Page 74 of Turn That River Red

“Roxi.”

Her ears perk up.

“Meat cleaver.”

She leaps to her feet and runs over to the wall of knives, grabs the cleaver by its handle from the bottom row, and runs back to me. I take the knife out of her mouth.

“Good girl.” I hate that I think of Mercy when I say it.

Roxi barks.

“Yes, yes, you’ll get your treat.” I go over to the freezer, unlock it, peel back the lid. The cold billows up, a relief in the barn’s balmy heat.

Fucking Raul is right on top. I didn’t know his name when I killed him, so I wroteChurch of the Well Driverin big black letters across the bag instead. I don’t pull him out, though. I go for George Lakowski, a poacher I had some fun with a few months back. Followed him all over the western half of the state, stalking him the way he was stalking the bobcats and mountain lions he prized so much.

I take out his arm and toss it down on the metal table. The dogs’ tails wag even faster.

“Roxi,” I say, slamming the cleaver down on Lakowski’s thumb. She rises up to her hind legs and when I toss the thumb she catches it and gulps it down.

“Yeah, it’s nice having it be frozen, huh?” I hack off Lakowski’s ring finger and hold it up to Max. “Your turn, buddy.” Then I whistle a sharp, prickly melody.

The transformation is immediate—from sweet, cuddly Max to a vicious, growling monster. I wonder what Mercy would say if she saw this.

Nothing good, probably. Especially with the finger-cicles.

I point to the stack of old boxing dummies I keep in the corner and whistle again. This time, with the code forattack.

Max does as ordered, launching himself on the dummy and grabbing the biggest one, just like I trained him. He snarls and bites and drags the thing over to me. Roxi can’t help herself and joins in on the attack. But when I whistle sharply, they both stop on command.

“Very good.” I toss Max his finger and cut off another piece for Roxi. They both gulp them down in one bite and then sit at attention, waiting for my next command.

“You two want to run in the pasture, don’t you?” I grin down at them, and both of them start wagging their tails ferociously at the wordpasture. I don’t blame them; they were cooped up at the cabin at the Church of the Well.

“All right, corpse training it is, then.” I whistle sharply in four short blasts, and the dogs rise up to standing. I grab what remains of Lakowksi’s arm and a shovel from the hook on the wall and push the barn door open. They tear off again, running in wild circles out in the pasture.

I duck behind the barn, out of the view of the house’s windows—I don’t know when Mercy’s going to wake up, and I don’t feel like explaining why I’m carrying around an arm.

Then I hike to the opposite end of the pasture, near the big mesquite tree that marks the edge of my property. The dogs are still closer to the house, running in circles, not paying me any mind.

I start digging, just a shallow little grave for old Lakowski. Or at least his arm. Then I drop the arm in, cover it back up with dirt, and head toward the barn. Once I’m there, I whistle again.

The dogs immediately circle around to me, excited. We’ve been through this exercise dozens of times—a dog that can clear a crime scene is a useful friend to have, even if Hunters have other advantages that keep us from being found out.

I whistle again, low and fluttery—the order forscavenge.The dogs immediately start sniffing around the ground. I check the time on my watch. The last time we did this, it took them nearly twenty minutes to sniff out the meat, but I suspect it might not take as long today, given the heat will start to thaw out that arm a lot faster, even buried.

I follow the dogs as they get to work, snuffling through the dying grass. They haven’t caught the scent yet. Or they’re lallygagging, hoping to get more time outside.

The sun beats down on me, and I wipe the sweat away from my forehead. The dogs are slowly but surely making their way to the far end of the pasture, but it’s a hike in this heat, even for a creature like me. I should have brought out a glass of water instead of my coffee, which I left abandoned back in the barn.

We’re about halfway to the mesquite tree when I feel it—a disturbance shimmering through the air like a heat slick. Mercy’s fearful about something.

I glance over at the house, frowning. I don’t see her, but I can smell the sweet, rich scent of her fear. I wonder if she opened up my laptop and went searching for more information about how Gunner’s handling her disappearance. This is what her fear smelled like yesterday when she saw that news report.

Max lets out a volley of excited barks, pulling my attention away from the human in my house. He’s caught Lakowski’s scent.

“Good boy,” I shout, glancing down at my watch. Fifteen minutes. They’re probably going to beat last time.

Both of them gallop toward the mesquite tree, but I take my time, weaving through the grass. The wind shifts and Mercy’s scent isn’t as strong, but it is there, faintly, in the background.

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