Feur answered a minute later. "What?"
Virgil said, "This is Virgil Flowers. You feel like coming out?"
Feur chuckled. "No, I guess not. I have a question for you, though. Why in the hell did you come in shooting? You could have knocked on the door. I could take a couple years inside. But you came in shooting and now there are dead cops, and I'm not gonna sit on death row, waiting for the needle."
"Ah, man," Virgil said. "It was Franks' goddamn dogs. We weren't shooting you. The dogs went after an agent, chewing him up. Somebody shot at the dog, somebody shot back from the house."
"All this happened because of dogs?" Feur didn't seem surprised.
"Well, not exactly. If you hadn't been making a ton of crank, if you hadn't built bunkers inside the house, if you hadn't shot back…Was that you, or Trevor, or one of the other guys?"
"Trevor," Feur said. "Silly fool. Always liked those guns too much. He paid for it: he's gone now. There's only two of us left, me'n John. We're both hurt, trying to decide what to do."
"You aren't gonna take any more cops with you," Virgil said. "The DEA is talking about bringing in a tank from the National Guard. Run that house over like a trash compactor."
After a few seconds of silence, Feur said, "Call me back in two minutes. John's hurt, I need to see what he wants to do."
VIRGIL PUNCHED OFF. He'd been holding the phone close, so the agent could listen in, and the agent said, "Good. If he's talking, he'll quit." Then, "What about our guys?"
Virgil said, "One's real bad, one may be dying. Not dead yet, they're working on both of them at the hospital. Pirelli's got a bunch of holes, but I don't think he's gonna die. What about the others…?"
"We sent two more in; not good, but not terrible." The agent nodded, chewed his lip, said, "Why'd Franks turn those dogs loose?"
"Crazy guy," Virgil said. "A whole house full of crazy guys."
HE LOOKED at the phone, and redialed. Feur answered, and said, "We're quittin'. But we can't get out of here. We're all piled in. We're not gonna shoot, but you'll have to get us out."
"Where are you?"
"Right in the middle of the house, first floor, the whole top floor came down on us. Can't see any cracks, just a lot of lumber. John is hurtin' bad."
Virgil could hear another man talking in the background, but couldn't make out what he was saying. "Gonna take a while," Virgil said. "I'll tell you what, Reverend. You best not resist. Won't do any good, for one thing, but the other thing is, these boys are pretty pissed. If they toss an incendiary grenade in there, you'll get a little preview of hell."
"We're done," Feur said. "We're done."
"Just in case, you know, something happens," Virgil said. "Why'd you do the Gleasons and the Schmidts?"
Feur said, "I don't lie on the Bible, Virgil. I had nothing to do with that. And look-it wouldn't make any difference to anybody or anything if I came right out and admitted it. Not with those dead cops all over the yard. But I had nothin' to do with it."
THE AGENTS TOOK it slowly: built a commanding view of the house from the loft of the barn, from the top of the shed, then moved in close to the house, pushed some sandbags around, built a strong point that looked right down into the wreckage.
The agent named Harold Gomez had taken charge. Another agent said to him, "We need some chains, maybe a Bobcat. We need to move some big pieces."
Gomez nodded. "Get one. Get two. Get them down here."
ANOTHER SANDBAGGED strongpoint went up at the opposite corner of the house. With an agent there, his gun trained on the wreckage, Virgil and Gomez moved in close to look at the house. To their left, another agent had spread a blanket over the forms of the dead DEA man and Franks.
The wrecked house smelled bad, raw lumber and dust and old paint, the odor of rotten eggs. A couple of other agents moving around the wreckage pointed out parts of a body, blown to pieces, under a portion of the second floor that had collapsed into the yard.
"Direct hit with a grenade," Gomez said.
An agent put down his rifle, walked up the front steps, dragged some siding and two-by-fours to the side, and then a few more pieces. He shouted, "Can you hear us?"
No answer.
"Careful," Gomez said. "Basement could be a problem."
THEY MOVED FARTHER around the house, and Gomez said, "You've got a cut on your scalp."
"Piece of glass or metal," Virgil said. "When I was backing the truck out."
"Goddamnit," Gomez said. "Goddamnit. Ah, Jesus, what do I tell Harmon's wife?"
ANOTHER AGENT HAD PUT on gloves, and was clearing debris from the other side of the house, walking carefully on an exposed piece of floor. "Hey, you in there? Hey?"
To Gomez: "Looks like another body, or pieces of one."
Moved more lumber, but they'd need the Bobcat, Virgil decided. He called Feur on the cell phone. No answer.
"Maybe hurt," Gomez said. Moved a bit more lumber. "I gotta go into town, see my guys…" Gomez might be going into shock, Virgil thought.
More rotten eggs.
Virgil sniffed, sniffed again, then said quietly and urgently to the agent on the house, moving lumber, "Get off there. Don't ask me any questions, just get off, right now." And to the agent on the other side-"Quiet. Get off there…get back, get those guys out of the sandbags, you guys get back…"
He was talking quietly as he could, backing away. Gomez: "What, what?"
Virgil said, "That's propane. That's the rotten-egg smell." He looked around, saw the tank next to the barn. "They're filling the place up with propane. They're gonna blow it up."
"Propane…" Gomez was quick. He backed away, turned away, said quietly into his radio, "Guys, everybody get back, keep it quiet, but get the hell back, there's gas, they may be getting ready to blow it…"
TEN MINUTES LATER, Virgil was feeling a little stupid, sitting in the ditch across the road. An agent suggested that he run up next to the barn, and turn the propane off, but the barn was too close to the house, too exposed if there was an explosion. "Give it another ten minutes," Virgil said. "Maybe I'm full of shit."
ELEVEN MINUTES AFTER Virgil moved the agents off the house, the place blew. Not like a bomb, but with a hollow whump. Five tons of lumber went straight up in the air or sideways with a gout of smoke, curled at the top, like an atomic bomb. Virgil covered his head with his hands, and when nothing landed on him, peeked over the edge of the ditch. A ripple of fire was running through the wreckage: "Now, you need the fire department," he said.
"Holy mackerel," Gomez said. "Holy fuck." A few seconds later a helicopter showed up, and when it turned, they could see the Channel Five logo on the side.
Virgil shook his head. "That's what we needed. That's exactly what we needed. Smile, Harry, you're on TV."
Not done yet.
Gomez made a call, said, "That oughta get rid of the chopper," and with the helicopter still circling, they walked cautiously across the street, to the house. An agent ran out of the field behind the barn to the propane tank, pulled off the valve cover, and Virgil could see him spinning the valve.
Gomez said, "Gonna be another one of them right-wing legends. Last stand at Reverend Feur's."
"Anybody look in Franks' truck yet?"
"Not yet."
They went that way, yanked open the back panel on the camper, saw the row of gas cans. A couple of other agents drifted over. Gomez turned the cap on one, sniffed, said, "Gas," tipped it into the sun, to see better, then walked away and carefully poured the gasoline into the dirt at the side of the yard. A gallon or so poured out, and then a glass tube fell out, and another. Gomez kept swirling the can until he had them all, twelve tall bottles that might once have contained spices, all full of powder.