Sweet Cherry Pie

by J. D. Monroe

  Georgia swings back like a batter going for the fence, and Charity manages to get her arms up to deflect the worst of it. The wooden bat strikes her arm, and it goes numb and prickly-cold. Her other hand curls into Georgia’s sleek ponytail and yanks it. Glossy lips curl back over her teeth, and something inhuman glitters deep in Georgia’s eyes.

  Is it the knife? Or is this the real Georgia who’s been hiding under the smooth surface, the one who managed to keep a bombshell of a secret this whole time?

  Charity twists her hand harder into the hair and hammers her other fist into that porcelain face, splitting her lip open over her teeth. Georgia should cry out, but she barely flinches. She butts her head forward and strikes Charity in the nose. The pain is a sleeping dog that wakes up, all claws and howls as tears well up in her eyes.

  Charity tries to sling an arm around Georgia’s neck, but Georgia twists expertly and throws her narrow hips into Charity’s. She gets a mouthful of hair as Georgia slams them both backward into the counter, burying two inches of plastic countertop into soft tissue. Her legs go rubbery and loose when Georgia does it again, then twists to slam her elbow into the side of Charity’s head. She’s gotten her ass kicked one too many times this week, and her limbs shut down. Blood from God only knows where drips onto the floor in front of her.

  Get up and fight, dammit, she tells herself. She pushes herself up, arms trembling. She has a newfound appreciation for Georgia’s combat skills. It feels like a truck ran over her and backed up to scrape her off the tires.

  Her leather bag is by the couch, right where she left it. She lurches forward, like a last-ditch move in a close game of Twister. Her hand is in the bag, closing around her knife, when a boot flies out of nowhere and lands under her arm, right where Patrick sliced her open. She forgets how to breathe, forgets the knife. Fingers tangle into her hair, and then the fake hardwood of the RV is coming up too fast.

  Blackout, exit stage nowhere.

  37. GOOD GIRLS

  CONSCIOUSNESS COMES in the form of ice-cold water on the back of her neck. Her first thought is can’t breathe. Her second is what the hell?

  She lies facedown on the floor of the RV, hands pulled tight behind her. No shirt, chest and belly bare against the cold floor. Fabric stuffed in her mouth, taped in place. Every breath makes her nose throb and tastes like blood. It hurts to move her head. It hurts to think.

  “Georgia, you crazy fuck,” she says, though it comes out mmph nhh or something like. Her tongue fights with the dry fibers, shoved back so far she wants to gag every time she breathes.

  Georgia has the knife. Only logical explanation. Panic threatens, and Charity starts to hyperventilate. She can only get air through her nose, which hurts worse the harder she breathes. There’s no use in panicking, but tell that to her racing heart and cold sweat.

  Her feet are free, she realizes. She wiggles a little, then rolls herself halfway over. She rolls onto the smooth, hard toe of a boot. The other boot plants itself right in front of her face. Skinny ankle, narrow hips, red ponytail hanging down, face in shadow.

  “What is it you say? Calm your tits?”

  Charity flops over onto her back like a beached whale. Her hands are now pinned uselessly under her, and she has a perfect view of her ax-crazy partner. Not much of an improvement. “Mmph.”

  “Seriously, stop it,” Georgia says. “You keep that up, you’re going to puke and then you’ll aspirate. That’s the medical term for when you inhale your own vomit.”

  “Hnnng!”

  “Let me guess,” Georgia says. She lays on a thick southern twang that makes her sound like the inbred cousin of the Beverly Hillbillies. “Why, Georgia? Why would you hurt little old me?”

  Charity scowls. She doesn’t sound like that. She enunciates as much as the fabric will allow. “Phhk ooo.”

  “Original,” Georgia says. She looks over to the counter and grabs something, then crouches over Charity like a praying mantis. Held expertly in her right hand is a knife.

  No, not just a knife.

  The knife.

  The one that almost killed Adam Keller. The one that did kill Gabe Mullins, Mike Wagner, and Tommy Crane.

  The one that killed her daddy.

  Her eyes follow its tip. The blade gleams when it shouldn’t. Georgia’s body blocks the overhead light, and it should look dull and dark as grave dirt, but it shines like a mirror. Georgia’s eyes follow it as she moves it close, rests the tip on Charity’s sternum with the faintest pressure. Her pupils are wide and black as she stares down into Charity’s eyes. “Let me tell you a story.”

  Charity casts her eyes around and cranes her neck to look down the hall behind her. She needs something, anything to get her out of this. Georgia’s weight shifts over her as she slaps Charity across the face. At this point, the sting barely registers.

  “Pay attention,” Georgia says. “I want you to know why we're here.”

  Fucking hell.

  “You see, once, there was a girl who had the most normal life you can imagine. She went to college, joined a sorority, and did what most college girls do. Drank a little too much, stayed out all night. But she was a good girl. Then she went home for the weekend. It wasn’t an important day, just a normal visit home. But something went very wrong. She woke in the middle of the night to the sound of screaming. She ran to see what had happened and found her mother. Dead. Then one sister, and then the other. All of them dead. The lights are going off and on, and the whole house smells like burnt rubber and smoke. So this college girl, this normal girl, she hides in her little sister’s closet, thinking he won’t come back. But he does. He knows somehow there’s one more left alive in the house, and he comes back to finish the last one off.”

  Her blood goes cold, and she watches in horror as Georgia holds up her hands. For the first time, Charity actually sees the deep scars there. Thick and ridged, but pale enough that they blend in unless you know what to look for. How could she not have realized sooner? Even she had nightmares about it, seeing the way those little girls died.

  “See, this guy, he doesn’t even look human. His eyes are wrong, black all the way through, and he flickers, like someone’s turning him off and on real fast. And the way he moves, it doesn’t make any goddamn sense. One second here, one second there, without anything in between.” She throws her hand around in a jerky motion. “It makes her sick to watch him. But there he is, as real as you and me. So he throws her down.”

  Georgia tosses her head back and flings her arms wide. Charity’s eyes follow the knife, hoping she’s not about to give a hands-on demonstration. “And he pins her down like a butterfly,” Georgia says, stabbing the knife downward. It hovers harmlessly an inch above the floor, but Charity jumps anyway. Georgia grins, baring her gleaming white teeth. “Steak knives from the kitchen. One through each hand. Then, while she cries and begs, he cuts open her clothes.” She traces a finger from Charity’s throat all the way down to the waist of her pants. Her finger is ice-cold, and Charity breaks out in goose bumps all over. “So he can slice her open like the others. Gut her like a great big fish.”

  “But then something strange happens,” Georgia continues. “There’s gunshots, and the guy, he disappears like smoke. And there in the doorway is this girl, barely older than me. And maybe it’s the light and the total insanity of this situation, but she looks like an angel. At first I think she’s like him, because she makes about as much sense as he does. Silver knife in one hand, Coke bottle full of water in the other. She’s got this hair that glows in the light, and she’s speaking Latin and calling on angels and I want to tell her no one’s there, God has left the building, girlfriend. But she’s not afraid of him. She just keeps swinging that knife and splashing that water around, and he eventually quits coming back, and it’s only me and her left.”

  Georgia taps the blade flat against her chest. “That was you, remember?” She frowns and lets the blade sink in enough to draw blood. Charity yelps against the gag, back arching unde
r Georgia’s weight. “You do remember now, don’t you?”

  “Mmph!” It doesn’t make any sense. She saved Georgia’s life that night. She and Patience weren’t even supposed to be there. They showed up after Mitchell had already slaughtered the rest of Georgia’s family, except for her father, who was either extraordinarily blessed or thoroughly cursed. He’d gone out for cold medicine for one of the little ones and missed all the excitement.

  “You freed me, and you wrapped my hands up with dishtowels, and you told me that I’d be all right,” she says. “And I never even knew your name. When the police came, you were gone, like a ghost,” she says. “But things weren’t okay. My mother. Both my sisters. Gone. My dad was just a walking corpse by then. Not your kind, of course. But I wasn’t angry. I didn’t blame myself or anything like that. Didn’t even blame you. But I decided that was the last time I was ever going to be helpless. So I trained myself, and then I started trying to find my way into the business.”

  “And then I finally figured out who you and Patience were,” she says. “I met Fox Wesley, who put all the pieces together for me. He told me about John Edwin Mitchell, how you and Patience had been there to save my life that night. And you were like legends to me. I wanted to be like you and save people like you saved me.”

  She smiles a little then. “And then I actually met you, and the legend, well…poof, you know? I mean, you’re no angel. You’re a high school dropout with anger issues and a death wish. And then when Patience came along, I started to really wonder. That night it all went down, were you two standing around bitching at each other instead of saving people? Would you let a little girl die just to prove a point to each other?”

  “No!” she tries to shout.

  Georgia’s expression goes dark fast, and Charity has a split second to turn her face before Georgia’s fist slams into her cheek. Her head rocks back against the floor, making her eyes water. God, she’s strong. “If you had your shit together that night, you would have been there, and my little sisters would still be alive. Do you know how badly they died? The cops on the scene puked in my house, it was so bad. You want to cry about your daddy? Imagine an ten-year-old girl dying that way.”

  Charity swallows hard. It wasn’t like that, she wants to tell her, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no piercing this veil of crazy.

  “Do you know I haven’t slept through the night since it happened? Four years, and I still can’t sleep more than an hour at a time,” Georgia says. “I hear them screaming. I see him coming for me, over and over again.” She holds up the knife. “This is how I get some rest. You, Patience, and then my father. Everyone who failed to protect the people who needed them.”

  Georgia rocks back on her heels and stands. She sets the knife aside on the counter. A plastic bag rustles, and Charity follows her arm to the outline of a hammer. Her stomach twists into a knot.

  “I’m not sure about this cracking-ribs-open thing,” Georgia says. “I thought I’d plan ahead.”

  And then Charity can’t help but laugh, a panic-edged tremor that makes everything hurt as her throat clenches around her fabric-choked airway. Fucking Georgia, who even has a Plan B for a ritual murder.

  Georgia crouches over her, raising the hammer high.

  Last chance.

  Hail Mary play, final shot with zero seconds on the timer. Charity’s gonna die ugly either way, so she might as well go out fighting. She bucks her hips and kicks both legs up. One bare foot catches Georgia’s chin, and the redhead staggers back, catching herself on the counter.

  Yes!

  Georgia lunges back in, and Charity bucks her hips again and catches her head between her thighs. Oh, how many times she jokingly threatened to kill Fox this way, and he’d just drunkenly grin and say, “Can’t think of a better way to go.”

  The floor vibrates under her head as Georgia’s hammer drops. Her hands are steel-strong as they dig into Charity’s thighs, pinching hard and radiating lightning. Charity kicks her heels against Georgia’s back to throw her off balance, but Georgia is straight up bath salts, rage zombie strong. The skinny frame lies. One hand pries between Charity’s leg and her throat, while the other reaches up to the counter.

  Light reflects off steel just before it disappears into faded denim. She screams against the gag as Georgia tears the blade out and goes for another. Crazy bitch. She throws her hips to the side and slams Georgia’s head into the wood cabinets under the countertop. The wood actually splinters, catching in Georgia’s ponytail. She rocks on her hips and throws Georgia again. There’s a satisfying melon-on-pavement sound as Georgia’s forehead meets the corner of the counter. It’s split and streaming blood when she comes back. Her eyes are wide and furious, face turning red.

  Charity scoots her hips up and throws Georgia off balance, hooks her knee around the taller girl’s neck and locks her foot under her other knee. She actually can feel the girl’s arteries against her thighs, pounding like drums. Georgia’s face is buried in her crotch, and she almost laughs at the sight until it occurs to her that Georgia’s crazy enough to bite her. The gash in her leg is streaming, throbbing in time with her racing heart.

  Georgia fumbles for the discarded knife. Charity throws all her weight against the taller girl, rolling onto her side and crushing Georgia’s face against her thigh. Her fists pound into the soft meat like a makeshift tenderizer, but the blows get weaker and weaker until her hands open and lay flat against her leg.

  She’s faking. Has to be. Charity gives another squeeze for good measure, and Georgia doesn’t stir. Charity releases her and scrambles back as quick as she can, backing herself up against the fridge in the kitchen.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  She squirms and wiggles herself through the human pretzel of her bound wrists. When she gets her hands in front of her, they’re duct-taped together. She pries off the tape over her mouth and spits out a balled-up washcloth. The cool air tastes like heaven and angel sweat.

  No time to panic. She peers around the corner. Georgia’s still out, but she’s not taking chances. She eyeballs the knife, then leans up against the counter to give herself purchase and shoves herself up. Her aching body finds every sharp edge and corner along the way, and she catches herself with an elbow on the edge of the counter. She’s breathless by the time she’s standing upright, leaning against the plastic countertop.

  No convenient butcher block full of knives, although that’s probably a blessing, considering the circumstances. She fumbles at the drawers and finds a pair of scissors. It takes some awkward maneuvering, but she starts a tear in the tape and unwinds it.

  “Shit, Georgia,” she mutters. Where did it go wrong? Did she ever get the gloves on? Charity was so preoccupied with Patience that she never actually saw Georgia with the knife. And even with the knife twisting her mind into a snarled mess, Georgia is still a hell of a strategist. She played it cool until Charity was at her absolute weakest, suspecting nothing. She’d be impressed if not for the fact that Georgia just tried to murder her.

  There’s a roll of duct tape on the counter next to a cup of coffee. There’s also her cell phone, which is smashed into a plastic bag of useless glass shards. There goes any chance of her calling Christina for help tonight. She grabs the roll of tape and kneels next to Georgia. “Please don’t wake up.”

  Obviously, she forgot momentarily who she was. Our Lady of the Fucked-Up Luck. This is karma for one of her many indiscretions.

  Of course, Georgia wakes up as soon as Charity touches her. Her eyes fly open, and her hand immediately thrusts out for the knife. However, Charity Pierson Unbound is a new beast altogether. She grabs Georgia’s hair and slams her face into the floor as hard as she can. The first time is forgivable, but the third time probably crosses the line into excessive force. “How do you like it, you psycho bitch?”

  Georgia groans and goes limp.

  Charity squats on her back and ties her wrists good and tight. It takes a few minutes, but when she finishes, Georgia’s not g
oing anywhere. Hands behind her back, ankles tied together and duct-taped to the base of the dinette table. And tape over her mouth just to be safe. She’s kind enough not to stuff a towel in there.

  “You’re welcome,” she says.

  The world swims, and she staggers against the dinette. Her left leg looks like it’s wearing a thigh-high stocking in crimson. She hobbles into the kitchen and grabs for a dishtowel to press against it. She wraps it in duct tape and rests there against the counter.

  And then she laughs, because the alternative is to cry. Her body feels like a punching bag, and she’s figuring out exactly how much blood she can lose and still be standing. Her sister’s down for the count, her partner is a raving psycho, and she’s hours from anyone who can help her with this God-forsaken knife.

  “Yeah, and?” she mutters. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Cherry Pie.”

  36. GREATER

  SHE PACES, OR RATHER, hops and drags, around the living room. The knife still lies near Georgia’s outstretched hand, drawing Charity’s gaze like a Death Star tractor beam. If it melted through the floor and straight through to the center of the earth, she wouldn’t even question it. She’d just run as far as she could the other way.

  If that thing could get its claws into Georgia, what chance does she have? She’s not exactly the Dalai Lama, and she’s angry enough right now that just looking at it makes her want to kill Georgia.

  She knows one thing for certain. Georgia’s not going to stay horizontal long, and Charity’s not going to stay vertical long after that. Hopefully, Georgia’s homicidal rage lasts only as long as the knife does, and if she can break the curse on it, then she should be safe from Georgia, at least.