Blood Orchard Part 2

He let go of the wood support.

"Oohh! Oohh!"

The voice was clear as cellophane. It came from below. Coren turned and squinted into the well. There was an echo to the moan, and a childish undertone. He was certain of it. But how could anyone be in the well? And how long had they been down there?

"Are..." Coren's nerves constricted his throat. "Are you okay?"

"Oohh!"

Coren trembled from head to toe, stumbled back.

Get a hold of yourself, he thought. There's a kid down there.

He stepped up to the well. The smell of apples wafted from the darkness. It was so overpowering that it stung his eyes like sliced onions. He blinked away the tears. His gaze locked on the opposite wall. The cobblestones were splitting.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

The cobblestones failed to crumble, but a red fluid seeped from the cracks. It trickled in serpentine rivulets down the wall. Though it was impossible, Coren knew it was blood by its copious flow. Nausea twisted his stomach. His head swam from the reek of cider. Maggots wriggled from the b.l.o.o.d.y fissures in the wall.

Coren turned, doubled over, and retched. He stumbled through the gra.s.s with vomit dripping from his mouth.

"Oohh!"

The agonizing moan rang in Coren's ears. He collapsed face first at the foot of the deck. The stench of apples seemed to have coated his nostrils. His head pounded. His eyes streamed tears. He curled up into a ball, clutched his stomach, and vomited. He felt as if he had the world's worst hangover. He groaned as a black curtain fell over him, swallowing his consciousness whole, luring him to slip away from the sickness and embrace the sweet-smelling darkness.

CHAPTER THREE.

Francine h.e.l.ler crossed the train tracks as the Burlington Northern rattled toward Logansport. She vowed to one day hop onto the caboose and ride the rails. The thought of travelling miles from Onward was tempting. She longed to escape the dead end roads, small town monotony, and feeling of confinement, as if there was no other place on earth to live. Most of all, she yearned to distance herself from the Blondies.

She slung her faded green Jansport over her shoulder and followed the windy path through the oak grove. She always took the shortcut home after school. The upside was that she avoided Mrs. Petermen's bulldog Feisty, who loved to chase eleventh-graders as if they had T-bones strung to their shoelaces. The downside was that she occasionally encountered the Blondies. She made a mental note to reroute her shortcut tomorrow. She needed to eliminate all possibilities of running into the town bullies. She grew weary of black eyes on a weekly basis.

The cool shade receded as she emerged from the grove. Her gaze zoomed in on Main Street. The two blocks of sun-bleached, red brick buildings loomed ahead.

Francine's heart beat like a drum roll. The street looked deserted. That spelled trouble. The lack of bystanders increased her chances of hara.s.sment by the Blondies. If the street had been bustling, she could have pa.s.sed undetected through the crowd. Now she could only hope that the bullies were busy beating up another kid on the other side of town. She took a deep breath, certain her heart would explode, and sighed.

It's now or never. Her hand white-knuckled on the backpack strap.

Francine crossed the overgrown field that had once been Mr. Utley's yard. Since his pa.s.sing, the ramshackle, taupe mobile home had been towed, leaving behind a rectangular indent of dead gra.s.s. Francine veered toward the curbside. The strange shape amidst knee-high gra.s.s, dandelions, and black-eyed Susans made her think of those crop circles she had once seen in a library book on UFO's. It creeped her out. She hurried toward the sidewalk as the weeds tickled her bare calves.

She looked down past her denim skirt to her blue jellies. Sandburs clung to her tube socks. She picked them off one by one, wincing at each poke in the flesh, and then warily headed into town.

Her next-door neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Emory exited Kate's Bakery hand in hand. They smiled and nodded. Mr. Ratner, the mailman, appeared across the street, sifting in his canvas bag of envelopes. Francine's heartbeat steadied. She was relieved that there were other people around.

She pa.s.sed beneath the red-striped awnings of the bakery and gazed at the storefront. Betsy Collins, the town busybody, stood at the gla.s.s counter pointing at various pastries while Kate wandered back and forth like an expecting father, filling an open box. Mr. Adler sat at a round table near the window, his chalk-white hair poking above the Tribune. The smell of donuts and coffee at three o'clock in the afternoon turned Francine's stomach.

A green overhang replaced the awnings as she walked by Wal-Drug. Beyond the bay window advertising RC Cola, the store was vacant, even the pharmacy, which was odd considering how many elderly people lived in town. Usually there was a line from aisle one to three. Maybe Mr. Wurtz, the pharmacist, was under the weather.

As Francine strolled by the adjacent shop window, Dame Apparel, an electric blue dress caught her eye. She stopped and goggled at it. It was beautiful. It was made of silk chiffon with rhinestone spaghetti straps and a starburst-beaded neckline. It screamed elegance with its high-low hemline that extended into a brush train. It was one of those dresses she had seen time and again in the movies. She looked at the price tag on the neon-lettered sign: $220.00.

"It's outta your price range, Smeller."

Francine whirled, and then backed against the storefront. The Blondies smirked before her. Loren tugged down her black Pirates cap over her serpentine curls. Sylvia twirled her shoulder-length, split ends as she snapped a wad of bubble gum. Henna furrowed her beetle brows and approached Francine, stopping an inch from her face so that her girth overshadowed her.

"And no one's desperate enough to ask ya to prom."

"Leave me alone, Henna." Francine's heartbeat hammered in agreement.

"As soon as you do, Smeller. Ya know this is my street. Why the h.e.l.l do ya come lookin' for me?"

"I didn't. I'm going home."

"Ya ain't goin' nowhere 'til I let ya. Grab her!"

Loren and Sylvia seized Francine by the wrists. Henna waddled up the sidewalk and rounded the meat market at the end of the block. Sylvia skipped alongside Francine, who struggled to break free as Loren yanked her forward. At a glance, pa.s.sers-by would have seen three girls holding hands in a playful tug-of-war.

Francine was led around the corner of the building and shoved against the wall. She was grateful her backpack cus.h.i.+oned the blow. She glanced left and right. The street was deserted.

"Gimme that!" Henna grabbed Francine's backpack by the strap and ripped it off her shoulder. She unzipped it as Loren and Sylvia pinned Francine's wrists to the wall. "This is my homework now. Find yer own to do."

"Put it back!" Francine hoped someone downtown would hear her. "It's mine, you fat pig!"

"What did ya call me?"

Henna tossed the backpack aside. Folders and notebooks spilled into the gutter.

Tears streamed down Francine's cheeks. "Why won't you just leave me alone? What did I ever do to you?"

"Ya called me a fat pig, that's what!" Henna clutched Francine's jaw with her right hand as she flipped out a razor blade in her left. "Now ya know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna cut your filthy tongue out so ya don't sa.s.s me again!"

For a split second Francine was speechless. She trembled from head to toe as the blade inched toward her lips. Henna yanked down on her jaw and she screamed b.l.o.o.d.y murder. Henna slashed the corner of Francine's mouth, and then belted her in the gut with her right fist.

Francine collapsed to her knees as the Blondies released her and fled. She heard distant shouts. Blood trickled from her chin, staining the sidewalk. Mrs. Murphy dropped a bag of groceries and crouched before her. She heard pounding on pavement and glimpsed Mr. Ratner, his mailbag bouncing on his back, sprinting after the Blondies. She dabbed her mouth with her s.h.i.+rtsleeve.

Yes, she needed to reroute her shortcut tomorrow.

Jay peeled off his jacket and draped it over the payphone on the corner of Texaco's parking lot. He fished in his pant pocket, withdrew five dimes. He was still dripping wet, even after the mile walk up the road. A small puddle had formed around his Reeboks and trickled to the rusted pole of the red star sign that towered over him.

He shoved the coins in the slot and dialed 4-1-1 as he gazed at the gas station. An orange and black sign on the clouded gla.s.s door read: Closed. Black shades had been pulled down on the cracked front windows. Both pumps were covered in what resembled body bags. A Pepsi machine with an Out of Order sign on the coin slot stood to the right of the concrete building. All in all, it was a service station that served the townspeople. It was devoid of pay pumps, air hoses, and car washes. Jay was surprised it had a working payphone.

"Uh, yes, can I have the number to the towing company closest to Onward? I'm sorry? Yes, that'll be fine. Okay, great. Thank you."

A husky voice barked in Jay's ear: "Blue Tow!"

"Yeah, hi, I need a tow truck on Main Street in Onward."

"Onward? Fat chance, buddy. Place is barricaded. No way in or out. It's all over the news. You'll have to sit tight 'til the storm blows over."

"Of course. I should've guessed. Okay, thanks."

Jay hung up the phone. He was in a h.e.l.l of a bind. His bike was stuck in a drainage ditch and the town sheriff had him on surveillance. The last thing he wanted to do was run into Pritchard. The maniac would beat him to death if they crossed paths again.

He needed to call his wife Jeanette. He could have her pick him up near the train tracks or some other remote location.

No. I can't do that.

Jay had breached the barricade for a reason. He wanted the story. He wanted to crack the case and make a name for himself. So what if he was trapped within the city limits. He had a story to cover. All he needed now was a pencil and a notepad, seeing how his camera and cellphone were lost in sewage.

He fished in his pocket for spare change. His fingers found soggy lint.

He grabbed his jacket, slipped it on, and then gazed at the horizon. The sun burned in a simmering red-orange sky. Nightfall was nearing. Worry burrowed in Jay's head. Where was he going to sleep? What was he going to eat? Downtown was shut down and the roads were blocked. The Texaco Pepsi machine was even inoperable.

Jay looked to the gas station. He wondered if there was a back door. There had to be drinks and snacks inside. His stomach growled. He was dying for a Slim Jim. Model citizen or not, he had a story to dig up and it might take days to do. He needed a place to eat, sleep, and relieve himself. Without a second thought, he headed toward the rear of the Texaco.

Coren's eyelids fluttered, and then snapped open. The right side of his face was pressed against the gra.s.s, which felt like a pincus.h.i.+on. A puddle of vomit laced with flies had settled inches from his mouth. He was still curled up in a ball, s.h.i.+vering. He raised his head. The sky had darkened. The sun was a dying ember beyond the twittering wetlands.

He rolled onto his back, let his arms fall to his side. His sour stomach had faded and his head had cleared. He took a deep breath. The night air was thick with the mesquite scent of a bonfire. The hint of cider was seemingly absent.

He groaned as he sat up. His ribs ached like wildfire. Gin and Advil never sounded better.

He looked to the well. Its cylindrical silhouette resembled a bulging eyeball, or maybe even a giant apple. The latter thought flooded his head with a geyser of recollections. The cobblestones cracking. Blood trickling from the wall. Maggots wriggling out, raining into the darkness below.

Coren gritted his teeth and stood. He winced as pain pierced his side, feeling as if he had been knifed. He stared at the wavering silhouette. The raspy moan haunted his conscience.

The kid, he thought. That kid's still down there!

He stumbled into the shadows. The bonfire fog enveloped the backyard, compressing the air like a drawn tarp. He wondered who was stoking the fire pit. A twisted vision of Pritchard flashed in his head. He saw the hulking cop in sungla.s.ses standing before six-foot flames, roasting marshmallows with a cigarette glowing in his sneer.

Coren tripped and fell onto the stone wall. He straightened as he gazed into the darkness below. A frigid gust of cider stung his nostrils and tousled his hair. His eyes burned and teared up. He s.h.i.+vered, staggered back a step.

"Oohh! Oohh!"

The little girl's cry rattled Coren. He broke into a cold sweat as his adrenaline surged. He was more scared of the fact that he was wide-awake, yearning for a sign that he was dreaming. But despite the encompa.s.sing infernal haze, his sight was clear.

"Okay. Okay, just...just sit tight."

Coren glanced at his surroundings. He wished the rope and bucket still hung. He needed something to hoist out the poor girl.

Sheets! he thought. I could knot some bed sheets together and pull her out!

He turned to head for the house, and then froze as wailing erupted from the well. He whirled and bent over the lip, peering into the blackness. The cold rush of apple air was unrelenting.

The crying grew louder, like an approaching siren.

"Don't worry!" Coren prayed the girl was unharmed. He pictured her stepping on the broken bucket and slicing her foot. "I'll be right back! I'm gonna get you out of..."

His voice trailed off and his eyes widened as bone-white flesh emerged from the darkness. A frail girl in tattered, bloodstained clothes scaled the wall. She dug her nails into the cracks and pulled herself up. She tilted her head back, wailing, tears dripping from her blood-streaked face. Her mouth glinted, gagged with barbed wire. Her curly hair was matted to her gashed forehead and looked like dead worms. Coren was rooted to the ground.

"Oohh!"

The girl's moans wrenched Coren's heart. He leaned over the lip and reached for her. She still had a foot or two to climb. Her trembling hands slapped at the cobblestones, fingering the cracks. Coren saw that her skeletal legs were twisted like licorice, more than likely shattered from her fall.

"Grab my hand!"

The girl clutched the cobblestones. Coren knew that if she tried to reach for his hand there was a high probability that she would slip. She slapped her palm on the next row of stones. Blood cascaded through the cracks.

"C'mon!"

"Oohh!" Tears dripped from the barbs in her mouth. "Oohh! Oohh!"

The girl's right hand slipped from the crack. The waterfall of blood ran down her left arm and the front of her clothes. Coren stepped back, and then lunged into the well. He seized the girl's wrist. She cried out as maggots poured from the cobblestone. Coren heaved her up the wall, mustering every ounce of adrenaline that rushed through his body.

"Hold on! I got you!"

He braced his foot against the base of the well. The girl was no heavier than a sack of potatoes and he hauled her over the lip with ease. She hit the ground hard, bawling, as the hot, thick scent of apple jetted from the darkness and stung Coren's face. He howled. It felt as if his skin was burning. He clutched his face, stumbled back from the well.

After about a minute, the pain subsided. Coren drew his hands from his face, expecting to see them covered in blood. They were merely smudged with dirt. He sighed. The air ma.s.s had felt acidic. He was certain his flesh was smoldering. He blinked the tears from his eyes.

The girl twitched and whimpered on the ground. She was sprawled on her stomach. Her black-and-blue legs were entwined and bent backwards. She clawed at the barbed wire in her mouth as she squirmed and struggled to roll over.

Coren knelt beside her. His heartbeat pounded in his temples. He knew he had to help her, but confusion plagued him. How was he going to move her without inflicting pain? How was he going to remove the barbed wire from her mouth? How was he going to get her the medical attention she needed? Dialing 9-1-1 was out of the question. Pritchard would never believe that he found a girl in his well. He would be booked and on trial before you could spell O.J.

"Hey." His voice quavered as he placed his hands on her arm. Her flesh was cold and callous. "I'm...I'm gonna pick you up now. We've got to get you inside. Okay?"

He thought he saw her nod, but it could have been a twitch. He slipped his hands beneath her shoulders and tailbone. On the mental count of three, he lifted her. Her whimpers heightened to moans.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

Coren stood and held her to his chest. He glanced at her mangled legs. He bit his lower lip as pity gnawed at him. He looked at her face, grimaced. The girl looked to be in her later teens. She had been pretty once. Now barbed wire tore her mouth when she moaned. Crimson slashes, many scabbed over, etched her round, pale face. Her eyes were electric blue and darted as if every shadow hid the psychopath that harmed her.

Coren walked away from the well. He ascended the deck steps, shoved the sliding door open with his shoulder, and carried the girl into the house.

Pritchard killed the headlights and parked the Crown Victoria at the end of the drive. He shut off the engine, lit a cigarette, and then squinted out the driver's side window.

He hated the mud-hued rambler. He felt like he had to sc.r.a.pe the filth off his boots every time he set foot on the G.o.dforsaken property. It was common knowledge that the previous owner Ray Hodge had the worst land in town. He had heard rumors that his backyard was bone dry. He wasn't surprised that the gra.s.s was dead. No city water, no ordinances. He grinned at the thought.