I retreated into the woods to eat, feed Baskerville, and think it through. The dog, free of his armor, shook himself all over and promptly found something disgusting to roll in. Not that I cared. We both stank. There’d been some cans of Vienna sausages and creamed corn in the Rovers’ backpacks. I opened them and split the goodies between us.

While we chowed down I looked at the big dog. “You don’t think Mr. Church is in there at all, do you?”

Being a dog, Baskerville just looked at me. His tail thumped twice.

“Me neither,” I said.

An owl began to hoot softly in the gathering dark, and a million crickets and cicadas sang their love songs. A deep sadness wrapped itself around me and I felt more alone than I had in months. I thought about Junie and the baby and my brother’s family. I thought about Top and Bunny and wondered if they were alive. If not, would they have been alive had I been there? Sure, that’s arrogance talking, but my inner parasites are neither kind nor helpful.

At one point I thought I saw Junie’s pale, lovely face watching me from the shadows, but when I went over it was just the owl sitting on a low branch. My movement chased it off and I shambled back to the desultory little fire I’d started for warmth.

The stars came out and looked coldly down at me. Baskerville came over and pushed himself against me until I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face in his fur. If I wept for a while, he did not seem to care.

***

In the morning I kicked dirt over the last coals of my campfire, strapped Baskerville’s armor on, checked that my gun was loaded, and went back to Happy Valley. I was not in the best of moods. So I figured, God help anyone who decided today was the day to fuck with me.

— 29 —: DAHLIA AND THE PACK

— 29 —

DAHLIA AND THE PACK

Dahlia fought for more than her life. More even than Neeko. She fought for the whole Pack. She fought with anger and heartbreak and passion.

She fought with coldness, too. And that was strange for her. Even as she moved she was aware that the heat of rage was not there, or . . . not real, at least. Instead the furnace of her heart seemed to be stoked with shovelfuls of ice. When she attacked, it was no blind rush, but instead an attack designed to disrupt the group of Rovers and sow the seeds of confusion. It was strategic rather than impassioned.

It was how Mr. Church had trained her.