Blood Orchard Part 18

Jay threw his arms up and fired off the same question he had asked a half-hour earlier. "Who owned this house before you?"

Coren shook his head. "It's weird. I Googled the county records the other day and it said a Ray Hodge owned it. But then a month before I bought the house it had been signed over to an Edwold Gentry. I'm thinking Hodge was in some kind of financial trouble."

"Yeah right. The Blondies are buried in your backyard, but you think Hodge signed over his house and skipped town?"

"He could've died. They don't have to release that information."

"Unless he was killed without a trace. I've reported on my fair share of cold cases."

"If Hodge was killed he'd be knocking at my back door."

A hollow tap spun Coren and Jay's heads.

Someone rapped on the sliding gla.s.s.

Vance clambered over the worm fence and staggered as if an alien hit him with a freeze ray. His limbs weakened. His bloodshot eyes perked.

He stood on the perimeter of Ray Hodge's backyard. He knew it was now owned by the newbie Coren Raines, but he could not help but think it was still Ray's. He had helped the old man build the cedar deck. It was then that he had learned of Hodge's odd predicament while toasting Old Milwaukee.

The retired postman, being a close friend of Vance's, had conceded that Hank Adler and Burl Nelson were pressuring him to sell his property. He said the men wanted to form a co-op and turn his rambler into a farmer's market. Burl had boasted about apple and pear trees while Hank had suggested striped kiosks full of fresh vegetables. They had offered to pay off Ray with a lump sum if he signed over his homestead. At the time, the old man had feigned interest. But two weeks later, to Vance's shock, he had packed up and s.h.i.+pped out without so much as a wave goodbye. Even now he thought it peculiar. The state of the backyard only stirred his latent suspicions.

He approached the hole near the rusted sc.r.a.p metal. A pile of dirt and a discarded shovel remained as evidence. He peered over the eroded lip. He turned his head and vomited in the gra.s.s. He clutched his knees, and then shook his head as he fought to keep his gorge down.

He knew it was the decomposed skeleton of Sylvia Pritchard staring back at him. If the other one had been Henna, then this was surely her sister. Though riddled with worm holes, there was no mistaking the rawboned jawline and broad forehead. Her frail body had been crammed into the pit; her arms and severed legs pointed at the overcast sky.

Vance wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. "Lord give me strength."

He faced the pit and took a second look. Chunks of brick protruded through the dirt on all sides. It appeared to have once been a well that had dried up and was then filled in.

His head spun. Who would have killed Paul's girls and then buried them? Certainly not Ray Hodge, though the more he considered that notion, the more plausible it seemed. If his memory served him right, Ray had disappeared around the same time the Blondies had, if not a week earlier.

But another insistent question prodded Vance. Who had dug up the girls and left the evidence in plain sight?

His bleary gaze settled on the well with the lopsided roof halfway across the weedy yard. He could tell from his standpoint that the stone walls had been hammered on. He walked toward it, glancing at the dark house. Either Coren Raines had taken a road trip or he was spying from a rear window. Vance did not care either way. He would catch up to him in due time.

He stepped up to the well. His gut retracted, but he forced the sickness back down. The walls had been pried apart. Poking from the dirt was a jaundice skeleton. The jaw was gagged with barbed wire and twisted legs dangled into the dank darkness. Vance knew it had to be Loren Pritchard. It was the only theory that made sense. And Coren Raines was the one playing gravedigger.

He looked to the deck. He clenched his trembling fists. Inside that house were his girls. He was certain. He owed it to Teresa, himself, and Ray Hodge to beat the living daylights out of Raines. Fragments of a brief conversation with Paul Pritchard danced in his skull as he marched toward the steps.

"I've got a suspect. Lives at Ray Hodge's old place. He's hidin' somethin', guaranteed."

Vance felt like a semi careening off a cliff. Nothing was going to stop him until he hit rock bottom and exploded. It was time to look his daughters' killer in the eyes.

Pritchard turned off Sangralea onto Main Street. He spotted the narrow taillights of Francine h.e.l.ler's Cougar a mile ahead. The loony was probably heading to the cities to replenish her supply of cheap vodka. He chuckled at the thought of her being weak-willed courtesy of his daughters, drowning in her sorrows as her liver shriveled up. Why else would she leave town? She was so hermitic she wouldn't step out of her house if it was on fire.

The CB crackled.

"Sheriff?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l!"

He had a mile to drive to the county line. There was no way he was pulling over to answer Edsel's call.

"Sheriff? Do you copy?"

Pritchard let go of the steering wheel and punched the radio. The face cracked. He clocked it again. It shattered and dangled on its mount.

"Shut up!"

He grabbed the wheel before he veered off the road. With every throb of his bleeding stump he wanted to inflict pain with his good hand. And the idea of being a gimp riled him even more. Simple actions such as urinating were a challenge. He was glad he could still handle his Magnum. He had a sudden urge to unload it on the first moving target that crossed his path.

He chirped the siren once to announce his arrival. Edsel paced, then sighed and belted his CB when he spotted his boss. Pritchard noticed that Francine h.e.l.ler watched him in her rearview mirror as he stopped a car length behind her.

He opened the glove box. The Ziploc with the bloodstained knife and juice carton popped out, falling on the floor, along with a handful of s.h.i.+ny badges. He arched his brow. He saw his chance to get in h.e.l.ler's head. It would be like old times, except he would be bullying her instead of his daughters.

He picked up the baggie and set it on the pa.s.senger's seat. He then grabbed the tape recorder. He regretted not having used it on Coren Raines, but now he realized it had been waiting for a greater purpose. He would get a loose confession out of h.e.l.ler and plant the knife in her trunk. She probably wouldn't go down without a fight. He had heard she was quite feisty.

He bit back a grin as he stepped out of the car. n.o.body left his town when there was a grieving family to support. Especially not h.e.l.ler.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

"Let's put the skinny one on the rack." Hank grabbed Sylvia's wrists. "Ain't this gonna be a sight when they wake up?"

Burl shook his head, hesitated, and then crouched and clutched Sylvia's ankles. He and Hank carried her across the barn and dropped her on the rack. She stirred, murmured. Hank raised her arms and slapped the leather straps on her wrists.

Burl buried his face in his hands. He looked up, still shaking his head. "This is barbaric, Hank."

The farmer's stringy hair clung to his sweaty forehead. He secured Sylvia's ankles and grabbed the giant crank. He extended the rollers one notch. They creaked from centuries of disuse. Sylvia's eyes fluttered. Hank removed his handkerchief and blew his nose. He then shoved it in her mouth as she came to.

Sylvia's gaze focused on Hank and Burl. Her blue eyes bulged and she struggled to break free. The handkerchief m.u.f.fled her screams to mouse squeaks.

Hank chuckled. "This is what happens to bullies, little missy. And this ain't even the tip of the pitchfork."

Burl turned his back on the rack. He looked to Francine. He had expected to see her wringing her hands or hiding her face. Instead she beamed near the first stall.

Burl stormed at her and jabbed an accusatory finger. "You think this is fun and games? You think she deserves to be tortured?"

Francine nodded.

Hank grabbed Burl's shoulder and spun him. "Let her join in the fun if she wants to. This ain't show and tell."

Burl knocked his hand away. Hank responded with a right jab, smas.h.i.+ng his knuckles against Burl's cheekbone. Burl lost his footing, fell, and cracked the back of his head on a stall post.

Hank spat and kicked his friend's shoes. "d.a.m.n that old-timer's a hardhead. Guess it's just you and me, Franny."

Francine shrugged.

A moan turned their heads. They looked at the b.l.o.o.d.y sisters sprawled on the dirt. Henna rolled over and blinked. She spotted Sylvia wriggling on the rack and sprang up.

Hank nodded at Francine. "Now's your chance to whoop her."

Francine's smile widened. She glanced around the stall behind her. She grabbed a spade off the wall, whirled, and swung it like a tennis racket. The back of the blade cracked Henna a hair above her right ear. She collapsed to the dirt as a small gash bled down her neck.

Hank grinned. "Atta girl. I think you and I are gonna get along just peachy."

Francine giggled. The adrenaline rushed through her veins. She felt as if she was on top of the world after inflicting pain on one of the girls that had made her life h.e.l.l for as long as she could remember. She wanted to continue beating Henna, but she knew she had to restrain herself. Mr. Adler had bigger and better plans. It was the first time she had seen the old farmer smile, so it was obvious the fun had yet to begin. She hung the spade back on the wall.

Hank picked up Loren and heaved her onto his shoulder. Her face was freckled with black shards and dried blood. Her bangs were strawberry blond and matted to her forehead. She coughed, drooling onto Hank's back. He carried her to the third stall on the opposite side of the barn. He slammed her down on a splintered electric chair. The wires and power had long since been removed, but the worn leather straps remained.

Loren cried out. Hank slapped her, and then bound her wrists and ankles. He unb.u.t.toned his plaid and removed it. Before she could scream he tied it around her mouth and the back of the chair.

He fingered the shoulder straps of his wife beater, spat, and then looked over his shoulder. "How do you reckon we ought to punish her, Franny?"

Francine had wandered to an adjacent stall. There was a workbench scattered with medieval tools. All were unfamiliar to her. One looked like a pair of tongs used for corn on the cob or dumplings. Another had an ornate pear with leaves on the end of a silver handle. She picked it up, eyed the intricate carvings. She wondered what it was used for. Coring fruit maybe?

"What's this one do?"

Hank chuckled and crossed the barn. "That one's called the Pear of Anguish. It's perfect for smart mouths, like that one in the chair. The leaves open up like a flower. You'll have to see the rest for yourself."

"I like it. It's pretty."

"Since you think so, maybe you want to try it out on her."

Francine looked at Loren. She thrashed and shook her head as if an electric current flowed through the chair.

Francine brushed past Hank and approached Loren. "Remember that time you locked me in my locker? You poked me with X-acto knives." She paused and pointed at her bloodstained calf. "You did this to me on the fence."

Loren froze as the recollections. .h.i.t home. With her Pirates cap gone, her face possessed a raw innocence. Her brow raised into the deep lines that creased her gashed forehead. Francine waved the pear before her face and pulled the handle. The spoon-shaped leaves sprang open like a reverse bear trap. Loren bucked and squirmed as if she was having an epileptic seizure.

Hank placed a gentle hand on Francine's shoulder. "Hold on. It'll be mighty difficult with the s.h.i.+rt in her mouth."

He crossed the barn, kicking Henna in her head for good measure, and crouched in the corner of a stall. He returned with faded leather gloves on his hands, a wire cutter, and a ball of barbed wire. He set the fence material on the floor and snipped off a strip. He then walked over to Loren with the strand of wire in hand. Both sisters writhed and choked on their shrieks.

Hank shook the barbed wire. "This'll keep her mouth open. But you make sure you gag her with the s.h.i.+rt when she starts screaming. Understand?"

Francine nodded as Hank rounded the chair, yanked the plaid from Loren's mouth, and then wrapped the wire around wood and flesh. Loren shrieked. Hank slammed his elbow on the top of her skull. Her eyes became waterfalls as the barbs dug into her lips and the wire was fastened behind the chair.

Loren's tongue struggled to enunciate. "Oohh! Oohh!"

"Franny, shut her up! I'm gonna wire this one. She ain't feeling her sister's pain. Are you?"

He cut off another barbed strand. Sylvia was still, aware that any movement strained her muscles. Hank could tell that it would only take a couple of cranks to pop her joints. He approached the rack, removed the handkerchief, and bound her mouth. Sylvia screamed louder than her sister had.

Hank tied the wire, then reached over the rack and gouged her eyes. "Shut up! Shut up, d.a.m.n you!"

Sylvia's blues pooled red and bled down her cheeks. Hank stifled her screams with the handkerchief as he eyed his handiwork. He had crushed her eyeb.a.l.l.s and rendered her blind. That was payback for the time she egged his pickup.

Francine inched the pear toward Loren's mouth. The Blondie trembled and cried. Francine smiled. She snapped the sharp leaves open and shut. Loren whined, reluctant to scream, though knew it was inevitable.

A guttural moan that elevated to a yell broke Hank and Francine's concentration. They jerked in unison and snapped their heads back.

Henna charged at Francine, her T-s.h.i.+rt speckled with blood from the dripping gash above her ear. She plowed over her target and pinned her on the ground. She punched Francine in the eye, and then c.o.c.ked back for another jab.

"Henna!"

The Blondie froze, looked back. Burl staggered forth with the spade in hand. He raised it like a sledgehammer.

"Get off her!"

Francine dug her fingers into Henna's injured hand, stabbing the hole the screwdriver had made. The Blondie cried out and swatted her aside. Francine remained on the ground, stunned from the blow.

Burl charged and swung the spade. Henna stood and blocked it with her forearm. She then grabbed the handle and wrenched it from his grip.

"I'm gonna kill ya, old man!"

Burl ducked, the blade missing his scalp by inches. Henna followed through with a pendulum swing and uppercut him with the flat side. He caught air and landed on his back, knocked unconscious once again.

Henna half-turned, but glimpsed her attacker too late. Hank crashed into her with his wire cutters in hand. The spade was lost in the collision as they toppled into a nearby stall.

Hank slammed her into an antique meat block. The top was three feet thick and bloodstained from hundreds of butcherings.

Hank bent her back over the block. "You want to bully someone? I'm right here, pig!" He braced his arm against her throat and stabbed her shoulder with the wire cutter. She growled through gritted teeth. "C'mon, bully me!"

Francine sat up, ma.s.saged her jaw. Her gaze roved the barn. Loren and Sylvia twisted and twitched with fixed grimaces. Mr. Adler shoved Henna onto the butcher block and worked her like a piece of meat. She could tell he had lost it, as his face was blood red and his eyes crazed as a rabid dog's.

Hank snipped Henna's chin. "You like that? Burl didn't like it either!" He punched her temple with his free fist. Her eyes glazed. "Now it's payback!"

Hank used the wire cutter like scissors and halved Henna's T-s.h.i.+rt. He punched her in the nose and tore off her jeans. He then dropped his overalls and mounted her on the meat block.

Francine attempted to stand, but her rear end was frozen to the ground. She knew that what Mr. Adler was doing was terribly wrong, yet at the same time she knew Henna deserved it.

Henna flailed, but to no avail. Hank snipped the wire cutters across her throat, grazing her carotid arteries. She gurgled as blood poured in rivulets down her chest. Hank cut the skin like it was paper, tossed the tool aside, and then shoved her chin back.

Francine clamped her hands on her ears at the mingling of moans and death rattles. Henna's head fell off her shoulders and dangled by the carotids as a tremble coursed through Mr. Adler's body. Blood spurted and gushed like a kinked garden hose.

Francine's sanity snapped. She realized, as Mr. Adler led by example, that the barn was the Blondies' torture chamber. She would not see the light of day until the bullies were dead. n.o.body could see them. Hopefully n.o.body could hear them. n.o.body would know what occurred beyond closed doors.