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CHAPTER ONE

MERCY

T he 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 the shockingly 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 too hard 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 there is someone 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.

Another splash.

I scurry down the rock, fumbling around in my dress pocket for the key to the golf cart. It’s not there. I left it in the cart, the way I always do when I come out to the river. Because I assumed I would be alone out here.

In a sudden surge of panic, I switch my flashlight off. But just as I’m plunged into darkness, one of the rocks beneath my feet dislodges, and I fall sideways, splashing into the river.

Thanks to the afternoon thunderstorms, the current is strong. Before I can find my footing, it sweeps me out into the center of the river. I cry out, water sputtering into my mouth, and try to stand. But my feet don’t quite touch the bottom.

I know how to swim, but I’m out of practice—swimming is for children, and I’m an adult now. I’m also wearing a calf-length cotton dress, another mark of womanhood in the Church of the Well, and the fabric tangles around my legs as I kick them out, trying to get my body upright. Water keeps splashing over me, and my dress drags me down below the surface, and I wonder if it’s finally my time to walk into the dazzling light of Heaven and fall into the arms of Jesus Christ.

And, just for a moment, I stop struggling. I let myself sink.

But I can’t do it. Not when my lungs start burning for air. A sinner’s instinct for survival kicks in, and I push myself up, gasping when I break the surface. I gulp down air, furiously treading water. The river pours around me, but I realize with some relief that I’m out of the eddy that dragged me away from the shore.

But it’s still dark, and the water is black and unfathomable. However, I’m not as worried about cottonmouths as I am the rage of Reverend Gunner if he finds out I left the compound without permission.

I take a deep breath and dive under the water, swimming with the graceful butterfly stroke I learned a lifetime ago, before my parents died and I lived in a leafy Dallas suburb and wore whatever I wanted. It’s hard, with the way my dress keeps wanting to drag me down, the fabric heavy and waterlogged. But I use every ounce of my strength and push forward, moving toward the bank.

But something’s in the water.

It’s too dark for me to see what it is. Certainly not a snake, but not a log, either. It’s round and shaggy, and I think it’s a soccer ball at first. Someone kicked it into the river and didn’t bother to retrieve it .

But then the river surges it toward me, and I see the gleam of?—

Eyes?

And suddenly, I’m staring at a man’s face, his gaze blank and unseeing, his mouth twisted in terror.

I scream and water floods into my mouth, and then I realize it’s the same water that a dead body has been floating in and that just makes me retch and choke and try to splash away, but somehow splashing away brings the body—no, the head , it’s just a head—closer to me. It kisses against my shoulder and I shriek and push it away, which means I touch it, the skin clammy and cold.

The head rolls up, eyes staring at the heavens, and it looks?—

It looks familiar?

“Raul?” I whisper, my voice cracking.

No, it can’t be. It’s dark and I’m panicking and what I need to do is get out of this river and not convince myself I’m seeing a friend in the water.

I kick away, but my eyes don’t leave the head. Because even in the dark, it does look like Raul. His dark hair. His high cheekbones. I know what Raul Alvarez looks like because I used to bring him cold water every day when he was training with the rest of the Soldiers of God. Or at least I did until Reverend Gunner told me it was untoward for a helpmeet to spend time with single men.

But I still talk to him, when the reverend or one of his spies aren’t around.

“Raul?” I keep swimming backwards, staring at the head bobbing in the water. My voice cracks. “Raul?”

My feet touch the surface, and I turn around and splash up the embankment—thank the Father I’m actually on the right side of the river. My golf cart sits where I left it, and I half-run, half-stumble up to it, flinging myself into the seat. The key sits in the ignition, right where I left it, too. I let out a sob of relief when the engine comes on, that I’m not a girl in a horror movie who’s been stranded with?—

With a killer?

I throw the cart into reverse and peel away from the river, tears streaking over my cheeks, mixing with the river water streaming out of my hair. I turn the cart around so quickly that it tilts up on its left wheels and then lands with a terrible crunch. But it’s still working, and I drive away, pushing it as fast as it can go.

Which is not that fast. It’s a golf cart, not a car.

I glance in the rearview mirror but all I see is the faint grey line of the sky. The sun is starting to rise.

My panic doesn’t subside, though. I’m not being followed. But I found a dead body. And that means I’ll have to tell the reverend, a thought that gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. But I can’t leave the body there to rot.

Especially if it is Raul, who’s always so kind and respectful, who teaches me how to say things in Spanish. Raul’s the sort of man I always imagined myself marrying, before Reverend Gunner told me my calling was elsewhere.

I squeeze the steering wheel tightly, my tears hot and desperate. It can’t be Raul. It can’t be.

But it was someone.

Someone who had been decapitated and tossed into the only place in this world I’ve ever known peace.