Page 130 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

It rooted him to the spot, and lifted all the fine hairs on the back of his neck. A lonesome, echoingawwwwoooooo, like a wolf in a movie. A second howl followed, and then two at once. They were–

Baying. Hounds baying.

He glanced back out across the water, at the distant lights, and could hear the bawling of the dogs get closer, and closer, and closer.

He needed to run, and run now. Climb a tree – or, well, shit, no. Then they’d have him treed and helpless. He could shoot them, then, and make a break for it. Maybe even take to the water. Whatever the plan of action, he needed tomove.

Instead, his shivering, worn-out body refused to cooperate, and all the sweat that slicked his skin turned to ice as an image filled his mind, not of earthly dogs, but of hellhounds: bristling, red-eyed, razor-toothed. He’d let pride get the best of him, had pushed too hard, and now the devil wanted his due.

“No, stupid,” he muttered to himself. “It’s a K-9 unit. It’s Bloodhounds.”

A twig snapped behind him. “No,” Mercy Lécuyer’s voice floated out from the gloom behind him. “Those are Smokey Mountain Blueticks, fresh from Tennessee.”

~*~

Truthfully, Mercy had thought the dogs were police trackers at first, too. But Bloodhounds had droopier jowls, and so the quality of the sound was deeper, more bellow, less howl. Plus, by this point, he knew well the particular sound of a Bluetick. Or two, in this case.

By the time he walked up on Boyle where he stood at the water’s edge, the dogs were close enough for him to be certain, motors that didn’t belong to boats were echoing through the trees, and Mercy was grinning hugely, all his pain and exhaustion pushed down by sheer joy: his brothers had come.Allof them.

And now, here, finally, was his quarry, run to ground at last.

Boyle turned around, clumsily, and then they stood ten feet apart, guns pointed at one another.

The motors drew closer: ATVs of some sort at a guess.

Mercy said, “I’ll give you this, Boyle. You’re a determined son of a bitch.”

Boyle gritted his teeth, a wet gleam in the moonlight, and lifted his gun higher. “You–”

The wraith that lunged out of the shadows was the size of a pony, coal black, narrow waisted, and leanly muscled.“I got to meet Mr. Chace’s catch dog,”Remy had said after his trip to Uncle Wyn’s farm, frowning a little over the unfamiliar phrase.“He was really huge. His name’s Crassus.”

He was indeed really huge, and in two bounding strides cleared the underbrush and clamped his massive jaws on Boyle’s gun arm with a snarl dragged straight up from the depths of hell.

Boyle screamed, dropped his gun, and was borne to the ground by the massive Great Dane, who firmed up his grip, put one giant paw on Boyle’s chest to pin him, and held fast.

“Attaboy,” Mercy praised, but didn’t dare approach further.

He didn’t have to wait long. Boyle’s continuous hoarse screams were quickly drowned out by the growl of engines, and two dirt bikes burst from the trees and then rolled to a halt on the sand of the beach. Kickstands went down, motors were killed, and the riders dismounted.

Mercy had expected Michael. “Mikey!” But Walsh was a surprise. “And King baby, too? Fuck me, what a surprise.”

There was enough moonlight to catch Walsh’s wry look.

Michael stepped forward, leash in hand, and said, “Down, Crass. To me, to me,” in a low and calm voice.

The dog whined, but released Boyle and went to Michael to accept his leashing, and a generous scratch between the ears.

Exhaustion hit Mercy anew, a sledgehammer in the back, right between his shoulder blades.

Speaking of…

He let his pack slide off his arms and to the ground, and from it, withdrew the twelve-pound, short-hafted sledge that was one of its many contents.

Boyle must have tried to scramble away, because Mercy heard Walsh said, “Stay on thefuckingground, youwanker. Do you not know when you’ve been bested?”

“No,” Mercy said, strolling up to join them. The hammer felt like it weighed fifty pounds, pulling at the gunshot wounds in his arm. He felt a clot give, and fresh, hot blood trickled down the crook of his elbow. “That’s always been his problem, ever since he was a kid: he never knew when to quit.”

Walsh stood with a boot pressed to Boyle’s throat, and Boyle’s face was darkening rapidly beneath the pressure on his windpipe.

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