Switch Blade Romance

Proof

March 4th 2015.

Sneedville Tennessee.

Rachael Eddison stood in the basement of Earl Rodmoore's cabin, the kind of place that looked like it had been waiting for something bad to happen since the day the last nail was driven home.
The air down there was thick, almost chewable. It reeked of old blood gone coppery and sour, of unwashed bodies that had given up trying to smell human, of woodsmoke that had soaked into everything like a bad memory. And there was something else underneath it all, something wet and wrong, like the smell of a grave that's been opened too soon. Rachael couldn't quite name it, but it crawled around in the back of her throat and made her want to spit.
Juanita Anthony came up beside her then, quiet as a shadow, and laid a hand on Rachael's shoulder. The touch was warm, steady, the way a mother's hand ought to be but so seldom is when the world starts coming apart.
"Rachael, honey," Juanita said, voice low, "if you want, John or I could run you over to the hospital. So you can see Andrew. There's not much left for us to do here. CSI's picked the place clean, and those... remains in that furnace... God help us."
Rachael shook her head, slow, like she was moving underwater. "No. It's okay. Lacey's with him now. Let them have their time."
"You'll have to see him eventually."
"I know." Rachael let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in her lungs for years. "I know I will. I'm just... not ready. We don't even know what he did down here. Three months, Juanita. Three months with that thing."
Juanita sighed, the sound of someone who had seen too many nights end badly. "If you really know Andrew—if you know him the way I think you do—then you know he's not a killer."
"Yeah," Rachael said. "I suppose."
Just then John Henry came down the stairs, boots thumping on the old wood like heartbeats. "You girls all right?"
Juanita turned, gave him a small, tired smile. "We're fine. I think we're ready to get out of here."
She looked at Rachael, who had her arms folded tight across her chest like she was holding her own ribs together. Rachael nodded once. Let's go.
Sarkis Memorial Hospital, that afternoon.
Lacey sat in the ugly vinyl chair beside Andrew's bed, the kind of chair that squeaked every time you shifted and made your butt go numb after ten minutes. The TV was on, some afternoon talk show full of people yelling about nothing important. Lacey's mother used to call them "trash TV," and she'd been right, but right now it was just noise, something to fill the space between them.
Every so often Lacey glanced over at Andrew, and when she did, she smiled without meaning to. She had never expected to see that smile again, or hear him laugh the way he used to, easy and a little crooked.
This time he caught her looking. "I'm okay, Lace," he said softly. "I'm really here. I'm alive."
Her eyes filled up fast. "I know you are, honey. It's just... I've missed you so much. There are so many things I wish I'd done different."
Andrew reached out—slow, careful, like he wasn't sure his hand would still work—and took hers. "I know. Believe me, I know. I wish none of this had happened. I wish Casey was still here. Peter too. All the others Aiden... that Grady killed. I wish he'd never come to Annabelle."
He looked at her, eyes steady. "You know what we ought to be doing right now, Lace?"
She shook her head, tears slipping.
"We ought to be back at school, planning spring break. Casey'd be booking some condo, going nuts over reviews. Max would be rounding up liquor and pot like it was a military operation. Anita'd be making sure Casey didn't pick someplace that'd get us all murdered. And you'd be laughing at how crazy Casey got when she was on a mission."
Lacey laughed then, a small, broken sound. "God, remember New Orleans? That haunted swamp tour she dragged us on? Turned out to be two hours in the back of some blackout van. She cussed that poor driver out so bad he gave us our money back and free drink coupons for life."
Andrew grinned, weak but real. "Yeah. She could be a real WASP when she wanted to be."
"Our WASP," Lacey said, voice cracking. "I loved her. She was always there."
"So was Anita." Lacey sniffled. "I'm so glad she made it. But she's a wreck right now. Lost Chris... trying to make sense of any of this. It's been hell."
Andrew pulled her close then, awkward with the IV lines and the bandages, but he held on. "I'm sorry, Lace. I'm so damn sorry I brought that monster into our lives. Forgive me. Please."
They cried together for a long time—thirty minutes, maybe more—until the sobs ran out like a battery going dead.
A nurse came in with a tray of hospital lunch that smelled like boiled sadness. Then the door opened again and Rachael walked in, followed by Dr. Anthony, John Henry, and the young deputy who'd questioned Andrew the other night.
Rachael went straight to the bed and hugged him hard, like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go. Deep down she'd braced herself for the worst. Part of her still was.
Dr. Anthony hugged him next. Sheriff Henry shook his hand, firm. Deputy Fredericks just nodded, looking like a kid trying to play grown-up.
John Henry spoke first. "You're one lucky son of a gun, Andrew. Months of hell, attacks, and you keep coming out the other side. Grady doesn't let people slip away like that. Especially not the ones he's got his eye on."
Andrew gave a small nod. "Guess I am lucky. Jury's still out on how lucky."
John Henry leaned in a little. "We know Grady brought others down into that basement with you. We know he killed them. Bones in the furnace—at least two fresh sets. Those kids you saved told us how he burned one of their friends. But there's things we're having trouble squaring."
Andrew swallowed. "Like what?"
Deputy Fredericks cleared his throat. "How exactly did he kill them, Andrew? And what were you doing while it happened? Nobody's saying you helped or anything—we just need to close the circle. And then there's Grady's body. You say you stabbed him good. He should be dead. But we can't find him. Bloodhounds tracked him into the woods, scent went cold at the creek. Maybe he bled out there, drowned. Maybe we'll find what's left come summer—turtles and fish and gators having their way."
John Henry cleared his own throat. "Sorry. Deputy here's got a tendency to run on. Andrew... can you tell us about the people he killed while you were there? Why he did it?"
Andrew looked at the ceiling for a long moment. "I think I can. But it's gonna take a while."
Later that day, twenty miles west of Sneedville, near the Arkansas line.
Michael Keller was driving a back road in his red Ford pickup, a warm beer sweating in his lap. No particular place to go. Just driving. Trying to outrun Joanne, who could nag the chrome off a trailer hitch. Thirty years married, and the woman he'd fallen for had turned into someone who could find fault in the way the sun came up. Kids grown and gone. Just the two of them now, rattling around in a house too big and too quiet.
He was lighting a cigarette when the man stepped out from the trees right into the road.
Michael slammed the brakes, swerved hard. The cigarette dropped into his lap and burned like hellfire. He yelped, brushed it away, killed the engine. Heart hammering.
He looked around. No one.
Then a fist banged on the passenger door.
Michael rolled the window down.
The kid wasn't much older than Michael’s boy David, but he looked like he'd crawled out of a slaughterhouse. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, face scratched and torn from thorns and branches, and a deep knife wound weeping through his torn shirt, right in the gut.
Michael went from wanting to curse the idiot to wanting to help in the space of two heartbeats. "My God, son, what happened to you?"
The boy laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "Mister, you really don't want to know."
Michael straightened. "Okay then. Can I give you a ride? Hospital maybe?"
Charles Grady smiled, thin and careful, like a man testing a cracked rib. "You know, that'd be a real good idea. I've got an old friend in a hospital around here. Need to see him bad. If you don't mind, mister."
Michael shook his head. "No, 'course not. Hop in. We'll get you there."
Grady climbed in, slow, wincing. The door shut with a solid thunk.
They drove off toward Sarkis Memorial, the truck kicking up dust on the empty road, and the thing in the passenger seat smiled again, small and secret, like a man who knows the punchline to a joke no one else has heard yet.