Blood Orchard Part 17

A buzz of chainsaws resounded from the walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

Coren turned on his heels, confused and thrown for a loop, as he staggered back toward Jay. His eyes rested on the triplets. Sylvia and Loren embraced Henna. Their bleeding bodies molded into Henna's flesh like Playdoh. Their limbs liquefied into her muscle. Their faces faded in silent screams. In a matter of a minute, the triplets had become one, leaving behind piles of reddish-blond hair and blackened teeth.

Coren clutched Jay's arm and stepped backwards. Jay's jaw had long since dropped to his gut. He knew that what he saw he would be unable to recount. He would sound like a raving lunatic rather than a reporter. His mind was blown and he was trembling as if he was hypothermic.

Henna's bleeding flesh rippled from head to toe. Her headless body cracked down the middle. The gash poured maggots as the torso and limbs fell apart like a hatched egg.

Jay vomited on the door. Coren reached back for the handle, wide-eyed and agape. He froze.

A short, stocky teenaged girl with straight hair smiled in the mess of shed flesh. She clutched her denim skirt in one hand and the strap of her backpack in the other.

Coren seized Jay by the arm and spun him. "Look."

Jay wished that he had been blind the moment Coren had dumped the apples. He blinked his watery eyes.

The girl giggled. She then skipped around the pile of carnage.

Jay gasped. "Who the h.e.l.l is that?"

"Guess the fat chick was pregnant." Coren shrugged his shoulders when Jay shot him a this-is-no-time-to-be-joking glance. "How should I know?"

"She's not like the Blondies."

"I see that. And we don't need quadruplets."

"Not that. She's unharmed."

Coren looked closer. Jay was right. The girl, though blood-soaked, was clean of cuts, bruises, and amputations. He nudged the handle. To his surprise, the door opened. The girl giggled and dashed past them.

Coren stuck his head out of the room. The hallway was deserted. A trail of b.l.o.o.d.y footprints ended at the living room. Shrill laughter echoed, and then died to a welcoming silence.

The CB radio crackled.

"Sheriff?"

Pritchard cursed, pulled over the Crown Victoria, and slammed it into "Park." Life with one hand was irritating him. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the CB.

"This better be important, Edsel."

"I got a gray two-door Cougar approaching. Looks like Ms. h.e.l.ler."

"Hold her there. I'm on my way."

Vance Trammell led the search party into the wetlands a block from Oak Street. It was the last place in town they had yet to scour. Sam Emory, eyes on his galoshes, had suggested the swamp, muttering that he had once heard of a man burying bodies beneath algae. Vance sighed and trudged through the brush with the team of fifteen spread out behind him.

Wendell Wurtz matched Vance's stride and pulled down his poncho hood. He peered at his friend in concern behind rain-spattered lenses. "What happens if we come up empty here, Vance?"

"Then we cross the county line and keep searching."

"Don't you think that's been done already? They had a chopper out on day one."

"They were up there, we're down here."

Vance walked faster, hoping Wendell would fall back with the rest of the gang. Instead, the pharmacist kept pace. Vance was on the verge of screaming at everyone to go home and leave him alone. He would find his daughters by himself.

Wendell grabbed Vance's shoulder and stopped him. "Vance! Would you listen to me? After this you need to take a breather. If you drive yourself into the ground, who's going to find your girls?"

"You are, Wen." Vance brushed the hand off his shoulder. "You are."

Vance walked off into the woods. Wendell fell in line with the search party, shaking his head.

After a five-minute trek they entered the wetlands. The brush faded to marsh and the elm trees dwindled, giving way to withered willows. The swamp came into view. Vance held up his hand, turned to the townies.

"We search around this swamp and then we disband. We'll call it a day." Vance's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Everyone can go home to their families. Sound like a plan?"

The team nodded. Vance turned and headed toward the swamp. The pungent flora stung his eyes, urging his welled up tears to fall. He refused to quit looking until he found Stephie, Ellie, and Amanda. He refused to return home empty-handed and see Teresa's disappointed face. That would cripple him for sure.

His gaze darted from branch to boulder, bush to puddle, starving for a sc.r.a.p of evidence.

Then something caught his eye in the dirt. His stomach fluttered. He crouched for a closer look.

Sam approached from behind. "You got something, Vance?"

"Footprints."

"Could be from Pritchard or that big city cop."

"Could be a lot of things." Vance stood and noticed that the trail snaked toward the swamp. "Could be we follow them and see where they lead."

Vance walked along the prints. Despite the morning's rainfall, he could tell that they were fresh. Someone in tennis shoes had ventured to the deepest parts of the wetlands. And there was only one set of prints.

Vance followed the trail with Sam at his heels. He stopped at the swamp's muddy sh.o.r.e. The footprints led to a hole from which red cloth fluttered in the breeze. Vance thought he would collapse and pa.s.s out. Dread gnawed at him. What if it was his girls? What if he found them...dead...and buried?

Sam paused beside Vance. "Aw c.r.a.p. What the h.e.l.l is that?"

Vance was deadpan as the tears brimmed. "Go look for me, will you, Sam?"

Sam's galoshes squelched on the sh.o.r.e. Once he was within a yard of the cloth he craned his neck over the hole. A skull alive with snakes was up to its sockets in swamp water.

Vance clenched his fists and trembled. "Well, Sam, is it them?"

"It's someone. Someone other than your daughters."

Vance seemed to snap out of his trance. He willed his legs to move and joined Sam at the hole. Sam was right. It was someone else; someone's head wrapped in a T-s.h.i.+rt with the phrase "Eat me!" in stained letters. Relief washed over him. He gazed at the large skull and empty sockets. His brows knitted.

Sam read Vance's facial expression. "You know who that is?"

"I know that s.h.i.+rt. It's Henna Pritchard's. She used to wear it all the time. Paul's gonna fly off the handle when he finds out."

"Maybe we shouldn't tell him then."

Vance glared at Sam and stood in his face. "If this was my own daughter and someone found her, then failed to tell me and I found out..."

Sam gulped and nodded. Vance eyed the ground. He spotted a broken piece of driftwood with a clump of mud on the end. The trail of footprints led to it, circled the hole, and disappeared in the opposite direction. He had a feeling that they led to the killer's backyard. And maybe that same killer had kidnapped his daughters.

"Go get Paul. Now!"

Sam uprooted his galoshes and ran back to the huddled search party. Vance stole a last glance at Henna's decapitated head and knew he had no time to waste. He traced the footprints east toward Inventory Street. With each stride it sickened him to think that he walked in the killer's footsteps.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

Hank released the barbed wire and scaled the fence, indifferent to the pain. He then scrambled down the ditch after Burl's rolling head. He found it resting in a puddle. He grabbed it by its blood-streaked strands, and then ran up the hillside. Once he crossed the property line, he caught his breath and cursed his friend.

"What the h.e.l.l were you thinking? You got to be brain dead to think you're gonna pin all this on me. This is all for the man. You think I bury people in my barn every day?"

Hank looked across the field. He had no choice but to drag Burl's body. The problem was that it would take two hands to complete the task. He regarded the dripping head.

"Sorry, Burl."

He c.o.c.ked his arm back and hurled the head as hard as he could. It flew over the field in a spray of red and bounced on the gravel drive. He reached down, seized the body by its wrists, grimacing as the severed neck spurted blood. He then tugged it with what little strength remained in his exhausted body. His wounded shoulder throbbed, but he gritted his teeth and forged toward the barn.

"I told you not to walk out on me. But you had to be stubborn. Now I got to dump you with the rest of 'em."

Hank and Burl scrambled to haul the Blondies onto the flatbed and bury them with crates of apples. They were relieved that the area was deserted, but had to act fast nonetheless. While they did that, Francine was given the task of scrubbing the blood off the fence with a handkerchief. When all signs of foul play were cleared, the three accomplices climbed into the pickup, Francine sitting between Burl and Hank.

Hank made Francine slouch in the seat so as not to draw curious looks. They wouldn't raise suspicion if he and Burl were seen driving through town, as they conducted business on a daily basis. They cruised down Main Street, then right on Sangralea without so much as a glance from pa.s.sers-by.

Francine's heart was hammering. She was relieved when they pulled up Mr. Adler's driveway. The entire time she had worried that Sheriff Pritchard would stop them and throw them all in jail. At that thought, she realized how criminal their vengeance had become.

After filtering out of the truck, one by one Hank and Burl lugged the Blondies into a wheelbarrow and transported them to the barn while Francine fought her conscience. It took them both to push Henna, which felt more like shoving a stalled Volkswagen uphill. They dumped the triplets in a pile. Hank ran to the double doors, waved Francine inside, and then sealed the barn tight with a 2x4 and rope.

Burl stared wide-eyed at their surroundings. "What is all this, Hank?"

"This here's my collection. I plan on finally putting it to some use."

"No. No. The h.e.l.l you are. You said we were going to slap them around a bit. Scare them off from the bullying."

"Well, we are. And then you two are gonna watch me torture them. I'm gonna make sure they don't ever mess with us again."

"That's going too far, Hank."

"Too far? They stripped Franny here and dumped her in a ditch. They just chased her with screwdrivers down the alley. If you ask me, that ain't far enough."

"This isn't the Middle Ages!"

"Why don't you ask Franny what we should do then? She's been bullied the most."

Hank and Burl looked to Francine, who lingered by the doors with her arms crossed, focused on the dirt floor. She shuffled her feet as recollections prodded her. She saw the razor blade slash her mouth and the baseball bat strike her temple. She saw herself disrobed and punched in the stomach. She bit back the tears, looked up.

"They deserve whatever they get."

Hank grinned. "There you have it. Now what do you say we have some fun?"

Burl shook his head. His arthritis flared in his arms from all of the heavy lifting. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his rocking chair and pop four Celebrex. "I don't want any part of this, Hank. I was satisfied when we knocked them out cold. Why don't we just dump them in a ditch outside of town or something?"

"No. We're here now. No sense in complicating things."

"Well, then, I guess you're on your own."

Burl turned, but Francine's distraught face stopped him from marching toward the doors. She nibbled her bottom lip, and then sighed.

She stepped aside to let him pa.s.s. "They hurt me, Mr. Nelson. And they'll hurt me again."

Burl's face flushed and he gritted his teeth. It was obvious he was on the verge of blowing his top. He faced Hank. "Let's get this over with already. I got a seed run to make by sundown."

Hank grinned and undid the straps on the rack.

Coren joined Jay in the hallway, rubbing his watery eyes. It was a relief to escape their prison. "It means something. You know that right?"

Jay nodded. "What was all that? They were all here, now they're gone. I touched one of them."

"I hauled every one of them into the house. I'm telling you, sometimes they're ghosts, sometimes they're...zombies."

"But what does it mean? Who was that little girl?" Jay seized his hair. It was either that or slapping himself in the forehead. "Francine h.e.l.ler!"

"Who?"

"Francine h.e.l.ler! She used to get bullied by the Blondies all the time!"

Coren shut the sliding door, headed into the living room. His houseguest followed at his heels. They paused near the kitchen and glanced from wall to wall, searching for the runaway.

Coren pointed at the deck door. "So who buried them in my backyard?"