by J. D. Monroe
Maybe it’s not fair to hate Adam, especially if the knife is compelling him to kill. She remembers Dead Grandpa’s ring sliding down her finger and clouding her mind. How much stronger must that knife be, to force Harmony to butcher the man she called “living proof that God is good?” She sighs. Is it too much to ask for a normal, routine case? Zombie bad. People good.
A petite girl clutching a laptop to her chest runs into him, and he never looks up. Charity slips out of the study lounge and folds herself into a cluster of girls chatting about the debate they had in their class. Adam is oblivious.
She follows the girls out the front doors and into the sun. Adam is already hurrying down the steps, jamming his phone into his pocket.
A campus security golf cart is parked on the sidewalk, with a trio of officers standing by it. Her heart skips a beat. Did they figure it out? She waits for them to tackle Adam and knock that stupid hat off his head. Nothing would be more satisfying.
But they let Adam walk right by without so much as a glance. One of the officers hitches up his pants and takes a tentative step forward.
Act cool, she tells herself.
The officer puts a hand on his gun and steps into her path. “Charity Pierson?”
25. INQUIRI INTERRUPTUS
THINGS WERE GOING TOO WELL, weren’t they? If they ever made a movie of her life, it would have to be narrated by Murphy himself. His law is in full, dream-crushing effect today.
Now that he’s close enough for her to smell his cologne, she recognizes the cop as her old friend, Officer Hayes. With the sneering smirk on his face, she can’t tell if he’s happy or pissed to see her. “I did warn you, didn’t I?”
The girls who were serving as her personal phalanx stop on the steps and gawk, grasping at each other’s arms as they point. Great.
“Yes sir, you did,” she says. She watches, hope trickling away as Adam hurries down the sidewalk toward the center of campus. He disappears past the edge of the student activity center. “Would you believe me if I told you that Gabriel Mullins’ killer just walked away?”
“How the hell do you already know about Gabriel Mullins?”
God, she’s stupid when she’s tired.
“Charity Pierson, you are under arrest,” Hayes says, loud enough for God Himself to hear. “Cuff her.”
Georgia emerges from the building right as one of the younger cops approaches Charity. Georgia’s eyes go wide, and she freezes.
Go inside, dammit, Charity thinks. She widens her eyes, trying to send Georgia the message.
“That’s the other one,” Hayes says, looking over his shoulder to follow Charity’s stare. “Tall, skinny, red hair.”
Like an idiot, Georgia walks right up to them. Apparently, neither of them are psychic. Her face is mild, her tone pleasant as she asks, “What’s the problem, officers?”
Not now, Georgia.
“Are you Georgia Browning?”
“Yes, sir,” she says, folding her hands neatly at her waist. “There must be some confusion. We were just stopping by to speak to a friend here.”
Hayes isn’t buying her slick trust-fund-baby act. “Arrest her too.”
Georgia’s eyes go wide as the other cop approaches her. “You can’t do this!”
“North Carolina state law says I can,” Hayes says. “Be happy to talk about it with you downtown.”
“Put your hands on your head,” the cop in front of Charity says. His shoulders are thrown back, broad chest puffed out. Maybe it’s to compensate for the fact that he stands an inch shorter than Charity, even in his shiny uniform shoes that are high enough to broadcast his height complex.
“Ease up, Rambo,” she says, calmly lacing her fingers behind her head. She smells mint gum and cheap cologne as he steps in close. He’s very professional about feeling her up for weapons. Down the arms, back of the neck, right under the tits. Even so, she can’t help herself. It’s the little things in life. “You keep going like that, you’re going to have to buy me a steak.”
“Seriously, do you ever shut up?” Georgia says.
“Not often,” Charity replies.
She has a perfect view of the sidewalk winding onto the main campus. Another crowd of students is headed their way for class, but the police take up the width of the sidewalk. A few people pointedly look down at the ground and cut around them on the grass. The rest stop and stare, unashamed as they watch their very own episode of COPS. A few whip out phones. Awesome.
Rambo’s hand freezes at the small of her back, and there’s a bite of cool morning air on her skin as he lifts the hem of her shirt to pull the hunting knife free of its sheath. Thank you, Lord, for the wisdom to leave the gun in the car. He crouches to pat down her legs.
“Honey, these jeans are tight enough that you know damn well there’s nothing else. But better men than you have been tempted by these thighs. I sure can’t blame you.”
“Charity Pierson, you are under arrest for obstruction of justice and evidence tampering,” Officer Rambo says. His name is Buxton, according to his polished silver name tag, but he’s got the bravado and posture of an eighties action star. “You have the right to remain silent.”
“But not the ability,” Georgia says.
“She speaks the truth,” Charity says.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” Rambo says. He roughly pulls her wrists back behind her. Cold metal bites at her skin as he snaps the handcuffs closed.
“How about Robert Downey, Junior?” Charity says. “You can hold him against me all day long.”
She glances over and sees Georgia with her jaw clenched tight as the third cop pats her down under the watchful eye of Officer Hayes. Her eyes are fixed on the high window on the far side of the lobby. For a moment, Charity wonders if she’s going to snap and smash his face in.
Something moves, dangerous and unseen, deep inside of Georgia Browning. It waits under that flawless porcelain surface. Her face tenses even more when the cop touches her hip. No doubt in Charity’s mind—there’s a storm brewing in those waters.
“Remember what I told you?” Hayes says to Charity.
“Something about how cute I would look in handcuffs. Is this doing it for you?”
Georgia shoots her a glare that could liquefy steel. Rambo is still droning on about lawyers and court-appointed representatives.
“Hey, I get it, cowboy. Not my first rodeo,” Charity interrupts.
“Color me surprised,” Hayes says. “Take them downtown.”
Georgia refuses to even look at her the entire way to the county jail. This time, they ride in an actual police car, complete with thick metal grate and shotgun mounted behind the driver’s head. Officer Buxton drives them through town, which is a generous label. Brentwood is little more than a cluster of dive bars and restaurants that cling to the college like tumors.
The Stedman County Sheriff’s Office is a bland beige building that was built in the seventies and apparently forgotten. Five police cruisers sit out front. It takes half an hour to get their fingerprints taken, mugshots snapped, and rights read properly. She behaves herself, although Georgia doesn’t seem to notice. When they’re finished, they march her and Georgia into separate interview rooms. Officer Buxton recuffs her hands in front of her and leaves her to stare at the bare cinderblock wall.
A few minutes later, Officer Hayes walks in with another cop in a loose blue sport coat. His salt-and-pepper crewcut looks like the bristles of a brand-new toothbrush sprouting from his head.
“I’m Lieutenant McClane, and—”
“You can’t be serious,” she says, barking a sharp laugh. She knows she should shut up, but she can’t help herself sometimes. “I’m sorry, favorite movie of all time. Bruce Willis in a wife-beater really does it for me.”
His face instantly turns red. With the silvery hair, he looks like Santa after going through Marine boot camp. “You think this is a fuckin’ joke?”
“I do,” she says. “Bet
ween me and you, I think Officer Hayes here wants an excuse to strip-search me.”
Hayes shakes his head. “Do you wish to have your attorney present?”
“No,” she says. “I read a John Grisham book once. Well, I listened to the book on tape, to be honest. I think that qualifies me to act on my own behalf.”
“Let the record reflect—”
“Seriously, Hayes, you could have just taken me out for a drink or two,” she says. “I get real friendly after a few rounds of tequila. I don’t mind a little snow on the roof as long as the fire’s still in the fireplace, you get me?”
She knows better than this. Shut your mouth. But all she can think of is Gabe Mullins, chest laid open like an amateur autopsy. Just like her daddy. Just like Uncle John.
“Look, you’re laughing now, but let’s see how funny you think this is,” McClane says. “I got you breaking into the scene of Tommy Crane’s death. Then you start asking a bunch of questions, claiming to be a private investigator. Impersonating an officer of the law is a crime.”
I called it. Fucking Georgia. She clenches her fists and her knuckles pop loudly.
“Actually, PIs aren’t law enforcement officers,” she says, flicking her eyes up to McClane. “And lying is a sin, but it’s not a crime unless you’re under oath. Look at Congress.”
Sometimes she feels like she’s watching from outside her body. The words spill out of her mouth like beer overflowing the glasses at Mike’s. Once it starts, it has to run its course. And then, of course, she gets to clean up the mess.
“Then you somehow know about Gabriel Mullins’ murder before we were even there,” McClane says, face reddening even further.
“It’s called a police scanner,” Charity says. “Free on the app store, apparently.”
McClane ignores her. “So we go and talk to Gabe’s roommates to find out what happened last night. And they start telling us about Gabe’s cousin, who fits your description. Thing is, Gabe Mullins doesn’t have any female cousins. Sure looks like you know something about these murders we don’t.”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” she says. Her irritation is festering into hot, swollen anger. Her temper sparks, like catching friction on a lighter. She can feel the heat, that hot metal on skin that burns just enough to make you feel but not enough to stop. She’s just trying to do her job, and these assholes are putting a serious damper on her agenda.
“What did you say?”
“I said it wouldn’t be hard,” she repeats, enunciating slowly. “Considering you know absolute balls about this case.”
McClane slams one hand down on the table and gets on eye level. Blotches of red lay like a ragged lace veil over his crooked nose. “Listen, I could charge you with murder one right now.”
“The hell you could,” she says. His nostrils flare, and his jaw juts forward. “You do realize I wasn’t even in the state when Tommy Crane was killed? And yes, I can prove it. Adam Keller is your guy.”
“Adam Keller is clean,” McClane says. “You think we didn’t check him out?”
“Obviously not well enough,” Charity says. “Check his prints. I bet they’re all over that playground.”
“Who are you?” Hayes says. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing in my town?”
“Just another tourist passing through,” Charity says. “Listen, are you going to do some good cop, bad cop shit? Rough me up a little? Just between us, I do have a cop fantasy, kind of a Caged Heat deal. You get Rambo back in here, and we’ve got a party.”
“Miss Pierson—”
“Please, call me Charity. I just told you about one of my naughtier fantasies. I think we’re on a first-name basis.”
“Miss Pierson,” McClane repeats. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”
“You know, I really don’t think I am,” she says. “You want to know why?”
“Enlighten us,” Hayes says.
She leans forward and rests her handcuffed wrists on the table. The cuffs clank, and McClane actually jumps. They look annoyed, but there’s a thread of fear underneath the surface. They don’t know what to make of her, and she likes it that way. “Here’s why, boys. You’ve got forty-eight hours to charge me,” she says. “Tampering with evidence? Not gonna happen. Obstruction of justice? Nope. If being nosey was a crime, absolutely. Lock me up and give me a prison girlfriend. But you don’t have jack shit on me, and you know it. The worst you can do is keep me here for a day or two, and that’s gonna look real cute when the first big arrest you make on a double murder is a dumb redneck who wasn’t even in town. Bravo. So do your worst, gentlemen.”
26. DETAINED
“SO, IN BREAKING NEWS, reverse psychology sucks,” Charity says, slumping onto the hard metal bench next to Georgia.
The redhead stares at her for a second, then gets up and stomps over to the bench on the opposite side of the cell. The holding cell is barely more than a closet with bars, painted baby blue. It smells like body odor, dirty feet, and stale booze. She’s no peach herself; she hasn’t showered since yesterday morning when they headed out to meet with Calloway.
She kicks one leg up and props her elbow on one tattered knee. The steel bench is ice-cold under her ass, but Georgia is glacial. Her expression could set off a blizzard in mid-summer. “What? You’re not a real hunter until you get a few arrests on your record.”
“Don’t talk to me,” Georgia says. She peels off her light green jacket and folds it up into a neat rectangle like a pillow. She arranges it on the bench, then lays down on her side with her back to Charity. Her long auburn ponytail hangs over the edge, ends skimming the dirty concrete floor.
“You know you should never turn your back on someone in jail. That’s how you get shanked,” Charity says.
Georgia ignores her.
“Georgia.”
Silence.
“Georgia, seriously?”
“What do you want?”
“Are you actually pissed off about this?”
Georgia sits up and whips her head around, ponytail flying. “Are you actually asking me that?” Her green eyes are wide and wild, like a cornered animal, and for just a moment, Charity is unsure about being locked in a tiny room with her. If her partner Hulks out, she’s pretty sure Hayes and McClane aren’t going to rush to her rescue.
“Clearly I am,” Charity says. “Since I just did.”
“You got us thrown in jail, Charity!” Her cheeks are flushed, angry red stains on smooth porcelain.
“So?”
“So? So?”
“Saying it more doesn’t make it—”
“Can you stop with the jokes for once? This isn’t funny,” Georgia snaps. She slams her hand down on the metal bench.
“It’s a temporary setback,” Charity says. “It’s not a huge deal. We’ll be out by this time tomorrow.”
Georgia stares her down. “Has it occurred to you that while we’re in here, Adam is out there? We just lost our best chance at stopping him.”
“Georgia—”
“No, of course it hasn’t,” she says. “Because you’re too busy trying to show the whole world how you don’t give a shit.”
Blood rushes to Charity’s face. “That’s not even—”
“So if he kills again, it’s on us,” Georgia says. She points at Charity with the sharp, unwavering precision of a sniper’s rifle. “On you, because if you’d shut your fucking mouth for once, they probably would have let us go with a warning.”
Stunned.
Her ears ring, and her face goes hot. Georgia might as well have slapped her again. She crosses her arms over her chest and tries to ignore her pounding heart. This is familiar. This is starting to feel like the last few weeks with Patience, and she knows how that ended. “So tell me, in all your infinite hunter wisdom and experience, Georgia, how would you have done it differently? What would you do to make this go as picture-perfect as everything else you do?”
“I wouldn’t have antagonized the police, for starters,” she s
ays. “You don’t have to piss everyone off just because you don’t like them. Life is a lot easier when you get along with people.”
“These cops are idiots, Georgia,” she says. “Kid gets murdered in front of an audience of two hundred and they have nothing.”
“They have nothing? Open your eyes, Charity. They have you and me locked up in here for the night,” Georgia says. “Being completely useless.”
Long silence.
Her face burns hotter, and her stomach knots tight around something sharp and jagged. She sees Gabriel Mullins, ripped open like her father. Her world is all red—rich cherry red, blood red, hot seething fuck-the-world rage red. Something in her wants to grab Georgia by her long, ridiculous ponytail and smash her beautiful face into the scuffed blue wall.
Because Georgia is right.
She’s inexperienced and naïve and spoiled, and she’s right about all of it. If Adam kills again tonight, it’s going to be on her. Not on Officer Hayes or Rambo or Georgia, but on Charity Lee Pierson. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, shaky breath as she reclines on the bench. The metal is cool and soothing through the thin fabric of her shirt. She folds her arms behind her head and stares up at a water-stained ceiling. Yellow-brown lines wind through the textured tiles like sludge-filled arteries.
“I’m stuck on this hunt,” she finally says. She’s not sure if it’s been five minutes or five hours. “This isn’t how things normally go.”
“Being arrested?”
“No, that’s kind of par for the course,” she says. “This hunt is weird.”
“And personal.”
“That too,” she says. “I find cursed objects. I’m usually following breadcrumbs. Cold spots, voices, freak accidents. Sometimes a walking corpse or two. But the dead are stupid. This thing is different. It’s making a real, live person kill, and a living person can hide right in front of you. They’re smart, and they don’t flinch because you whip out the salt and holy water. I’m completely out of my element.”
“So you can admit it might be wise to not do things the way you’ve always done them? Like antagonizing small-town cops?” She’s not looking at Georgia, making a point not to, but her partner’s voice has finally lost that shrill edge.