwood in first. The doctor was attending to his nurse, who had been whacked on the head.
“Got two women for you, Doctor. They’ve both been pistol-whipped. This is Mrs. Greenwood.”
“Just like my nurse. An hour ago. We were held up at gunpoint by a gang of pill-billies looking for drugs. We didn’t have any painkillers, but they took every drug I had.”
I carried Mrs. Greenwood into the examining room and put her on a gurney. Went back to the truck and brought Angelica Price in. I put her on a gurney in the second examining room.
“My God,” the doctor said. “I know Mrs. Price. Why on earth?”
“Baltimore thugs. They were after her food. Have you called the law?”
“No phone. They wouldn’t have come, anyway. Everyone is busy getting robbed or robbing the neighbors. It’s anarchy. Maybe the lawmen are home taking care of their families. I would be if I were one of them.”
He finished bandaging the nurse and sent her home. Then he spoke to Mrs. Price. “Can you hear me, Angelica?”