Blood Orchard Part 10

Sure, she was used to the Blondies' teasing, but hurtful words seldom lacked truth. She had her fair share of flaws that deterred even the nerdy boys from catching her eye. She knew she was overweight and cursed with her mom's crooked nose and straggly hair. She was an unpopular, homely girl who hid behind her locker door when the jocks pa.s.sed by.

She felt wetness on her leg. She glanced down and saw that she bled again. The upper half of the gash had dried while the lower tip trickled, having caught the brunt of the barb. She still had five minutes before the second bell rang. That was plenty of time to stop at the lavatory and wash the cut. The nurse's office was out of the question. She didn't want to risk getting sent home and screamed at by her parents.

She rushed into the little girl's room and set her backpack down by the sink. She looked at herself in the smudged mirror. Her hair was tousled and her shirt collar was askew. She turned on the faucet, tore off a paper towel from the dispenser, and then dampened it.

"I see ya got yer backpack, Smeller."

Francine froze, looked in the mirror. Henna emerged from an open stall with a cigarette fixed in her sneer. Francine dabbed her flesh wound with the paper towel. She was determined to clean up before Henna cornered her.

Francine tossed the b.l.o.o.d.y towel in the garbage. "Guess you don't need gla.s.ses then, huh? Now I know why you sit in the back of cla.s.s."

Henna slammed her into the nook of the sink and trashcan. Francine winced as pain cascaded down her shoulder blades. Henna held her cigarette between her thumb and forefinger and blew off the ashes, stoking the red-hot tip. Francine lurched back and hit her head on the wall. She gritted her teeth, knowing another goose egg was imminent. Henna shoved her forearm beneath her chin.

"How'd ya like to lose sight of me, Smeller? I'll burn yer pretty little eyes out. Would ya like that?" Henna inched the cherry closer. Francine felt the heat against her cheek. "Ya think me and my sisters didn't see ya tattlin' to Old MacDonald? Yer dead after school, ya hear me? Dead."

Henna jerked the cigarette back to her lips, inhaled, and then jammed it into the wall beside Francine's head. She blew a plume of smoke into her face. Francine turned and coughed.

Henna stepped back, retracting her forearm. Francine thought she was going to leave the lavatory, but instead the Blondie seized her backpack.

"Ya shouldn't leave yer stuff lyin' around, Smeller."

Henna heaved the backpack over the nearest stall door. Francine heard it splash in the toilet.

Henna grinned from ear to ear and mouthed: Dead. She then left the lavatory, chuckling as the door shut behind her.

Francine straightened up and stewed. She wanted to kill that girl. How much more could she take before she snapped and did something she regretted? No, she wouldn't regret it, but she saw herself reaching that point. The hurdle she stumbled over, though, was that the Blondies' father was the big man on campus. Any obvious means of retaliation would get her charged and booked. Any obvious means, yes. That was why she needed to be inconspicuous.

She ma.s.saged her shoulder as she opened the stall door. There her backpack slumped on the seat, its straps dangling in the john. She cursed and grabbed her belongings, holding them with an outstretched arm. She then sat it on the sink and dried it with paper towel.

She stared at the mirror. She wished that for one day she could walk the school halls in someone else's shoes. She dabbed her tears, then headed for cla.s.s as the last bell rang.

Thunder stomped across the clouds like an angry child. Francine prayed for a downpour. A good rain might postpone the game. That was how she thought of it, as a game. Unfortunately, she had yet to avoid a rout. But again, there had to be an unsuspecting way she could seek vengeance.

It seemed that even Mr. Adler wanted the Blondies gone. She knew, however, that she was outnumbered. How could she get the upperhand on three bullies? Maybe she could steal her dad's pickup truck and run them down. Or maybe she could gather all of the other girls that had been bullied and launch a ten-on-three attack. That might work. The problem was that most of those girls would be too discouraged to back her up. She was better off plotting on her own. Ten girls spinning their wheels would dig a deeper rut.

The rain teemed as Francine followed Railroad Street past East Walnut. She grinned. The odds of a safe journey looked better already, but she was still going to avoid the straight shot home, which skirted Mr. Adler's farm. She was certain the Blondies would be waiting for her that way. The thought of fetching her backpack over a barbed wire fence again riled her frustration.

She ducked beneath the willows that shaded the road, where the rain filtered through the canopies in a drizzle. She needed to devise a plan to catch the sisters off guard. The longer she tolerated the bullying, the greater the chance she would get seriously hurt. But what could she do?

Her gaze focused on the street sign ahead. It was twisted and lopsided, courtesy of the Blondies, indicating that Main Street was in the opposite direction.

She wondered what compelled them to act the way they did. Was it because their father was the sheriff and that was their way of rebelling? She thought so. Maybe since their father was Onward's law they a.s.sumed they had equal power.

She sighed as she stepped over the leaf-clogged gutter and rounded the corner. Something slammed into the side of her head. She wavered back a step. At first, she thought she had collided with a tree branch. Then she glimpsed Sylvia emerging from the woods with a Louisville Slugger. The world blurred and Francine collapsed, knocked unconscious with her head and torso in the gra.s.s while her legs splayed in the gutter.

Sylvia smacked her bubble gum and dropped the bat in the weeds. "Homerun! I told her she had it coming."

Henna seized Francine by the wrists. "C'mon! Drag her into the woods!"

Loren and Sylvia grabbed a leg and the Blondies lugged her limp body beyond the dense treeline. They dropped her in the brush and she rolled onto her stomach, still out cold.

"She can kiss her backpack goodbye." Henna peeled the straps off Francine's shoulders and slipped them through her own arms. She crouched and leaned over to Francine's ear. "Yer dead, Smeller. Dead." She stood and glared at her sisters. "Take her clothes off."

Sylvia spit out her gum. "Huh? I ain't queer. You do it."

Loren warped the brim of her cap. "What if someone sees us? We just knocked her out. Ain't that enough?"

Henna raised her fist and shook it at her sisters. "Strip her clothes off or I'll beat the c.r.a.p outta both of ya!"

After a moment's hesitation, Loren and Sylvia disrobed Francine. First her sweater, then her dress, and last of all her undergarments. They tossed them to Henna, who threw them up in the branches of a willow tree. Francine's eyes fluttered.

"Wake up, Smeller." Henna grabbed Francine by her hair and lifted her head. Her eyes blinked. "This is what happens to smart mouths. Now stand up."

Francine shook her head. The cool wind tickled her flesh and she glanced down. Her eyes widened when she saw her nakedness, but the scream died in her throat.

"Stand her up!"

Loren and Sylvia seized Francine by the arms and stood her up as she thrashed. Henna smashed her fist into her face. Blood sprayed from Francine's nose. Her head lolled and her eyes rolled, then she slipped back into unconsciousness. The sisters slung her arms over their shoulders as her body slouched.

Henna pointed behind Loren and Sylvia, where Main Street skirted the treeline. "Dump her into that ditch."

Loren nibbled the cleft in her lip. "Someone's gonna see us."

"Since when has that stopped ya? Yer my sister. Do it! Unless yer a wuss like Smeller. Are ya, Lorie? Are ya just like her? Do ya want us to beat the c.r.a.p outta ya and dump ya in the woods? Huh, Lorie? Ya better decide before I throw another punch."

"Help me drag her, Syl."

Henna picked up the Louisville Slugger and rested it on her shoulder, grinning as if she hit a grand slam. Loren and Sylvia hauled Francine to the treeline, paused, and then peered through the willows. Rea.s.sured that Main Street was deserted, they charged forward and heaved Francine. Her body bounced on the sandburs and rolled down the slope as blood spiderwebbed her cheeks. She landed at the bottom of the six-foot deep ditch, naked, alone, and left for dead.

Jay doubled over, struggling to catch his breath. He knew Pritchard would be calling an APB in a matter of minutes. He was uncertain of the distance he had covered, but it appeared that up ahead the woods thinned. He could make out a vague clearing through the steady rain.

I need to find shelter and get my bearings straight.

He needed a new plan of attack, since inspecting the boxcars was out of the question. He doubted that there was evidence left from fifteen years ago. Still, the clock was ticking. The longer it took him to dig up the story, the more Jeanette worried about him. He needed a phone.

He crouched at the edge of the clearing, and then poked his head through the branches. A deserted Main Street led into downtown. While he was relieved to be near civilization, he was paranoid that the authorities might spot him. Barter was sure to be roaming the blocks, conducting his investigation.

He glanced north and south, then dashed up the ditch and across the road. When he reached the other side he tripped on the downgrade and fell on his face at the tree line.

A rumble sounded to his right, but it wasn't thunder. He was certain a truck had turned onto Main Street. He remained still and on his stomach in the weeds. The vehicle rattled by and he looked up. He glimpsed a pickup with trees swaying near the tailgate. He had a fleeting thought of chasing after the truck and hopping onto the flatbed, where he could travel to a safer destination. That was the writer in him getting creative. Or maybe he was wearing down and thinking irrationally.

He crawled into the woods and sat against a willow, ensuring that he was out of sight. He then withdrew a bag of Reese's Pieces as his stomach growled.

Some Boy Scout I'd make. Now all I need to do is build a fort and fire.

He almost chuckled at the thought. He was clueless as how to fish, let alone rub two sticks together. He grew up in the big city. Roughing it to him was riding the El's and living in a rundown apartment complex. Here he was hiding from the police in a strange town with nothing but candy for nourishment. Maybe he should leave a trail in case he died of pneumonia. Then someone would at least find his body. Or they would find E.T. craning his neck for more Reese's Pieces.

A train whistle reeled him back to reality. He recalled that he was closer to the train tracks than he wanted to be. However, he did need to cross them and head toward town. He wasn't about to camp in the wilderness. He had to find a phone and a dry place to review his notes. Then he might be able to write the ending to the story.

The ground shook as the train roared by. Jay wondered if the Blondies had hitched a ride on the caboose, like he should have, and escaped Onward once and for all.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Barter parked the LeSabre between the Texaco storefront and gas pumps. The station looked closed. The neon "Open" sign was dark and the lot was vacant. It was possible that Adler had decided to keep the store shut down, despite the go-ahead from the authorities. After all, how many residents would wander out of their houses with a curfew in place and a kidnapper on the loose? Probably not many.

Barter tugged his sweater, ensuring that the bulletproof vest was inconspicuous. He didn't want Adler thinking he was there to start a war. He grabbed his navy blue C.P.D. cap and slapped it on. Normally, he would wear it to keep the sun out of his eyes, but today it was for the rain. He exited the car, glancing at the fractured windshield. He reminded himself that the trigger-happy man inside was responsible for that damage.

He entered the store and scanned it from wall to wall. The counter was deserted, as were the aisles and coolers. He leaned over the counter, looked below the register. There was a single gun rack beneath the gla.s.s display case of lottery tickets. It was empty.

Barter withdrew his firearm and sidestepped down a magazine aisle. He wasn't taking any chances by standing out in the open.

"h.e.l.lo? Can I get some service up here? I'd like some scratch-offs and a Powerball!"

"What're you blind?" Barter's heart thumped. A reply had been unexpected. "If the d.a.m.n sign is off, so am I! Now get out of here before I call the cops!"

Who do you think is here? Barter thought.

He rounded the tabloids, shoved the front door open, and then ducked back down the aisle. The door slammed shut.

"Stupid idiot! This ain't no G.o.dd.a.m.n 7-11!"

Barter peered around the rack. Hank appeared from the back of the store with a double-barrel shotgun. He craned his neck left and right. Squinting, he spotted the LeSabre beyond the rain-streaked window, but failed to catch sight of the driver.

"If he thinks this is full service, he's got another thing coming."

Hank c.o.c.ked back the hammers. Barter crouched low at the end of the aisle. He eased a pair of handcuffs from his belt, careful not to clink the metal. He knew he had to surprise Adler. If he ordered him to "Freeze" the crazy farmer would probably unload on him. He had to pounce and somehow cuff him. He wished he hadn't left his Taser in the glove box.

Just do it! Charge the guy and cuff him to the register!

The shotgun barrel poked into the aisle. Hank approached the front door. Barter rose from his crouch and lunged. Hank glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye and spun. Barter threw his forearm into the shotgun barrel as Hank pulled the trigger. The front doors shattered and the storm tossed the gla.s.s into the store.

"Drop your weapon!" Barter pinned Hank against the counter. His right hand clutched the barrel and shoved back, the handcuffs clanging in his fingers, while his left jammed the pistol in Hank's face. "Drop it!"

"I'll drop you," Hank said through gritted teeth, "for breaking and entering!"

"I'm Chicago P.D. You're under arrest!"

"This is Onward!"

Hank bit the barrel of the pistol, and then slammed the b.u.t.t of the shotgun into Barter's groin. Barter was caught off guard. He figured Adler would surrender once he had him at point blank range. Most people would. But then again, Farmer Hank was a loose cannon and had converted his barn into a torture chamber.

Barter doubled over, swinging his pistol, and cracked Hank in the right temple. Hank swung the shotgun barrel and broke Barter's grip. The handcuffs clanked on the floor and slid out of sight. Before Barter could react, Hank clubbed him on the head with the shotgun. Barter grunted, stumbled back, and then ducked into the magazine aisle. He heard Adler reloading.

d.a.m.n, Barter thought. So much for cuffing him.

He caught his breath as the sickness subsided in his gut. His head throbbed. He thought it would have been ironic had he ended up in the pain relief aisle. Instead, he was using a rack of Guns and Ammo as a shield.

Hank c.o.c.ked back the hammers. "So, what're you arresting me for, piggy? I ain't kidnapped any kids. I hate the whiny brats."

"Is that why you have a rack in your barn? Most farmers keep cows in there."

Hank fired. The end of the aisle exploded, missing Barter by inches, and rained shredded literature.

"That's attempted murder, Adler!"

Barter hopped up, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The first shot shattered the display case of cigarettes. The second shot hit Hank in the shoulder as he lunged to the right.

Barter stepped out. The gusting wind scattered the shards on the floor while the rain pelted his back. Adler was gone. The farmer had sought cover, though left behind a trail of blood that might as well have said "You Are Here" with a blinking arrow pointing at aisle five.

"Drop the shotgun, Adler, and come out with your hands on your head! Let's call this a day before one of us ends up dead!"

Coren entered the panic room and ran his free hand through his hair, wrenching the strands on the back of his head. Well Girl #1 rocked back and forth against the wall to the left as she did spasmodic leg lifts with her mangled limbs. Each time her bruised feet slammed on the floor, she nodded, as if headbanging to a mental tune. Her sister, Well Girl #2, paced the room on her stumps, wobbling as if she was drunk, gnashing on a mouthful of hair.

Coren squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. Had it not been for the gin, he would have been at his wits' end. He wanted to slam the door and walk away, but the cold apple reminded him of his plan.

So, what if this girl coughs up a badge, too? What does that mean?

He stepped forward, glanced over his shoulder. Well Girl #1 remained in her metronomic trance. He was worried she would spot the apple and lunge at him. Maybe she had her fill of cider.

His gaze darted to Well Girl #2. She failed to notice him. She continued to wobble on her stumps, her gait similar to that of a circus performer on stilts, unsteady and calculated. He wondered if he should roll the apple across the floor. He was reluctant to hand-feed her. After all, she was a kid zombie and would probably clamp her jaws on him.

His hand tensed, and he realized he was crushing the apple. He felt the sticky juice trickle between his fingers. He glanced down. Droplets splashed on the floor. The Well Twins froze. Their heads spun and jaws dropped.

Oh no, Coren thought, stepping back.

Well Girl #1 lurched onto her stomach and wormed toward him. Her sister staggered on her stumps, probably would have leapt if she had knees.

Coren's heart stuttered. He panicked. His first instinct was to ward them off. He turned on Well Girl #1 and swiped the apple, squirting juice in her eyes. She rolled over and howled loud enough to vibrate the steel walls. Her sister was deaf to her cries and moaned for the fruit. Coren gave her a dose of the same medicine. She clutched her eye sockets and hollered. With her lantern jaw opened wide, Coren stuffed the apple into her mouth. She snapped her blackened teeth shut like a Venus flytrap and her body trembled.

Here we go. Coren backed against the wall. Now we'll really see if they're twins.

Well Girl #2 dropped her hands from her face. Two apples pulsed in her eye sockets. Coren recoiled and banged his shoulder blades. Juices flowed from the girl's lips and cascaded down her chest. She then swallowed the fruit whole, as her sister had. It bulged in her gullet for a moment, and then slid down the hatch.

"Cough it up!"