Blood Orchard Part 6

"Oh, Christ!"

Coren fell back and froze. Her eyeb.a.l.l.s had disappeared and in their place were writhing b.a.l.l.s of b.l.o.o.d.y maggots. Some slid down her cheeks like tears and wriggled into her mouth. She banged her head on the steel, then lurched forward and gnashed her teeth into the apple.

"Hey! Okay now! Slow down!"

She wrenched the fruit from Coren's hands and head-b.u.t.ted the floor, bouncing back like a Bop Bag. As she slammed against the wall her jaw dislocated with a crack and the apple rolled into her mouth. Coren winced as he watched the fruit bulge in her gullet like a goiter, which was then forced down like a pa.s.sed kidney stone.

"No! Are you cra -"

The well girl screamed her head off. Coren panicked, hopped to his feet, and slammed the door. The girl sank her teeth into his leg. He cried out and tried to shake her loose, but her mouth was like a bear trap. He acted on instinct and gouged her eyes. The maggots poured from her sockets like sifted red rice and her head flung back. She shrieked and gasped, then shrieked again.

Coren backpedaled, colliding with a tower of boxes. The girl inched toward him, pus.h.i.+ng with her bony arms and twisted legs in tow.

Coren's pleas were drowned out by her screams. He glanced around the room for a weapon. He grabbed the box behind him and raised it over his head. The girl stopped two yards away and began choking. Her scream was lost in a gurgle as she closed her eyes.

Coren stood still, battling indecision. Should he drop the box on her head and put her out of her misery? Or was she going to pa.s.s out as she had done earlier?

"Stay right there. I don't want to hurt you."

Coren's arms trembled. He yearned to drop the box and end the madness, but instead it was his jaw that hit the floor. The girl's torso convulsed and a round bulge rose in her throat. It glowed through her chalk-white flesh like a jack-o'-lantern. She lurched forward and gagged. Coren stumbled back and lost his balance. The weight above his head anch.o.r.ed him and he crashed through the tower, the box flying back into the wall.

He looked up, wide-eyed and machine-gunning profanities. The girl gagged as she regurgitated the bulge. The fruit dropped onto the floor, exuding a mixture of bile and apple juice. It blazed as the rind cracked and shed like snakeskin. The flesh beneath was blood red and pulsed. Coren's gorge rose.

The girl opened her eyes and shrieked. The fruit's flesh opened like a flower, revealing the core. A bloodstained badge simmered in a rippling red-gold pool, then melted into the floor. The girl collapsed face first and pa.s.sed out.

Coren stared at the anomaly. He was glued to the floor, flabbergasted. What the h.e.l.l was that? Had he given the girl an apple with a badge in the pit? Yeah, that was plausible. He shook his head.

He stood and glanced out the window. There was a brown station wagon parked in the drive. Coren's brows knitted, then rose in realization.

"Deb!"

Francine draped her favorite sweater over the fence. She then raised her right leg and stepped on it. The wire sagged about a foot and the barbs pierced the fabric. She focused on the backpack fluttering in the field. She couldn't leave it there. School meant the world to her. It was her ticket out of Onward. She had to retrieve her belongings regardless of the impending danger.

She felt the barbs poking through her shoe. She mustered the nerve and leapt. Her right foot pushed off the fence while her left leg grazed the barbs. She landed in the field face first. She grinned. The Blondies weren't going to get the best of her. She stood and winced as her s.h.i.+n burned. Blood trickled onto her shoe.

She grabbed her backpack, slung it over her shoulder. She looked into the distance at Mr. Adler's house. She had ruled out knocking on his front door to reclaim her belongings. But now she was covered in blood and needed to wash up. She couldn't risk walking into school and using the lavatory. If a teacher spotted her, she would be sent to the nurse's office and her parents would be called. The thought of being screamed at and struck brought tears to her eyes. Maybe she could sneak to the barn. There was probably a spigot where she could hose her leg off.

She hurried through the field, wincing every time she brushed a bean plant. She wondered how much time she had before the bell rang for homeroom. She guessed at most five minutes. She couldn't afford to be tardy again. Thanks to the Blondies, one more late arrival would earn her a suspension.

She reached the side of the barn and caught her breath. She stumbled, exhausted, clutching her backpack. She paused and peered around the corner.

The coast was clear. Though it was morning, there was no sign of Mr. Adler working the farm. She scanned the grounds between the house and barn. To the right of the porch steps a spigot protruded from the house.

Francine's eyes brightened and her heart pounded. All she had to do was sneak across the gap to the bushes and turn the handle. She knew there was the risk that Mr. Adler might hear the running water, but hopefully the foliage would hide her long enough to get a head start. Her plan was set. Sprint to the house, crouch down, inch the handle to the right, and then scrub her leg with the nylon strap of her backpack. She would do it in twenty seconds flat and flee like a field mouse from a snake.

She glanced to the front door, then to the second and third stories. Her stomach fluttered and she reminded herself about homeroom. She dashed across the yard, kicking up dirt. She felt it hit the back of her legs, probably soiling her dress, but she was more concerned about cleaning her wound. She brushed past the bushes and crouched beside the spigot.

"What do you think you're doing, missy?"

Francine whirled. She stared down a shotgun barrel sticking out of the bushes. Mr. Adler stepped from his camouflage, his green long johns concealing him like a chameleon, and motioned for her to back away from the house.

"Looks like I got me a trespa.s.ser. Might need a guard dog to keep all you girls off my property."

"Mr. Adler, please," Francine quavered. "I just wanted to wash my leg."

"So you thought you could steal my water? This ain't a fountain. And that looks like a barb cut. Is that how you got on my property?"

Francine nodded as tears trickled down her cheeks. "The Blondies threw my backpack over your fence. I didn't want to be late to school, so I -"

Mr. Adler lowered his shotgun. "Those three troublemakers did this to you? Wash your leg off. Hurry up!"

Francine ran the spigot. She winced as cold water gushed onto her wound.

"Those Blondies bully you like this all the time?" Francine nodded, shut off the spigot. She grabbed her backpack strap. "Hey! Use this. Don't worry, I ain't blown my nose in it."

Mr. Adler tossed Francine a blue handkerchief. She wiped the blood off her leg and shoe.

"Thank you, sir. Listen, I've got to run or I'm gonna be late for cla.s.s. Sorry for trespa.s.sing."

"Forget about it." Hank Adler set his shotgun against the porch and scratched his stubble. "Between you and me, life would be a peach if those girls took a permanent vacation."

Jay absorbed his surroundings, rooted to the ground, like an archaeologist that had stepped into an undiscovered tomb. Medieval torture devices dangled from the rafters and occupied four of the stalls. Dark lanterns were nailed to the posts, and the walls were either tarred or painted black. One window in each direction was shot out and the night wind whipped through the barn, tossing gla.s.s and straw.

Jay had to notify the police. Not Pritchard, of course, but perhaps Barter. Someone needed to see what Old Macdonald had on his farm. He reached into his jacket and withdrew his pad and pen. He jotted down the details, such as the barn, the description of the farmer, and the number of shots fired.

He shook his head. He hoped the authorities had heard the gunshots or received damage reports. From there all fingers would point to the loose cannon in town. Of course, this was Onward, the same town that had a sheriff with a deaf ear.

So, what do I make of all this? Is it just some farmer's sick fantasy? No. It can't be. There has to be more to it. He's trigger-happy and has a medieval museum under the town's nose.

He shoved the pad and pen in his pocket and perused the antique collection. Some he recalled seeing on the Discovery channel and hearing by word of mouth, while others looked like the creations of an insane blacksmith. In one stall was a dusty rack, its leather straps bloodstained from past dismembered limbs. In another stall was a device Jay recognized as the Judas Cradle. Victims were racked and hoisted naked onto the triangular top, which prevented them from relaxing or falling to sleep without severe pain. Other stalls were filled with crude contraptions of head vises and iron boiling pots. In the center of the barn was a rusted hanging cage and "the coffin," both of which were used for torturing victims on public display.

Jay plopped down onto a hay bale as nausea overcame him. He strained to rid his mind of people crying out as their bodies were mutilated. What s.a.d.i.s.tic person would want to own these devices? And what did he plan on doing with them? Charging tourists five dollars to feast their eyes on the Torture Barn? As far as Jay was concerned, the farmer was a key suspect in the kidnappings.

He stood and walked toward the front. He had to leave before he retched Reese's Pieces. He nudged the doors, paranoid of riling the pit bull. They moved an inch, then refused to budge. The farmer had locked up the barn.

Jay turned and looked to the stall he had hid in. Shards clung like icicles to the window frame. It appeared to be wide enough to climb through. He pushed the hay bale beneath the sill and then knocked out the remaining gla.s.s with his elbow. He pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hands, grabbed the frame, and lunged through the hole. He landed hard on his back and the barking of the pit bull reminded him that he was trespa.s.sing. He dashed into the field against the night wind.

The Crown Victoria's brakes squeaked like a trapped mouse as it stopped beside Barter's damaged LeSabre. The detective crouched near the pa.s.senger's side door with his gun drawn. Pritchard stepped out, secured his Stetson, and then cupped his hands as he lit a cigarette. Barter rose and lowered his pistol.

"What took you so long?"

"I don't know, Detective. Maybe the fact that shots were fired at three other locations."

"Where else?"

"All over town. The Trammell's, the high school, Main Street. Glad I ain't on a hit list."

"But others seem to be. Any injuries?"

"None. Four shots in four different directions. Judgin' by the damage I've seen, includin' yer winds.h.i.+eld, somebody's shotgunnin'."

"There's a motive, Sheriff." Barter rounded the LeSabre and holstered his gun. "The Trammell's, the school, me. It's all related to children and my investigation."

"Yer self-absorbed." Pritchard exhaled smoke into Barter's face. "Hank Adler's the only one in town with a twelve-gauge. I'm bettin' he got trigger-happy on a trespa.s.ser."

"So he shoots up town on a regular basis?"

"Shut up! I got a hunch, ya hear me? So while yer doin' forensics on yer winds.h.i.+eld, I'm gonna find out who Adler was shootin' at. Tomorrow's another day, Detective."

"I think you ought to pay your man a visit now, Sheriff."

"n.o.body's duckin' out. That's why there's a posse, Holmes."

"If no one's left town, then how many people have you questioned? I got here last night and had a word with Ms. h.e.l.ler, along with a few others."

"I got my suspects, and Adler ain't one of 'em." Pritchard stubbed his cigarette on the LeSabre's hood. "And why would I waste my time interrogatin' the half-dead? h.e.l.ler's a G.o.dd.a.m.n hermit. Now I'd appreciate it, Detective, if ya stayed out of my path."

"Just so we're clear, Homicide runs this investigation. I'm the new sheriff in town."

Pritchard opened the Crown Victoria's driver's side door, glared at Barter, and then waved his flesh pistol. He made a fist, cracked his knuckles. He chuckled as he climbed behind the wheel. He whipped a U-turn and sped off down Sangralea.

Barter shook his head. Onward's sheriff was a problem and could potentially harm his investigation. He withdrew his cellphone, lit the display. Pritchard needed to be displaced before he ruined Homicide's chances of pinpointing the kidnapper. If the sheriff wanted to play hardball, then Barter was down to have him ejected from the game.

Francine frowned as she watched the detective and sheriff part ways. She could see the entire town from her attic window. The argument below was indication that there was little hope the Trammells would find their babies. The authorities were getting along like prison inmates and she wouldn't have been surprised if they started having shootouts. As far as she could tell, the investigation was half-a.s.sed. Besides which, the most police work Pritchard ever did was staking out Kate's Bakery.

She lit a cigarette and regarded Onward through the Zippo's flame. That was the town's fate in a week's time. That much was obvious.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Coren slammed the sliding door and hurried down the hall. When he reached the living room he spotted his ex-wife on the front steps, leaning into the foyer as if hesitant to enter. She saw Coren in the shadows and straightened. She brushed her brunette bangs out of her eyes and wrinkled her broad forehead. Her pink blouse fluttered as she grabbed the doorframe, and then stepped across the threshold in her high heels.

"What the h.e.l.l happened here?" Deborah looked Coren up and down and shook her head. "You know what, I don't want to know. I just want my pictures."

"Fine." Coren ran his hands through his tousled hair. He had forgotten the box in the panic room. He needed to ensure Deborah stayed stationary while he retrieved it. She was a bigger snoop than a private eye. "Hold on. I'll go get it."

"So, did the Mafia make a house call last night?"

Coren ignored her wisecrack as he headed down the hall and opened the pocket door. He ran into the room, found the box atop the scattered pile, and grabbed it. He rushed out the door without a glance at the girl or the fruit mess, and collided with Deborah in the hall. She flew off her feet and hit the floor.

"Geez, Deb! I told you to hold on!"

Coren shut the door, dropped the box. He offered Deborah his hand and she slapped it.

"What? Are you hiding something from me?"

"I'm not you, Deb. I don't hide men in the pantry when my spouse comes home early from work."

Deborah stood and winced, rubbing her tailbone. She crouched and picked up the box.

"Screw you, Coren."

"I don't get a thank-you?"

"Screw you, Coren."

Deborah stormed down the hall as fast as her high heels allowed. Coren tailed her and watched her leave the house. He always thought he would be incapable of hating anyone. Ever since the adultery and divorce, however, he hated Deborah. The sight of her disinterred thoughts of her half-naked lover hiding behind the ap.r.o.n that stated "Shut up and stir!" Though she left with the box of photographs, certain images would be etched in his mind for life.

He walked to the foyer, raised the front door, and leaned it against the frame. He needed to secure the entrance. The last thing he needed was Pritchard barging into his house again, which in due time was bound to happen. He decided to barricade the doorway. He scanned the living room. The couch, despite its flower pattern, was heavy-duty and would serve the purpose.

Coren positioned himself at the right arm and shoved with all his might. The couch inched across the living room. A couple of minutes later it rested horizontally before the front door. His last task was to upend it. He crouched, grabbed the wood legs, and lifted. He gritted his teeth as stabs of pain racked his ribs and shoulders. He raised the couch with a guttural grunt and slammed it against the front door. He then plopped down on the floor and wiped the sweat off his brow with his s.h.i.+rtsleeve.

That ought to slow him down.

He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. He was exhausted, but knew he had a laundry list looming over him. He mentally checked off the items.

1) Unpack the boxes in the panic room 2) Clean up the backyard 3) Check in with the boss Coren cleared his mind, stood with a groan. He had forgotten to add Advil and Seagram's to the list. He plodded to the Pine-Sol-scented kitchen and grabbed his medication out of the cupboard. He had definitely warped the doctoral saying "Take two and call me in the morning." In his world, it was take two ibuprofens, two shots of gin, and then call me drunk in the morning.

He walked to the deck window as he downed his medication. The rolling storm clouds swallowed the rising sun. He had a feeling that number two on the list was doomed to be postponed. The plus side was that the gra.s.s would get watered. It was long and brown enough to be mistaken for a wheat field.

His gaze rested on the well. From his standpoint, the inner wall appeared untainted and intact, though he vividly recalled it bleeding and cracking. As he reflected on last night, the events seemed more like a nightmare than reality.

Walls don't bleed maggots! Crippled girls gagged with barbed wire don't crawl up wells! What the h.e.l.l am I on? Gin never screws me up that bad. Still, there's an unconscious girl in the spare bedroom. Isn't there?

He opened the door, stepped onto the deck. Drizzle tickled his face and a cool wind stirred his hair. He drained the gin, set the gla.s.s on the railing, and descended the steps. The elm tree swayed and creaked, its branches raking the dandelions. The chunk of metal clunked against the far fence. The well's roof banged on its posts, flapping as if it would fly away any moment.

He approached the lip and stared at the opposite wall. It was clean, unbroken. He eyed the darkness below. It seemed bottomless and smelled of must and rainwater. He sniffed hard, but failed to detect a hint of cider.

I'm smelling a well for apples and making sure it's not bleeding. Man, I'm losing it.

The girl's moan taunted his conscience. "Oohh!"

He considered climbing into the well, but he was uncertain of what that would accomplish. What was he looking for? Another poster child for Mott's? Clues pointing as to why the girl had been down there? Maybe. Still it wouldn't solve his predicament. He needed to find a way to get rid of the strange girl before Pritchard or anyone else discovered her.