Blood Orchard Part 20

With the tape recorder rolling and the baggie in his pocket, Pritchard slammed the driver's side door. He withdrew his Magnum, knowing that if the situation exploded he would be prepared.

"I tried calling you, Sheriff."

"I know, Edsel! I got one hand! One hand! Five fingers to drive, no fingers to flip ya off!"

"Sorry, sir." Edsel met Pritchard at the grill of his squad car and lowered his voice. "Ms. h.e.l.ler has been ignoring me. Won't even roll down her window."

"Ya kiddin' me? Use yer club."

"Thought I'd wait for your lead."

"Stay here and cover me."

Pritchard approached the driver's side of the Cougar. He tapped the Magnum barrel on the window. Francine rolled it down, but stared straight ahead.

Pritchard grimaced. The inside of the car reeked of cheap cigarettes and brandy. Francine h.e.l.ler looked like a recluse. Her hair was ratted and fuzzy as if insects had nested on her scalp. Her face was set in a gaping frown, baring her b.u.mblebee teeth. Her stained T-s.h.i.+rt was torn from her shoulder to her navel, which provided a glimpse of her saggy breast. She raised a GPC to her mouth and inhaled for a good five seconds.

"Ms. h.e.l.ler? Step out of the car please."

She sat there, blew smoke into the dirt-streaked winds.h.i.+eld. "No."

Pritchard aimed the barrel. "Ya think I'm bluffin'? Get outta the car!"

Edsel had his firearm trained on the Cougar's winds.h.i.+eld. He prayed that Ms. h.e.l.ler would avoid stepping on the gas pedal, as the engine still idled.

Francine turned her head toward Pritchard's Magnum and licked the barrel.

The sheriff looked to Edsel, red-faced. "Blow out the tires."

Edsel knew better than to question Pritchard's orders. He opened fire and flattened the front tires.

Francine sat like a stone, unfazed. She looked daggers.

Pritchard jabbed her face with the barrel. She fell across the pa.s.senger's seat and opened the glove box. Pritchard reached inside and pistol-whipped her. He knocked her hand off the compartment, and then proceeded to beat her head and chest.

Edsel shattered the pa.s.senger's side window with his billy club. He holstered both of his weapons and slapped the handcuffs on Francine's flailing wrist. He locked the opposite restraint beneath the seat. She thrashed like a straitjacketed mental patient.

"You pig! Your daughters were pigs, too! All of them! You knew they were bullying me!"

Pritchard pressed the trunk b.u.t.ton as he ducked out of the car. His eyes welled with tears. The Magnum trembled in his hand. h.e.l.ler might as well have punched him in the gut. He wanted to blow her brains out. Maybe he could shoot her, and then turn the gun on Edsel.

His right-hand man rounded the front of the Cougar. "Paul? You okay?"

Pritchard looked away and bit back his scowl. Francine's rants burned his ears. "Search the back seat. I'll check the trunk. She's up to somethin'."

He rounded the rear b.u.mper, looked in the trunk. There were two bulky garbage bags and a tire iron. He holstered his Magnum and unwound a twisty tie. Inside the bag were musty clothes. He pulled out some pants and s.h.i.+rts, convinced that there was paraphernalia hidden within. After tossing aside a skirt, his fingers clawed something cold. He removed it. He grinned at the half empty bottle of E&J. He made a mental note of the additional charge, and then set the brandy beside the tire iron.

Edsel joined him at the trunk. "We got a live one, Paul. Found some kind of a rusty fruit corer under the seat cus.h.i.+ons."

"Confiscate it along with this open container. I got one more bag to go through."

Edsel left Pritchard to his search. The second garbage bag was full of socks and panties. Not one thing incriminating. He cursed under his breath. This psycho was getting nailed. There was no way she was going to slam his daughters to his face. He reached in his pocket and removed the baggie. With two fingers he managed to open it. As he attempted to inch the bloodstained knife out, it slipped through his fingers and clanged on the blacktop.

He crouched and looked beneath the undercarriage. The knife glinted below the m.u.f.fler. He grabbed it, and then froze as a flutter caught his eye. He craned his neck beyond the b.u.mper.

"What the -"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

It was sunset when Burl parked the pickup a block from Francine's house. Hank sat in the pa.s.senger's seat and leered at their seventeen-year-old accomplice.

"You keep your mouth shut, you hear me? If any word of this comes back to me I'll be a bigger bully than the Blondies ever were. Understand?"

Francine nodded. Hank opened the door and slid out onto the sidewalk. As Francine followed suit he placed his hand on her shoulder.

"You were volunteering on the prom committee. That's what you tell your folks."

Francine walked away with her backpack held in front of her, concealing the blood splatters on her s.h.i.+rt. She hoped her parents were gone, having dinner out of town or seeing a movie, as they often did on a Friday night. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation. Though it had been hours since the torturing, her body surged with adrenaline. She knew she would lash out if her parents disciplined her. She was done being the victim.

Burl turned on Sangralea and headed for Inventory Street. His conscience burned as his suspicions of Hank boiled over.

"You've been planning this for weeks. Just like the barbed wire fence. You waited to put that up until the field was tall enough and you knew the high school track team wouldn't see it."

"Shut your mouth, Burl. This ain't no comparison."

"Bull! How did you even get Hodge to leave town so quick? Huh? Did you strap him up in the barn, too?"

"No, but that's where I buried him."

Burl slowed the truck to a crawl. He could have cared less that there were three b.l.o.o.d.y bodies beneath a mountain of apples in the flatbed. He glared at Hank as he approached the gravel drive.

"What did you do? What did you do to Ray?"

"Got him to sign the t.i.tle over. Ain't that enough?"

"What did you do?"

"Cut off his head with sheep shears. Had to remove some knuckles just to get his Henry."

Burl slammed on the brakes. A cloud of dust engulfed the pickup. He turned and punched Hank in the jaw. Hank's face met the window and he bounced back with both hands around Burl's throat. He choked him against the dashboard.

"Listen to me, you idiot! We ain't got time for this! We got Paul's daughters in the flatbed!"

Burl kneed Hank in the gut and shoved him in his seat. "Paul? You're on a first name basis? What's going on, Hank?"

Hank gasped and turned to Burl, his scowl cast in shadows. "Back the truck up to the door. Ray's got a panic room. I'll hide 'em in there while I dig the graves. Thanks to you I'll be doing this all stinking night."

"Maybe you should call Paul over. Have a potluck."

Hank pulled a bloodstained screwdriver out of his pocket. "He made me do this! He wanted those girls gone! They were a liability! Now back the truck up or I'll bury you, too!"

Burl hesitated, then obliged. Hank scowled, hopped out of the cab, and dropped the tailgate. Burl stared at the dark drive, feeling dead inside from the flood of guilt.

The night was silent, save for the thuds of apples and corpses. It took Hank a half-hour to drag the Blondies out of the pickup and into the house. Once the farmer lugged the last Blondie out of sight, Burl floored the gas pedal and sped into the darkness with the headlights off.

Coren, Jay, and Vance climbed out of the Suburban. The weathered barn burned bright against the darkening sky. A slumped silhouette flitted past the windows. The double doors rattled in the wind, banging back into metal, as if farm machinery barricaded the other side.

Coren looked to his counterparts. "It's a little late to be milking, isn't it?"

Jay shook his head. "So what do we do if Adler's in there with your daughters?"

Vance's face was grave. "There's three of us. We beat him to death."

"We're unarmed. What if he has a gun?"

"There's three of us. We rush him. A full clip won't stop me from getting my girls back."

Jay nodded, realizing that he missed his own daughters. What if their plan backfired and he never saw his family again? At this point, Jeanette probably thought he had skipped town with another news bimbo. He really needed to call her.

"We can't go in there unarmed. That's crazy."

Coren raised his index finger. "Hold on. I might have some stuff in the back of my truck."

"Some stuff?"

"Yeah, some stuff. There's some boxes I forgot to unpack."

Vance stood his ground, his head jerking from the barn to the Suburban. "Hurry up. Or I'm going in there without you."

Coren returned holding three items. "Outdoor stuff." He handed them to Jay and Vance. Both raised them toward the waning light.

Vance's eyes narrowed to slits. "What the h.e.l.l is this?"

"A wicket. Jay's got the mallet. I guess it's all horseshoes and no croquet out here."

Jay's nerves calmed and he took a practice swing. "What do you have?"

"A lawn orb. I figured it was better than a croquet ball."

Vance clutched the wicket and marched toward the barn. Coren and Jay trailed at his heels. The gravel crunched in the quiet darkness. Jay had the urge to tiptoe while Coren wished he walked with Seagram's.

Vance locked his sights. He would have stormed the barn with a cowbell around his neck and a revving chainsaw in hand. The consequences were meaningless to him. He refused to face Teresa without his girls.

They hesitated at the clanging doors. Vance curled his fingers on the handle, and then pulled with the gust. The door caught, sc.r.a.ped open. Vance held it tight as the wind shoved it toward him. Coren and Jay snuck inside and crouched beside the rear right tire of the pickup. Vance slipped behind them, lodging the door shut against the b.u.mper. The howling wind and grunting drowned out their entry.

Coren inched forward, but Vance grabbed his shoulder and took the lead. He crept to the flattened tailgate, clutched the wicket, and peered past the b.u.mper. He swayed, flabbergasted. Coren and Jay snuck beside him. The same shock, frigid as a winter lake, flooded their bodies.

Hank was hunched in the far stall. He shoved a charred mangled body and stepped back. The remains slid into a hole and slopped at the bottom. Satisfied, he turned and walked to the beheaded corpse sprawled in the middle of the barn. He shook his head, then grabbed Burl's bleeding skull and raised it before his face.

Jay's stomach lurched. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, but the sickness overcame him. He turned his head and vomited on the pa.s.senger's side door.

Hank looked to the pickup and panicked. He paled at the sight of Vance. He guessed that his cohorts were undercover cops. He was perplexed, however, as to why they held sporting goods instead of guns. Regardless, he had been caught red-handed. And it was all Paul's fault. He refused to take the bullet for a dirty pig.

Vance approached Hank, looking like Wolverine with the fisted wicket. Coren covered him with the lawn orb c.o.c.ked back in shot put form while Jay regained his composure.

Vance quavered, his anger boiling in his throat. "Easy, Hank. I just want my -"

Hank hurled Burl's head. Vance and Coren ducked as blood drizzled on them. Jay looked up, reacted on instinct, and swung the mallet. He busted the head open against the side of the pickup. Brains and eyeb.a.l.l.s squirted, dripping off the fender. Jay shrieked and dropped the mallet.

Hank s.n.a.t.c.hed up the shovel and held it like a baseball bat. Coren launched the lawn orb. Hank swung and missed. The orb slammed into his chest and knocked him to the dirt.

Vance charged and pinned Hank down with a boot on his bruised chest. Hank seized Burl's s.h.i.+rt collar and yanked his corpse. Vance thrust the wicket and punctured the body s.h.i.+eld. He withdrew his weapon and stepped back, grimacing as blood gushed from Burl's abdomen.

Hank staggered to his feet, still clutching the headless corpse. He barreled into Vance, who cried out as the body tackled him into the pickup's grill.

Coren rushed Hank. The farmer spun the corpse and performed the Heimlich maneuver. Greenish-yellow stomach acid and brown blood shot from the severed neck. The stream hit Coren in the face and he freaked, yelling and flailing as if covered with killer bees.

Jay twitched at the screaming, and then peeled his eyes off the head he had smashed. He had been doubled over for minutes chiding himself, disbelieving that he had committed such a heinous act. He felt more like a butcher than a reporter. His worries dissipated, however, when he realized that his counterparts were in trouble. Vance was slumped against the grill and Coren was covered in blood.

Jay grabbed the mallet, raised it over his head, and brought it down on the pickup's hood. It gonged and sprang open.

Hank tossed the corpse aside and choked Vance. He lifted his head over the grill and smashed his face into the engine. He held him there with his left hand as his right slammed the hood shut. Vance's body convulsed and blood seeped down the grill. Hank let go and Vance collapsed to the dirt, his skull crushed into the shape of a football.

Jay gaped as he realized the repercussions of his strike. His reaction had once again rendered a smashed head.

Coren collided with the Judas cradle, which killed his shouts. He wiped the blood from his eyes and turned.

Hank laughed. "What a G.o.dd.a.m.n mess. You pigs ain't gonna pin this on me, you hear me? I didn't kidnap no babies! You hear me?"

Coren clawed his drenched hair. The barn's bludgeoning insanity pinched his last nerve. "You're dead, MacDonald!"

Hank ripped the wicket from Vance's dead hand, and then approached Coren. "I know you. You're the newbie. I used to own your house." He pointed to the headless corpse that had soaked Coren. "So did Burl. Buried some bodies in the yard."

"I know. They've been locked up in my panic room. I bet Pritchard would love to know that you killed his daughters."

"Burl murdered those brats! That dead man right there!"