Blood Orchard Part 4

"Oh," Jay stammered, searching for a lie. "I'm Francine's next door neighbor. I live right there." He pointed over his shoulder. "I keep telling myself to just give her a pound of brown sugar every month. She bakes more than Betty Crocker."

Barter's eyes became slits. "Mr. Woolridge, right?"

"In the flesh." Jay s.h.i.+fted, itching to smoke a cigarette.

"How's business at the hardware store?"

"Can't complain. You got the time, Detective?"

Barter withdrew his cellphone, lit the display. "Quarter after ten. Hot date?"

"With Barney Miller. Hope you'll excuse me."

"By all means." Barter pocketed his phone, but held his credentials, readying them for Francine. "What time is good for you tomorrow, Mr. Woolridge? Say nine a.m.?"

"Nine it is, Detective."

Jay walked toward the house next door as Barter approached Francine's porch. He needed to slip out of sight. But how could he do it without Barter seeing him?

He gazed at Woolridge's house. The two-story eyesore had a single light burning in the upstairs window. He headed up the stone walk.

He glanced to Francine's house. Barter had his finger on the doorbell while he regarded the porch. Jay saw his chance and ducked through a cl.u.s.ter of rose bushes that flanked Woolridge's front steps. He heard Francine shouting at Barter as he sprinted around the corner of the house. He knew the detective would be hot on his trail before long, as would Pritchard, on the hunt with a .357 Magnum.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Coren filled the tumbler halfway with Seagram's, and then topped it off with Minute Maid. The girl thrust forward like a catapult on the couch. Her eyes snapped open. The comforter slid to the floor. Her jaw dropped and an ear-splitting scream rang out.

Coren rushed out of the kitchen. His arm clipped the orange juice carton and it plunged off the counter, busting on the linoleum. The girl sprang onto her feet and spun as if she was playing ring-around-the-rosey, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Her mangled legs, entwined at the knees and ankles, cut her game short.

"Hey! It's okay, it's okay!"

Coren hesitated as she stumbled and crashed into the wall. The only framed picture in the living room - a watercolor of a lighthouse - dropped to the floor and shattered. He wanted to seize the girl in a bear hug and wrestle her down to the couch, but he was worried about how she might react. What if she disgorged maggots on him? He squashed the thought as she rebounded off the wall and tripped on the coffee table, landing on her back where she wriggled like a millipede. He knelt, grabbed her by the shoulders, and held her tight against his chest, as he had when she emerged from the well.

"Easy now. Calm down. It was just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. I'm gonna bring you back to the couch, okay?"

Coren stood her up. He looked at her scarified face. Her eyes rolled into her head and her jaw trembled. Her mouth glinted. Blood trickled from her nose. Coren hoped she was on the verge of unconsciousness. It would make it easier on both of them.

A loud bang resounded behind Coren. He looked over his shoulder.

Another bang. The front door shook in its frame.

Someone was attempting to break into his house. No, not just someone. He knew it was Pritchard. Who else could it be? The psycho cop had probably been staking him out.

The girl's unrelenting screams slapped Coren to realization. He clamped his hand on her mouth and dragged her into the hall. He had to hide her somewhere. Pritchard surely heard her shrieks from outside.

Yer lookin' guiltier by the second!

Coren cursed as Pritchard's voice haunted him. He needed to stash the evidence. But where? The bedroom? Now more than ever he wished he lived in a two-story house. A bas.e.m.e.nt would come in handy. The girl swayed in his arms like a pendulum as the blood from her nose trickled off her chin. Her head cracked hard against the wall.

Of course, Coren thought. The panic room!

Had the girl not hit her head, he would have never remembered it was there. He felt the wall for the small slit, found it, and opened the pocket door.

"I'm gonna let go of your mouth. Please don't scream anymore."

He released the girl's mouth and set her on the floor. She screamed and banged the back of her head against the wall. Coren dashed into the hall and shut the door.

A bang followed by a slam echoed throughout the house. Coren hurried down the hall. He stared agape when he reached the living room. The front door had been unhinged and laid in the entryway. Pritchard barged inside with his .357 Magnum. Coren backed into the wall, hands raised.

"What the h.e.l.l is this?"

"I heard the screamin', Raines! Where are they?"

"Who?"

Pritchard bashed him in the head with the gun barrel. Coren grunted and fell to his knees as he clutched his forehead.

"Ow! What did I do?"

"Where's the triplets? Where are they?" Pritchard pressed the barrel against Coren's right temple. "I'll blow out yer brains if ya don't come clean right now!"

"I didn't kidnap anybody's kids!"

Pritchard swung his free fist down on Coren's shoulder. Coren hit the floor face first. His jaw slammed hard and blood flooded his mouth.

"Ya just earned a lie detector test, Raines! I'll turn this place upside down 'til I find 'em!"

Pritchard tossed his Stetson on the couch. Coren paled as he recalled the maggots that spewed from the girl's mouth. He hoped they had burrowed between the cus.h.i.+ons.

Pritchard slipped out his handkerchief while keeping his gun trained on Coren. He dabbed his glistening baldness.

"Last chance, freak. Enlighten me."

Coren spat out a molar, watched it roll across the carpet like a die.

With the swift reflexives of a gunslinger, Pritchard spun his pistol, holstered it, then crouched and gagged Coren with the sweaty handkerchief. He knotted it at the back of his head. Coren choked and heaved as Pritchard grabbed his wrists and slapped on the handcuffs.

"Ya wanna screw with me, Raines? Huh?"

Coren growled and squirmed on his stomach. His head pounded and the dull ache plagued his ribs. The handkerchief was hot and salty. Pins of pain riddled his shoulders as he tugged his wrists, sc.r.a.ping them against the skintight cuffs.

Pritchard yanked up his belt buckle and crossed the living room. "Any babies under here?"

He grabbed the coffee table and flipped it. The gla.s.s top shattered on the floor and dime-sized shards pelted Coren's face. He winced and turned his head.

"How 'bout behind here?"

Pritchard tore the curtains off the bay window so hard that the rod snapped in half. He tossed the beige cloth aside and it landed on Coren's legs. He turned and approached the kitchen.

"What's this, Raines? Either yer one clumsy son of a gun or there was a struggle in here. I'm bettin' the latter."

Pritchard pulled out a Ziploc freezer bag and picked up the orange juice carton. He poured out the rest of the contents on the linoleum, and then shoved it in the Ziploc. His fiery blues locked on the counter, spotting the tumbler and the bottle of gin. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the gla.s.s and drained it in one gulp.

"Bet ya wish ya could've drank this, huh?" He slammed the tumbler on the counter and licked his curled lips. "That's some yuppie stuff right there. Ya always get hammered alone, Raines, or just when yer stressed out from hidin' babies?"

Coren grumbled, wriggled like a maggot. He rolled onto his back and rested his head against the wall. The pressure eased on his ribs.

His mind unloaded thoughts like an Uzi. Could he stand and make a run for the Suburban? Possibly, but it would earn him a warrant and a "Wanted" poster. So, what would happen if he remained immobile? It seemed obvious that Pritchard was either h.e.l.l-bent on locking him up or kicking the c.r.a.p out of him. Maybe he could cause some sort of distraction.

Pritchard disappeared around the corner. Coren guessed he was snooping around the kitchen sink again, searching for more b.l.o.o.d.y utensils.

"Ya kiddin' me?"

Coren heard the clink and clunk of cans and bottles falling on the linoleum. Pritchard was rooting through the trash.

Coren broke into a sweat. His stomach churned.

Pritchard rounded the corner with the Ziploc held before his twisted face. The bloodstained barbed wire was entangled beside the broken Minute Maid carton.

Pritchard shoved the baggie in Coren's face. "Where are they, Raines? Talk, G.o.dd.a.m.n it! I've got ya red-handed!"

Coren closed his eyes, and then opened them. "There's no one here but me. Do you hear any babies crying?"

Pritchard stomped his boot down on Coren's chest. Coren cried out as his ribs s.h.i.+fted.

"Shut up! Ya think I never met a liar before?" Pritchard pressed the full weight of his two hundred and fifty-six pounds. Coren gasped, feeling as if his lungs would collapse. "Twenty-five years I've ran this town. Yer the first piece of c.r.a.p to waltz in here like yer incognito and we're immune to yer stink. Who do ya think ya are?" Pritchard retracted his boot. He shook the Ziploc in his fist. "Ya got nothin' to say? I guarantee Homicide will when this comes back from the lab."

Coren bit his tongue. His body throbbed from head to toe. He wished Pritchard would leave or put him in the squad car. He was sick of being his punching bag. Maybe now that he had his evidence he would let him heal until tomorrow.

"Almost forgot." Pritchard withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from his pant pocket. He balled it up and dropped it on Coren's chest. "Here's yer search warrant."

Coren watched the hulking sheriff disappear down the hall, tapping his skull as if attempting to rattle out a motive. It seemed he refused to leave any stones unturned.

For the first time since Pritchard's arrival, Coren thought about the girl. She was probably still screaming her head off beyond the wall. He hoped Pritchard was clueless about panic rooms. The crazy cop was smart, but it would take a seasoned detective to sniff out a hideaway like that.

Pritchard entered the master bedroom. "Let's see if ya got them babies tied to yer bed, ya sicko."

Coren heard furniture thudding and his ceramic lamp smas.h.i.+ng to pieces. The box spring shrieked as it slammed to the floor. More rattles and bangs as dresser drawers were yanked and thrown. Pritchard stomped down the hall with the Ziploc in hand, still plumb full of the same evidence.

He crouched down to Coren's level. "So yer clever, huh? An Internet nerd like you probably schemed some secret hideout fer yer victims. Ain't that right?" Coren's eyes burned with hate. Pritchard sneered and pointed at the Ziploc. "Exhibit "B" and "C" got ya nailed, Raines. I'm on to ya like a five-cent hooker."

He seized Coren by the shoulder and yanked him onto his stomach. He tightened the handcuffs until they cut Coren's skin, then unlocked and removed them. He stood and grabbed his Stetson, concealing his glistening skullcap. He turned, drew his flesh pistol. His knuckle cracked as his thumb hammer came down while he winked in unison. He chuckled, reached into his pant pocket, and withdrew a s.h.i.+ny badge as he trampled the front door into the night.

She spotted the Blondies huddled by the barbed wire fence that bordered Mr. Adler's farm. The summer breeze carried their giggles like pollen and stung her eyes to tears. She bit back her frustration and composed herself. She knew they were plotting again and had no intention of letting her pa.s.s unharmed to school.

She clutched her backpack as she approached the Blondies. The triplets dispersed. Henna blocked the sidewalk and slapped a nightstick in her hand. Sylvia served as the roadblock and popped her bubble gum with a Swiss army knife. Loren rounded Francine as she smoked a cigarette and leered in the shadows of her Pirates cap.

Francine glanced up East Walnut Street. J. Edgar High was a block away. She considered her escape routes. Could she leap over the barbed wire fence and sprint across Adler's farm to Railroad Street? She had her doubts. The fence was four feet tall and would surely snag her skirt. What if she turned around and ran back home? Despite the strong urge, she was reluctant to flee like a coward. She would rather stand her ground and let the Blondies know that she was fearless.

Henna pointed the nightstick at Francine. "You know the drill, Smeller. Empty your pockets."

"You took everything I had yesterday," Francine quavered.

"That was for lunch. Now I need to get my nails done."

Loren and Sylvia chuckled as they closed in. Sylvia spat out her gum and flipped out three different blades. Loren flicked her cigarette b.u.t.t. She sneered as it bounced off Francine's shoulder in a shower of sparks.

Francine lowered her backpack. "Leave me alone!"

Henna waved the nightstick. "Soon as ya gimme what I want."

"You're not getting anything from me!"

Francine spun and swung her backpack. She caught Loren by surprise with a headshot, knocking off her cap. Sylvia lunged with the knife. Francine blocked the jab as she swung her backpack around. She then retaliated with a leg sweep and dropped Sylvia on her back.

There was movement in her periphery. She turned and saw her English teacher Mr. Elbridge pa.s.sing by on the opposite sidewalk.

"Mr. Elbridge!" Francine whipped her backpack again, keeping Loren at bay. "Help!"

Henna shook the nightstick at the short man in the cream dress s.h.i.+rt and khakis. "Get outta here! Or you're next!"

Mr. Elbridge adjusted his horn-rimmed gla.s.ses and ran toward the school. Henna raised the nightstick and charged. Francine swung her backpack, but Henna blocked the blow with her forearm and then cracked Francine with the nightstick. Francine dropped the backpack and clutched her forehead, suppressing a whimper as tears spilled down her cheeks. Loren shoved her to the pavement and laughed.

Henna s.n.a.t.c.hed the backpack and jostled it in her left fist. "If I can't have this, Smeller, then neither can you."

She heaved the backpack and grinned as it landed in the bean field beyond the fence.

Francine felt a goose egg rising on her throbbing forehead. "You ugly pig! I hate you!"

Henna chuckled. "C'mon, girls. We don't wanna be late for cla.s.s."

Sylvia stood and Loren grabbed her cap. They then joined Henna at her side.

Sylvia twirled a split end around the blade of her knife. "Next time, Smeller, I'm gonna slice you open. n.o.body knocks me down and gets away with it."

Francine stared at the backpack through the barbed wire as the Blondies left her to cry in the middle of the street. Anger bubbled like lava in her veins. What would it take to make them leave her alone? She was at her wits' end and outnumbered three to one.

She shook her head and sniffled. She hated life. She hated waking up in the morning knowing that the Blondies would be waiting for her. She hated leaving school and being followed until they decided it was time to beat her up or steal her homework. She hated telling her parents about her day and listening to them yell at her for not standing up for herself.