The other man spat close by his companion’s feet by way of comment, but not quite on them.
The second man studied what they’d been tearing at. ‘Do you think that’s enough?’ he asked.
‘It is for me,’ the one with the pliers answered, dropping the tool into the sack. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They moved away as Lorrie watched. She waited until they’d vanished behind a hedge and she scuttled over to see what they’d been doing, staying low. Glancing nervously in all directions Lorrie caught sight of one of the strangers disappearing over the hill toward her home and froze. She held her breath until she was sure they were gone, then cautiously moved forward again until she stood over what they’d been tearing apart.
For a moment Lorrie couldn’t even breathe; was so shocked that all she knew was that this used to be a man. Suddenly something went snap behind her eyes, and she realized she knew him.
It was Emmet Congrove, the man of all work; she could tell by his clothes, and the thinning grey hair, and the wart on the back of his right hand, always inflamed where he picked at it.
He’d been with the family since just before Rip was born. How could they do that to him? How could anyone do such a thing?
Tearing her fascinated gaze from the terrible wounds on the body Lorrie turned aside, her hands covering her mouth. Falling to her knees she was instantly, helplessly sick; heaving and sobbing uncontrollably. Finally the nausea passed and Lorrie hugged her middle to ease the ache, spitting to clear her mouth.
A sudden stab of fear that was not her own sobered her. Rip! Lorrie leapt to her feet and ran toward home. Rip was in danger. But where is Mother? Why can’t I feel her? In her heart Lorrie feared the answer, and she refused to believe it.
The smoke was growing thicker.
Coming over the hill that hid the house and barn from view she ran into a pall of black smoke so thick that she could see nothing. Lorrie stopped, choking. She heard hoofbeats and the neigh of a horse, but no longer felt the panicked fear that Rip had projected just moments before. A puff of wind parted the smoke and she could see that the barn was wreathed in orange-red flame, thundering where it had got to the packed hay in the loft and turning almost white along the rooftree. Beyond she thought she saw two figures on horseback riding fast down the road.
Thick sooty-black smoke poured out of every window of their house; wisps of it were coming out of the thatch too, and as she watched a few tentative tongues of flame. Lorrie let out a cry like the wordless shriek of a hawk and ran down the hill, careless of where her feet went, not minding the pounding shock as they hit the ridged furrows.
The wind shifted again, sending billows of smoke toward her, blinding her, blurring her eyes with tears. She coughed with a racking intensity, her lungs dry and burning with her effort and the harsh smoke. Then she tripped over something and fell forward with a thud. What had she tripped over? Slowly she turned, her heart hammering with dread, and looked behind her. It was her father, his throat torn out, his eyes staring sightlessly upward, his beard moving slightly in the wind that bore the smoke. His blood pooled out around him, so much blood that the ground was turning to mud beneath it. His wood-chopping axe lay not far from his outstretched hand, the edge still shiny.
She tried to scream, but her throat closed and all that came out was a pathetic squeak as she scuttled backwards across the dirt. Then with a choked sob, she forced herself to stand. For a long moment she looked down upon the grisly sight. Lorrie reached toward him, halted and drew her hand back, holding it against her chest, shaking her head in disbelief. Then she looked toward the house—her head moving in little jerks—and saw her mother, mercifully lying face down. There was blood pooled beneath her too, so much blood that Lorrie knew her mother could not possibly be alive.
Lorrie gave one sob and stopped herself. Rip was still alive! Rip had only her now, and only she could save him. Forcing herself to turn away from the horror, she wrenched her gaze away from her mother’s body, turned and ran around the house, and down the road after the vanishing riders.
She ran until her lungs ached and she could taste blood in the back of her throat. She raced up one hill and down another until she came to the top of a rise and saw them; two men, one of them struggling with a small boy.
Rip, she thought. One of the boy’s shoes fell off, and the man holding him clouted him across the side of the head. In what seemed like a moment they were out of sight around a curve in the road and soon she couldn’t even hear the hollow sound of the hooves on packed dirt.