Page 1 of Rage

PROLOGUE

Samuel Yutzy turned the horse and buggy in to the gravel lane and parked between the old barn and the stand of black walnut trees. For the span of several minutes, he sat on the bench seat, looking appreciatively at the rows of red maple, white oak, and shagbark hickory saplings. Most were a couple of years old and still in their plastic containers—fifteen, twenty, and thirty gallons. A few of the smaller trees’ root balls were wrapped in burlap; some homeowners preferred that method because it was cheaper, which was fine by him.

Tying off the leather lines, he climbed down and breathed in deeply, liking the smells of freshly turned earth and growing things. He listened to the chip of the cardinal from atop the buckeye tree across the way, the morning song of the crickets as they wound down their nighttime antics, and the rising summer buzz of the cicadas.

Home, he thought, and for the first time in a long time, he was at peace. He’d built this nursery from the ground up, after all, opening the doors when he was just nineteen—two years ago—and turning a decent profit six months later. He’d done it with the sweat of his brow, the muscles in his back, and the last twenty bucks in his pocket. How in the name of God had he let himself stray so far?

But Samuel knew the answer and he wasn’t proud of it. He wasn’t proud of anything he’d done in the last year. The shame that followed was profound, reminding him of what his dawdi had told him about mistakes when he was a boy. The worst kind a man can make are the ones he doesn’t learn from. Samuel figured he’d learned more in the last year than he had in the entirety of his life.

Most of what he’d done couldn’t be fixed or undone. It was too late for that. But Samuel was an optimist and he knew some of his lapses could be remedied. Last night, as he’d lain awake praying to a God who’d become little more than a stranger in the last year, he swore he would make things right. He would change the things he could. Help those he’d harmed. He’d forgive the people who’d betrayed him. And try to forgive himself for the things he wasn’t sure he deserved forgiveness for. It was a start. And if he was lucky, he might be able to live with himself, or God willing, save his soul.

This morning, however, work waited for him, and his old life welcomed him back. The summer had been hot and dry and the saplings needed watering. The shrubs demanded trimming. The manure pile required turning. If he had time, he might just start work on the old greenhouse and replace the panes that had been broken in the hailstorm last May.

Running his hand over the horse’s rump, Samuel went to the rear of the buggy, pulled out the fifty-foot garden hose, and set it on the ground. He was threading the connector to the spigot when the crunch of tires on gravel drew his attention. He didn’t have to look to know who’d come calling, but he did. He felt a tremor of dread when he recognized the vehicle. Sighing, he dropped the hose and walked out to meet them.

He stood in the gravel outside the driver’s-side door, the hot sun beating down, and watched the driver speak into his cell phone without acknowledging him. He’d met the dark-haired man a dozen times in the last year. He’d drunk booze with him, taken meals with him, laughed with him, even fucked a girl with him once. Now, in excruciating hindsight, everything he had once admired about the man turned his stomach.

After a few minutes, the car door opened. Samuel stepped back as the man got out and brushed a speck of nonexistent lint from his shirt.

“You look like a goddamn pilgrim in those clothes,” the man said.

Samuel held his gaze. “What do you want?”

“Ain’t seen you around much.”

Samuel looked past him, noticing the passenger, not liking it that the window tint was too dark for him to make out the man’s features. “Been busy. Working. You should try it.”

Squinting in the bright sunlight, the dark-haired man looked out across the nursery. “Nice place you got here.”

“I think so.” Samuel waited a beat. “Look, I got work to do, so if you got something to say, you should say it and go.”

“I’ve got a message for you.” The man’s eyes slipped to the passenger.

Vaguely aware that the hairs at his nape were prickling, Samuel bent slightly for a closer look at the man in the passenger seat. He watched as the door opened and the man got out. Dark hair. Khaki pants. Untucked shirt—an ugly flowered thing. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but Samuel saw something unsettling in his expression, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up.

“What message?” he asked.

“This one.” The passenger lifted the hem of his shirt, reached into his waistband. Grasping something unseen. His arm coming up …

Samuel caught sight of the pistol an instant too late. A rush of adrenaline jolted his body like electricity. Raising his hands, he sidestepped. “Don’t do it!”

The gunshot snapped through the air like a thunderclap. Something slammed into his left side below his ribs. A baseball bat affixed with a red-hot poker that sank in and went deep.

Pain doubled him over. Samuel’s legs buckled. A sound tore from his throat as his knees hit the dirt. Heat streaked across his belly and went through all the way to his spine. He fell forward, broke his fall with his hands, his fingers digging into dirt.

The world around him spun and slowed to a crawl. He was aware of the passenger coming around the rear of the car. Going to get off another shot, he thought. Finish it. The man standing next to him stepped back. Getting out of the way.

Sons of bitches.

In that instant a thousand regrets rained down on him. He hadn’t thought they would take it this far. It wasn’t the first time he’d underestimated the savagery they were capable of.

Raising his head, Samuel looked up at the pistol. Semiauto. Sleek. Expensive. Of course it was. The passenger moved in slow motion. Eyes level and intent. Gun coming up. Finger inside the guard.

Sammy closed his fists, clutching handfuls of dirt, and flung them at the man’s face. The gunman’s stride faltered. Left hand going to his eyes. He spat. His pistol hand dropping down to his side.

“Fucking prick.”

Samuel scrambled to his feet, lunged like a sprinter out of a block. Pain tore through his gut with every stride. Nausea rising. Bile boiling at the back of his throat. An invisible knife stabbing his rib cage every time his feet hit the ground.