Blood Orchard Part 12

Pritchard's boots crunched shards as he stepped into the row of coolers. He hesitated when he spotted Hank with the lower half of his body propped in the shattered door. Then his eagle eyes zoomed in on the handgun laying a yard from his twitching jaw.

Hank winced and gritted his teeth. Sledgehammers of pain pounded his spine. "Paul. Uhhh."

Pritchard reached down for Barter's piece. A blast deafened his ears and threw him back. At first he thought he stepped on a landmine, as insane as that sounded. Then he saw the blood spurting from his wrist.

My hand!

"I'll kill ya, Barter!" Pritchard bellowed, stumbling back into the nearest aisle. He crouched and roved the racks. Jolly Ranchers and Chex Mix surrounded him. He set his Magnum on the floor beside the puddle of blood that rippled from the steady drip. He then undid his tie and pulled it off. He braced the silk against his chest as he wrapped it around his stump. After what seemed like an hour, he made a simple knot and tightened it until it felt as if the fabric might tear. He gritted his teeth as the tie clip dug into his wound. "Yer dead!"

Barter almost dropped the shotgun, but then realized that he would be unarmed. He looked at Adler. The farmer was covered in gla.s.s and glared teary-eyed. He s.h.i.+fted and his body toppled onto the floor. He groaned and cursed as he strained to push himself up.

Barter spun the shotgun around and held it by the barrels. He then swung it and cracked Hank on the back of the head. The farmer's face smashed into the floor and his body went limp.

One down, one to go. Barter turned and hurried down the aisle, ducking beneath the top shelves. Now all I need is my handcuffs.

Pritchard stood, clutching the Magnum. His body trembled. His nostrils flared and his eyes bulged. Another cop had shot off his hand. The pain was a pinp.r.i.c.k. His anger was an inferno. No one had ever harmed him in such a way. Cop or no cop, he was going to beat the living daylights out of Barter. Maybe he would shoot his kneecaps, then stomp him until he bled from his eyes.

He poked his head into the row of coolers. Hank was facedown in a pool of blood. Pritchard couldn't tell if he was dead or out cold. So much for his backup. He should have known the trigger-happy farmer couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.

He peered over the racks. There was no sign of Barter. He was probably slithering down an aisle like the snake that he was.

"Yer dead Barter! Ya hear me?" Pritchard fired the Magnum. A flickering neon sign exploded and rained sparks on the other side of the store. "That's gonna be yer face!"

Pritchard lowered his voice to a mutter as Hank's eyelids fluttered. "Find a piece. Yer gonna need it."

Hank nodded. He pushed himself up and leaned against the shattered cooler, groaning as the shards cut his hands.

Barter ducked beneath the sparking neon sign and found himself in the back room. There were two doors. Both were locked. He was cornered.

He gazed across the store. The floor was strewn with gla.s.s and smeared with blood. The rain had stopped, but the wind rattled the racks and plastic sale signs. Maybe I can make a mad dash to the car and call for backup.

He stroked his mustache as he focused on the ends of the aisles. Then he spotted it, a sliver of silver poking from beneath a rack.

The handcuffs!

At this point, he wondered if they were necessary. Pritchard had one hand while Adler was unconscious. It seemed like a fool's errand to make an attempt at recovering them. But what other plan did he have? He was against killing anyone unless forced to.

Run for it! This situation's out of control. You don't want to admit you need backup.

His conscience was right. He was a veteran officer and refused to look as if he couldn't contain a crime scene. On the flip side, his back was against the wall. He had to make a run for the entrance.

He scanned the aisles, hoping for a glimpse of Pritchard. The only movement he noticed were the rocking Ruffles bags and Borox boxes.

He stared ahead. The distance from the back room to the storefront was equivalent to a shuttle run. Although instead of grabbing an eraser during his sprint, he would s.n.a.t.c.h up the handcuffs.

He slung the shotgun over his shoulder, stole a last look at the aisles. The coast was clear. The wind threatened to blow off his cap. He ducked and ran for the doors. He imagined a starting gun firing and almost grinned at the ridiculousness of it.

Concrete popped to his left. No, it wasn't his imagination. He turned his head and saw Pritchard with his gun, aiming through the racks like a sniper in bushes.

Barter ducked even lower, but failed to sidestep the blood trail in the middle of the floor. His shoes slipped and he fell face first. Gla.s.s nicked his s.h.i.+rt as he slid a good yard and smeared red as if there was a ketchup spill near Aisle 5.

He clambered on his knees, clutching the shotgun barrels. Should've left the loafers at home.

More shots fired, warning him to lay low. He heard two bullets ricochet and a third shatter gla.s.s followed by an electrical crackle. He guessed the hotdog machine had been grilled.

He crawled on his hands and knees toward the counter, wincing as shards pierced his palms. He was maybe five yards from the doors. Once out of the store, he'd hotfoot it to the car and dig out the first weapon he laid eyes on.

A flash of white caught his periphery. A cart plumb full of Wonder bread slammed into the counter, blocking the doors.

Barter jolted. He a.s.sumed that Pritchard was down Aisle 1. Like any experienced cop, he had sealed the premises. He knew it was time to hop to his feet and exit the building. A two-pound cart wasn't going to stand in his way. He leapt up.

"Screw you, stink hole!"

Hank lurched out of Aisle 1 covered in blood, armed with two 409 spray guns. He poised as if they were six-shooters and pulled the triggers, launching dual streams at Barter's face. Barter flailed the shotgun, but missed and knocked over the bakery cart. Cleaning solution blinded him. He cried out and swung the twelve-gauge with a vengeance, looking like a blindfolded child trying to split a piata. Hank stepped too close and the b.u.t.t cracked him in the jaw. He staggered into Aisle 1 and crashed into the shelves.

Barter squeezed his eyes shut. They felt as if they were going to explode. His vision was a blur and his surroundings faded in and out like a home movie. He heard Adler holler, followed by a crash, but he couldn't discern where the front doors were. He paused as he felt the cool wind on his left cheek.

The moment he turned toward the exit a gunshot rang out. He hit the floor, uncertain of Pritchard's location. He rubbed his eyes on his jacket sleeve. Clarity seeped in. He saw the toppled cart smack-dab before him lodged across the shattered left door. He grabbed the wheels and shoved it outside.

He glanced back. Pritchard emerged from Aisle 4 with his Magnum trained as his stump trickled blood. Hank stumbled out of Aisle 1 with a box of matches and a single 409 gun. The farmer removed a match and struck it. He then held it before the spray gun.

Pritchard waved the Magnum left and right, as if determining which one of Barter's limbs to shoot. "What now, Chi-Town? Ya got yerself an empty twelve-gauge. I oughta blow off yer fingers for pointin' 'em."

"The FBI's on their way."

Barter inched backward. Broken gla.s.s in the door poked his spine. He tilted his head back and gazed at the sliver of slate sky as dread washed over him. He knew Pritchard had no intention of arresting him. And Adler didn't plan on saving the hotdogs with his makes.h.i.+ft flamethrower. He should have insisted on backup.

Pritchard pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through Barter's right bicep. He fired a last shot. It deafened Barter's cries and exploded in the same bicep, severing his arm and spraying blood across the front of the counter. He then stepped back and nodded.

Hank let loose a stream of 409 through the flickering flame and turned the household cleaner into a blowtorch. Barter screamed and writhed. Pritchard turned and headed toward the rear of the store for the extinguisher. Hank was caught up in the moment, his eyes red and glowing like embers, careless as to whether or not his store ignited.

When Pritchard returned with his gun holstered, the extinguisher in the crook of his arm, and the hose in his good hand, Barter was unrecognizable. The skin on his face had been melted off and his body was scorched. Had he not fired the extinguisher at Hank, the psychotic farmer would have seared the detective to ashes while his business burnt to the ground. He was glad there was no one nearby to hear the cop's screams.

Burl Nelson cranked the volume as The Safari's Image of a Girl crackled through the airwaves. He regarded the flatbed. The herbicide he had bought in Springfield had yet to tip over and spill on the burlap. Of course, wait until he traveled another mile and reached the uneven roads of Onward. The number of potholes made one wonder if the town had been built on a minefield. He was determined to avoid the b.u.mps today. Last week he spent an hour sweeping the mess off the tailgate. It irked him to think how much money he had lost due to his carelessness.

He slowed the pickup as he pa.s.sed the city limit sign on Main Street. The truck jolted and lurched. The one pothole he intended on missing seemed to have eroded since he last drove that stretch of road. He looked through the smudged back window. Both containers of herbicide had spilled open.

Burl pounded on the steering wheel. "Dammit! Every single time!"

He pushed up his taped gla.s.ses and returned his attention to the road. He was a half-mile from the railroad tracks, as if that mattered. He had hit one b.u.mp and dumped his entire product. There was no point in driving at street sweeper speed anymore. The damage was done. He shook his head, cursing until his dentures loosened.

His gaze veered off the road. The Blondies were crossing the tracks. They appeared to be in a heated exchange, all of their faces twisted in scowls. He was used to seeing those mischievous grins, the ones that said 'We're better than you and if you mock us we'll kill you.' He also noticed that they were in a hurry, the fat one especially, waddling faster than a frightened duck.

What are they up to now?

Burl decelerated as anger bubbled in his brain. Flashbacks from two weeks ago tortured him. He caressed the scar on his chin. He wished he had his pruner on him. He'd hop out and snip the fat girl's ears off.

The triplets disappeared into boxcar alley as the pickup rattled across the railroad ties. Burl yearned to drive down the tracks and run them over. It was too bad they were the sheriff's daughters. Otherwise he might get away with vehicular homicide.

He shook his head and cursed, straining to shove the bullies and their antics to the back of his mind. He had more important things to dwell on, such as cleaning the potent mess in his flatbed. His arthritis was going to love that.

As Railroad Street pa.s.sed by on his right, he regarded the tree line of willows that dangled over the weedy downgrade. He always thought them strange, as the rest of the town was dotted with elms, oaks, and maples.

His gaze traced the ditch. A snapshot of a glistening glare made him ease off the gas pedal. He slammed on the brake as he realized what he stared at. His seatbelt seized him. The herbicide scuttled across the flatbed and the containers slammed into the tailgate. He undid his belt, hopped out of the cab, and rounded the bug-splattered grill.

He approached the edge of the ditch, and then froze. He clutched the tip of his beard and yanked out a fistful of hair.

"Oh, Christ, no."

A young girl lied on her back. Her legs were splayed in the tall gra.s.s while her head and torso were half-buried in the sewage at the bottom. Even worse, she was naked. Her forehead trickled blood down her cheeks, as did her swollen nose. Bent dandelions s.h.i.+vered between her armpits. Burl looked back to her slack face.

Oh no. No, no, not the h.e.l.ler girl.

That's who she was. He had seen her the other day with her father Dean, the town drunk. He recalled that it had been early Sunday morning and Dean was on a wake and slake. The wiry, red-eyed man was dragging his daughter along the sidewalk. At first he thought that they were holding hands, but then saw that Dean clutched Francine by the wrist. He had then stopped before Burl, who was weeding his front garden, and gestured at his daughter. She approached him and asked for a bag of apples while her father turned his back and gazed at the empty street. He remembered thinking how worthless the man was and how he probably backhanded his daughter twice a week.

Burl ran down the ditch. The girl looked dead. Flies buzzed around her face and landed on her abdomen. Ants crawled up her forearms. He crouched and lifted her head out of the sewage.

"Hey!" He pinched her nostrils. She hacked and her eyes fluttered. "Hey now. C'mon. Let's get you out of there."

Francine came to and her eyes dazed, then focused on Burl. She moaned as he repositioned her on the incline, laying her on dry land. He then brushed the flies and ants off her skin.

Francine shrieked when she realized that she was naked. She looked at Burl, terrified, certain he had stripped her and was about to force himself on her.

"Hey! Calm down!" Burl unb.u.t.toned his plaid. Francine squirmed and attempted to crawl up the ditch. "Christ, girl, where are you going? Here. Put this on."

He grabbed her by the arm and rolled her onto her back. He handed her the s.h.i.+rt. She sat up, groaned, and then s.n.a.t.c.hed the plaid from him. She covered herself up.

"Did the Blondies do this to you?" Francine met Burl's gaze, then glanced back to the woods. "Hey, talk to me! Did they do this to you?"

Francine nodded. She and Burl looked up the ditch at the crunch of gravel and screech of brakes. Burl was certain it was Pritchard geared up to slap him with a minor infraction like driving on the shoulder or neglecting to use his flashers. Instead it was a sky blue pickup with off-white doors. The rumbling engine died and Hank Adler appeared at the top of the ditch, his stringy hair fluttering in the wind on all compa.s.s points.

"You lose another lug nut again, Nelson?" He squinted, then his eyes widened. "Oh, G.o.dd.a.m.n, what the h.e.l.l happened here?"

Burl eased Francine to a sitting position. "Help me bring her up, Hank. Sounds like she had a run-in with the triplets."

"Pritchard's girls? Again? That's twice in one day. Girl was over at my farm today was.h.i.+ng barb cuts." Hank walked down the ditch and crouched before Francine. Anger twisted his haggard face. "Did they do this to you?"

Francine nodded, then winced and clutched her head. She groaned as tears spilled down her cheeks.

Burl grabbed her left bicep while Hank grabbed the right. "Let's haul her into my cab. We need to get her back to her folks."

"Her folks?" Hank shook his head while they turned Francine around and helped her walk up the ditch. "Dean will probably give her another beating."

"No." Francine struggled in their grip and leaned back. The gray-haired friends planted their feet and urged her forward, grunting. "No, not my folks. Don't bring me back there like this. Please, don't."

Hank felt as if he was dragging a stubborn sow. "You need clothes, girl. You're not decent. You want those bullies' father to come by and cite you?"

"I need my clothes! Where are my clothes? Let me go!"

Francine broke free, ran down the ditch, and hopped over the sewage. She then stumbled up the other side and disappeared into the woods.

Burl tugged his beard. "What got into her?"

"Probably her father." Hank grinned, but then went straight-faced when Burl shot him a glare. "Hey, she's wearing your s.h.i.+rt. I reckon Dean would be p.i.s.sed if he saw her right now."

"I don't know about you, Hank, but I've had enough of these triplets. I'm this close to tying them to the train tracks."

Coren topped off a tumbler with Seagram's, then held up the bottle and swayed it. A few shots worth sloshed against the gla.s.s. That wasn't going to get him through the night. He needed a liquor store like a clown needed face paint. He would go crazy if he had to deal with the kid zombies sober, if he was not crazy already.

He leaned against the counter and stared across the kitchen. His laptop sat neglected, who knew for how much longer. At the rate madness coursed through the house, he might never get back to business as usual.

His gaze settled on the kitchen table. It was a mess, which was surprising seeing how he had eaten little since the ordeal. Three-day-old crumbs and coffee cups were scattered across crumpled junk mail and unread bills. He lacked the ambition to clean house. What was the point? He could sanitize the place from wall to wall only to have Hurricane Pritchard make another house call.

Unreal. I've got the Doublemint twins in the panic room rotting away. I should've let Deb see them. That would've scared her. Of course, she would've run to the police and I'd be locked in a padded cell.

That thought raised another question. How was he going to get them out of the house? He had to haul them to his Suburban and drive to Boxcar Alley. Maybe he could drape a sheet over them and carry them out. No, that seemed too obvious. Pritchard was more than likely staking out his house.

He wondered if there was a trail to the train tracks behind his backyard. It was possible. At least then he could haul them both in a wheelbarrow through the wetlands without anyone seeing. It was a maniacal idea and would be painstaking, but he would give it the old college try if it meant getting the twin freaks out of his sight.

He walked to the deck door as he sipped his gin. He gazed across the lawn. It was undisturbed, as if nothing had crawled out. The well was intact and the ground near the hunk of sc.r.a.p metal was solid. He squeezed his eyes shut.

What does it mean? I've been hitting the gin too hard? What is it? It's like it's happening, but it's not. Man, I need to get away from this place.

He opened his eyes. They blurred for a moment, and then focused. At first, he thought a sunspot had distorted his vision, as he had experienced many times on waking from a deep sleep. He narrowed his gaze.

Someone was climbing over the worm fence.

He killed the last swig of gin, slammed the tumbler on the table. He opened the door and let it hit the end of its track. A red-haired man with a matching beard stumbled over the rails. He landed on his hands and knees a yard short of the sc.r.a.p metal.

Coren rushed onto the deck. He watched the man scramble to his feet. His tense muscles slackened as he saw what lumbered from the wetlands behind the fence.

Jay's hopes had soared when he spotted the fence at the edge of the wetlands. He knew it was his salvation, that there was a homestead within sprinting distance. His brain spun around one thought: Chicago P.D. Once he found a telephone, he would call them and point them in the direction of the body. He was uncertain what it had to do with the kidnappings, but it had to be connected. There were no coincidences in the news world. There were links, motives, and alibis. Maybe the person buried in the swamp was an accomplice of the kidnapper, who had crossed the maniac and paid the price. He sure wished he had a camera.

He scanned the unkempt yard as he stumbled forth. He was positive it was a hermit's house. Everything was neglected, from the dug up lawn to the faded siding. He looked ahead. A man, who he supposed was the owner, stepped onto the deck. He stared at Jay as if mankind was an anomaly.

Just my luck, a hermit who probably doesn't even own a phone, let alone a mower and sprinkler.

Jay's thought processes stuttered. Should he avoid explaining himself and ask to use the phone? Should he say there was a dead body in the swamp? Was the man going to think he was trespa.s.sing since he came barreling out of the wetlands?

"I need a phone!" Jay panted as the bleary-eyed man ran down the steps. "I need to use your phone! It's an emergency!"

"In the house!" The man barged past Jay as if he was invisible. "Get in the G.o.dd.a.m.n house!"