Blood Orchard Part 3

He flicked his half-smoked cigarette out the window. He fished out the Ziploc baggie with the bloodstained steak knife and set it on the dashboard. He needed more evidence. The cutlery was a scare tactic, a little something to keep Raines on the edge of his c.r.a.pper. If he could dig up a few more particulars, he could nail that smart-mouth to the wall. He could probably even kick his a.s.s a couple of more times and get a lame confession out of him.

He popped the glove box and grabbed his tape recorder. He pushed "Play." The tape spun within the mini-ca.s.sette. Satisfied, he pressed "Stop." It had been years since he had to bribe someone. And Raines was a model citizen. He had a few speeding tickets, but that was it. Though he was recently divorced. That might be bait for future bribery, unless Raines didn't give a rip what happened to his ex-wife. Either way, it was one of the many roads he could follow. Most would be dead-ends, but one was bound to drive Raines over the edge.

Pritchard grabbed his night vision binoculars off the pa.s.senger's seat and focused them on the rambler. The windows were dark. The junky Suburban was parked in the same spot as earlier that morning. Raines was definitely home.

Pritchard glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 9:15 P.M. Raines could have been sleeping. Or maybe he was wallowing in depression and sitting in the darkness.

Pritchard smiled. He pocketed the recorder and stared at the clock. Raines had a wake-up call coming in an hour and a half. The town would be dead by then. Come morning, a confession might hit the headlines. Pritchard saw the Tribune in his mind's eye.

"Child Molester Confesses." He withdrew his .357, rolled the chamber. He aimed it out the window. "I got ya now, boy."

CHAPTER FOUR.

Jay stared at the weathered back door. It was metal and warped with a sign that read: Employees Only. He jiggled the k.n.o.b, recalling his days as a teenaged cas.h.i.+er at an Aurora Amoco. The women in pumps at the pumps were endless, as were the free cartons of Newports he smuggled on a nightly basis. It was no wonder his register drawer was an accountant's nightmare. He was eventually fired when the owner viewed the surveillance cameras. That memory still made him grin.

He kicked the door. "d.a.m.n."

How was he going to get in? He needed a crowbar. He wondered if the place was rigged with an alarm. He doubted it. Onward's crime rate was minimal until recently.

He scanned the cinderblock foundation. Candy wrappers and Pepsi cans littered the crab gra.s.s. There were no discarded calling cards that he could use on the back door, or a window he could break.

His gaze traced the roofline. A glint caught his eye. He walked to the far corner of the building. An iron ladder bolted to the wall led to the gutters. Jay grabbed the rungs and climbed up.

When he reached the top, he crawled onto the roof and crouched behind a rusty A/C unit. He glanced east and west. Both directions were deserted. He eyed the pebbled surface. A metal hatch glared in the waning sunlight.

Blackjack.

Jay shuffled across the slippery roof. He grabbed the handle and tugged. The hatch shrieked open. He let the door fall back on its hinges with a clang. He grimaced as an overpowering scent of cider wafted from below. He hated apples. Ever since the time when he was a child and he found a green worm in the core, he refused to eat them, let alone drink the juice. He hoped there was food besides apples in the store, otherwise his plan would be fruitless. He held his breath and descended the ladder.

When his feet touched solid ground, he reached out like a blind man and gauged his surroundings. There seemed to be shelves behind him. The room was stuffy and the reek of apples made him teary-eyed. He gagged, and then stumbled, tripping on an object. A string tickled his right cheek. He reached up and tugged it. A bare bulb blinded him.

He stood in a pantry. The ladder hung in the middle of the room. Behind him, crates of Granny Smiths buckled the wood shelves and cans of peaches flanked his shoulders. He looked down and saw that he had kicked over a box of powdered milk. He grasped the doork.n.o.b, but it refused to turn.

"You got to be kidding me."

He never knew breaking and entering could be so difficult. Of course, most hardened criminals knew how to pick a lock. He, on the other hand, struggled with turning a key the right way. His only option was to break down the door. He grabbed a crate of apples. It was heavy, at least ten pounds. He hoped it would do the trick. He lifted the crate over his head and threw it. It shattered against the door. Apples bounced and rolled at his feet.

"Oh, c'mon!"

Jay s.n.a.t.c.hed a Granny Smith and hurled it. He then charged with his left shoulder leading. He barreled into the door and it gave way. He groaned as he landed hard on the speckled tile.

Now that's breaking and entering, he thought as he stood up.

According to the dangling sign, he had fallen down near Aisle 7. The store consisted of seven aisles and a row of coolers. Jay walked past the red shelves of Doritos and detergent. He glanced at the front window. The pumps were vacant, as was the frontage road. He looked to the front counter, then to the other corners of the store. It seemed the gas station lacked cameras and the common circular mirrors.

Jay sighed. He was twice as paranoid now that he trespa.s.sed within the Texaco's confines. He could see the story and a clip of him on the evening news: "A WNDY reporter was arrested on three counts of burglary at an Onward Texaco. Police are still looking into a motive as to why Jay Donovan only stole snacks and soda. Kara Kaminski, WNDY 11 News."

Jesus, what would Jeanette and the girls think of me right now? I ditched my Harley, I got my a.s.s kicked by a cop, and here I am burglarizing the local gas station.

He opened a cooler and grabbed a Cherry c.o.ke. He guzzled half the bottle, and then approached the counter. He eyed the candy display beside the cash register: Reese's Pieces 2/$1.00.

"Ooh. That's a deal."

Jay grabbed two bags of candy. He pulled his soggy wallet out of his back pocket, removed five dollars, and set it on the counter. As long as he had cash, he was going to pay for everything he took. He reached above the register and yanked out a cigarette pack from the dispenser. He tore it open and grabbed a Bic lighter off the counter rack.

He froze as Pritchard's Crown Victoria crept by on County Road 500. He dove across the counter, knocking over the racks of candy and lighters, and huddled low.

"c.r.a.p!"

He waited a good two minutes, and then peered out the window. The coast was clear. Pritchard was probably doing his rounds, ensuring that no other cracked reporters were running rampant. He was definitely crazy enough to initiate martial law. He would shoot Jay on sight if they crossed paths again.

Jay lit the cigarette and took a long drag. He had work to do. If he planned on cracking the case before Homicide rolled in, then he had to act fast. He needed a lead.

He stubbed out the cigarette and stuffed his face with Reese's Pieces. As soon as he was done with dinner, he would dig out a phone book and find Francine h.e.l.ler's address. It was as good a place to start as any. Maybe she would even let him use her phone to call Jeanette. At that thought, he scanned the counter. Surprise, no means of communication in sight.

He sighed as he gazed out the window. The sky had darkened and his time was short. Night would be his best friend, camouflaging him from the patrols. He hoped Francine would answer her door. Oh, who was he kidding? She would probably turn out her lights and pretend to be gone. After all, who was crazy enough to invite someone in when a maniac was on the loose? He prayed that she was, otherwise he was back to square one with nothing to show but a pocketful of Reese's Pieces.

Coren laid the s.h.i.+vering girl on the couch. Her gaze was hollow, lost in the ceiling. Her blue lips quivered and the barbed wire continued to gore her. She moaned incessantly as she had in the well.

Coren hurried through the darkness to the kitchen and opened his junk drawer. He found a pair of wire cutters. He then ran to the bedroom, yanked the comforter off his bed, and returned to the living room. He froze at the end of the hall.

The girl sat up. She stared into the darkness, twitching, her head jerking from side to side as if she watched a tennis match. Her moans heightened. Coren ran to her side.

"Shh. Everything's okay. You're fine. C'mon. Lie down for me."

Coren grabbed her frigid shoulders and urged her down on the couch. He covered her with the comforter, tucking it beneath her black-and-blue chin. He waved the wire cutters before her blank face.

"I'm going to cut that wire out of your mouth now. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

Coren put the cutters to her lips and snipped the barbed wire. It snapped off, tearing away pieces of flesh. Her bloodstained lips parted and she gagged. Coren backed away as she heaved a stream of maggots.

"Oh! G.o.dd.a.m.n!"

He grimaced. Maggots wriggled across her bloodstained T-s.h.i.+rt and wormed into the couch cus.h.i.+ons. She coughed several times, agitating the sores around her mouth. Blood trickled down her chin. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her body stilled. She seemed to slip into a deep slumber, though moaned softly. Coren considered slapping her awake, but he was paranoid of harming her even more. He watched her chest rise and fall for a few moments and decided to let her sleep. She was probably exhausted from her climb up the well, rather than dying.

Coren nudged her head up and pulled out the barbed wire. It was stiff and encrusted with blood. The girl's breath tickled his face. Coren furrowed his brow. Her breath was cold and smelled of apples. He had expected it to be hot and reek of death after the maggot incident. He leaned back and dropped the barbed wire on the coffee table. He sighed, shook his head.

What have I gotten myself into? I have a half-dead girl lying on my couch!

He knew deep down that she was someone's missing child. He wondered if she was a runaway, one of those kids that mustered the nerve to follow the train tracks miles from home. Then somehow she had wandered into his backyard and stumbled into the well. But how long had she been down there? She looked like a prisoner of war, battered and bruised as if she had been holed up for a good week.

Coren walked to the kitchen, flipped the light switch, and dropped the barbed wire in the trash. He winced. His ribs ached again. He opened the cupboard and grabbed the Advil. He then peeked into the refrigerator. He grabbed the orange juice carton, set it on the counter. He had earned a nightcap, and a screwdriver would be perfect for hammering the worries out of his head. If ever there was a time that he needed to think clearly, now was it.

A light beamed through the bay window. Pritchard glanced at the clock. 10:26 P.M. He cursed. Raines was wide-awake and roaming the house. So much for surprising him with a pistol in his mouth. While Plan A smoldered before Pritchard's eyes, Plan B formulated in his head.

Screw it. I'll walk up the drive and knock on the door. He won't even see me comin'. Don't need the headlights givin' him time to cover his a.s.s.

He holstered his pistol, exited the squad car, and gently shut the door. He reached inside his s.h.i.+rt pocket and activated the recorder as he followed the light of the crescent moon.

The bay window was still lit. He had a feeling Raines was fixing a nightcap. Better yet. That meant his reactions would be slow. He would be more liable to say something he might regret.

Pritchard paused before the fence and grinned. He was going to get his confession and have his name in the headlines of Sat.u.r.day's Tribune. And for legality purposes, he even had a search warrant folded in his back pocket. The odds were stacked against Raines. He was a sitting duck about to get blown out of the water.

Pritchard rounded the fence. He gritted his teeth at the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. If he failed to sneak up on Raines, it would be twice as difficult catching him off-guard. He thought about crossing the lawn, but the gra.s.s was dead and would crunch even louder. He stopped at the front steps and withdrew his Magnum.

Jay scratched his beard as he peered from behind a bush at the two-story clapboard house. He glanced at the lopsided mailbox with the bent flag. 628 Sangralea. That was the place. He was surprised there was a porch light on. The house looked uninhabited. It was by far the most dilapidated residence on the block and could pa.s.s for haunted in a heartbeat. The second story windows were cracked and flanked by battered shutters with broken slats. Most of the s.h.i.+ngles were either missing or curled near the eaves, and the porch railings were cobwebbed.

Jay approached the weedy walk. Hopefully she's not dead in there.

He ascended the porch steps, took a deep breath, and then pressed the doorbell. It chimed once, echoing within like a rusted triangle. The door creaked open.

"Ms. h.e.l.ler?"

Francine h.e.l.ler stepped into the dim light. She was a pale woman of about thirty with straggly, black hair. Her small mouth was set in a permanent frown and her eyes were baggy with crow's feet. She wore a torn, nylon skirt and a stained, half-tucked T-s.h.i.+rt. She stepped aside.

"You're early, Detective. I'm hitting the sack in ten minutes, so you'd better make this quick."

"Ms. h.e.l.ler, I'm not -"

"Did you hear me? You should be glad I didn't slam the door in your face at this hour. I'm doing you a favor."

Jay nodded and entered the house. Francine shut the door and led him down a dingy hall with a water-stained ceiling.

Jay wondered why she thought he was a detective. Was there a chance she had an appointment with one that evening? If that was the case, he had better take her advice and keep the questions to a minimum. Now that he was inside her house and she was open to an interview, he was not about to tell her he was a reporter. It looked as if it would be his first story undercover.

Francine motioned to a red armchair with a ripped cus.h.i.+on. "Have a seat."

He sat down as Francine reclined on a sofa and grabbed a cigarette from a cluttered end table. Jay dug out a small notepad and pen he had bought from the Texaco and eyed the room while Francine fumbled for a lighter. The slate walls were bare, the brown carpet as worn as the furniture. A single ceiling lamp cast a dim glow on the ceiling. Francine tossed the lighter onto the table and puffed her cigarette.

"Like I said, Detective, I haven't got all night."

"Right." Jay s.h.i.+fted in his seat. His mind drew a blank. He stuffed his right hand in his coat pocket. His finger fiddled with the contents. He realized it was the photograph. He removed it and handed it to Francine. He chose his words carefully and reminded himself that he was supposed to be a detective. "Do you happen to recall the girls in this photo?"

Francine sighed smoke, then s.n.a.t.c.hed the photo. Her lip trembled as she stared at it. She set her cigarette on an ashtray.

"The Blondies," she quavered. "What's this have to do with the kidnappings?"

"I have a possible lead that the disappearance of those girls fifteen years ago is related to the recent events. Do you recall anything about them?"

"I don't want to recall, Detective."

Francine grabbed the lighter and set the photograph aflame. She then dropped it on the floor and ground it out with her sandal.

"Hey, dammit!" Jay stood, but Francine pushed him back down into the armchair.

Francine pointed at the smoldering remains on the floor. "Those wh.o.r.es made my life a living h.e.l.l! You know what I recall about them, Detective? See these scars on my mouth? That was the time Henna slashed me with a razor blade. See my arm? That was the time Loren locked me in a locker while she poked me with X-acto knives through the vents. And how could I forget the time Sylvia knocked me out with a baseball bat and I woke up naked in a ditch? Now, Detective, would you mind telling me why I need to recall so bad?"

"Well, do you know where they disappeared to?"

"How the h.e.l.l would I know? Let me dig out my crystal ball, Detective!" Francine s.n.a.t.c.hed her cigarette, took a long drag, and then sat on the sofa. "All I know is that every time my folks told their father, nothing happened. Those girls were untouchable. And believe me, I wasn't their only victim. I just remember how happy I was when they disappeared off the face of the earth."

Francine grinned. Jay thought it sounded suspicious as he jotted on the notepad. The plot seemed so obvious. The Blondies bullied Francine on a daily basis and then they vanished into thin air. She looked guilty as sin. But how would one girl take care of the trio of troublemakers with rap sheets longer than most kids' Christmas lists?

Jay flipped the notebook page. "Where were you the day they disappeared?"

"You sound like those detectives on T.V. h.e.l.l if I know."

"Ms. h.e.l.ler, they tortured you on a daily basis and then they vanished. That doesn't sound coincidental, now does it?"

"Get out of my house. Get the h.e.l.l out of my house, Detective!"

"Okay, okay. I crossed the line, I'm sorry. Can you just tell me -"

Francine seized Jay's jacket collar and yanked him off the armchair. She then shoved him out of the living room. Jay clutched his notepad as he stumbled into the entryway.

"Ms. h.e.l.ler, listen to me."

"I stopped listening when you started talking smack! Now get out!"

Francine pushed Jay outside and slammed the door. He cursed and shook his head. The journalist in him had blown his cover like an undercover NARC making a drug deal from a paddy wagon.

Stupid, just stupid.

He kicked himself for his accusations. He had entered Francine's house with hopes of another lead and instead had steered into a dead end. The porch light shut off.

Jay descended the steps. When he reached the walk, a silver Buick LeSabre parked beside the curb. Jay pocketed the notepad and walked with his head down. There were few cars driving through town and those that pa.s.sed by tended to be cops. He had a bad feeling that this was the detective Francine had been expecting. And to top things off, he had impersonated a police officer. One more thing to add to his rap sheet.

The man stepped out of the car and approached Jay. He was middle-aged with gray hair and narrow eyes that sized up everyone and their pastor. He wore blue jeans, a tan polyester sweater, and a brown Bomber jacket. He scratched his mustache and flashed his credentials.

"Good evening. Detective Barter, Chicago P.D."

"Evening, sir."

"And you are?"