Mad River

softhearted. If you run into them, let the kids call the cards.”
    “You—wear your vest,” Virgil said.
    •   •   •
    THEY STARTED OUT in the middle of the focus area and spiraled outward. The farmhouses were generally a quarter to a half mile apart, usually not too far off the road, although some were set well back. They’d approach with the flashing lights, stop in the farmyard, and wait for somebody to come out of the house; occasionally, they’d find somebody already out working. The two teams leapfrogged each other, instead of going in opposite directions, so help would always be only a minute or two away.
    At the first house they came to, Virgil stayed in the truck while Jenkins got out on the side opposite the farmhouse. It couldn’t be seen from inside the house, but he was carrying an M14A1, a modified, fully automatic M14 military rifle that had been taken from a Canadian drug dealer a couple of years before. The rifle fired .308 rounds with better penetrating power than M16-based weapons, and would be useful for blowing holes through farmhouse walls.
    A minute after they showed up, a mixed-breed dog that looked like it might be mostly Aussie came running around from behind the barn and started barking at them, but stood off ten yards as it barked. Virgil decided he would not want to mess with it. A few seconds later, a farmer edged nervously out of the house, his hands in the air, and yelled, “Hey, Bob. Sit down. Sit down.” The dog sat down. Virgil shouted, “Sir, could you come all the way over here? We’re with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”
    When the farmer had come right up to him, Virgil confirmed in a low voice that he and his family were okay—“If your family is being held, we’ll go away, and we’ll be back with reinforcements and get you out.”
    “We’re okay. I’ve got my twelve-gauge handy, and if they show up here, they won’t be walking away.”
    “You take care,” Virgil said. “They might not come driving up and knock on the door—they might come sneaking out of a field and jump you when you’re walking out to the car. They’re killers.”
    “We’re all locked up tight and my cousin’s coming up from Worthington in a couple hours with his guns. And we’ve got the dog out in the yard. Not much gets by him.”
    “Don’t shoot each other,” Virgil said. “Or the dog.”
    Before they left, Virgil asked if the farmer had seen any unusual activity, or lack of activity, at local houses. He hadn’t, and said his neighbors were staying in touch, even people who didn’t like each other.
    •   •   •
    SHRAKE CALLED from down the road and said they’d cleared their first farmhouse.
    •   •   •
    IT WENT LIKE that all morning. In only two cases was there nobody home. In each case, they were able to locate the owners by phone and confirm that the house should be empty.
    In one case, a farm couple emerged from the house wearing gun belts with leg tie-downs. They competed in Western shooting competitions, they said, and were not too worried.
    At one o’clock in the afternoon, Duke called and said they had a possibility, and were setting up around the farmhouse. They knew there were people inside, because they’d been seen: but nobody had come out, and they’d ignored orders to come out.
    Virgil’s group broke off and drove north through Arcadia to join Duke’s people. When they got there, they found fifty cops around the farmhouse, and out on the lawn, which was dotted with metal windmills and whirligigs. A couple of horses watched from an adjacent pasture, where an Owens cabin cruiser sat on fifty-five-gallon drums, a long way from any water big enough to float it.
    “Can’t get an answer out of them,” Duke said.
    The media showed up, but were kept way back, except for a helicopter that buzzed over a couple of times. Duke went off to brief the TV people, who were getting impatient, pushing toward five o’clock deadlines. Another TV helicopter showed. Virgil saw a curtain moving in the front room window a couple of times, and once thought he saw the flash of a face.
    The scene began to take on the aspect of a carnival, as more and more cops and soldiers came in, but then, around four o’clock, a frightened farm couple showed up and said that the people inside were almost certainly their four foster children, all teenagers, and all of whom were mentally challenged.
    The farmer’s name was Arnie Schmidt, who