Blood Orchard Part 7

A caw startled Coren. He looked to the deck and spotted the crow perched on the eave. For a moment his mind conjured an image of a second girl scaling the well. He sighed, slowing his hiccuping heart.

A train whistle blared in the distance.

The train! Maybe I could leave the girl in one of those boxcars!

He chuckled at the far-fetched idea. The hurdle would be getting the girl to the train tracks. It would be near impossible to smuggle her into the Suburban with Pritchard staking out his house. Even if he succeeded he would then have to drive through Onward, which was crawling with cops. He didn't fancy that in the least.

Though he might be able to haul the girl on his shoulder through the wetlands to the train tracks. He never ventured beyond the backyard, but he was willing to bet he could break a path to the other side of town.

That's the gin talking.

He considered the laundry list. Task number two taunted him. Here he was in the backyard getting drunk and not lifting a finger. He stared at the s.h.i.+vering sc.r.a.p metal. He wondered where it came from. It looked as if it once belonged to a shed.

Coren ducked beneath the elm and set his sights on the corrugated sc.r.a.p. Something about it bothered him. Maybe it was the fact that it was the only junk in the backyard. One rusted slab the size of a van's sliding door rested against the fence.

Coren inspected it. The warped edges were sharp and reddish-orange. A streak of rust spanned the sc.r.a.p from corner to corner. He reached around it, careful not to brush the edge, and pushed it forward. It slammed on the ground and gonged.

"What the -"

Coren crouched and gaped. Four small fingers riddled with black ants protruded from the gra.s.s. His gorge rose and he swallowed it as he dropped to his knees.

Not another one. Please, not another one.

Jay awoke with his heart in his throat. For a split second he was disoriented, but then recalled climbing down the hatch of the Texaco and lying on the pantry floor, exhausted from his late night outing. He sat up and cracked his neck, which was stiff from the crate he had used as a pillow. He wondered what had startled him. Did he have a nightmare? He sure had stumbled on one in the barn.

"What the h.e.l.l? We got the tooth fairy in the building?"

Jay p.r.i.c.ked his ears. Someone else was in the gas station. The mention of the tooth fairy reminded him that he had left money on the counter.

c.r.a.p. It's probably the owner. And I'm breaking and entering. I knew I should've found another place to crash.

He stood and eased the pantry door shut. It clicked, sounding like a Glock c.o.c.king at a funeral. He prayed that whoever had entered the station was preoccupied. He glanced at the k.n.o.b. It lacked a lock. Rather than waste his time barricading the door, he knew it was wiser to make his escape.

He climbed the ladder, popped the hatch. He blinked as drizzle pelted his face. He wriggled onto the roof and heard the door creak below.

"No, this ain't the tooth fairy. I got me a trespa.s.ser. First you wanna sneak in my barn, now my gas station! Come down here!"

Jay slammed the hatch as last night haunted him. He was beside himself. What were the chances of the farmer being the Texaco owner?

"I'll rack you, you babynapper!"

The farmer's shout echoed up to Jay as if from a manhole. He ran across the roof and descended the ladder, stumbling off the last two steps. He sprinted into the pine grove behind the station and disappeared seconds before the farmer rounded the corner with his shotgun.

Hank concealed his twelve-gauge beneath the counter as the Crown Victoria parked before the storefront. Pritchard stepped out, yanked up his belt buckle, and slapped on his Stetson. Hank busied himself with counting the cash in the register.

Pritchard tipped his hat as the door rattled behind him. "Hank. How's the fort holdin' up?"

"Mornin', Paul." Hank shut the drawer and it dinged. "Carton of Reds?"

"Please. And a few questions, if ya don't mind."

"Shoot. It's not like there's a line of customers, thanks to that checkpoint of yours."

A grin threatened to uncurl Pritchard's lip as Hank turned his back and unlocked the gla.s.s case of cigarette cartons. "Were ya bustin' shots last night with that bazooka ya keep under the counter?"

"I had me a trespa.s.ser, Paul." Hank removed a carton of Marlboros and locked the case. When he faced the counter, anger lines creased his jaw. "Some stink hole was snooping around my barn. Then I come here this morning and chase him out of my store."

"Who was it?"

"h.e.l.l if I know. I barely glimpsed him."

"Then how do ya know if someone was trespa.s.sin'?"

"Collie sniffed him out last night. And he trashed my pantry."

"Hank, I ain't 'bout to interrogate yer mutt. Now who were ya shootin' at last night?"

"I told you, I don't know." He slapped the carton on the counter. "If I knew I'd tell you."

"I can nail ya on four counts of attempted murder." Pritchard unb.u.t.toned his holster and set his Magnum on the carton. "Guess who ya almost killed? The poor Trammells, Janitor Jeter, Rat-faced Ratner, and Detective Barter of Chicago Homicide. I'm gonna search this store and yer farm fer the triplets if ya don't drop a name."

Hank stared at the Magnum. After a moment, he met Pritchard's leer with a mask of rage. His lip trembled. His voice was raspy as he spoke. "I thought I heard some reporter breached the county line and was roaming around town."

A flashback of the motorcycle chase blinded Pritchard like a spotlight. He had forgotten about the carrot top biker. Then again, he ran him out of town. He was yet another reporter hard up for a story. It was possible he had trespa.s.sed on Adler's property. As far as being a suspect, he had nothing on Coren Raines.

"I ran Redbeard outta town. But if he happened to return, where'd ya chase him off to?"

"I'm guessing he turned heel into the woods."

"The train tracks. I'll give 'em a look-see. Maybe run some drifters outta those boxcars while I'm at it."

Hank nodded and fingered his suspenders. "That'll be a flat twenty."

"On sale?"

"Today. I've got my nice hat on."

"You only got one hat, Hank, and it's bein' nice cause I got a mean streak in me."

Pritchard grabbed the Magnum and holstered it. He fished out twenty dollars, dropped it on the counter, and then s.n.a.t.c.hed up his carton.

"Don't get trigger-happy on me again, Hank, or I'll have ya in the hot seat."

Pritchard walked out of the Texaco with a storm of worries flas.h.i.+ng in his head. It was bad enough he still needed to beat a confession out of Raines. Now there was a chance he had a reporter on the loose doing personal detective work and taking pictures, probably with the intent of smearing his reputation. He had to track down that redheaded pest before his face was on the evening news.

He would pay a visit to Boxcar Alley and see if anyone was hiding out. Then he would drop in on Raines. He couldn't let that slime ball get a breather. He had to keep him on his toes and break him down. He had those triplets holed up somewhere. Onward was dead as a cemetery until the new guy showed up. He didn't buy his alibis for a second.

The slate sky flashed as thunder boomed. The clouds promised a downpour. Pritchard was glad. There was going to be buckets of blood to wash down the gutters.

Barter opened his address book and scanned the residents. He clicked his pen and crossed out the names of Vance and Teresa Trammell, Ray Ratner, and Harold Jeter. None had offered solid leads. Teresa admitted that she had been crying in bed as Vance snored when their bay window shattered. Her first thought was that the kidnapper had returned, so she s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone on the nightstand and dialed 9-1-1. Harold stated that he soiled his brand new Speedo and toppled his mop bucket when Princ.i.p.al Denman's window imploded. He a.s.sumed it was one of the students throwing rocks until he inspected the bullet hole, but he saw no one fleeing the scene. Ray had only reported the damaged mailbox, which he had noticed from his second story apartment on Main Street.

Barter sighed. He had spent two hours that morning collecting gossip. There was one other resident that he had yet to question, due to his reluctance of following Pritchard's hunches. The irascible sheriff had fingered Hank Adler as the trigger-happy townie. He supposed it couldn't hurt to cross one more name off the list.

He stuffed the address book in his jacket and climbed into the LeSabre. He turned the ignition as rain sprinkled his damaged winds.h.i.+eld.

Just what I need. He pulled away from the curb and headed up Main Street.

Two minutes later, he parked beside a barbed wire fence on the corner of East Walnut Street and gazed through the bullet hole. Adler's house sat two acres back in the field. The farmer definitely had ample s.p.a.ce to run around and blast his twelve-gauge. But what reason would anyone have to trespa.s.s on his property?

Barter withdrew his address book and scanned the list. There were no other names noted beneath Adler's. The man appeared to be a hermit, which explained his trigger-happy nature. He replaced the book and double-checked his firearm. He ejected the clip, reloaded.

He stepped out and walked to the gravel drive. He guessed that before long the potholed surface would be reduced to mud. He looked across the field. It was dying for a drink from Mother Nature.

As he approached the house, he wondered why Pritchard was so quick to discount Adler as a suspect. What was he trying to hide? He doubted that the high and mighty sheriff took his own advice. Pritchard had a set agenda. He was focused on Coren Raines, whom he had yet to interview. But then again, Raines wasn't shooting up Onward.

He eyed the house. Though it was morning it was dark as dusk and the curtains were drawn. He ascended the porch and rang the doorbell. Maybe Adler was in his bas.e.m.e.nt.

He waited perhaps thirty seconds, and then rapped on the door.

Still no answer.

Barter turned and looked across the way. The faded, dilapidated barn creaked in the gust as loud as the porch floorboards. The knotted walls swayed with the field. He was reluctant to poke his head in the doors for fear that the structure might collapse.

Then the left window caught his eye. He knew by the shape of the shards that the gla.s.s had been shot out.

He stepped off the porch and approached the barn. It was unquestionable that a twelve-gauge shotgun did the damage. He peered through the hole. His face paled to the hue of his hair. He knew at that moment why Pritchard had made Adler seem unsuspecting.

CHAPTER NINE.

The fingers wiggled.

"Jesus Christ!"

Coren stumbled, fell on his tailbone. The fingers clawed at the brown gra.s.s and peeled it back like a severed scalp. The black ants scuttled off the gray flesh. Coren's eyes were as wide as his mouth and trained on the exposed dirt. Earthworms surfaced, squirming between the disjointed fingers.

Coren turned and scrambled across the yard. He paused and caught his breath at the deck, shaking his head, trying to convince himself that the gin had poisoned his mind.

No way! There's no way another kid's climbing out of my backyard! What the h.e.l.l...What the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?

He rubbed his temples with his knuckles, and then squeezed his eyes shut. He was dead tired and certain it fueled hallucinations. A raindrop splashed on his forehead. He looked up the steps to the door.

There's already one girl coughing up apples in the house, the devil on his shoulder reminded. Is that a hallucination, too?

He regarded the fence. The twisted fingers were still there, clawing frantically. His Keds were nailed to the steps. Part of him wanted to return to the house and pretend that he saw nothing. His conscience, however, urged him to lend a helping hand as he had last night at the well. His greatest fear was that he would uncover another horror from the bowels of his backyard.

Thunder vibrated the deck steps and the roof of the well.

The clouds unleashed a downpour.

Coren knew he had to act fast. Should he seek shelter in the house or grab the shovel beneath the steps and dig out the groping hands? He felt like the biggest jerk in the world for considering leaving a person buried alive in a thunderstorm.

He crouched and reached between the steps. He pulled out the shovel, held it horizontally at his side.

Here we go again, he thought as he dashed across the backyard.

He swore his heart thundered louder than the clouds. His nerves were shot to the point where he was uncertain if his forehead dripped sweat or rain. Regret gnawed at him. He should have never moved to Onward. He felt as if he had bought his non-refundable, one-way ticket to h.e.l.l.

He stopped before the decomposed hands. The fingers bent backwards, searching for more gra.s.s to upheave. The nails snapped off one by one like Press Ons.

Coren's stomach churned. He could not stand by and watch the person suffer. He had to help. The storm was strengthening and his clothes clung to his skin. He had to squash his fear. He had to react. What made him hesitate was the paranoia that Pritchard would pop up in the backyard while he was in the midst of digging up a body. He would find himself wearing those pretty metal bracelets again in no time.

He raised the shovel in the air, then jabbed it into the worm-riddled dirt between the hands. The soil was loose, like a fresh grave.

He plunged the blade deeper. The hands reached up, stiffened.

Oh Jesus! Coren tossed the shovel. I dug too deep!

He dropped to his knees and clawed at the puddled dirt. The downpour was unrelenting, though made the digging easier. He hurled mud over his shoulder, feeling like a dog in search of a bone.

Don't be dead. I swear I didn't mean to dig that deep. Oh, what have I done?

He uncovered the scarred wrists and arms. The bloodstained flesh dangled like torn papier-mch from the forearms to the elbows. They were still stiff and straight. Coren brushed against the mottled skin as he continued to dig. It was snow-cold. Gooseb.u.mps sprang up his spine.

She's dead. I know it.

He wondered when he had decided that the buried person was a girl.

It was the hands. The more he stared at the wispy fingers and small wrists, the more he was convinced of the body's gender.

But she was freezing! Had the rain chilled her to the bone as it had him in such short time? Or had he killed her with the shovel? Or maybe she had been dead all along and her muscles had been racked by spasms. He had heard stories of corpses rising on exam tables during autopsies.

No! He threw back clumps of mud, revealing a gored bicep. I didn't kill her! She's buried in my backyard, for Christ sake!

In his subconscious he knew the evidence made him look like a murderer. The fingerprints on the shovel. A girl buried in his yard with blunt force trauma to the skull. Another girl bloodied and mangled in his panic room. It was safe to say he was done for if the authorities caught him red-handed.