Blood Orchard Part 13

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Hank glared at the mess before the front door. It was worse than a hog slaughter. There was a pool of blood with clumps of flesh that expanded the more Barter's blackened corpse settled against the counter. He held a grudge against guilt trips, though. The pig had shot him and deserved the fate he suffered.

"Got a mop?" Pritchard grabbed Hank's blowtorch and lit a Marlboro off the small blue flame. He grimaced at Barter's body and regarded the farmer's scowl.

"I ain't got a bucket big enough for that slop. You got a body bag in your trunk?"

"Do I look like a coroner? Yer gonna figure somethin' out, now aren't ya, Hank? I'd hate to have to charge ya with manslaughter."

"For that nutjob? He had it coming! He shot your hand off, Paul!"

"I subdued a loose cannon. You let loose on him. Now ya got a mess to clean up. Ya best bury it somewhere I'll never know 'bout. Ya hear me?"

"And what about the Chicago P.D.? Them and the FBI will be down here before you can snap."

"Guess ya better find a good hidin' spot then."

"Screw you."

"'Scuse me?" Pritchard dropped the blowtorch and blew smoke into Hank's face. "Don't cross me, Hank. Ya got yer fingerprints all over those three badges, too, don't ya? d.a.m.n right ya do. Ya owe me." He reached up with his one hand and tipped his Stetson. "If this ain't clear by sunset, I'll be lookin' for ya. I got me a wound to dress, otherwise we'll have more questions than a cracked out reporter."

Pritchard shoved the double doors. Gla.s.s fell and clinked. He walked to Barter's Buick and peered inside. The keys dangled in the ignition. The detective must have planned on his suspect high-tailing it.

He opened the driver's side door, sat behind the wheel, and started the engine. He then pulled away from the Texaco as Barter's cellphone sang on the pa.s.senger's seat.

Hank and Burl bit their tongues as Francine hopped off the tailgate and approached them.

"I should probably go home now."

The last thing she wanted to do was face her father, but it was inevitable. Regardless of her new cuts and bruises, she would have to walk into that house and pretend as if nothing happened. If she pointed any fingers or complained, she would be chastised for not standing tall. That was her father's mentality, more so when he was drunk, which was sixteen hours out of the day; the other eight he was asleep.

Burl twisted the tip of his beard as he regarded Francine. The poor girl was a mess. He could tell that she was sick of her daily run-ins with the bullies. "Listen, Franny. You're almost graduated, right?"

Francine nodded. "Next year."

"Tough it out. Next year you can get away from this place, go to college or something."

Francine dabbed her tears. "My dad doesn't want me going anywhere, Mr. Nelson. I'm stuck in this town dealing with this c.r.a.p."

Hank scratched his stubble as he gnawed on a toothpick. "Look here, Franny. We'll teach 'em. You need to enjoy your childhood."

Burl raised his bushy brows. "n.o.body's teaching anybody a lesson. Revenge won't solve anything."

"Right. That's why you b.o.o.by-trap the orchard, huh? Ain't no way they're getting away with this. Their daddy says so."

Francine crinkled her forehead. "Will you take me home now?"

Coren had no idea who the red-haired, Ron Howard look-alike was, but he knew that he was alive. After all, the only zombies that had been digging out of his yard were blond teenaged girls. What vexed him was the fact that the man stopped and stared at him as if he was crazy, as if there wasn't a dead girl on his heels.

He glanced over his shoulder. The man's sights locked on the open deck door and he ran for it.

Coren stopped in his tracks five yards short of the wetlands. He knew then and there that he needed another shot of gin. An obese, naked girl clambered over the fence. Her blond head dangled upside down by her blackened carotids, resting between her flabby, scarred b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Barbed wire bound her hands behind her back and her eyes fluttered each time her head bounced around like a tetherball. The rotted rails collapsed beneath her weight and she landed atop the woodpile.

Holy Jesus!

Coren watched the girl wriggle across the splintered posts onto his lawn. Her head was lodged between her chest and the ground, m.u.f.fling hoa.r.s.e screams. She rolled onto her back. Her head swung and landed between her thighs.

Coren spun and sprinted. He stomped up the deck steps, lunged inside the house, and slammed the door.

"That one's not getting in! No way!"

Jay stepped into the kitchen. He stared at Coren. The guy was in a panic. He wouldn't stop jerking his head, as if he was searching for an escape route or a weapon for self-defense. "What's wrong with your phone?"

"Pritchard cut the lines, that's what!"

"Pritchard's been here?"

"He's staking the place out!"

"Are you serious? Well, then do you have a cellphone?"

"Does this look like a Radio Shack?" Coren propped the 2x4 between the wall and deck door. He could see the fat zombie struggling to sit up.

"Can I use your laptop?" Jay was beyond frustrated. His face had flushed to his hair color. The guy was a raving lunatic and must not have heard him outside shouting for help. "Maybe I can send an email. Listen, buddy, it's an emergency!"

"The phone lines are down!" Coren was beside himself. He was on the verge of throwing the nutcase out of his house. How was an email going to stop the undead from chasing him? "It's frigging dial-up!"

Jay shook his head. "You got to be kidding me."

"Hand me that bottle."

Jay turned and spotted the near-empty liter on the counter. He sighed and handed it to Coren, who unscrewed the cap and killed the last three shots of gin.

"Hey!" Jay slammed his fist on the kitchen table. Coren lowered the bottle and regarded him, bleary-eyed. "There's a body buried in your backyard! I need to get a hold of the Chicago P.D."

"What are you blind? That body chased you into my backyard. The fatty's probably looking for her sisters."

"What?"

"There, you moron!" Coren pressed his forefinger against the gla.s.s. The decapitated corpse stumbled toward the house as her head swayed like a wrecking ball. "That dead girl you resurrected out of the swamp!"

"Wait! How do you know there's a body buried back there?"

"You're the one whose been dragging her like she's tied to your shoes!"

"Okay, okay. Calm down for a second. What are you talking about?"

Coren saw the fat girl clutch the deck railing out of the corner of his eye. He approached Jay and stood in his face. "I don't know who you are, but you led a dead naked fat girl to my house and calling Pritchard isn't going to save the day."

Jay shook his head, which swam as if a migraine was coming on. He wished he had chosen another house. This guy was drunk out of his mind and hallucinating. Or maybe he was straining to get a point across, speaking in metaphors or something. It sounded as if he was well aware that there was a body buried in the swamp. So was he angry that his secret had been uncovered?

"Listen. Yeah, I know there's a body buried in the swamp. And no, I don't want to call Pritchard; I want to call someone who isn't going to body slam me. Now how do you know there's a body back there?"

"She's standing right there!" Coren pointed the bottle at the deck door, and then hurled it. It shattered gla.s.s against gla.s.s. "She's naked, she's fat, and her head's dangling from her neck! Do I need to sketch it out for you?"

"I guess so, cause the only thing I see is your reflection."

Coren stared at the zombie on the other side of the gla.s.s. He felt as if he had been punched in the face with bra.s.s knuckles. His throat constricted. He staggered, grabbed the table, then backed up and sat down on the desk chair.

He regarded the red-bearded stranger. Was he that hammered that he was hallucinating? No way. It wasn't as if he was drinking liquid heroin. But how was it that he knew about a girl being buried, yet he failed to see her climb out of the grave?

A thud made Coren's head snap left. The mutilated fat girl swung her carotids and slammed her head like a mace against the smeared gla.s.s. The sound was sickening - slapping flesh and crunching bone.

Coren looked to Jay and gestured over his shoulder. "You don't see that?"

Jay shook his head. Their disjointed conversation had him agitated. "See what? Your c.r.a.ppy lawn?"

Coren stood and seized Jay by his jacket sleeve. He tugged him as he strode into the living room.

"Hey!" Jay wrenched back, but Coren had his nails buried into the leather. "What the h.e.l.l's your problem?"

"Follow me. Do you want to hold hands?"

Jay relented and trailed after Coren down the hall. He was convinced the guy was slamming more than gin. But boy was the whole experience going to make a killer story!

Coren stopped and outstretched his arm against the wall. Jay cursed as he was nearly clotheslined. Coren reached into the wall and yanked. The door opened and Jay's jaw dropped.

The flatbed of Hank's two-tone pickup acquired a third hue as Barter's bodily fluids leaked like motor oil. It was hard to believe that the corpse had once been a man who had shot at him an hour ago. Now the detective was nothing more than scorched rags and melted flesh. His skin had dripped off and left a puddle on the tailgate when Hank had heaved him in.

Hank yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket, sopped up the gooey mess on the tailgate, and then tucked the rag beneath one of the many bags of apples. He slammed the door and hopped into the cab.

The nerve of that stink hole leaving me the dirty work. Like I got nothing better to do than bury a homicide detective.

At first he considered bringing Barter to the old Hodge place, then remembered that someone had moved in last week. He racked his brain for a good minute before settling on his barn. He figured it was the most inconspicuous place. He could remove some floorboards in one of the stalls and dig a grave there. Then when all was said and done he could cover it with hay bales.

He frowned at the thought. He knew that once he disposed of the body he would have to find a storage s.p.a.ce for his torture collection. It would be a dead giveaway if a cop ever stumbled on it.

He turned the ignition and sighed. He knew the day would come when he would have to pack up his toys. He wondered, though, if he might have to use them one more time before the storm pa.s.sed.

Pritchard killed Sinatra's croon and answered the call on speakerphone.

"Frank?"

"This is Paul Pritchard. Who's this?"

"Ah, Sheriff. Robert Dalton, Chicago Police Chief. How's Onward holding up?"

"Like the Tower of Pisa."

Dalton chuckled. "Does that mean Detective Barter's giving you a hard time? I'm sure he appreciates your secretarial experience."

Pritchard fumed, but maintained his cool. He knew that if he blew his top the FBI would be flooding the streets. He was surprised they hadn't been involved on day one. He guessed it was due to the nation being on Orange Alert, and kidnappings fell short of terrorist threats.

"Actually, Barter's got me chauffeurin' him round town. He's shoppin' in the Texaco right now."

"Have him call me when he gets back. So, what's the word? Any new leads?"

"Shouldn't ya ask yer man that question? He's the detective."

"All of my officers do their fair share of investigating, Sheriff. Maybe you should, too, instead of taking phone calls. You know the townspeople better than anyone else does. You must have a few names in my mind."

"I've got one or two. It's all circ.u.mstantial though."

"Circ.u.mstantial or not, those suspects need to be interrogated. Three babies are missing in your town. Right now, you're just as high on our suspect list."

"Those babies ain't whinin' in my backseat! They're probably miles from here, but I'll be G.o.dd.a.m.ned if I don't nail my man!"

"You tell Barter to call me."

Pritchard ended the conversation. He pocketed the cellphone as he drove the LeSabre down the train tracks. He was pleased the Chicago P.D. had their hands full. The last thing he needed was a stakeout on his every move.

Dalton made a valid point though. It was time to step up his interrogation. The Barter incident had sidetracked him. Coren Raines had been neglected. He didn't care if the newbie was innocent; he was going down for the kidnappings. He might even dig up a few corpses to slap him with murder charges. No, that was crossing the line. FBI and DNA would get involved, two acronyms he didn't want to mess with. He would play it safe and force a confession out of him first.

Pritchard parked the LeSabre between two boxcars. He knew the search party was done snooping around the train tracks, so it was the best spot that he could think of to stash the car. He wasn't keen on driving it any farther either, for fear of being seen by reporters and arousing suspicion. He left the keys in the ignition, slammed down all of the locks, and then stepped out.

d.a.m.n Buick oughta go up in flames like Barter. He shut the driver's side door and headed toward the woods. Figure that one out, Dalton.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.