Dirty Laundry Page 4

  Carver just raises his eyebrows. He’s not buying one tiny bit of her bullshit. “So you didn’t see anything?”

  “No, sir,” she says. Unless you count car theft. Where the hell is her truck?

  Carver shifts uncomfortably. The laundromat door swings open, letting out the dull white noise of washers running. The other cop comes out to flank his partner. He stares at her. “This the perp?”

  “Whoa, I am not a perp,” Charity says.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Kid didn’t see anything,” the partner says. He’s a head taller than Carver, with broad shoulders and thick arms that strain against his light blue uniform shirt. His nametag says Everly. He looks like he spends his weekends doing amateur wrestling, and probably wins more than he loses.

  “What’s your name?”

  Moment of truth. She’s still not sure they’re going to arrest her. “Christina.”

  “Christina what?” Carver asks.

  “Dupree,” she says. Christina’s an old family friend, and Dupree is Charity’s mother’s maiden name. Easy to remember.

  “You got some ID, Christina?” Everly says.

  Dammit. “Not on me.” She’s got to get a fake ID one of these days.

  Everly steps down from the curb, looking down at her with arms folded across his barrel chest. “All right. You been drinkin’, sweetheart?”

  “I wish,” she says. “I’m sorry. Inappropriate.”

  “Officers, I called you,” Linda says in a breathless voice. Her oversized purse bounces against her side as she jogs down the sidewalk. She’s coming from the opposite end of the strip mall, which makes no sense. “I am so sorry to waste your time.”

  “Ms. Peterson?”

  “That’s me,” Linda says, smoothing a wisp of dark hair back.

  “Ma’am, you reported a disturbance here. Said someone was trying to rob you ,” Everly says. “Are you all right?”

  Linda lets out a fake laugh. “Gosh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “See, I work at the Food Lion that got robbed last month. Did you see the news?”

  “Yeah, I worked the case,” Carver says. He frowns at her.

  “So I’ve been real jumpy ever since then,” Linda says. Well, that explained the little six-shooter in her purse. “So I came by to do my laundry tonight, and I bumped into this young lady.”

  “Is that true?” Everly says, looking at Charity.

  Linda meets her eyes, then gives her a faint nod. Charity watches her for a moment. “Yes, sir,” she says hesitantly.

  Carver tips his head. His brow furrows, and he’s starting to look irritated. “Dispatcher said you were panicked. Said someone tried to rob you, and then wouldn’t let you leave.”

  Linda shakes her head and roots in her purse, then holds up her car keys. “I had dropped my keys in the bathroom,” she says. “This young lady was just trying to give them back to me, and I just freaked out. After the robbery at work, I thought she was trying to attack me.”

  “That true?” Everly says.

  “Yes, sir,” Charity says. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

  The officers stare at them for a long stretch, then Carver shrugs. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” he finally says. “And Ms. Peterson, if you’re still that jumpy, I might recommend doing your laundry during the day.”

  “Well, when I get a job that gives me some decent hours, I’ll get right on that,” Linda says. She glances at his shirt. “Officer Carver.”

  Carver’s face falls.

  Charity bites her lip to keep from laughing. “Have a nice night, officers,” she says as they get back into the cruiser and back up. They drive away, and Charity launches off the curb. “Holy shit, Linda. You lie like a lawyer.”

  “Well, I had a couple of minutes while you were gone to come up with a story,” Linda says. “Plus my ex-husband was an abusive sonofabitch. I got some experience at lying to the cops.”

  “Man, that sucks,” Charity says. “I guess that explains why you carry the gun, huh?”

  “Something like that,” Linda says. She drops her keys back in her purse, then roots around. A second later, she holds out another set of keys. This one has the familiar the familiar pocketknife dangling from the keyring. “Your truck is parked around the side of the Subway.”

  “You moved it?”

  “Well, I knew the cops were gonna show up,” she says. “And like you said, they were gonna have questions I couldn’t answer. Particularly about whatever is in the bed of your truck. Once I saw that thing, I figured you must be telling the truth after all. Figured I’d give you a chance.”

  Charity grabs the keys from her. She certainly didn’t expect Linda to go from stabbing her with a key to being an accomplice. “Thank you. Seriously.”

  “So now that we’ve got a minute,” Linda says. “What the hell was that?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I really want to know.”

  “You’re gonna have nightmares.”

  “Baby, I lived with a nightmare for fifteen years,” Linda says. “You’re gonna have to work harder than this to scare me.”

  Charity shrugs. Linda’s already seen it. What can it hurt? “I gotta do my laundry first. You know how to get blood out of clothing?”

  Linda smiles. “I might have a secret or two.”

  ***

  “So it’s all real,” Linda says. She pauses, a pink bath towel stretched between her hands. “Zombies, ghosts, werewolves—”

  “No, not werewolves,” Charity says, peering through the fingerprint-streaked glass of the dryer door. “At least, I don’t think they so. I hope not.”

  “Vampires?”

  “Most likely not. My mother thought vampire stories were just a real cleaned-up revenant.”

  “Wait, your mother?”

  “Family tradition,” Charity says.

  “My family had a bowling team,” Linda says. She resumes folding and adds the neat pink rectangle to her stack of mismatched towels.

  “Sounds a lot safer.”

  “Boring,” Linda replies.

  The buzzer on Charity’s dryer rings out, and Charity yanks the door open. She paws through the jumble of warm, fragrant clothes and grabs the soft jeans. They look like new, with just the faintest discoloration on the frayed hems. “Linda, you’re a genius.”

  “WD-40,” Linda says. “Hydrogen peroxide’ll work too.”

  “Ex-husband?”

  Linda nods.

  Charity raises an eyebrow and starts pulling out the rest of her laundry to fold. “You know, I could pay him a visit. I’ve got a bunch of redneck friends with shotguns and questionable morals. We could go scare him real good for you.”

  “No need,” Linda says. “He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

  “Jail?”

  “Bottom of the river,” Linda replies. She calmly finishes folding her towels.

  “Wait…you?” She’s a little slow tonight, but Charity’s picking up what she thinks Linda’s putting down. Her eyes widen a little, and she lets out a nervous laugh.

  Linda shrugs. “Terrible accident. But no great loss.”

  Holy shit. “Come on. Did you do it?”

  “Did I what?” Linda maneuvers the stack of towels into her laundry bag and pushes them down to make room. “I told you, it was an accident.”

  Charity nods, then slams the dryer shut. “You’ve got layers, Linda,” she says. Linda would fit in just fine with her family. She might even make a good hunter. And Charity would not make the mistake of crossing her. That was for damn sure.

  “So what if these things come back?” Linda says.

  “I think I got them all,” Charity says. “But if you see anything, you can give me a call.” She digs in her bag for her notepad, scribbles down her cell number, and hands it over. “In the meantime, you keep yourself safe.”

  “How do I kill it?”

  “You get somewhere safe, and then you call me,” Charity says. “Don’t try to be a hero. There’s a lot worse out there than ghouls.”

  “But what if the next time I walk out of the laundromat, there’s no crazy blonde to stop whatever’s there?”

  “Then you take that pistol out of your purse, aim for the head, and empty it,” Charity says. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language,” Linda says. She puts her laundry detergent back into the bag and plants her hands on her hips. “So how about you? What’s next?”

  “Got a lead on something out near Atlanta,” Charity says. “If I head out now, I can probably be there by morning.”

  “Sounds like a long night. Why don’t you get some sleep and leave in the morning?”

  Charity smiles. “Gotta get a head start. I’ll have all day to track it if I leave now.”

  “That’s a hard life,” Linda says. “You ever take a break?”

  “My mama used to say we could sleep when we were dead,” Charity says.

  “Your mama sounds like a stone-cold bitch.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  “Well, you be careful,” Linda says. “Can I do anything to help you?”

  Charity slings her laundry bag over her shoulder and shakes her head. “Well, there is one thing. You think I could steal one of your towels?”

  WHAT NOW?

  If you enjoyed this little outing with Charity Pierson, then keep reading for a sneak peek at the full-length novel, SWEET CHERRY PIE, featuring Charity and more of her misadventures. It's out now, so check it out!

  In addition to checking out the sneak peek, please share the love by telling your friends and leaving a review on Amazon if you liked this little short.

  Thank you for being a reader!

  SWEET CHERRY PIE

  Hell's Belles - Book 1

  1. FROM BAD TO WORSE

  IT’S ONLY WHEN SHE’S IN FREEFALL, somewhere between the rust-eaten RV roof and a patch of muddy gravel, that she realizes the shotgun was a terrible idea. Her daddy—God rest his soul—had warned her from day one about the recoil. It kicks like a sonofabitch, Charity Lee, so put your shoulder into it, girl.

  Then her ass meets ground, skull to dirt, and her jaws clack together. Air puffs out of her flattened lungs. Her head lolls in the gravel, bringing the worn, clay-caked treads of her truck tires into sharp focus. Firefly spots swim in her vision as she watches the revenant peer over the edge of the roof. She can’t remember how to breathe.

  The walking corpse lurches forward and stumbles off the RV. It lands flat-footed and staggers, milky eyes gleaming as it examines the shot-out shoulder of its suit. A dandelion cloud of fine white hair stands out around its face. Dark fault lines appear in its furrowed brow, spreading under a disintegrating layer of thick funeral makeup.

  The revenant’s left arm hangs by one stubborn navy blue seam and a finger-thick tangle of tendon and sinew. The rest of its sleeve is shredded by buckshot. A handful of the flattened pellets shimmer against the dark fabric. The revenant tests its injured arm, dirty fingers twitching faintly. It growls with a low, wet sound. Then it looks up at her, dead white eyes narrowing at the sight of the delivery snack that just landed at its feet.

  She would curse, but she’s missing a step somewhere between the inspiration and the satisfying taste of profanity spilling over her tongue.

  Inhale, dammit.

  Her back arches up as she sucks in a cold breath that reeks so badly of putrefied meat that she can actually taste it, oily and foul like curdled milk in her mouth. She coughs violently, fingers fumbling at the machete hanging from her belt. The folding blade is still stuck when the revenant lunges for her, uninjured arm clawed and swinging wildly. “Oh, shit,” she wheezes. She pistons her feet out to catch it. Battered leather boots sink into its bloated gut, leaking greenish-yellow under the ragged white shirt. “Get off!”

  The revenant roars as she kicks it hard, trying to shove it away from her. It barely budges and comes back with a vengeance, swiping at her with its bloodied hand. Ruined fingers dig painfully into her left thigh, and her legs tremble as she strains to hold it back.

  Her shotgun is lying five feet away, which might as well be a mile. Her daddy’s antique Colt Commander, holstered at her back, digs into her spine painfully. With the revenant doing its best to climb onto her like a frisky prom date on a mission, it ain’t doing her one bit of good.

  This is reason number fifty-seven that hunting alone is stupid. There should be someone watching her back, squeezing a trigger right about now to blow this thing off her.

  The revenant’s jaws snap at her, teeth and lips stained with a brown crust of dried blood. Its tongue is shriveled and wormy in the foul-smelling mouth. And Jesus, the smell.

  Her legs scream with exhaustion as they buckle, bringing the revenant close enough to swipe at her face. She cranes her neck to dodge the blow, rocks grinding into her scalp. Its gun-shot arm dangles over her uselessly, and she seizes the wrist. The skin is cold and loose in her grip. With a grunt of effort, she yanks it free, like pulling a drumstick off a rotisserie chicken. It even has the same gristly feel as it snaps free of the decayed tendons.

  The revenant reels backward, and she slings the arm around like a meaty bat. The ball of the shoulder joint glances off the revenant’s chin. The creature catches it at the elbow, looking puzzled at the sight of its own arm. She crows a manic laugh. I just beat a zombie with its own severed arm. New personal best.

  With the weight lifted, she twists, draws the Colt, then fires a single shot directly into the revenant’s face. One cheek blows out in a crater of gray-green flesh, and the revenant darts away, disappearing into the shadows between RVs.

  “Dammit!”

  She clambers to her feet, kicking up loose gravel under her boots. An inch higher and that thing would be dead. Again. Her aim is shit these days.

  The night is eerily quiet. The only noise is the drone of crickets in the scraggly grass that lines the highway near the camper yard. Carl’s RV Wonderland is a hospice where old campers go to die. The old clunkers are age-yellowed and crooked like a mouthful of smoker’s teeth. The FOR SALE signs in the windows are sun-faded and barely visible under a veil of dusty yellow pollen.

  A whining creak breaks the quiet behind her. Her heart does a one-two tap dance as she whirls to see a fifth-wheel camper rocking on its dry-rotted tires. It jolts one last time, then settles. The camper behind it starts rocking, and she watches as the revenant leaps from roof to roof. Its hulking shadow is a black pool against the deep purple-blue of the night sky. Then it pauses, and she hears only crickets again.

  It waits, silent and still as a corpse ought to be, on the roof of a camper with a faded wolf mural painted on its side. The damn thing had to be a revenant. Strong as hell, hard to kill, and smart enough to look out for its own survival. It crawled out of the grave with a long-dormant predatory instinct alive and sharp. She can feel the weight of its stare on her. It’s never fun to be demoted on the food chain.

  Shooting at it isn’t going to do shit unless she manages to put one in its brain stem, and even then she’s still got to take its head off. No way she’ll make that shot blind from here. Running after it is equally stupid.

  She presses one hand to her ear like she’s talking on the phone. As she inches backward toward the truck, she says, “Couldn’t find the damn thing. Guess I’m gonna head back.” She doesn’t know if it understands her. Certainly can’t hurt.

  Sure enough, she hears the creak and pause as it jumps to the next camper to follow her. Creak and pause. Creak and pause. She can barely make out the occasional glint of light in its cloudy eyes.

  Her left hand unlatches the folding machete dangling from her waistband. The silver blade is a World War II relic and still sharp as the devil’s front teeth. She flicks it open and lets it hang by her leg. Her shadow is long and menacing in the yellow glow of the truck’s headlights. Come on, she thinks, twitching her finger on the Colt’s trigger guard. I’m mighty tasty.

  There’s a creak of springs, then a crunch as something heavy grinds into the gravel. Her body tenses, fingers clammy around the oiled wooden handle of the machete. It moves closer.

  A piercing alarm shrieks and deafens her. The truck’s headlights strobe, leaving her half blind as it goes from bright to dark in a rapid cycle. She should have disconnected the stupid alarm years ago. The truck sinks into the gravel as the revenant launches itself off the hood. She brings up the Colt, trying to track the fast-moving shadow.

  “Oh no, you did not,” she shouts. Her first shot goes wild, missing the revenant by at least a yard. It lurches for her with a low growl, and she dives at its legs in an impressive tackle. It stumbles and topples over her, digging sharp claws into her calf. She shouts in pain and kicks it in the face. Bone crunches under her boot.

  The revenant roars in pain, but it clings to her leg with the ferocity of a toddler mid-tantrum. She twists and fires another shot into its face. This one pierces its right eye, leaving a blackened crater. The head lolls, but its feet still kick. She finally wrenches her leg free and swings the machete down on the revenant. The blade sinks into its jowly throat and wedges into vertebrae. She props her boot on its shoulder and yanks it free, then goes for a second swing. The blade goes clean through, and the revenant finally goes limp.

  She sighs and flops back into the gravel. Her leg stings, and she gingerly turns it to see a dark stain spreading on her calf. “Oh come on, I just bought these.”

  Her leg trembles but supports her as she shuffles back to her truck and unlocks the toolbox in the bed. She tucks a bottle of lighter fluid under one arm and grabs a half-used matchbook from a dive bar in Charleston.

  By the time she gets back, the revenant’s remains are already deflating, flattening into a lumpy mess inside the filthy funeral clothes. Gleaming lighter fluid beads on the cheap polyester suit as she douses the corpse.