Blood Orchard Part 8

He froze as his fingernails raked flesh beneath the dirt. He felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He had dug too deep again, first with the shovel and now with his hands. It seemed that the longer he strove to unbury the girl, the more he harmed her. He pulled his wrists out of the dirt. Worms slipped through his palms, dangled on his fingers.

Maybe I should pull her out by the arms.

The girl's hands jolted and seized Coren by the wrists. Their frigidity burned his skin. He cried out as they yanked him toward the hole he had dug. The rain had formed a small puddle and for a split second he wondered if he would drown in such a humiliating way. He struggled to tug back, but the girl's grip was overpowering.

Coren was jerked to the ground flat on his stomach. His face was inches from the rippling puddle. Was it possible that the girl was alive after all? Was she using him as an anchor to disinter herself?

The puddle splashed in his face. He blinked the mud out of his eyes and shrieked. A girl's rawboned face with hollow eye sockets emerged from the rainwater. A worm slithered out of her left nostril as her lantern jaw opened. Her skeletal head shook back and forth in spasms.

The hands pulled Coren's arms into the dirt. The mud squelched to his elbows. He was close enough to kiss the mutilated girl. Her breath was cold and smelled of cider as it hit his cheeks.

"No!"

Coren rolled to the right, twisted his body. His arms broke the girl's grip and he pulled himself free. He scrambled back from the hole, and then collapsed near the fence. The rain splashed in his face as the scent of apples drifted over him like a cloud.

Another one, he thought. Another girl that looks dead, but smells like Mott's. He grabbed the wobbly fence, stood, and stared at the hole. I have to get her out of there. I can't leave her. Someone will find her out here half-buried.

He approached the hole and gazed down. The girl's hands lashed out like an angry cat's, clawing at the surrounding mud. Her face was submerged and bubbles broke the surface.

Coren dropped to his knees and grabbed the girl's wrists. Her skin stung him like frostbite. The ground s.h.i.+fted beneath him and the hole caved in.

Coren's muscles went rigid as if the girl's body temperature had frozen him. His heart skipped, then hammered as the mud and rainwater dropped down the hole that had tripled in diameter. All disappeared in the darkness below. Before Coren knew it, his feet were planted at the edge as the girl clutched him for dear life.

Her cries echoed to the surface while her disfigured body swayed below. Coren's racing mind noted the haunting, minute details as he struggled to pull her up. Her high voice projected through her tight-lipped mouth. Her legs were stumps, severed at the knees. Her straggly, dishwater hair was stuck in the blood that had dried on the front of her tank top.

It's another well.

The dirt had collapsed to reveal faded brick walls. The hole seemed bottomless and the overpowering scent of cider made Coren gag. He yanked back; he prayed the girl's shoulders wouldn't pop out of their sockets. Her body was as thin and light as the last girl's, and he pulled her onto solid ground with ease.

He fell onto his back, basking in the cool rain. He looked to the girl at his feet. She wriggled and kicked her stumps as her jaw opened and shut like a fish out of water.

No, she rasped, and then became still, her head and limbs dropping to the sopping crabgra.s.s.

Burl Nelson looked to the cuckoo clock above the mantle. The mechanical bird was on the verge of chirping 4:00pm. Cla.s.ses had ended fifteen minutes ago at J. Edgar High. Soon the Blondies would be scaling his lattice and trespa.s.sing through the orchard.

He walked into the enclosed patio and scanned the backyard. The apple trees swayed in the bright sun. They smelled delicious today, having reached their mid-season peak of full bloom. If only he could quell the Blondies' afternoon appet.i.te.

Everyday it was a game to them. Burl would derive some means to drive them off, but they would get the best of him in the end. In the past he had laid mousetraps in the gra.s.s, borrowed troughs filled with slop from Hank Adler which he placed at the bottom of the lattice, bought a Doberman pinscher that fell victim to Sylvia and her backpack of bricks, and even planted poison ivy around the perimeter. Nothing deterred the mischievous triplets. Instead they became more angered and determined. But what else could be done? He refused to call 9-1-1 and have their father defend them.

His deterrent was foolproof today. He spent his entire morning stringing barbed wire through the tall gra.s.s. It stretched in parallel lines across the orchard like a boot camp obstacle. He was h.e.l.l-bent on teaching the triplets a lesson. He would handle their crimes in his court and punish them accordingly. If they whined and cried to their father, so be it.

He grinned as he sat on the wicker chair that faced the yard. He wished he had cooked a bag of popcorn, for it was going to be one h.e.l.l of a show. He hoped there would be no happy endings or sequels. Today would be the finale.

The clock chirped 4:00pm. Burl's bony knees bounced. He tugged his white beard and s.h.i.+fted in his seat as he adjusted his gla.s.ses. Any moment the Blondies would climb the fence. He thought about running to the bedroom and grabbing the Polaroid. It was going to be a moment to remember.

A glint at the top of the lattice caught Burl's eye. Sylvia peered over the fence with her Swiss army knife in hand. She looked down, then left and right. Satisfied that the coast was clear, she dropped down into the backyard. Seconds later, Loren and Henna followed suit.

Sylvia was the first to step forward. She swiped her knife at a nearby branch, caught an apple. Burl stood and approached the screen. A few more steps and the anorexic triplet would fall flat on her ugly face. Sylvia tossed the apple to Henna.

"I got some apple juice fer ya, old man!" Henna c.o.c.ked back her arm and hurled the baseball-sized fruit.

It slammed against the patio screen, splattering juice, and Burl stumbled back and toppled the wicker chair.

Burl groaned as his arthritis flared up his arms. The Blondies laughed and each picked an apple for an afternoon snack. Sylvia halved hers with the knife as Loren and Henna dug their nails into the skins and peeled them.

Henna nodded toward the orchard. "Know what we oughta do? Grab that old coot's shovel and dig up a couple of his trees. That'd serve him right."

Sylvia stabbed her apple. "Too bad he doesn't have an axe."

"He ain't that stupid, Syl, but stupid enough to leave a shovel layin' around. Go grab it, Lor."

"h.e.l.l yeah." Loren took a bite of her apple, and then whipped it at Burl's house. It smashed on the roof and rolled off. She c.o.c.ked her Pirates cap. "Bull's eye!"

Loren jogged into the orchard. Seconds later, she cried out. Henna and Sylvia glimpsed her falling between the trees.

"Ow, G.o.d!"

"Aw, Lor," Henna said. "Did ya sprain yer ankle again?"

Loren moaned. "Stay there. That blue-hair strung barbed wire through the gra.s.s. d.a.m.n, that hurts!"

"Take that, you stupid tramp!"

Henna and Sylvia turned and spotted Burl shaking his fist at the back door. Henna's eyes narrowed and her lip curled. n.o.body hurt her sister and got away with it.

"I'll kill ya, ya crippled coot!"

Loren stumbled out of the orchard. Her bare ankles bled as if she had slit them and her chin was lined with seeping puncture wounds.

Henna ripped off an apple and threw it. Burl ducked and it smashed the back door window. He opened the back door and gla.s.s rained down.

He reached into the garage, grabbed his twelve-foot tree pruner. "Come over here and do that! I'll snip off your fat fingers!"

Sylvia grabbed an apple and jabbed her knife through it. Henna and Loren grinned, then nodded.

"Eat this!" Sylvia whirled and pitched the apple.

It spun and glinted over the tree line. Burl attempted to dodge it, but reacted too slow. The protruding blade stabbed him in the shoulder. He hollered, backing into the side of the house. He dropped the tree pruner, gritted his dentures, and yanked out the apple.

"You cow! You fat cow!"

Burl's head snapped and the left side of his face slammed into the siding. He collapsed to the gra.s.s as he felt his throbbing jaw. One of the Blondies must have snuck up and punched him. Then he saw the dented apple rolling at his feet.

Henna grabbed the pruner as her sisters flanked her. "So yer gonna snip off my fat fingers, huh? How ya gonna do that? I got yer pruner."

Burl pushed himself up. "Up yours."

Loren fired an apple missile and busted open his right cheek. His gla.s.ses dangled on his nose as he crumpled against the house.

Henna opened and shut the blades of the pruner as she inched it toward Burl's face. Sylvia hummed the theme from Jaws. Loren chuckled with another apple in hand.

Henna snapped the blades before Burl's nose. "What do ya feel like losin', old man? A finger? A tooth? How 'bout an eye?"

Burl glared at her, gla.s.sy-eyed. "How about you get the h.e.l.l off my property! What would your father say about this?"

The pruner snapped shut on Burl's gla.s.ses, halving them. The lenses fell to the ground. Burl was on the verge of a heart attack. He was sure the Blondie was going to gouge out his eye.

Henna shook the pruner. "My father wouldn't say nothin'. And neither will you!"

Burl hyperventilated. "Your fa-, your fa -"

Loren hurled her apple and busted open Burl's right eye. He cried out as blood streamed down his face. Sylvia yanked up his beard while Henna snipped the tip of his chin with the pruner. He yelled loud enough for the whole town to hear.

And many pa.s.sers-by paused as they window-shopped on Main Street. Many others shook their heads, a.s.suming the Blondies were up to their bullying ways again.

Jay caught his breath as he emerged from the pine grove. He was relieved that he had distanced himself from Farmer Loony. He still could not believe that same nutcase ran the gas station. He was surprised the Texaco lacked a torture dcor.

He entered a clearing. He glanced left and right, then over his shoulder. Weedy train tracks stretched in both directions. To the east there were ten to fifteen rusted boxcars, all glazed in graffiti, lined along the rails. Some were overturned with unhinged doors, while others were upright and askew entangled in milkweed, looking as if a train had once derailed.

Jay's hopes brightened. He had found a temporary shelter to replace the Texaco pantry. No one would be snooping around the tracks. He would finally have a chance to collect his thoughts and get his bearings straight. As of late he felt as if was on a wild goose chase.

He headed toward the boxcars. Lightning lit the sky and thunder cracked. Moments later, the rain poured.

Jay ran through the weeds and ducked into the first boxcar. It was bright red with symbols and profanity smeared across ghostly white letters that read SOO LINE. Inside, the metal floor was littered with dead leaves and cigarette b.u.t.ts. The air was stale and smelled of urine. Jay hoped the rain would freshen his new quarters.

He sat down on the cold floor and stared out the doorway. He expected to see the farmer rus.h.i.+ng out of the pines blasting his twelve-gauge. Maybe the old psycho had ended his pursuit.

So, now what?

His news story was turning into a teleplay. He had questioned one townie and spent the rest of the time running like a criminal. He wished he was at the Texaco; at least it had a phonebook to consult. At this point, he only had his notepad.

He reached inside his jacket, withdrew it, and flipped through the pages. He recalled his conversation with Francine h.e.l.ler.

Those girls were never home, they were always hiding out somewhere.

Of course, he thought. These boxcars! Where else would the Blondies have to hide out? It would be the perfect place to lay low.

A question he had asked Francine popped into his head: Ms. h.e.l.ler, they tortured you on a daily basis and then they vanished. That doesn't sound coincidental, now does it?

His mind filtered through the possibilities. Had the Blondies caught the first train out of Onward? Or had Francine sought revenge single-handedly and made them disappear? The latter thought seemed unlikely, considering the Blondies' rap sheets. They outnumbered Francine three-to-one and were ten times more hostile.

Jay danced around the one quote in his notes: I just remember how happy I was when they disappeared off the face of the earth.

Jay stood, scanned his surroundings. He needed to inspect each one of the boxcars. He had a hunch that the Blondies had used them as a hideout. They might have even left behind evidence.

From fifteen years ago?

He torched the devil on his shoulder. Sure the idea was a stretch, but it gave him something to do rather than sit on his freezing b.u.t.t in a hobo home. He stepped into the downpour and gazed up the tracks. A pair of headlights approached from the west. He returned to his shelter and pressed his back against the wall.

That didn't take long.

He had a bad feeling that the crazy farmer had hopped onto his tractor for a manhunt. He envisioned the boxcars getting plowed over one by one as if it were a monster truck rally. He s.h.i.+vered. The rain had soaked him and he was getting anxious. Sooner or later he would have to face Old Macdonald, regardless if he was unarmed.

He pressed his ear against the cold metal. Through the plunking rain he honed in on the visitor. It was not a tractor, of that much he was certain. It sounded more like a car.

He peeked out the doorway, and then ducked back inside. The fleeting glimpse sickened his stomach. He sank into the shadows of the far corner as a navy blue Crown Victoria pulled up to boxcar alley.

"d.a.m.n."

The farmer had dialed 9-1-1 and Pritchard answered the call. He was the only one crazy enough to track down his man in a thunderstorm. Jay's head spun through a whirlwind of scenarios. He saw Pritchard s.h.i.+ning his flashlight into the boxcar and then bas.h.i.+ng him over the head with it. He saw Pritchard handcuffing him to the train tracks and leaving him to die.

A siren chirped. A floodlight beamed down the alley. The car engine rumbled nearby, then groaned. Jay held his breath. He was afraid to move an inch for fear that it would echo throughout the boxcar. At the same time he wondered if he should run for it. Pritchard would be p.i.s.sed if he discovered that he had remained in town.

He put his ear to the wall. The only sound he heard was the rain. He glanced to the doorway, which was curtained by a brown waterfall. If the thought of turning tail was a reality, he had better jump at the chance. Either way, he lacked a visual of his pursuer.

Screw it! If he cuffs me, I sure as h.e.l.l won't get this story out. Or see Jeanette and the girls anytime soon.

Jay bolted for the doors. Pritchard spun around the corner with his Magnum drawn. Jay tried to stop in his tracks, but slipped on the wet floor and landed on his b.u.t.t. Pritchard entered the boxcar, the waterfall cascading off his Stetson, looking as if the heavens were defecating on him.

Pritchard aimed his pistol at Jay's chest. "Don't make a move, ya little weasel!"

CHAPTER TEN.

Barter stepped back from the broken window. He had expected to see hay bales, horses, and farm equipment. Instead he had traveled through time to a medieval torture chamber. The thought of people being punished in six-by-nine stalls sickened his stomach. It seemed Adler lived up to his reputation as the local lunatic.

I got my suspects, and Adler ain't one of 'em.

Pritchard's statement was a bright red flag. If the quick-tempered sheriff believed that someone shooting up town was a model citizen, then that meant that individual was crazy. Adler was a prime suspect in Barter's book. The evidence stared him in the face. He supposed there was a possibility the farmer was a collector of torture devices. The problem was that the man unloaded his shotgun last night, which cast him in a rather negative light. Who was to say he didn't kidnap babies and torture them?

The rain came down in buckets, urging Barter beneath the overhang to the double doors. He inspected the combination lock. All of the numbers except the six were scratched out. For amus.e.m.e.nt purposes, he turned the dial to six three times. He knew the farmer wasn't that stupid, but what the h.e.l.l, it was worth a try.

He yanked the lock. It opened.

No way, he thought. Maybe Adler's a dumb hick after all.

He removed the lock and pocketed it for evidence. He knew it was covered with Adler's fingerprints.