by J. D. Monroe
“Where’s your sister? I told that shrink I wanted to see both of you.”
“Well, wanting never killed nobody,” Charity says. “Look, you demanded that I come. I’m here. What do you want from me?”
“God, I haven’t seen Patience since she was little. Why the hell isn’t she with you?”
“Harmony, get to the point, or I’m gone,” Charity says. It’s like talking to a cat. A cat on a steady diet of psychotropic drugs, shock therapy, and God only knows what else.
“Well, someone developed a mean streak as wide as the Mississippi, didn’t she?” Harmony says. Her sweet tone dries up quicker than a mud puddle in the July sun. “Isn’t your mama allowed to want to see her daughters?”
“Not when she kills their father,” Charity says. Her breath catches in her throat as the memory of her father’s eyes, staring wide open in death, flashes through her head. She’s fairly sure this isn’t the therapeutic visit Casey Myers had in mind, but Charity isn’t concerned with making Harmony understand her decisions or find inner peace or whatever feel-good shit she shovels. They can rehabilitate all they want. She doesn’t give a damn if Harmony is sorry. Sorry isn’t going to bring her daddy up out of his early grave.
Harmony inhales sharply through her nose and plunges bony fingers into her hair, tugging it tight against her scalp. Her hair parts crookedly, and Charity can see the fine white ridge of scar tissue. She’s locked up so tight that the wiry tendons in her neck stand out like steel cables. Harmony’s eyes squeeze shut and her head shakes as she rocks in her seat.
Charity flicks her eyes up to the guard. His brow creases as he meets her gaze, and he takes a tentative step toward them, one hand resting on his holstered gun. She’s already scanning the room. Harmony can probably take the guard, even skinny and out of practice. Charity can go for his gun when he hits the floor, and if that doesn’t work, she’ll snap one of the wires off the bead maze to use as a stiletto.
A harsh breath hisses through Harmony’s clenched jaws, and she finally relaxes. “It wasn’t my fault,” she says, her voice small and quiet as she stares down at the plastic table. Her fingers walk in a slow circle around the dark brown ring of a coffee stain. “The shadow…”
For a moment, the world freezes.
This isn’t the first time she’s heard of the shadow. In the aftermath of the murders, Patience swore their mother had confided in her about sensing a shadow in the days prior. Something evil had invaded their home, but Harmony was going to take care of it, just like she always did. Patience thought it was something evil that had gotten into her father, which forced Harmony’s hand. But her father was his normal, mild self, right up to his last breath, and that didn’t explain why she also killed Uncle John. Charity always figured that was the best way for Patience to cut her the deepest, to put the blame for Daddy’s death on him, instead of their murdering mother where it belonged.
“The shadow? What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t see it coming, didn’t know it was even there until I was smack in the middle of it. Too late. No way out. No light. Just that shadow all the way down to my bones, down to my soul until it was black as sin,” Harmony says, raising her head slowly. Her asymmetrical gaze drifts over Charity’s shoulder, loose and unfocused. “Until I was the shadow. No more Harmony.”
“If that was your idea of an explanation, you’re gonna have to do better,” Charity says. “You’re telling me a shadow got inside you, and it killed Daddy. Not you? Makes perfect sense.”
Her eyes snap back to Charity’s. “Don’t sass me, child.” For a moment, the sharp tongue and fiery eyes are back, giving her that familiar scowl. “I loved your daddy. I would never hurt him.”
Then her blue eyes glass over, and Harmony reaches up to brush away a tear that hasn’t fallen. Charity doesn’t know if she’s faking for sympathy or if she genuinely feels remorse. She doesn’t particularly care either way. There is nothing Harmony can say that will fix what has been broken.
This was a colossal waste of time that could have been spent lifting wallets to get her truck back on its feet—or its tires, as the case may be. There was absolutely nothing to gain from seeing Harmony except confirmation that she’d been right to steer clear all these years. The next time Casey Myers calls, Charity will tell her exactly where she can stick her closure.
She wipes her clammy hands on her jeans and stands. “Well, it’s been a lovely talk. I have to go now.”
Harmony’s hand shoots across the table and clamps down on her wrist. It may be rusted and bent, but there’s still steel in that spine. Her fingers are ice cold, but it’s fear that sends the chill racing up Charity’s spine. “The shadow has moved on. Like a stormcloud, drifting on the wind. And baby girl, it’s about to break again.”
“Pierson, let go,” the guard says.
Harmony’s grip only gets tighter, and she leans in. Her breath is cool and stale. Charity’s heart stops dead.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the thing that got inside me and killed your daddy, Charity Lee,” Harmony says, violently tapping the twisted white bullet scar on her temple. “I know my girl. You think I forgot that night? You wanted revenge then, and you surely still want it now. Do what I raised you to do. Find the shadow and do something about it.”
8. ET TU, BRUTE?
THE TRIP BACK TO TIPTON is a dreamy blur. Interstate. Country road. Trees. Rain shower. Blurred yellow lines. It’s nothing short of a miracle that she gets Mike’s truck back in one piece.
Night is creeping in when she parks out behind the Somewhere Saloon. As she twists the keys out of the ignition, she lets out a breath she’s been holding since Harmony grabbed her. Her face feels tight and dry, like she’s been out in the summer sun too long. It’s not until she looks in the rearview mirror that she notices the mascara streaked under her eyes. Her cheeks are gritty with salt from tears she didn’t notice spilling. She scrubs the offending stains with her sleeve, leaving a blotchy red streak on each cheek.
At least she finally knows. Harmony remembers that night. She remembers Charity raising that rifle and pulling the trigger on her own mama.
Well, fuck her. Harmony’s the one who butchered Andy and split him open like a rack of ribs, and she can blame it on a shadow, a curse, processed food, or whatever the hell else she wants. None of it matters.
Except that it does. It changes everything.
Charity scrubs again at her eyes, then fluffs her hair. She needs a drink or twelve. After today, she wants to get blackout drunk and sleep for a week. But if she walks into the bar for a drink, Mike is going to ask how things went. He’ll want to know what Harmony had to say, and Charity wants to forget the last eight hours of her life. He gave her the whole day off for the trip, so she can get away with avoiding human contact for the rest of the night if she’s willing to give up on group therapy with Johnnie and Jim.
With a heavy sigh, she trudges out back to the truckbed camper. She slings her bag onto the floor and hurries through her nightly ritual of laying salt at the windows and praying for protection. With the last amen, she climbs up to the lumpy bed that sits right behind the cab of Mike’s rusty old truck. Her body may be sinking into the scratchy, musty-smelling mattress here in Tipton, but her mind is two hundred miles away in a frigid room with Harmony, trapped like a restless spirit with unfinished business.
Charity doesn’t buy Harmony’s story, not for a damn second, but let’s just say she did. If she entertains her mother’s insanity as reality, it would mean she didn’t snap and kill Andy for no reason. Harmony could no more control herself than a rabid dog could stop itself. Charity’s been working with cursed objects almost as long as she’s been hunting, and it wouldn’t be the first case of extreme personality makeover that she’s seen. Admittedly, the violent mood swings usually come after death, like with Grandpa’s sapphire ring, but who’s to say it couldn’t affect the living? Does this mean Charity is, in fact, just a
s shitty as her mother? Did she miss something that Patience noticed? Is that why her sister has been so damned self-righteous for the last ten years?
With her mind chasing itself in frenetic circles, sleep is an overly optimistic goal that never quite materializes. All night, she tosses and turns, and finally slumps out of bed at four in the morning. As she lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, she does something she hasn’t done in weeks. She sits on the cracked linoleum floor with her phone and pulls up the internet browser. She searches the news for death. Always a cheerful start to her morning.
As a rule, the news is always bad. In the top ten results alone, there are three shootings, two car accidents, a vicious supposed cult killing in Australia, and a car bombing somewhere in the Middle East. Humanity generally sucks.
A story near the bottom of the second page catches her eye.
Students detained for questioning in vicious theater stabbing; police say no answers
She frowns and follows the link to the CNN website.
Brentwood, NC—Police continue to investigate the stabbing death of 21-year-old Thomas “Tommy” Crane, a senior honor student at Brentwood University. On Tuesday evening, Crane was in a performance of Julius Caesar when he was stabbed on stage. He was later declared dead at Stedman County Memorial. Eyewitnesses report that due to the nature of the play, it was impossible to determine whether the stabbing was accidental or who was responsible. Shakespeare’s play famously depicts the betrayal and murder of Roman emperor Julius Caesar, who is surrounded and stabbed to death by his friends and senators…
Nothing hinky jumps out, but the story is certainly weird. She searches Thomas Crane death. The first result is a video called Live Video of Julius Caesar Stabbing. The description reads, “Warning: this content is graphic and may be disturbing.”
Story of her life.
The video, uploaded by “lammers197,” has over a million views and two hundred thousand likes. People are the worst. And yet, she clicks Play like the other million sickos before her.
The video shows a shot of a small theater stage. The camera is somewhere in the right side of the audience. Onstage, white columns are painted on a long sheet backdrop that ripples comically, making it look like the whole scene is underwater. A bunch of college-aged guys wander around the stage in knee-length white togas and sandals. One—she’s guessing Caesar—wears a golden crown of leaves. He proceeds to the center of the stage and gives a speech, gesturing emphatically as he speaks. As he raises one fist in the air, the others rush him, producing knives from the folds of their togas. They start stabbing him violently, and Caesar cries out. She recognizes the shrill edge of genuine agony. The cry of pain isn’t Tommy’s acting skill.
He hits his knees, then pitches forward with red spreading in a wet bloom on the back of his toga. The white fabric hikes up around his legs, revealing blue plaid boxers and a stark farmer’s tan line high on his thighs. He doesn’t budge to fix it. Suddenly, one of the cast screams and drops his knife with a clatter. The camera bounces, and she can barely make out the stage, where three of the other Romans are crouched around Caesar, trying to revive him. Someone shouts, “Call 911!” right before the video goes black.
Holy shit. It takes her a solid minute to regain her senses. She’s seen a lot in her life, but she’s never seen something like that.
Still, as weird as the story is, it doesn’t mean anything. She takes a deep breath and scrubs back through the video. There’s maybe nine other guys on the stage. At least two of them are so far on the outside of the cluster of dudes that they couldn’t possibly have hit Tommy. A third guy ends up in front of Tommy, and a stomach-churning frame-by-frame replay shows that he clearly takes the killing hits in the back. He’s faking on the first few hits, but she can see the moment of genuine shock and terror when the real blade pierces him.
With a live video of the murder, the police have this case served up on a platter. Shit, she’s a high school dropout and she just ruled out a third of their suspects. How hard can it be?
And yet.
The stabbing happened on Tuesday night. Casey Myers called her to visit early Wednesday morning, after Harmony suddenly snapped out of a ten-year stupor the night before. She can’t help but connect the blood splatters; someone suddenly snaps and stabs someone else to death, in the back no less? It’s been almost three days, and the police haven’t made an arrest, which tells her that either the Stedman County PD can’t tell their asshole from their elbow, or this case is even weirder than it seems.
Maybe it’s the cabin fever from being stuck in Tipton for almost a week now, but this has supernatural all over it. The timing might be coincidence. Might not.
If Patience were here, might would be enough to top off the gas tank and hit the road to check it out for themselves. Charity checks the map app on her phone—Brentwood is about a five-hour drive from here. She can be there by noon if she—
“Shit,” she says to the empty camper. No wheels. A day trip is one thing, but she can’t take Mike’s truck for this. And furthermore, she’s not going to jump on a case just because her crazy-ass mother started spouting off about a shadow. Her years of snapping to when Harmony said so are over.
Still, she and Patience used to go way further based on way less. There’s definitely something up at Brentwood University. And if there isn’t, well, that’s also good to know. Then she can go back to believing that Harmony is batshit crazy after all and carry on with her life.
The problem is getting there. Paying for gas to Raleigh and back put a considerable dent in her ill-gotten savings. It’s going to take at least another week to earn enough for the truck’s repairs, and another few days beyond that to actually fix it. But sooner is always better on a case like this. If something supernatural was involved in Tommy’s death, then it probably won’t stop with him. She needs to get there and start investigating as soon as possible. But how?
Then it hits her.
Georgia Browning.
She’s still got the hundred-dollar bill with Georgia’s name and phone number scrawled in purple ink. Girl wants to be a hunter, huh? Charity’s got no intention of being her Mr. Miyagi. If anything, this will be a one-night stand sort of arrangement. Hit it and quit it, wham bam, thank you ma’am. Besides, if they do turn something up, Charity would bet her right ass cheek that it scares Georgia off hunting permanently. The best part is that despite Georgia’s supposed partnership with Fox, she’s an unknown in hunter circles. The rumor mill may just bypass this little indiscretion.
She showers and dresses quickly, and realizes halfway through applying her mascara that she’s dressing to impress, like she’s about to cruise for a hook-up. She packs her bags, then peels the stolen hundred out of her wallet.
Part of her feels weak and ashamed as she starts to dial Georgia’s number. Her hand hovers over the Call button. She can take care of herself without help from some stranger, can’t she? She’d like to think so, but recent events seem to say otherwise. It was one thing to turn Randall down, but with a case staring her in the face, she’s got to suck it up. While she’s got a whole heaping truckload of flaws, she’s not so proud that she’ll risk another killing on her watch because she won’t accept a perfectly good hand to haul her out of the ass-deep mud she’s wallowing in.
She takes a deep breath and throws her shoulders back as she calls.
The girl answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Georgia,” she says hesitantly. “This is Charity Pierson.”
“Oh, hi! What’s up, Charity?” If she harbored any resentment after Charity told her to fuck off, she hides it well.
“Is your offer from the other night still good?”
“Why, are you suddenly interested?”
“Got a case,” Charity says. “Might be up my—our alley.”
Georgia pauses. “And you want me to go with you?”
“Why not? We can call it a test run. Kick the tires a little.”
There’s a long pause. I
f Georgia tells her to pack sand, she’s screwed. Come on. “Sure. I’m still in town. Should I come meet you at the bar?”
Thank God. “I’ll be waiting.”
9. FIRST DATES
WHEN SHE WALKS THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR of the Somewhere Saloon, Georgia looks like she stepped off the pages of a yuppie college brochure, with her sharp-pressed white button-down and slim jeans. Seriously? Charity hasn’t ironed a piece of clothing in her entire life. And white is just asking for it. Georgia’s got that ridiculous zebra-print bag hanging over one shoulder and a paper coffee cup in each hand. She offers one to Charity. “Coffee?”
“Thanks,” Charity says. Not a bad start.
“So what made you change your mind? You gave me a pretty hard no the other day.”
“Things change.” She takes a sip of the coffee. It’s black and strong, and it tastes a shitload better than the sludge Mike usually brews in the morning. “You want something to eat?”
“I’m good,” Georgia says. She perches on the edge of a barstool, looking more out of place than a nun in a whorehouse.
“So listen,” Charity says. “I’m a straight shooter, and—”
“Believe it or not, I had gathered as much.”
“I don’t actually want a partner,” Charity continues. “But I found a case I need to check into, and time’s a real factor. And somehow you already know this, but my truck is DOA, and I can’t afford to get it fixed yet.”
“So you’re using me to get where you need to go?”
“And you’re using me to get into hunting,” Charity says. “I figure it’s a fair trade. If you have a problem with any of the above, tell me now. I’ve got plenty of other offers.”
Georgia shrugs. “You’ve got something I want, vice versa, that’s how the world works. When do we leave?”
They might get along after all.
