Page 28 of Turn That River Red

“And for letting me help you.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AMBROSE

Ispend the rest of the day lost in thought, alternating between the absolute fucking visionof Mercy kneeling in front of me, her cheeks flushed and her delicate arousal perfuming the air around us, and working through the puzzle of how to break into that goddamn bunker.

Oh, and playacting as a preacher. But slipping into that role is easier than I remember.

The meeting hall they set me up in is small and dim—yet another prefab building with thin walls and an echoing linoleum floor. Ancient metal folding chairs lined up in neat rows, a particle board folding table set up at the front as some kind of makeshift pulpit. When Mercy sees the setup, she sighs, shoulders hitching a little.

“I wish we could have put you in the chapel,” she says softly. “But Reverend Gunner said he wanted to keep it open.”

“This is fine.” I flash her a grin. “I’m preached in worst places.”

That’s true, actually, although Mercy wouldn’t believe me if I told her—a weary wagon train in Utah before it was Utah, a snowed-in settlement up in the New Mexico mountains, avillage along the Rio Grande that had been decimated by cholera. To be fair, I always chose places that had been tainted by death. Made my true work easier.

The only thing that’s unusual about this place is the little twists of twine and sticks pinned to the walls. They’re magic—a soft sort of Christian magic that buzzes in the back of my head. I figure that these are the charms Charlotte told me about, the ones that poisoned her as a child so she wouldn’t know what she was.

Charms to keep away the devil.

They don’t keep me away, fortunately, although I do have a faint, dull headache throughout the prayer sessions—which go smoothly otherwise. Congregants file in, and I put on my brightest smile and quote the Bible at them and then lay hands like I did for Mercy, although it doesn’t have quite the same effect on them as it does on her. I speak platitudes I first developed 150 years ago: “Death is not an ending, but an exaltation,” and “Don’t allow grief to control you,” and other pithy sayings that apparently offer the comfort humans seek when they’re faced with death head-on.

I’ll admit I’m tempted, on a couple of occasions, to slip into my old routine—offering prayers and guidance that worm little seeds of doubt and fear into their minds. That’s what the boogeyman does, isn’t it? Sow fear? But I’m at the Church of the Well for a specific reason, and that reason isn’t killing. It’s getting the names of Charlotte’s birth parents.

I don’t see Mercy for the rest of the day; whether she’s avoiding me or got swept up in Gunner’s demands, I don’t know.

Around lunchtime, a familiar-looking woman shows up with a sandwich and some kind of dubious macaroni salad, which she sets in front of me when the other congregants have cleared out.

“Pastor Echeverría,” she says. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Madelyn Gunner, Reverend Gunner’s wife.”

So that’s why she looks familiar. As soon as she says her name, I see the younger version of her, with the teased blonde hair and glittery blouses. She’s dressed much more demurely now.

I also notice the way she stresses the wordwife.

“It’s a pleasure,” I say, slapping on a smile. “I take it this is my lunch?”

“Yes. We thought you might be hungry.”

I wonder, briefly, whoweis, but don’t comment on it. “Well, you were right. I’m starving.” I give her an affable grin, which she returns—years of being Gunner’s wife must have taught her that much. She’s a bit guarded.

“Was Mercy helpful this morning?” she asks.

Is that suspicion in her voice? I wonder how much she and Mercy talk. Surely Mercy didn’t tell her what happened. She’s guarded, but she’s not distrustful.

“Wonderfully helpful,” I say. “Got me set up in here and everything.”

Madelyn nods, face set in a firm expression. “Very good. She can be a… helpful girl when she needs to be.”

I don’t say anything. Madelyn straightens her spine, clears her throat.

“Sterling and I were hoping you could stay here for another few hours,” she says. “The congregants have found your prayers reassuring.”

“That’ll be just fine.”

Madelyn nods and stands up. “Pastor Sullivan wants to meet you,” she says. “He works closely with my husband. He’ll be along in a few hours.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me alone with the sandwich, which turns out to be ham and cheese. It’s not bad.

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