Page 75 of Turn That River Red

The dogs attack the ground at the mesquite tree, growling and digging. I check my watch Sixteen minutes and forty-five seconds.

“Good job,” I tell them. “Enjoy that arm.”

And that’s when Mercy’s fear erupts.

I don’t just smell it now; I feel it, like the air’s charging up for an electrical storm. And I know, with a sinking feeling in my chest, that she’s not reading the fucking news.

Because this is what her fear felt like when she saw me kill Price back at the church.

“Stay!” I shout at the dogs. They look up at me for a second, their muzzles bloody, and then turn back to the arm. I whirl around, racing back toward the house. At least I know that there aren’t any other humans here. I would know if someone pulled up to the house?—

And like that, I realize why Mercy’s fear spiked. She’s not in the house at all.

And when she starts screaming, it’s coming from the barn.

CHAPTER THIRTY

MERCY

Church of the Well Driver. 8/9. FM 3208.

The freezer’s cold air turns to steam around me, billowing in the sweltering heat of this—it’s not a barn. It’s a torture chamber.

I read once that a poet, Dante, said that hell was a series of layers, and the deepest layer was the coldest, and I think that’s what I’m looking at right now. The deepest part of hell.

I drop the freezer lid and stumble backward, jostling up against a nearby workbench hard enough that there’s a sharp metallic clatter as a butcher cleaver falls to the ground. It’s streaked with red.

I scream again, the sound tearing my throat to shreds, and I try to run away. Except there’s nowhere to run, not in here. Weapons are everywhere. Dozens of knives. Gleaming saws. Coils of chains. I really am in hell.

And at the center of it?—

I can’t look at the freezer, glossy white in the middle of all this grime. All I can think about is gettingout, but my brain is panicky and stupid, and I’m barefoot. Why did I even come outhere? I know what Ambrose is. But I let myself be lulled into a sense of safety because of his tenderness last night. The way he tucked my hair behind my ear and brushed my cheek with his knuckles.

I came out here because I didn’t want to be alone and because I thought he might give me more of that tenderness.

Instead, I found Raul. Who else could that be? I know he died on August 9th.

I dart toward the barn doors, still cracked open, the stream of hot bright sunlight my beacon to safety. It’s all I focus on, even though it hardly feels as if I’m moving. I keep seeing that neatly labeled bag in the freezer.

The angle of sunlight widens, and then a shadow blocks it again. Ambrose.

I scream at the sight of him and whip around, furiously scanning the barn. There’s nothing but weapons and horror. No other exits. Nowindows.

The freezer sits like a toad.

“Mercy!” Ambrose shouts. I ignore him, skittering back and forth, as panicky as a rabbit. “Mercy, be care?—”

Pain sears up through the bottom of my foot, as sudden as a lightning bolt. I howl in agony and tip forward, landing hard on my hands and knees on the concrete floor. Screaming, I drag myself forward, my foot throbbing. All I can think about is getting away from him.

“Mercy, you’re fucking hurt.”

Ambrose’s shadow falls over me, and I flip around onto my back, sobbing with terror and pain. His eyes blaze. His swirling tattoos are sheened with sweat.

“You stepped on a nail,” he says softly.

“Get away from me!” I scream.

He crouches down and grabs my ankle, lifting my foot up from the ground. I fall backward against the damp cement, grinding my teeth in pain.

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