Page 2 of Turn That River Red

The man slides out of the van, holding his phone, and that’s when I attack with my carving knife, slamming it straight into the base of his spine. He goes rigid; the phone drops out of his hand and cracks on the asphalt.

“Lo siento.” I breathe it into his ear. He’s not dead yet, just paralyzed, and I can smell the fear wafting off him, thick in the heat. “Nothing personal. Wrong place, wrong time.”

I ease my gutting knife out of its holster, running my thumb along the glossy wooden handle. The entire set is over a hundred years old, crafted by a knifemaker down in my hometown of San Angelo when I was still a young man. Or youngish man.

“Esto terminará rápido,” I tell him, which is the truth. I didn't trap him here, on the road to the Church of the Well, to feed my bloodlust, strong as it is. No, I need a body. One of the faithful, so I can display him by the river, throw them into disarray, and worm my way into their trust.

I need to get through those compound gates. And this is the easiest way I know how.

Plus, I could do with some more meat.

So I gut this poor Christian like he’s the deer I said I was hunting. He doesn’t feel it when his belly splits open and his intestines spill out. That’s why I stabbed him in the spine. A killing of necessity like this doesn’t require suffering.

But Ifeelit. The heat, the coppery stench, the slippery delicious wetness of all his insides. When he tilts forward, I catch him and lick the blood off my fingers. The van’s keys are in his pocket, and I pull those out before I toss him over my shoulder and take him to the back of the van, which isn’t even locked. It’s full of groceries from the store in Cocana, nearly forty minutes in the opposite direction. Bread and milk, big chunks of cheese.

He was alone. Good.

I take the keys and the body and hike back across the flatlands, moving quickly in the hot sun. My Oldsmobile is parked about a quarter mile away, on an old dirt road that’ll lead me back to my ranch house, where I can get to work on the next part of my plan.

If I’m going to earn a spot on that compound, I need them afraid.

Good thing I’ve been sowing fear for two hundred years.

CHAPTER ONE

MERCY

The golf cart whines as I steer it across the thin, scrubby grass. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, but the air is already warm, and I know today is going to be another miserable triple-digit day. At least Reverend Gunner doesn’t forbid air conditioning.

The headlights on the golf cart flash over the landscape, revealing the pair of spindly mesquite trees that mark the embankment down to the Concho River. I’m technically stealing right now; the river isn’t part of the church’s property, and women aren’t supposed to drive the golf carts. We certainly aren’t supposed to take them off the premises. But if I leave early enough, I’ll be back behind the gates before anyone notices. I can slip into the kitchen and start preparing breakfast early, a dutiful helpmeet to the entire congregation.

I stop the golf cart, turn off the engine, and, just for a moment, sit there, staring out into the eerie pre-dawn darkness at the river rushing below. It’s my favorite place in the whole world, small as my world is. This was where I was baptized when I was eight years old. Reverend Gunner did the honors himself, squeezing my nose and tipping me backward into theshockingly cold water. I felt such an enormous peace in that moment, suspended beneath the surface, Reverend Gunner’s face blurry and smiling.

He hadn’t decided I would be his helpmeet yet.

I step out of the golf course and shine my flashlight, stolen from the supply closet last year, across the embankment so I don’t trip as I make my way down to the river. We’ve been having afternoon thunderstorms, short-lived and wild, and the river is swollen. The water babbles like the wives when we’re doing chores—hanging laundry, scrubbing the communal bathrooms, tidying up the chapel.

It also glimmers softly, a hint that the sunrise has started even though I can’t quite see any light on the horizon.

I slip my shoes off and walk out onto the cool, slippery rocks until the water laps around my ankles, still as shockingly cold as it was the day I was baptized. It’s a relief, though. The heat is unrelenting this time of year, even at night.

I wade through the rocky shallows, the beam from my flashlight reflecting off the water’s surface, until I find my favorite sitting rock, a big stone that juts out over the bank. I heave myself up, arranging my skirts around my knees, lean back on my forearms, and breathe deep.

The wind stirs, hot and dry. Somewhere, a bird twitters, the first sign that morning’s on its way. I check the time on my wristwatch, a one-year anniversary gift from Reverend Gunner: a little past 5 AM. I still have plenty of time. We don’t start cooking breakfast until 6.

Nearly forty-five minutes to myself. It’s an unimaginable luxury, and a rare one now that I’ve come of age and been bound to Reverend Gunner as his helpmeet. Most nights, he calls me to the little mother-in-law suite attached to his house—Madelyn, his first wife, prefers I don’t perform my wifely duties in their shared home. And although the mornings after those nights are the times I need the river the most, it’s toohard to pull myself out of bed when I’ve been up until two in the morning.

Last night, though, Reverend Gunner never summoned me, and I finished my chores early and went to bed early so I could wake up before sunrise and come here to have this time to myself.

Something splashes in the water. A fish or an owl, maybe. I think it’s still dark enough for them. I sit up, my flashlight trained on the water. I like the way it looks, like a ribbon of the starry night sky has fallen from the Heavens and landed in the middle of West Texas.

Something floats past. I think it’s log at first, even though there aren’t a lot of trees out here. But it’s strangely shaped. Ragged. I sweep my light over the water, trying to chase it, but it’s gone.

Another splash. A little louder, this time. It’s coming from my right, from upriver, and for the first time, a little quiver of fear works down my spine.

Is someone else out here?

I stand up slowly, my heart thudding. If thereissomeone out here, they probably aren’t from the church. Maybe it’s someone doing some early morning fishing. I’ve never known people to fish in this part of the Concho River, but it’s certainly possible.

---