Sins of the Assassin

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.

“You ever drove a tractor?” asked Tigard.

It took Leo a moment to realize he was being addressed. He shook his head.

“Neither did Rikki before he showed up at our front door,” said Tigard. “That’s how we got to be friends. He saw me and the boys plowing late at night, and asked if he could help.” He made a depression in the mashed potatoes with his spoon, carefully half filled the depression with gravy. “Not many folks would stop to help a stranger. Regular Good Samaritan.”

“The twins couldn’t have been more than nine years old,” said Rakkim, smiling at the memory. “Matthew steered while James worked the controls.”

“We had a couple hired hands, but the press-gangs came by one day and that was that,” Tigard explained to Leo. “Don’t know what we would have done if Rakkim hadn’t come along. No way we could have gotten the planting finished. We were already a week behind.”

“You would have done it,” said Florence, watching the family eat. “You and the boys. We might have only gotten half a crop, but we would have tightened our belts and made it through. The Lord will provide.”

“The Lord provided Rikki, that’s what the Lord provided,” said Tigard.

“That’s what you call a mixed blessing.” Rakkim added more gravy to his mashed potatoes. “What are you going to do when the boys go away?”

“These last couple years, James has been shifting us to less labor-intensive crops,” said Florence. “More acres of alfalfa, okra, and yams, less of corn and soybeans.”

“Better prices too,” said Matthew. “The hybrid okra James got us into travels better, which allows us to sell to the Brazilian market, and with beef exports up, the price of alfalfa has tracked the same direction.”

“Mom and Dad are going to be okay, Rikki,” said James. “Matthew here structured some loan with a bank in Atlanta that’s going to allow Dad to buy a couple of robo-tractors. All he has to do is program them and they’ll drive themselves to the fields and do whatever is needed.”

“Planting, disking, fertilizing, harvesting, you name it,” said Tigard. “I don’t even have to turn on a darn switch.”

Florence patted her husband’s thick wrist. “William feels the new tractors make him obsolete.”

“A farmer who doesn’t get dirt on his hands isn’t a farmer,” said Tigard.

“Production should increase seventeen percent,” said Matthew, “and that includes payment on the loan.”

“You still got your pigs, Dad,” said James. “Anytime you want to get dirty, they’ll be there waiting for you.”

“One thing about working on a farm,” Tigard said to Leo, “you won’t ever go hungry.”

“Bill says you’re good with electronic things, Leo. Bill’s not one to brag, but he fixed our grid antenna so it taps into the Brazilian satellite system. He says their weather reports are much more reliable than anything the Belt provides.” She spooned more mashed potatoes onto Leo’s plate. “Maybe tomorrow morning he’ll show you what he did to it.”

Leo looked up from his plate, curious now.

“Farming’s a good life,” said Tigard. He glanced at his wife. “Everything’s sweeter when you’re close to the land.”

Florence flushed.

“So what do you think?” Tigard asked Leo.

Leo blinked. “Are you talking to me, sir?”

“You’re an Ident, aren’t you?” said Tigard.

“His contract is already paid for,” said Rakkim.

“So I’ll buy it out,” said Tigard. “Tell the contract holder I’m offering twenty percent above the price he paid.”

“Bill…” said Rakkim. “It can’t be done.”

“You want me to work here?” said Leo.

“Dad, really, the robo-tractors will make your life so much easier,” said Matthew.

“I get four weeks’ leave after basic,” said James. “I’ll be back every chance I get.”

Tigard nodded, jabbed at his fried okra with his fork. “I know. It was just an idea, that’s all.”

“You thought I could cut it working on your farm,” said Leo, beaming. “Mr. Tigard, sir, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Like I said, it was just an idea,” said Tigard.

“I could do it too,” said Leo. “I’m not very strong, but there’s nothing I can’t figure out. Tomorrow, before we leave, I’ll rig you up a surveillance system so good that if anyone walks up, you’ll know the color of their eyes.”

“That’s real nice of you.” Florence spooned more mashed potatoes onto Leo’s plate. Added a couple of pork chops. “Maybe when you finish your contract you’ll come back for a visit. You’re always welcome. Friends are always welcome at our table.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Leo. “I’d like that very much.”

“What brings you by after so long?” said Tigard. “It’s not like we’re on the main road.”

“I need a favor,” said Rakkim.

“You got it,” said Tigard.

“That’s what I thought,” said Rakkim.

“What kind of favor?” said Florence.

“Last time I was here, Bill said he had a cousin in Addington,” said Rakkim. “I want an introduction.”

“Addington?” Tigard peered at Rakkim. “I gave you more credit than that.”

“Nice little town, from what I hear.”

“It’s a nice town if you don’t need to breathe. Nice town if you like black lung,” said Tigard.

“Nice town,” repeated Rakkim, “but they say the folks there keep to themselves.”

“They don’t like strangers because the only reason folks come to Addington is to try and find the Church of the Mists, and the only people looking to do such a thing are damned fools.”

“I’ve been called worse,” said Rakkim.

“Leave Leo here, then,” said Florence. “No sense getting this poor boy killed too.” She smiled at Leo. “You pick me some blackberries, I’ll make you the best pie you ever ate.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Leo, “but I have to stay with Rikki. Somebody has to keep him out of trouble.”

Tigard pushed his plate aside with a clatter of silverware. “Trouble is all you’re going to find in Addington.”