Sweet Cherry Pie

by J. D. Monroe

  A burly guy in a maroon Gamecocks jersey grabs her wrist. It takes a considerable effort to not smash her other hand into his face, but she resists her primal instinct while he examines the elegant black script on her forearm. He breathes like an overweight bulldog, puffing beer-scented steam in her face. “Eck—ecky pray— What does it mean?”

  “It’s Latin. Like a prayer,” she says. “I thought it sounded nice.” It’s a hell of a lot more significant than that, but that’s not a story for these idiots.

  “It hurt?”

  No, it was massaged on by a Chippendale dancer. “Oh yeah, totally. So what can I get you guys?”

  Her tattoo is forgotten at the prospect of more beer. Cocks-Hat gestures to the empty pitchers. “We need another pitcher—”

  “And some wings—”

  “Two orders.”

  “You got it,” she says. She steps in close to Jersey Guy. “Let me just lean over you and grab these empties for you. I’ll bring you some nice cold ones.” She rests her hand on his thick, hairy arm and squeezes slightly. “Oops, sorry!”

  “No problem, sugar,” he says. His glassy eyes flick to her chest, and she giggles. She bumps him with her hip and snakes her fingers into his back pocket. Two seconds later, his wallet is in her hand. She hides it carefully as she grabs the empty glasses and stacks them on her plastic tray. With a grin, she hurries back to the bar and slides the dirty glasses into the dish rack. It’s like running downstairs on Christmas morning.

  Hiding her hands under the lip of the bar, she flips open the old leather wallet and fans it out. Jersey Guy’s real name is Dennis Dodson. Dear Dennis is carrying at least two hundred bucks in cash in his wallet. Never smart. She hesitates, then plucks out a crisp, new twenty. Lord, it’s beautiful. Then she remembers her poor bald tires and the way her whole wardrobe reeks of fry grease. She takes one more bill before closing the wallet. She tucks the twenties into her back pocket and lets out a sigh. This is almost as good as hunting, a little round of catch and release.

  After she hides the wallet under her tray, she stacks up a half-dozen chilled glasses from the freezer. She rushes back to the table.

  “I’m so sorry, sugar,” she says as she slips the wallet back into his pocket. Dennis doesn’t even blink. “I forgot to ask what kind of beer you boys were drinking.”

  “Bud Light,” Dennis says. “No problem, beautiful.”

  Three hours into her shift, she’s lifted at least a hundred and fifty bucks off Mike’s patrons. Over the years, she’s learned to be patient and go slow, a lesson most of her old boyfriends could have stood to learn. Most of them won’t check their wallets till it’s time to pay out, and even then, half of them will slap down a debit card. Anyone would notice his wallet being completely emptied, but a single bill here and there? They’ll convince themselves they miscounted at the bank or made a stop they forgot about.

  She’s taking a breather and sipping a glass of Coke behind the bar. As she leans against the bar, the pretty redhead gets up to head to the ladies’ room. She’s been up and down all night between the jukebox and the bathroom. And she keeps leaving her purse, a zebra print monstrosity, right there on the floor next to her stool. Charity eyeballs it. Is it a sign? Or is it too damned obvious?

  Maybe this is another billboard. She laughs to herself. It’s a fair assumption that the Good Lord isn’t sending her an easy mark. Matter of fact, He’s probably frowning something fierce at her favored method of padding her wallet.

  Sorry, Lord, she thinks as she reaches out casually with one hand and tips the redhead’s drink over, splattering a puddle of—she totally called it—Cosmo all over the bar. “Aw, shit,” she exclaims to Mike, who doesn’t look up from entering tabs into the register. She grabs a towel and runs around the bar to mop up the mess. As she hits her knees to sop up a nonexistent puddle on the ground, she dips her hand into the purse.

  Candy from a baby.

  The redhead’s pink patent leather wallet is one of those sleek clutch things with a metal clasp. The wad of cash inside would look more at home in a coke dealer’s pocket. There’s got to be a thousand dollars here, mostly in crisp new hundreds. Jesus. Is the girl a drug dealer or something? Charity has to admit yuppie princess is a damn good cover for a pusher.

  There’s also a rainbow of credit cards, but she’s always steered clear of plastic. Way too easy to get busted these days. Charity plucks a hundred dollar bill from the wallet and palms it. The wallet is back in place, bag tucked under the stool, before anyone even notices.

  Charity goes through her mental tab. She’s racked up close to three hundred bucks. Once upon a time, she would have felt guilty about this. She used to tag along with her daddy to church every Sunday, and she knew murdering and stealing and lying were all wrong. But life has a way of shaking up all your blacks and whites and turning them to muddy shades of gray.

  Besides, people had no idea what hunters like her sacrificed to protect them. People paid exterminators, didn’t they? And termites never clawed anyone’s throat out and reanimated their corpses. She’s doing a damn service for humanity. The least people can do is overlook a few pilfered bills.

  “Mike, I’m going to take ten and step outside. You good for a few?”

  “I’ll manage,” he says.

  Charity refills her Coke and hurries down the back hallway to Mike’s office. The door to the women’s bathroom swings open, and Charity narrowly dodges it. The redhead steps out without looking and plows into her. The Coke splashes all over Charity’s top. She freezes as the icy soda runs down her chest and into her pants. She hadn’t planned on having her own private wet T-shirt contest. Maybe this is instant karma.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” the redhead says, her porcelain features creased in worry. “Let me get you a towel or something.”

  “It’s all good,” Charity says, sliding around her. “Excuse me.”

  “Sorry!”

  Charity ignores her and hurries into Mike’s office. She peels off a strip of scratchy brown paper towels from his bathroom and dabs at the soda stains, then sits down at his desk. Her bag, an age-worn leather satchel, is stuffed into the bottom drawer. She pulls it out and checks her phone out of habit. There are a few new messages, mostly about jobs.

  Mary Stroud: Cherry, heard you and Patience went separate ways. Me and Luke could use some backup down here in WPB if you’re in the neighborhood.

  Randall Haynes: My offer stands—I’m staying in town tonight if you change your mind.

  Now she knows for sure, if any doubt still lingered. People are talking. When they went their separate ways, Patience told her she wouldn’t last a month on her own. Well, screw Patience. Charity can handle this herself, like she’s done for the last six months. It may be by a thin damn thread, but she’s surviving. It’s tempting to join up with Mary, but even if she wanted to concede defeat, there’s no way she’ll make it down to sunny Florida any time soon.

  Charity sets the phone aside and digs her fingers into the back pocket of her jeans for her cash. Her fingers go all the way to the seam and find nothing but a tight-packed ball of pocket lint. Her stomach drops to the floor. She jams her hand into the other pocket, even though she knows damn well everything went into her right pocket. Nothing.

  Front pockets.

  Nothing.

  Not one fucking dollar bill.

  A throat clears. She looks up to see the redhead standing in the doorway, zebra bag slung over her shoulder. A fresh red drink is in her hand. “Lose something?”

  “Just looking for my lighter,” Charity says. “You got one?”

  “I don’t smoke. And neither do you.”

  “What are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

  “No, I have a functioning olfactory nerve,” she says. She takes a sip of her drink as if this is a perfectly normal conversation. Her head tilts slightly. “And your teeth are way too pretty.”

  “Thanks?” Charity says. Her heart pounds, and she feels sick and clammy in her
Coke-soaked top. The money must have fallen out in the hallway. Hopefully Red here didn’t pick it up. She shoves back Mike’s chair and heads for the door, but the redhead doesn’t budge. “Excuse me.”

  “What’s your hurry? You still have eight minutes left of your break,” she says. What the hell is with this chick? She slips her hand into her purse and holds up a thick wad of cash between her manicured fingers. “Are you looking for this?”

  Charity’s face flushes hot, and her heart races. How did she not notice the girl lifting her money? The irony is not at all lost on her. It was a textbook perfect pick, and she doesn’t like being on the wrong side of it. Charity goes for the cash, but the taller woman holds it up like a game of monkey in the middle. She didn’t notice when the redhead was seated at the bar, but she’s five-ten at least, clearing six feet in her zebra-print heels.

  “Give it to me,” Charity says as evenly as she can manage. Her ability to be nice is rapidly evaporating. This girl has approximately ten seconds before she gets punched in the tits and choked into submission with the strap of her stupid-ass handbag.

  “Why? A good bit of it’s mine,” she says.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The girl peels off the outside bill—the brand new hundred—and hands it to Charity. “Read it.”

  Charity narrows her eyes and snatches it. On the back, right under the “We Trust,” is a neat handwritten message in purple pen.

  Charity—I have a proposition for you.

  Charity’s eyes narrow. “What the hell is going on?”

  The woman smiles. “Let’s talk.”

  “I don’t know what kind of stalker bullshit you’re up to,” Charity says. “How about you give me my money back, you keep your weird secret notes, and we’ll go our separate ways?”

  “Or not,” the redhead says. “How about you listen to what I have to say, and when I’m done, I’ll give you all of this, regardless of your answer.”

  This is so far beyond the pale. Charity slumps back into Mike’s chair and slides the opening of her bag closer. The antique Colt is just inside, loaded for bear. She can have it in her hand and trained on this nutjob in two seconds if she needs to. The woman’s eight feet away. Charity won’t miss. Not this time.

  The redhead steps into the office and eases Mike’s door closed behind her. “Georgia.”

  “Huh?”

  “My name,” she says. “I’m Georgia Browning. Like the—”

  “Rifles, I get it. It’s cute,” Charity says flatly. “You clearly know who I am, which is more than a little creepy.”

  “I’m a hunter,” Georgia says.

  Charity barks a harsh laugh. “Yeah, and I’m Martha fucking Stewart. You look like College Barbie.”

  Georgia flinches, but she recovers quickly and folds her arms over her chest. “And you look like a waitress in a dive bar, but I think we both know appearances aren’t everything.”

  “No, that’s actually pretty accurate at the moment,” Charity says. “So you fancy yourself a hunter. I care exactly why?”

  “Because you need a new partner, and so do I. I think we can help each other.”

  “What am I, the Bachelorette? I don’t need a new partner,” Charity says. “And you can tell that to everyone else who’s planning to come and make me an offer. I’m fine on my own.”

  “Clearly,” Georgia says. “I noticed your truck isn’t anywhere outside. Something happen?”

  “Jesus,” Charity mutters. Her hand slides into the bag, fingers resting on the engraved surface of the Colt. “Are we about to have a Single White Female situation here? How do you know so much about me?”

  “People talk. I listen,” Georgia says. “Plus, I hunted with an old friend of yours. Fox Wesley.”

  Charity snorts. “Then you don’t listen very well if you think he and I are friends. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you to steer clear of me.”

  “Oh, he did,” Georgia says. “He said you were a great hunter, a mean drunk, and batshit crazy.”

  “Well, as our friend Meat Loaf put it, two out of three ain’t bad,” Charity says. She’s not gonna lie. She shouldn’t be surprised, but Fox’s assessment of her stings a little. “So why is your relationship with Fox now past tense? Did he cheat on you, too?”

  Georgia quirks an eyebrow. “I never slept with him.”

  “Well, you’re a lot smarter than I was. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a bad boy in tight jeans.”

  Georgia shrugs. “He’s not exactly my type. Anyway, we went our separate ways a few months back, and I’ve been looking for someone ever since.”

  Charity nods slowly. “Well, it’s been real nice talking to you, Georgia Browning, and that’s a fantastic story, but this is all a little too weird for me. So you have yourself a nice life, and don’t get yourself killed.”

  “Listen, I’m serious,” Georgia says. “I’ve been—”

  “Oh, so am I,” Charity says. She finally pulls the Colt out of the bag and lays it on the desk. The gleaming silver catches Georgia’s eye, and she gives Charity a wounded look. “But in case I wasn’t clear enough, you can fuck right off. I don’t need your help, or anyone else’s.”

  Georgia’s jaw drops, but she composes herself quickly and pastes on a fake smile. “Fine.” She plucks a purple pen from her pocket and scrawls something on one of the bills. “In case you change your mind.” She hands over the cash. “As promised.”

  Charity narrows her eyes and plucks it from her hand. “Thanks. And don’t hold your breath.”

  5. RESTLESS

  ON GOOD NIGHTS, SHE DREAMS OF RUNNING full-speed through dark woods, surefooted and silent. The things that lurk in the shadows sense her presence and flee, like wildlife in the path of a hurricane. She is a force of nature, and she is unafraid.

  Tonight is not a good night.

  Tonight, she stares with prickly-dry eyes at the dingy plastic ceiling, watching a moth on an endless flittering loop from corner to corner of the camper. Her body is heavy and exhausted, but her mind won’t shut down long enough for her to sleep. She was nearly there when something ricocheted off the roof of the camper. Probably a branch falling from a tree, nothing more. But the primal part of her brain, that part that let her caveman ancestors survive dark nights and icy winters, is awake and paranoid.

  Every creak is the sound of death at the window. The light of the moon filters through crooked blinds. Each subtle shift of shadow and light is some evil lurking at her threshold.

  Did you—

  You know you did.

  She knows damn well she poured a solid line of salt at each dusty window and right along the cracked linoleum in front of the door. There’s a sheela statue straight from the Emerald Isles guarding the door, and she walked around in her underwear reciting enough prayers to put a Catholic nun to shame. English and poorly pronounced Latin, thank you very much. She will not crawl out of this pitiful excuse for a bed and start retracing her steps, because that is a slippery damn slope that has led many a hunter to the loony bin.

  So she lies there with her hand-me-down gun gripped tight in one hand, the metal warming slowly in her grasp like an NRA-issued security blanket.

  It’s two forty-six.

  These are the nights when she misses her sister. Back when Patience was around, it was an unending stream of shit-talking. On the occasion that Charity couldn’t sleep, her sister would sigh, fling off her covers, and fumble for the TV remote. “Jesus, Charity, again?” she’d complain, but what Charity always heard was you’re safe with me. Her sister would yawn dramatically and flip through the channels until she found some late-night infomercials. And that’s how she’d eventually get to sleep, with the comforting white noise of the TV, content and safe with her sister’s eyes on her back.

  These are the nights when her mind wanders far afield. She may be a high school dropout, but she can do the math. Considering that she and Patience used to hunt pretty steadily for eight years, it’s saf
e to say that at any given time, something unnatural is happening out there. These aren’t the statistics you find on interstate billboards, but every night, something crawls out of a grave with an appetite for warm flesh. Evil slips through the cracks to poison an innocent soul. A life ends too early. Things are shattered that can never be repaired.

  Tonight is the sixth night she’s been here at Mike’s. Six nights that she hasn’t been out there in the dark. It’s not a vacation. It’s torture. She can’t help but think about Georgia’s offer and that wallet stuffed with crisp bills. Money clearly isn’t a problem for her, and she imagines Georgia isn’t pickpocketing drunks to get by. Expensive escort? Maybe.

  But is Charity Lee Pierson ready to admit such a resounding defeat?

  She checks the clock again.

  Two forty-eight.

  Dammit.

  Her eyes fly open at the first piercing ring, and her hand immediately goes for the phone as she sits bolt upright, heart racing. In her line of work, you always answer the phone. Someone’s either dead or about to be.

  “‘Ello,” she mumbles. She must have dozed off at some point. The last time she remembers checking the clock, it was after five in the morning. It’s eight fifteen now.

  “Yes, I’m looking for Charity Pierson?”

  “You got her.”

  “Hi, Miss Pierson. I’m Casey Myers. I’m your mother’s case worker at North Carolina Correctional,” a polite female voice says.

  Charity’s tongue turns into dry cotton rooted in a sandpaper cavern. She runs down the list. Harmony jumped out of a window. Maybe killed an orderly with a toothbrush shiv. Hell, maybe both, because Harmony’s life philosophy has always been go big or go home.

  “And?”

  “Well, your mother asked to see you,” Myers says.

  For a second, she takes the phone away from her ear and eyeballs the number. It’s a 984 number she doesn’t recognize. Is someone screwing with her? Is this Patience’s idea of a joke?

  “Ms. Pierson?”