Switch Blade Romance

Manatachie Falls 2015

Rachael Edison sat in the basement dark, the kind of dark that had weight, like wet black cloth pressed over your face. Her head throbbed with a steady, stupid rhythm, the way a bad hangover pounds after you've already puked your guts out. Her right wrist felt like someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to it and then twisted for good measure. What the fuck, she thought. Where am I? How in Christ's name did I get here?
Then it came back, not in a rush but in pieces, like film frames clicking through a broken projector.
She'd been in that flea-bitten motel room in Sneedsville, the one with the carpet that smelled faintly of old cigarettes and despair. Lacey had gone down the hall for ice—always the ice, like it was some kind of magic that could cool the heat of the day. Rachael had been heading for the shower, already peeling off her shirt, when the knock came. Soft. Polite. She thought Lacey had forgotten her key again, the way she always did when her hands were full. Rachael had even smiled as she opened the door.
The smile died when she saw him.
Charles Grady.
He looked the same as the last time she'd seen him—same cold eyes, same thin mouth that never quite smiled right. Except he was supposed to be dead. Andrew had opened him up like a Christmas present, left enough blood on the floor to paint a barn red. Enough to kill any man twice over.
Before she could scream, he was on her, shoving her back inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. The lock clicked like a coffin lid dropping.
Rachael stumbled toward the bed, toward her phone lying there like a useless brick. "What the fuck, you bastard? You're dead. Andrew killed you. There was blood—Jesus, there was so much blood—"
Grady slapped her hard, open-handed, the way a man slaps a dog that's forgotten its place. She hit the floor, tasting pennies.
"Well," he said, voice calm as pond water, "I guess he didn't finish the job, now did he?"
She lay there stunned, brain rattling around in her skull like dice in a cup. Then she saw it: her service pistol on the nightstand, matte black and waiting.
She crawled. One elbow, then the other. Fingers stretching.
Grady stepped on her right hand. Hard. Bones ground together; pain shot up her arm like white lightning. She screamed.
"Not so fast, Olivia Benson," he said, almost gentle. "We got to wait for your friend to come back."
He picked up her own gun, flipped it, and brought the butt down on the back of her head, right where the spine kisses the skull. The world went gray, then black, then nothing but a dull red pulse of pain.
When she came to, the basement smelled of damp concrete and old blood and something worse—something that had been waiting down here a long time.
Lacey lay off to the left, face-down, but her ribs rose and fell in shallow breaths. Alive. Thank God for small mercies.
A low moan pulled Rachael's eyes forward. Helen Grant sat cross-legged against the far wall, wrists chained above her head like some medieval saint. A gag hung loose around her neck—she'd worked it free somehow. Blood matted the left side of her hair, dark and sticky. To Helen's right lay her middle daughter, Andrew's sister, out cold, one cheek pressed to the filthy floor.
"Mrs. Grant," Rachael whispered, throat raw. "Helen. Can you hear me? It's Rachael Eddison. I'm down here with you. Are you okay?"
Helen lifted her head slowly, eyes shining wet in the dim. She nodded once.
"Oh God, Rachael," she said, voice cracked but steady. "That man. He came back. We got back to the hotel room and he was there, waiting like he'd never left. He took us. Brought us here. I thought he was dead."
"Me too," Rachael said. "But this bastard's got more lives than a goddamn alley cat. Where's Andrew?"
"He was out with that deputy—Frederick, I think his name is. Thank God for small favors." Helen's voice hardened. "Rachael, listen to me. If I don't make it out of this—if things go bad—make sure that son of a bitch never gets near my baby again. Any of my kids. Any of my grandkids. Put a bullet between his eyes. Then burn the body. Don't leave anything for him to crawl back from."
Rachael swallowed. "We're all getting out, Mrs. Grant. And when we do, Charles Grady—or whatever the hell his real name is—he dies. For good this time. I swear it."
Dawn broke over Sneedsville like a promise nobody believed. Andrew Grant lay awake in Allen Frederick's bed, staring at the ceiling cracks that looked like veins in old marble. Allen slept on his stomach beside him, face mashed into the pillow, breathing slow and even. Andrew reached out, patted Allen's bare back once, gently, the way you'd touch something fragile you weren't sure would last the day.
This might be the last time anything feels normal, he thought. Maybe the last time anything feels like anything at all. Savor it.
But savoring wasn't in the cards. Not today.
He'd made sure LaLaurie was safe with Dr. Anthony and John Henry. He'd called his father—Martin—begged him to stay the hell away from Tennessee, stay home where the worst thing that could happen was burning the toast. He'd talked to Max, to Anita, to Nick. Told them he loved them. Told them if it went wrong—if he didn't come back—Max was to take LaLaurie and raise her right. No arguments.
Something bad was coming. He could feel it in his bones, the way you feel a storm before the sky even darkens. He couldn't name it, couldn't point to it, but it was there, patient and hungry.
He slid out of bed naked. The heat in Allen's little room wrapped around him like a warm hand. He stretched, joints popping, then padded to the window. The early sun painted the street gold. Birds chirped like nothing was wrong. Cars coughed to life down the block. Ordinary morning sounds. The kind that made you think the world might still be sane.
His clothes lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. He bent, picked them up. Boxers first. T-shirt next.
"You know you don't have to get dressed just yet," Allen mumbled from the bed, voice thick with sleep.
Andrew turned, managed a smile. "Thought I was being quiet."
Allen laughed, soft. "Not so much. But it's okay."
"I was gonna make breakfast," Andrew said. "Pancakes, maybe. Then we talk about tonight."
"Yeah. Meeting Dr. Anthony and John Henry. Coming up with a plan."
"You guys don't have to do this," Andrew said quietly. "I can go alone. Give him what he wants—me. Make sure Mom, my sister, Rachael, Lacey—they're okay. The rest... we figure out later."
Allen sat up, swung his legs over the side, grabbed his bathrobe. "No. That's not happening. What's gonna happen is we back you up. You go in. We wait. Then we come in hard, free everybody, and you and I—we smoke this fucker for good. After that, you live. You become that psychologist you always talked about. You help people. You make sure there are no more Charles Grady's in the world."
Andrew sighed, rubbed his face. "At least one of us is sure."
Allen crossed the room, pulled him into a hug. Andrew could feel the heartbeat against his own, steady, stubborn.
"It'll be over soon," Allen said. "I promise. Now come on. Let's get some pancakes and plan how to end this thing."
Outside, the sun climbed higher. The birds kept singing. And somewhere in the dark under Sneedsville, something waited, smiling its thin, patient smile.