Switch Blade Romance

Cowboy Junkies PT1

Annabelle, Texas
January 20, 2015
Anita Gates lay in that narrow hospital bed like a woman already half-gone, eyes shut tight against the fluorescent lights that never quite went dark. The room smelled of bleach and old coffee, the kind of smell that gets into your clothes and stays. Lacey sat beside her in one of those molded plastic chairs that creak when you shift, flipping through a dog-eared People magazine without really seeing the pages. Every so often she'd glance over, checking for signs of life, the way you check a pot on the stove to make sure it hasn't boiled dry.
Then Anita stirred—just a little twitch under the thin blanket, like something inside her was trying to wake up before the rest of her was ready. Lacey's head snapped up. The magazine slid to the floor with a soft slap.
“Anita? Honey, you okay? You want me to get the doctor?”
Anita let out a low groan, the sound of someone surfacing from deep water. Lacey was on her feet in an instant, chair scraping back. She bolted for the door. “Nurse! Somebody—quick! She's awake!”
A young nurse—dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, name tag reading Martinez—had been out in the hall, clipboard in hand, reviewing charts under the harsh light. She looked up, startled, then hurried in.
“What's happening? Is Ms. Gates awake?”
“Yes, yes she is,” Lacey said, voice pitching high. “Please, come see about her.”
The nurse moved to the bedside, calm but quick. “Ms. Gates? Anita? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”
Anita's eyelids fluttered. She nodded once, slow, like it hurt to move even that much. Her voice came out cracked and dry, the voice of someone who'd been screaming inside her head for a long time. “Hospital... right?”
“That's right. Magee Memorial. You're safe now.”
Anita's eyes focused a little. “Aiden. He did this, didn't he?”
The nurse's face tightened just a fraction. “I'll get a detective in here to talk to you, okay? Soon as we can.”
Anita nodded again, then something else flickered across her face. “Wait. What about Chris?”
Lacey felt the air go out of the room. She and the nurse exchanged a look—the kind you give when the bad news is sitting right there between you like a loaded gun.
Lacey stepped closer. “Baby, you don't need to worry about Chris right now.”
Anita's brow furrowed. “Lacey... what happened? Is he okay? Tell me what happened!”
The scream came sudden and raw. “What happened!”
Lacey's voice cracked like thin ice. “Anita... Chris didn't make it. Aiden killed him. When he came to the house. He killed him.”
“No.” Anita's face crumpled. “No, Lacey, no. You're lying. Chris can't be dead. Please don't lie to me. Please.”
The tears came then, hot and fast, tearing out of her like something had ruptured inside. Lacey moved to the bed, gathered her friend in her arms—careful of the IV lines, the bruises—and let her cry. The sobs were ugly, animal things, the sound of a heart breaking open in a place where hearts aren't supposed to break.
An hour later, Rachel pushed through the door, coat still dusted with sleet from outside. She looked tired, the way people look when they've been running on coffee and dread for days.
“Oh, Anita,” she said, rushing over. “Thank God you're awake.” She hugged her gently, then pulled back. “How you feeling?”
Anita managed a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Like I got hit by a truck. Aiden—” She stopped, the name tasting like poison. “Did you catch that son of a bitch yet? And Andrew—where's Andrew? He didn't... he didn't kill him too, did he?”
Rachel hesitated. “That's the thing. His name isn't Aiden. It's Charles Grady. He's been using Aiden like a mask. And he took Andrew. We don't know exactly where, but we're thinking eastern Arkansas, maybe Tennessee.”
Anita stared. “How...?”
“It's a long story, but you need to hear it.”
Anita nodded, and Rachel told her—slow, careful, the way you'd tell someone the house is on fire but try not to scare them worse. When she finished, the room felt smaller, colder.
“So this Grady... he's been killing people for damn near a decade,” Anita whispered. “And he passed himself off as some missing kid—probably dead—for seven years?”
Rachel nodded. “He burns his fingerprints off every so often. That's why no prints at any scene. Man's like a chameleon. Changes colors, blends in, waits until you're not looking.”
“And Andrew?”
Rachel cleared her throat. “We don't think he's dead yet. But we have to find them fast.”
“What about Max?” Anita asked. “Is he...?”
“He's here. In the hospital. Grady got him too. Deria didn't make it. Max did.”
Anita's eyes filled again, but this time it was different—harder. “Can I see him?”
“If you're up to it.”
Lacey and Rachel helped her out of bed, steadying her as she shuffled down the corridor in paper slippers and a hospital gown that flapped like a ghost's shroud. Max's room was just around the bend. Machines hummed and beeped in soft, steady rhythm, the sound of life hanging by a thread.
Anita stood in the doorway, looking at her friend. Tubes snaked from his arms, his chest rose and fell under the ventilator's push. His face was swollen, bruised, but peaceful in a way that made her stomach twist.
“Oh, Max,” she whispered. “You fight, you hear me? You come back.”
A rage rose up in her then—slow at first, like heat from a banked fire, then roaring. She wanted Charles Grady—or Aiden Pierce, or whatever name the devil wore this time—to feel what this felt like. To hurt the way they hurt. To bleed the way they bled.
She turned, eyes blazing. “We're getting Andrew back.”
Rachel nodded. “Damn right we are.”
“But first we find them,” Anita said, voice low and steady now. “And when we do... we're going to kill Charles Grady. We're going to make him wish he'd never crawled out of whatever hole he was born in.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Outside, the sleet tapped against the window, patient, waiting. Somewhere out there in the dark, a man without fingerprints was still walking, still wearing someone else's face.
And the night wasn't done with them yet.