Sweet Cherry Pie

by J. D. Monroe

  “Cover me,” Charity says. When she sees Georgia’s gun come up over her shoulder, she holsters her own and swiftly plucks the lock picks from her pocket. “And for God’s sake, please don’t shoot that thing next to my ear.”

  Her hands tremble a little as she slips the tension wrench into the lock. Patience would kick the damn door down in one swift look at my huge lady balls move, but she’d rather not attract more attention than necessary. The lock gives way after a minute of fiddling, and she leaves the picks as it swings open onto a darkened threshold.

  The weight of the gun in her hands is reassuring, but the silence of the house is eerie. A DVD player in the living room casts a faint blue glow across bare hardwood. Lights blink on suddenly, and she instantly spots a spattered trail of red across the living room floor. “Shit,” she mutters. “His parents?”

  “I’ll check upstairs,” Georgia says.

  She grabs Georgia’s arm firmly. “Hollywood gets one thing right,” she says. “You split up in a killer’s house and you both get killed. Come on.”

  They move together through the downstairs, flicking lights on as they go. There’s no sign of life in the house.

  The wooden stairs creak underfoot as they climb. They enter the first bedroom, guns raised, and Georgia gasps a little. The master bedroom is pristine, with a white bedspread that wouldn’t last a month with a couple of hunters. If there was a struggle here, they had one hardcore maid clean up afterward.

  They move into a smaller bedroom decorated in vintage movie posters and stolen street signs. A duffel bag sits at the foot of the bed, and a pile of crumpled clothes is balled up in front of the closet. Georgia creeps toward the bag and peeks inside. Her face is grim when she turns around with a book in her hand. “Serial Killers in America.”

  “Where the hell is he?” Charity mutters. She holsters her gun and pulls out her phone to call Patience. Her sister answers after one ring. “He’s not here.”

  “Neither is Patrick Bell,” Patience says. “We’re too late.”

  “How did we miss him? His car and his stuff are here.”

  “If he’s not there, we have nothing more to go on,” Patience says. “Figure it out.”

  Georgia taps her shoulder and holds up her own phone. The screen glows:

  CALLING: ADAM KELLER

  “Charity?” Patience says. “Hello?”

  “Shut up for a minute,” she says, pressing the phone to her chest.

  “You hear that?” Georgia says. There’s a faint humming noise. Georgia breaks into a run for the stairs. It sounds like an elephant tap dancing, and a minute later, there’s a shouted, “Charity!”

  “I’ll call you back,” Charity says.

  “Wait—”

  She thunders down the stairs and finds Georgia kneeling on the living room floor with her arm under the couch. There’s a beep and another humming vibration against hardwood when the call goes to voice mail. “It’s under here,” Georgia says, reaching for the phone. Her face lights up in victory as she comes up with a white phone streaked in red.

  “Check his messages,” Charity says. “Please don’t let him have password protection.”

  Georgia sits back on her heels and swipes the screen. “I guess someone’s got our back.”

  Something chews at her stomach, like a dog worrying at a bone. This doesn’t add up.

  “He has a bunch of messages from Patrick,” Georgia says. Her face sinks. “Read this.”

  Patrick: You ok man? Where are you?

  Adam: Had to get away and clear my head. Police called, think one of us has something to do with Gabe and Mikey. Some reporter called me yesterday to ask about Mikey. This is beyond fucked.

  Patrick: That’s crazy. Where are you? I’ll come over and we can figure it out. You know I’ve got your back.

  Adam: At my folks house. They’re in Boca for a week.

  Patrick: Hang tight, man. I’m coming over.

  Charity’s mouth goes dry. She calls her sister and dreads the words when she answers. “Patience, it’s not Adam. It’s Patrick. Is his car there?”

  “Nope,” she says.

  “Any sign of necromancy?”

  “He’s got a third-floor apartment with not a single plant in sight, Cherry,” Patience says. “Kind of hard to tell.”

  “Smells?”

  “Beer and dirty socks. Sorry.”

  “Get over here as fast as you can,” Charity says. “We’ve got to figure out where they went.”

  “I’ll call Nicky to run another phone trace for Patrick,” Patience says. “You need me to—”

  She hangs up. “Okay, Georgia, we’ve got to crack this. Quick.”

  Georgia looks pained. “I missed it.”

  “What?”

  “I missed it,” Georgia says, eyes wide and horrified. She holds up her hand. “When we first met Patrick, his hand was all bandaged up. Do you remember? He had to shake with his left.”

  “Vaguely,” Charity says. “But we were already so sure it was Adam.” Shit. Amateur move. Her game’s been so off that she should be ashamed of herself.

  “I can’t believe I missed it.”

  She reaches over and bats at Georgia’s arm. “We don’t have time for that. I missed it too,” she says. “So what’s the connection? Where is he going to take Adam?”

  “Uh—”

  “Think,” Charity says. “Tommy Crane. Died at—”

  “The theater.”

  “Gabe Mullins died at the school,” Charity says.

  “Patience said Mike Wagner died at a shooting range,” Georgia says. She drums her fingers together. “Patrick said he went target shooting every once in while with some buddies.”

  “And he and Tommy met at the theater, right?”

  “So he kills them somewhere significant to their friendship,” Charity says. “Somewhere special.”

  “Why the school?” Georgia says. “Patrick’s not from around here. So it’s not like he and Gabe could have gone there.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Gabe’s dead. Adam’s alive,” Charity says. “What would be significant to Patrick and Adam?”

  “You look upstairs, I’ll look through the phone.”

  Charity sprints up the stairs into Adam’s bedroom. There are a handful of pictures pinned to a corkboard, but nothing that jumps out to her. Her heart pounds, and she sees red. Her pep talk to Georgia was straight bullshit.

  The hot, rubbery sensation of adrenaline rushes through her. She paces in a tight circle, shaking her head. She can barely think straight.

  This whole time, she was positive it was Adam. She made up her mind long before things were certain. What if they’d been watching Patrick like they’d tried to watch Adam? Maybe they would have picked up on it long before now.

  She plants her feet and presses her hands hard against her eyes. The painful pressure brings her back to reality. Come on, focus. What are you missing?

  She steps in close to examine the pictures. High school graduation, skinny Adam with smaller glasses in a blue cap and gown. A bunch of guys, including Patrick, in matching T-shirts gathered around a split-open watermelon on a picnic table. “Son of a bitch,” she mutters as she grabs another picture. Adam and Patrick in life jackets, squinting against the sun.

  “Charity!” Georgia shouts. “I might have something!”

  She pounds back down the stairs with the picture in hand. “Me too.”

  “I got on Adam’s Facebook through his phone,” Georgia says. “There are a dozen pictures of him and Patrick out on the water. Looks like they go kayaking in the summer.”

  She thrusts the picture at Georgia. “You got a where?”

  “Some of them are tagged at the Calmet Creek Rapids,” Georgia says. She holds up the phone and shows a picture of them standing near the park entrance sign, flashing a thumbs up at the camera. “Seems pretty weak.”

  “It’s about all we’ve got,” Charity says. “You drive.”

  34. THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY
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  THE CALMET CREEK RAPIDS are closed to everyone except serial murderers and zombie hunters, apparently. Despite a metal sign that says the park closes at eight, the metal security gate stands open. The rusty chain is broken and hanging loose from the latch.

  Patience is already inside the gate, her Mustang parked just off the curving road. She sits in the passenger seat, slowly loading shells into a shotgun. As they drive up, she raises a hand in greeting.

  The park slopes gently down toward the water. A lodge sits at the top of the hill with an observation deck overlooking the river, illuminated by floodlights. At the foot of the hill is a small shed connected to the dock. In the moonlight, Charity can barely make out the painted side of the building: Kayak Rentals. Parked against a rope boundary is a small white pickup truck.

  Georgia points it out. “That must be Patrick.”

  Georgia kills the lights and parks next to Patience. They hurry out of the car and go for their weapons in the trunk. Charity straps on a quiver of arrows, and her sister sneers.

  “You still got your Legolas thing going, huh?”

  Charity tips her head to the shotgun. “You still got your ‘announce yourself to everyone in three counties’ thing going, huh?” She passes Georgia a bottle of holy water and grabs a fresh one for herself.

  “By the time they hear me coming, it’s way too late, little sister,” Patience says. She carries a gleaming silver blade in a sheath on her back.

  Charity rolls her eyes. “Okay, as soon as we get it out of his hands—”

  “I take it and seal it up,” Georgia finishes. They’ve got a Tupperware container with an inch of salt laid out in the trunk, a huge bottle of blessed water next to it. Charity’s thick work gloves lie next to the plastic container. “I promise.”

  “Put the gloves on now,” Charity orders.

  Georgia slips one on, then fumbles at her gun. “There’s no way I can draw this thing, let alone pull the trigger, Charity. Why don’t you just put them on and do it?”

  “Because they’re not foolproof,” Charity says. “Whatever it does to you, you tune it out and get it in the box as fast as you can.”

  “I understand,” Georgia says, peeling the glove off her small hand. She meets Charity’s eyes. “I promise.”

  A scream rips through the air. They freeze, looking down toward the water. A dark shape moves there, a shadow puppet against the gleaming black curtain of the river.

  “Adam,” Georgia murmurs.

  “Let’s move,” Patience says. “Stay alive.”

  Charity brings up her crossbow as they hurry down the path. The narrow road is littered with dead leaves that crunch underfoot. The headlights on Patrick’s truck illuminate the small dock, where a prone figure is curled into the fetal position. Cast in silhouette, the standing figure swings a weapon—a bat, maybe a pipe—down on the one on the ground. There’s another scream, ending in a groan.

  “He’s alive,” Charity says. She aims with the crossbow and puts Patrick in the crosshairs.

  “Don’t kill him,” Patience whispers.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem unless his heart’s in his leg,” Charity murmurs. She aims for his leg, then squeezes the trigger.

  It’s a perfect shot. The red fletchings vibrate as the arrow sinks deep into his thigh. It should be excruciating as the razor-sharp head buries into the big muscle and strikes bone. Patrick doesn’t even break stride and swings back for another blow.

  “Son of a…”

  A shadow blocks Patrick from view. Bright light glints off neat blond hair. “No way,” Georgia murmurs. “Calloway.”

  The professor glances back at Patrick, then points up the hill to the hunters and waves his hand in a broad, circular gesture. His blue eyes are alight, even with the moon at his back. They missed it all from day one. Of course he’d be involved; how could he have been in possession of the knife that long and not be?

  Something growls in the dark of the woods, and she hears the crashing of something large and heavy through the underbrush.

  “You take this, I’ll get Patrick,” Patience says.

  “But—”

  “Do it!” Patience orders. She hands over her machete and squeezes off a shot at the back of the shed. Calloway ducks. Apparently her policy of mercy doesn’t extend that far.

  The revenants are on her and Georgia in seconds. Two of them, both dark and blotchy-skinned with one eye burning blue. One has a long, dark scar across its chest; it’s the one that left its nail in her face. Asshole.

  Both revenants lurch at them, and Georgia takes a wild swing with her machete.

  Charity barely dodges the whistling blade. “Take their heads, not mine!”

  “Sorry!”

  Charity flings her bottle of holy water in a wide arc, splashing the revenants. They both recoil, screeching in pain as the purified water sizzles their skin. Georgia slashes at one, and it stumbles further down the path.

  Charity drops her crossbow in the brush and comes up with Patience’s machete. She swings it on one of the revenants and buries the sharp blade in the back of its shoulder. It roars in pain and flails its arms. One clawed hand clips Georgia, who reels and recovers fast. She spins around it, slashing the blade across its paunchy belly.

  “Get the legs!” Georgia shouts.

  Charity doesn’t question, just hits her knees and cuts clean across the back of the revenant’s legs. It totters, and she kicks one of its knees out. As it falls with a roar of rage, Georgia swings and takes its head off in a powerful strike. “Holy shit, Georgia!”

  Georgia cries out as the other revenant recovers and hits her from behind, tackling her to the pavement. Charity swings on it, cleaving its face right under the nose. It bellows, blackish ichor leaking from the new smile. Georgia squirms out from under it. Charity swings again and takes the top of its head off.

  “Hell yeah!” Charity says, breathless over the headless revenant. She’s about to go for a high-five when she hears a sound that makes her blood run cold.

  Gunshot.

  A woman’s scream.

  Metal clank on the ground.

  “Patience.”

  Oh my God.

  She whirls on her heel and sprints for the dock. Leaves skid underfoot, and her vision blurs. Patience is on her back, half in the dead grass and half on rotting dock. Her hands are pressed against her heaving chest, eyes squeezed shut. Something electric and searing hot shoots down Charity’s spine, and everything goes red.

  There are three things in the universe of Charity Pierson that are strictly untouchable. If one wishes to keep his gonads intact, one steers clear and wide of her wheels, her guns, and her sister. Not in that order. If anyone is allowed to fuck with Patience, it’s Charity, and only Charity.

  Lightning strikes, and Charity’s feet go straight out in front of her while the rest of her body flies backward. Her vision flashes white, and her lips are suddenly hot and wet. It takes one ragged, metal-tasting breath to realize the sky has traded places with the horizon. Her finger twitches around the warm metal of her gun.

  “Charity!” Georgia screams.

  Calloway steps over her and throws something heavy to the side. Her eyes follow it—a wooden kayak paddle splattered dark. It hurts to even look, like her eyeballs are attached by barbed wire. Get up, dammit! she tells herself, but it feels like someone cut the string connecting her head to the rest of her body. The gun weighs ten thousand pounds as she slings her arm up. Calloway catches her wrist easily and plucks the gun out of her fingers like a toy from a toddler.

  “Please stay back, dear,” Calloway says to Georgia. “And I won’t shoot sweet Charity in the face.”

  “That’s my daddy’s gun. I’m gonna fucking kill you,” she groans. She curls her hand under her back and grabs her knife. “You’re two for three.”

  “Two for three?”

  “You touch my truck and it’s really on,” she says, spitting out a mouthful of blood. The hilt of the blade feels warm in her ha
nd. She can cut him before he can draw a bead on her.

  Probably.

  “You’re a very strange girl,” Calloway says. “Keep working, Patrick. We’re almost done now.”

  Charity cranes her neck. Adam lies motionless, but his chest is still moving. Patrick pulls up the hem of his shirt and takes the knife from his waistband. The blade glints mirror-like in the moonlight. He raises it to Calloway. His voice sounds distant as he says, “For the life eternal.”

  “I accept your tribute,” Calloway responds. It’s weird, almost like a priest giving Mass with the scripted response. But instead of giving a good, solid God have mercy, Patrick spins, drops to his knees, and slams the knife down into Adam’s back. Adam’s cry is guttural, moaned though a strained throat. His hands curl into fists, but he doesn’t fight back.

  Come on, Charity thinks. Two hours ago, she was ready to string Adam up by his balls, and now she wants him to get up and fight back. She can’t let him die too. There’s been enough blood on this one.

  “Stop it!” Georgia screams. “Patrick, drop the knife!”

  Calloway looks away for a second, and Charity sits straight up, head spinning. She slashes the back of his thigh, then buries her knife in the dense muscle of his calf. Red blooms through his light pants, and he howls in pain. She curls her fist in the material and hauls herself up as he sinks to his knees. His hand goes straight to her smashed nose. It feels like an ice pick going through her skull. He swings one arm out and sweeps her feet from under her. She stumbles back in a flurry of hands and feet. When it ends, he’s got one hand pinning her knife hand to the ground, the other pressing her own gun to her throat.

  Calloway breathes hard, cheeks flushed high and feverish in the glaring light. He actually smiles, the sick bastard. “You have a certain spark about you,” he says. He rests back on his heels, his body heavy against her hips. As he breathes hard, she catches that strange, papery-dry smell again. His grip is cold when it should be warm and clammy.

  “You keep straddling me like that, we might have to talk about where our relationship is going,” Charity says. She hopes he’ll hit her again, throw everything off balance, but he just smiles. “So what is this? He kills and you watch? Does that get you off?”