Blood Orchard Part 9

Barter opened the doors and entered. The interior jabbed him in the gut. In his mind's eye he saw victims writhing and screaming in the torture devices. He thought of the Trammell triplets. Could their small bodies fit in any of the bloodstained contraptions? Maybe one. The rack. It was the only one that was adjustable. He considered the boiling pot with the frayed rope. No. The rope was too short for a baby.

Barter made his rounds with his cellphone, snapping photos of every nook and cranny. When all was said and done, he emailed the potential exhibits to headquarters. He wondered how Chief Dalton would react. He hoped he would avoid involving the FBI.

He had fingered a suspect with circ.u.mstantial evidence. Now all he needed was proof.

Coren sat up. The bloodied, unconscious girl twitched beside him. He stared at her rain-splattered face. He realized she had the same striking features as the other girl, save for lacking eyes. She had the same sloping jawline and thin lips. Her hair was identical in color, though more straggly. Besides her body looking like a skeleton and having half of her legs, she was a twin. Even stranger, she was as immobile as her sister was.

Great, now I'm starting a family in my head.

He glanced away, and then looked back. Yes, it was the same girl, but with a different figure.

The devil on his shoulder played a harp. That's the gin talking. Get her into the panic room. You'll see it's just another mutilated dead girl haunting your backyard.

She's not dead! Coren crouched and placed his hands in the girl's armpits. Dead girls don't crawl out of wells!

"I'm gonna pick you up now. Okay? Here we go. Let's get you in the house."

He heaved the girl over his shoulder and dashed through the rain. Her meaty stumps slapped against his soaked T-s.h.i.+rt as he ducked beneath the dripping elm. Her icy breath tickled his cheek, still pungent of apples, and probably kept him sane. Had she reeked of rot he would have dropped her in the dirt without a second thought. Instead, he cleared his mind and convinced himself that he carried a sack of Fujis. And with every wet slap of her stumps it became harder and harder to ignore reality.

He stomped up the deck steps and nudged the sliding door open with his elbow. The gusting rain shoved him into the house. He kicked the door shut. As he did so, her right stump smacked him in the mouth. He nearly lost it. All he wanted to do was drop the girl, lock her up, and take a scalding shower.

He made it halfway across the kitchen when his shoes slipped on the linoleum. He fell flat on his face, watching agape as the girl rolled out of his arms into the living room.

"Oh G.o.d."

He lied on his stomach for a moment and watched her limbs spasm. He wondered if he should leave her there for the time being. The last thing he wanted to do was pick her up again. He was surprised he hadn't killed her yet. How many more times could he bludgeon the poor girl?

He scrambled to his feet and ran to her side. Her eyelids fluttered while her bony arms flopped in a cruciform position. She was still alive, in extreme shock maybe, but breathing nonetheless. He picked her up and held her out at arm's length as if she was a leaky diaper. The image of apples had been erased. Reality nauseated him. He wanted to drop her back down on the living room floor.

"Screw it!"

He rushed into the hall. As much as he loathed the thought, he pressed her cold body against his chest, cradling her with one arm as he felt the wall with his free hand. He found the inconspicuous handle and opened the door.

The girl stiffened straight as a stone pillar. Coren risked a glance. Her jaw dropped and she screamed.

Christ, she is a twin!

He clamped his hand on her mouth. She lurched back and wriggled through his arm. She plopped on the panic room floor and then lurched at him, attempting to squeeze past his legs into the hall. He blocked her path and tried to shove her back with his knee, but she was relentless, screaming and lunging, screaming and lunging. Half of her body was in the room while the other half was in the hall, preventing him from slamming the door.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it! Get in there!"

His patience wore thin. He was reluctant to touch her since she was acting like a dog, and even more leery of getting bit. He had to do something before she got the upperhand. Her stumps kicked his shoes as she pushed forward between his leg and the doorjamb.

"That's it!"

Coren's irritation overcame his fear. He stepped aside. The girl squirmed forward and he seized her stumps. He then swung her into the room. She slid across the hardwood floor, her limbs splaying as she shrieked and collided with the far wall. The other girl - who he a.s.sumed was comatose to the left of him - belted out a gla.s.s-resonating scream as she spotted her new roommate.

Coren slammed the door, and then slouched against the hallway wall, basking in the silent shadows. This was how the house should have been. Instead it was haunted with the sweet sounds of a concentration camp.

"Spill yer guts, Redbeard!"

Jay inched back across the slippery floor until he was plastered against the wall. His eyes darted from the dripping barrel to Pritchard, then to the door. He thought about hopping up and charging, but he knew his gun would discharge and he would be on the news for sure. That was all Jeanette needed to see. It was bad enough she had not heard from him in days and then to find out her husband was in trouble with the law...that would not be good. He would have to try his hardest to talk his way out.

Jay slid to a crouch and stood. "I never left town, okay?"

"Ya kiddin' me?" Pritchard pocketed his rain-spattered sungla.s.ses with his free hand. He waved the Magnum at his bulging eyes. "Ya see these? They're in the back of my head. They follow ya like a magnet. I know what yer doin' here, boy. Yer tryin' to expose me in one of yer tabloids. Tryin' to make me look like a chump cop that stuffs his yap with bear claws and quarter coffee. Well, ya barked up the wrong tree!"

"No, that's not it at all. I just...I just wanted to -"

Thunder blasted like a bomb and the boxcar reverberated, drowning out Jay's admission. When it faded into drumming rain, he and Pritchard froze at the sound of shouting.

"Let's make one last sweep through the alley! Check every one of these G.o.dd.a.m.n boxcars, the junk piles, the underbrus.h.!.+"

Pritchard shoved his pistol in Jay's face. "Don't make a move. If yer gone when I come back, you'll have a warrant and a death wish on yer head. Ya hear me?"

Jay nodded. Pritchard turned and left.

Jay walked up to the doorway and listened. m.u.f.fled conversation flitted through the gusting rain. He guessed the people were near the train tracks. Pritchard was thick-witted if he thought a reporter was going to stand around and miss a story. The warrant was a hollow threat. Pritchard did not even know his name. As for the death wish, there was no doubt in his mind he would go Bronson ballistic on him.

"Here goes."

He bolted into the storm. He was h.e.l.l-bent on heading the opposite direction. The voices soon faded at his back. If gunshots had followed, he failed to hear them over the drumroll of thunder.

Pritchard holstered his Magnum and rounded the line of boxcars. A search party of ten to fifteen townspeople clad in clear ponchos lingered near his squad car. Vance Trammell stepped forward and scratched his stubble. The combination of the rain and his red eyes made him look as if he had been bawling all day.

Pritchard tipped his Stetson and thumbed his belt buckle.

Vance's voice was gruff and tinged with anger. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are. Looks like I beat ya to the punch. I suggest ya move along. I've searched every nook and cranny of the alley and there's nothin' here."

"If you don't mind, Sheriff, we'll have a look-see for ourselves. I'd like to cross one more spot off my list."

"Then heed my word, Vance. I've done the investigatin'. Now all of ya need to take shelter from this storm."

"The only one raining on our parade is you." Vance stood in Pritchard's face, close enough to whiff his cancerous breath. "I think you have an attachment to these boxcars. Everybody knows your girls hung around these parts. And that graffiti wouldn't mean anything, now would it?"

Vance pointed at a blue-black boxcar spray-painted from hitch to hitch. The one yellow, three-dimensional word made him wince.

Blondies.

He locked leers with Vance. He wanted to choke him, regardless if half the town looked on. His mind's eye blinded him. He recalled the first time he caught his three daughters sniffing gasoline in his garage. That was when he had nicknamed them. They were dumb blonds from that point on. They deserved every beating he administered.

Pritchard stepped on Vance's toes. The man was the same height, but scrawny and exhausted. "Yer G.o.dd.a.m.n right that means somethin'. My girls hopped the train outta Onward. And maybe yers did, too. They could be on the black market in Montana right now."

Vance stumbled back to the search party. He shook his fist, and then uncurled his index finger. "My girls are six-months-old, Paul! They're not bullying troublemakers like yours were!"

Pritchard inched his hand to his holster. Any other time he would have pistol-whipped the loudmouth until his eyes were swollen shut; this time he reminded himself that Vance was the victims' father.

"I admit, Vance, a sheriff's daughters no doubt got some royal treatment. But no one ever touched 'em or took 'em. Their father made sure of that."

"You find my girls, Paul! You find them, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!"

Sam Emory and Wendell Wurtz seized Vance before he could lash out. Pritchard glanced back at the boxcar he had left the reporter at. Rather than look suspicious and return to the alley, he removed his Stetson and climbed into his car. He figured he had scared Redbeard enough to make him jump s.h.i.+p.

He withdrew his handkerchief and dried his face as the search party dispersed. Once he was certain the townspeople had vacated the alley, he would pay Coren Raines another friendly visit. The more evidence he dug up, the better the pieces to the puzzle would fit together.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Barter placed his cellphone in the cup holder and turned the ignition. His conversation with Chief Dalton had been laced with praise and agreement. Thanks to his photos, he had been given the go-ahead to arrest Hank Adler and Paul Pritchard on suspicion of concealing evidence. The chief also thought it quite coincidental that a farmer had a barn full of torture devices rather than animals to feed the town, considering the circ.u.mstances.

Barter sighed. It was days like this that he wished he smoked or had less hair to lose. He had two suspects to rein in. Chief Dalton had declined FBI involvement, stating that there had been a bomb scare downtown and that it had priority over a small town kidnapping. Barter had voiced his concerns about the said individuals being armed and dangerous. The chief's words rang in his head: "You're Homicide, Detective. If you worry about your own death, how are you going to investigate the others?" He was right. He had a job to do, end of story.

He itched his mustache as he gazed across the storm-tossed field. Public records indicated that Adler owned the Texaco on County Road 500. He would start there. He figured Adler would be easier to arrest than Pritchard. He had never cuffed another officer, but he knew it was going to be difficult.

He withdrew his pistol, double-checked the clip, and then holstered it. He was a nervous wreck. Usually he had backup in these types of situations. What would he do if he walked into the Texaco and Adler and Pritchard were both there? The odds were that neither man would go down to the station willingly. Chief Dalton had mentioned that if he was outnumbered to text a "3" and he would dispatch three squads. He was reluctant to make that call unless he had his back against the wall. He refused to give off the appearance that he couldn't handle a routine takedown.

One at a time. I can do this. One at a time.

"d.a.m.n."

Coren stared out the deck door as he paced the kitchen. The empty gla.s.s he had left on the railing overflowed with rainwater.

Maybe the wells will fill up with something other than crippled girls.

He chuckled at the thought. He was going crazy, of that he was certain. The girls seemed tangible, but that was impossible. Dead bodies didn't crawl out of wells and smell like apples.

But they're not dead! They're breathing in that panic room!

He opened the cupboard and greeted his best friend Seagram. He needed to think things through. There had to be a logical explanation for the recent occurrences. He grabbed a tumbler, topped it off, and then took a swig with closed eyes.

What did it mean? Why were there victimized girls emerging from the depths of his backyard? And why now of all times? Had they ever come out to play before he bought the place?

It's haunted, you idiot! You bought a haunted house! Why is that so hard to believe?

He opened his eyes. His gaze rested on the laptop. It had been untouched since Friday morning. He wondered if his boss had emailed him. He ought to tell him he was taking a sick day. He suddenly had the urge to sit down as his thoughts somersaulted.

"This is prime property, Mr. Raines," his real estate agent George Tartan had said while perusing the Disclosure Statement. "It's listed for dirt cheap, it's vacant, and a good fifty miles from your ex."

"The yard's a mess," he had replied as he paced the deck. "What's the scoop on the owner?"

"Not sure. Sounds like he relocated. I guess he doesn't mind paying two mortgages."

Coren plopped down at the desk and powered up the laptop. Did the previous owner relocate or did somebody make him move? Somebody like Pritchard.

He recalled closing on the house. All of the doc.u.ments had been pre-signed and the seller's agent had said he was absent due to a family emergency. He brushed it off at the time and went about his business. Now it gnawed on him like a rat on a corpse.

Once the desktop graced the screen, he connected to the Internet and Googled Carver County, Illinois. He then clicked on their web site and pulled up the county a.s.sessors page. From there, he was able to type in his street address and access the history of past owners and tax a.s.sessments on the property.

He scanned the short list. There were two individuals listed, excluding himself. The original owner was a man named Ray Hodge. Then a month before Coren had purchased the house Hodge had signed over the t.i.tle to Edwold Gentry.

Edwold Gentry?

Coren accessed the county records and searched the name in the database. A minute later he was informed that there were no residents with that name in Carver County. He widened the search and included the entire state. He found three Ed Gentry's. Two were deceased while the other resided in Oak Grove Manor.

Did this guy buy the house off Ebay or something?

Who was Edwold Gentry? And did it matter in the scheme of things? Maybe he was a relative of Ray Hodge's. Or maybe Hodge had encountered some financial problems and Gentry in good faith had offered to put his name on the t.i.tle and cover the debts, and then in turn sold the house once he paid the outstanding bills. That was a far-fetched theory, but not unheard of considering the flood of foreclosures in the past year.

So there's a different guy on the t.i.tle. Big deal. What's that have to do with the house being haunted?

Nothing. Unless one of those guys murdered two girls and buried them in the wells.

But they're not dead! They're both playing hopscotch in the panic room!

Realization struck him. Ghosts were not roaming his homestead. His backyard was infested with kid zombies. Which meant that at some point the girls had been laid to rest six feet under. Yet they emerged from rotten earth smelling like applesauce.

His mind replayed the image like a broken film reel. The girl swallowing the apple whole. His fingers gouging her eyes as maggots poured forth. The glowing fruit rising up her throat, then disgorging and splitting open to reveal a smoldering badge.

Coren downed the gin in one gulp, rose from the desk, and stumbled into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and reached into the crisper. He had several apples left in the bag he had purchased from the Texaco. He grabbed one and headed for the hallway.

The devil danced on his shoulder. That's right, my man. Cram it in her mouth. It's the only way we can tell if she's a twin.

Coren b.u.mped into the wall, a gentle reminder that he was stinking drunk. He wouldn't have had it any other way. Sobriety would have him thinking that he was crazy. At least in his present state he could blame future events on the gin. He grinned at the idiotic thought, clutched the apple, and then opened the panic room door.

Francine clutched the backpack, white-knuckled, not about to lose it again and scale a barbed wire fence to retrieve it. The bell rang as she set foot on the school grounds. That was the first warning, short and sweet. The second bell always rang for an extra thirty seconds, giving students ample time to run their tails off to homeroom.

Francine followed the crowd of high schoolers through the double doors. Pink and blue posters decorated the entryway, reminding her that prom was two weeks away. Tears stung her eyes as Henna's barbs drowned her thoughts.

And no one's desperate enough to ask you to prom.