Chapter 1
Rodney McCready dragged a twisted aluminum screen door from the barn. He threw it onto a knee-high pile of debris. He’d cleaned junk from this dilapidated structure for the past hour, but he still didn’t see the point of the effort. Rodney could remove all the garbage from inside the barn and it still wouldn’t be usable. The sagging roof had holes in it, and there were missing boards along the walls. The dirt floor wasn’t even level. To make matters worse, the whole thing reeked of cat urine.
At first, Rodney thought there once might have been a meth lab in the barn. Now, he believed the outbuilding was a home for feral cats. That seemed worse to Rodney than being around corrosive chemicals. It meant he’d been working all morning inside a large cat box. The easiest option would be to burn the structure to the ground—contents and all. Nothing about the damn barn was worth saving.
AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” pumped through an old boom box near the barn doors.
Across a dirt driveway stood a dingy white house. Gray shingles curled and popped from the roof. Empty beer bottles lined the porch railing. Three flags hung in the front windows—the American, the Confederate, and the Gadsden. The yellow Dont Tread on Me flag was a historically correct representation of the banner designed by Brigadier General Christopher Gadsden, including the missing apostrophe. Rodney had learned the flag’s history shortly after arriving at the Farm.
Several dusty pickups clustered in front of the garage. One of them belonged to Rodney. The others were owned by the Family. A single black Lexus had arrived while Rodney was inside the barn. He hadn’t heard it pull up. Rodney also missed seeing its occupant exit.
He stepped further away from the debris pile for a better look at the car. The sedan and its shiny exterior looked out of place for this part of the state.
“You done?”
Wiley Jones slouched on an aluminum lawn chair in the shade of a willow tree. He was a small man in his early thirties. A straw cowboy hat covered his long, greasy hair. He wore a faded black Metallica T-shirt, dirty blue jeans, and unlaced combat boots. Wiley sipped iced tea from a plastic tumbler. A pitcher of the concoction sat on a small round table. Next to the jug lay a revolver.
The afternoon sun beat down on the Farm. Rodney didn’t know what the day’s temperature might reach because he couldn’t check his cell phone. The Old Man forbade Rodney from having one while at the Farm. The other members of the Family could carry their devices, but they’d been around longer and had already proven their loyalty. He didn’t even dare bring his phone in his truck, so he left it in his apartment.
Rodney wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. His T-shirt clung wetly to him, and he pulled it away from his chest. Nothing helped cool him down.
Wiley shifted forward in his seat, the metal squeaking as he moved. “You hear what I asked?”
“What’s that?” Rodney cupped a hand to his ear and pretended not to understand the man over the crunchy guitars coming from the boom box.
“Why you stopping?”
Rodney shrugged. “I’m thirsty.”
“Too bad.” Wiley slumped back in his chair and languidly sipped his drink. “You ain’t earned a break.”
“You got plenty to share.”
“It’s not for you.” Wiley lifted his chin toward the barn. “Get back inside.”
Rodney stepped toward the house. “I’ll drink from the garden hose.”
“No, you won’t.” Wiley put his free hand on the gun.
Rodney stopped walking. “You’ll shoot me if I get some water?”
“I’ll shoot you if you go near the house.”
“I’m dehydrated.”
“Swallow your spit.”
Rodney frowned. “You want me passing out?”
“It’ll get the same result.”
“Which is what?”
Wiley motioned the gun toward the outbuilding. “Less talk. More hustle.”
Rodney started back inside the barn when there was a break in the music. That’s when the screen door to the house popped open. Rodney stopped and looked back.
A man in a suit stood in the open doorway. He was tall with broad shoulders, and his dark hair was cut in a businessman’s style. The guy looked as if he could have stepped off the cover of GQ magazine.
The next song blared through the boom box.
“Stop eye-fucking the house,” Wiley ordered. He stalked toward Rodney now with his iced tea in one hand and the gun in the other. “Get in the goddamn barn!”
Rodney held up his hands in surrender. “Shoot a man for getting heatstroke.”
He walked toward the back of the barn with thoughts of the Lexus racing through his mind. How long had it been there? Did Rodney not notice it on the previous times he’d taken trash out to the debris pile? Or had the car’s owner only arrived for a quick visit?
Rodney grabbed a couple of dining room chairs and carried them into the sunlight. He tossed them onto the debris pile.
A dusty haze floated along the driveway after the departing Lexus. The house lay about a hundred yards away from the roadway. The car turned onto Highway 155 and sped north to Omak.
Wiley waved his gun at the barn’s opening. “I’m not telling you again.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rodney mumbled.
He entered the barn once more. Rodney hated the demeaning work, but the heat made him extra irritable. The day’s dry air felt like sandpaper in his lungs. He thought about taking his time, but the overriding smell of cat piss discouraged that.
Rodney found a pair of swim flippers and an old dive tank with its air supply hoses still attached. Why did anyone need diving equipment on the Farm? Rodney grabbed those items and headed toward the barn’s opening. The music stopped before he reached the sunlight.
“Wiley says you need a drink.”
Saxon Peckham stood near the boom box. The Old Man had an enormous head with large, expressive eyes. His teeth seemed too big for his mouth. As a result, his jaw usually hung open. When Saxon closed his lips, it looked as if he were struggling to contain his words. He wore faded denim overalls with a grimy white T-shirt underneath. His work boots were scuffed and sandy.
Rodney tossed the flippers and dive tank onto the debris pile. “It’s hot as hell today.”
“You weren’t trying to spy our guest?”
“Hell no. I wasn’t spying.” Rodney flicked his thumb toward the barn. “It smells like piss in there. If you didn’t want me seeing who was here, I would have stood around back. Or I could have stayed home.”
Saxon’s eyes narrowed. “I wanted you to clean out the barn.” The Old Man stepped closer and loomed over Rodney. “Everybody has a role to serve. You think you’re better than the rest of us?”
Rodney inhaled deeply. “No, sir.” The dry air grated against his lungs.
Saxon nodded twice, then he turned to consider the debris pile. “You made a good dent.”
“I tried.”
“Wiley says you were dogging it.”
Rodney looked at the other man. Wiley smirked, challenging him to do something.
“What do you say to that?” Saxon asked.
“Not much I can say.” Rodney knew better than to make excuses, especially since his place in the pecking order was tenuous. “I guess I better work harder.”
“That so?” the Old Man asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Saxon peered into the barn, then he glanced up at the sun.
“Still need that drink?”
Rodney nodded. “Please.”
“All right.” Saxon waved at the debris pile. “Put that shit back where you found it, then get yourself some water.”
The Old Man started for the house.
“Put it back?”
Saxon stopped to study Rodney. “Problem?”
“I hauled all that crap out like you asked.”
“Now I’m telling you to put it back.” Saxon cocked his head. “What aren’t you understanding?”
It was busy work. Something to keep Rodney occupied and away from the house while the guests were inside.
“I understand,” he said.
“Well, don’t look so proud about it.” Saxon headed toward the house. “If you make quick work of it,” he said over his shoulder, “I might give you a job.”
