Blood Orchard Part 11

The girl turned toward Coren and scrunched her sockets, as if squinting in bright sunlight. The apples squeezed. Coren thought she might be the first human juicer, almost grinned at the insane joke, then grimaced as the skins split and bled like fissures. Clumps of red flesh oozed from the wounds and dripped down her face, plopping on the floor.

"Jesus Christ!"

Coren looked away. He saw out of the corner of his eye that something emerged from the fruits. Two glowing points poked through the crushed openings. The apples gave birth, pushing out the gold objects. They clanged on the floor, two badges, and then melted into the hardwood.

Coren stared at the singe marks in disbelief. He was about to crouch and inspect them when the apples popped out of the girl's sockets with a squelch. They landed on the marks and exploded like rotten tomatoes.

Coren tripped over his shoes as he leaned toward the door. The girl fell flat on her face and reached for his ankles, but instead dug her nails into wood. He scrambled for the exit. He hopped over Well Girl #1, who rolled back and forth at the threshold as if she was on fire. He then slammed the door and locked the latch.

They're twins! He struggled to slow his heart rate. Twins! Now what?

"Now I need another gla.s.s of gin."

Jay looked both ways before crossing the railroad tracks. There was no sign of an oncoming train, search party, or cop car. He was in the clear and relieved that he had distanced himself from Pritchard.

He wondered again why the irascible sheriff had been intent on deterring everyone from boxcar alley. Was he trying to cover up potential evidence or were the memories of his daughters unbearable? Probably the latter, though he had a hard time believing that Pritchard had a heart.

The downpour had slowed to drizzle. Jay hoped it would die altogether. He was soaked and the biting breeze racked his body with shivers. His thoughts wandered to hot cocoa, fireplaces, and tomato soup as he ascended the gra.s.sy incline. He was going to search the first yard he encountered for shelter. A shed, a deck, a doghouse, anything.

He entered the whispering woods. He knew he was headed north a couple of miles off Main Street, for the tracks ran west to east. He was bound to run into a neighborhood nestled in the knotty pines.

He paused as the grove dispersed and the trees became stunted and scattered. Withered black spruces and tamaracks replaced the firs and elms. The patchy gra.s.s faded to sphagnum and his shoes squelched with each step. Jay recognized the blooming cl.u.s.ters of hardhack and poison sumac.

Oh, lovely. How'd I end up in a d.a.m.n swamp?

His gaze roved the marshy land. He considered turning back. After all, what were the chances of running across a residence on such c.r.a.p property? He was probably on government acreage. He knew for a fact that wetlands were protected as if they were endangered species. He decided to walk along the outskirts in hopes of glimpsing a house.

The rattle of his last package of Reese's Pieces sparked his imagination. He should have left behind a trail. He wouldn't have been surprised if he lost his way. The more he dwelled on the thought, the more he once again saw the ridiculous parallels to E.T. He had a stash of Reese's Pieces, the cops were looking for him, and he needed a phone. An idiotic smile curled his lips as a voice croaked in his head: J.D, phone home!

As he trudged farther through the muck, the drone of insects and pungency of poisonous flora engulfed him. His eyes watered. His throat dried. He looked to his left. He saw that there was a greenish-yellow swamp covered in water lilies and lined with sumac in the distance. The scent of rain failed to damper nature's aroma, rather it seemed to amplify it.

Jay's head swam. His allergies flared like a rash. He sat down on a rotted tree stump and dabbed his burning eyes on his shirtsleeve. He swallowed hard, dying for an Aquafina. He blinked several times, then stared ahead wide-eyed. His blurry gaze cleared and focused on the black bank of the swamp that was still as frozen split pea soup.

His eyes narrowed. He scratched his beard. Something red fluttered in the mud. It looked like a rose petal.

No, what would roses be doing in wetlands? Maybe it was a discarded c.o.ke can or some other trash left behind by partying teenagers, like the Blondies. The swamp would have been a perfect hideout for them. Then again, would a soda can retain its l.u.s.ter after fifteen years in a bog?

Jay stood and approached the bank. The swamp, its grainy film harboring insects and resonating croaks, had receded over the years. At his feet had once been the water's edge. Now the swamp ebbed five yards from the sh.o.r.e, providing a glimpse of its infested depths. Beetles scuttled and mayflies flitted across the sleek mud. A chunk of splintered, sodden driftwood was the playground for a trio of garter snakes.

Jay's gaze zoomed in on the red swatch. It was tattered and splotched with mud. He thought it was either a shred of curtain or shirt, both of which seemed an oddity stuck in a swamp's sh.o.r.e.

He crouched and reached for the fabric. He was an arm's length short, though the flies took an immediate liking to his chocolate-scented fingers. Depending on how bad he wanted to grab the cloth, he would have to step in the mud. Being a reporter and oftentimes an investigator, he yearned to extract it. It was too strange.

He stood and glanced at his shoes. The soles were caked. What did it matter at this point if they became fossilized? He stretched out his leg, plunged it in the sh.o.r.e. A sick squish made him grimace as his right shoe sank up to its laces. He extended his long arm and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the cloth. It slipped through his fingers, rooted to the earth. Either it was long and buried deep or it was connected to something, like maybe a curtain to a rod.

Yeah, a curtain rod. Jesus, I need a latte. Soon I'll be seeing HGTV building a d.a.m.n shower stall.

He retracted his foot, maintained his balance. He rubbed his eyes. They itched and weariness weighted his lids. He refused to let a piece of trash get the best of him. He threw his right foot forward again.

I must be exhausted. I'm h.e.l.l-bent on retrieving trash? Jay reached for the swatch. No. No, it's more than that. It looks like a T-shirt.

He reached, seized the cloth, and dug his nails deep. It was anch.o.r.ed underground. He lunged back into a tug-of-war stance. The cloth ripped free and he landed in the mud. He looked at the swatch in his hand. It had a mud-caked b.u.t.ton dangling by a thread. His eyes widened.

Oh geez, there's a body buried in the swamp!

He flipped the cloth over in his hand. Half of a tag with six bold letters was st.i.tched in the cotton: BOURNE.

Bourne?

Jay's first thought was of The Bourne Ident.i.ty, which was followed by a second recollection of The Bourne Supremacy. He stood as he felt the mud soak into his pants. He turned and walked up the sh.o.r.e to semi-dry land, contemplating on the cloth.

Bourne. It's a shirt. The tag's a designer name. Jeanette's red blouse came to mind. Claibourne! Liz Claibourne! There's a woman buried in the mud!

He paced the moss-covered ground, forgetting about his soiled pants for the time being. His adrenaline pumped and his hand trembled. He clutched the cloth.

Okay, calm yourself, Jay. You don't know there's a body buried there. It could just be a shirt. Maybe somebody took a swim and left their shirt behind. He stopped and stared at his trail of footprints. It's a swamp! n.o.body swims in a swamp!

He recalled a story by a fellow reporter last summer. It had followed a murder mystery regarding a young woman the authorities had found anch.o.r.ed in an Indiana swamp. Her leg had been chained to a cinderblock and her throat had been slit. His friend's words flashed in his head like a TelePrompTer.

"She was mummified, Jay. You should've seen her. She'd maybe been in that bog six months. Of course, the methane levels are so high in standing water it snuffs out the oxygen, makes a body decay at half the normal rate. It got me thinking. The Everglades must be a G.o.dd.a.m.n burial ground."

Jay had chuckled at the time. Now it was far from a laughing matter. He had encountered the scenario firsthand. There was a mummy buried where the swamp water had once ebbed.

You're overreacting, Jay. You have no proof that there's a grave in the mud. For all you know it could be a fossilized shirt discarded on the way to the local water hole...miles from the wetlands.

Before he ran off searching for the nearest residence so he could call 9-1-1, he had to know for certain that the dead rotted at his feet. He hesitated as he gazed at the sh.o.r.eline. If he dug up the dirt the authorities might think that he was the guilty party, a.s.suming that there was more than a shirt to be found. He blocked his conscience. He refused to relent to his overactive imagination. He needed to find a tool to scoop up some mud pies.

He spotted the piece of driftwood. He picked it up, shook off the garter snakes, and examined it. The wood was rotted along the edges, but solid enough to break ground.

He approached the sh.o.r.e, planted his feet. The mud sucked at his shoes like quicksand. He wondered again if he had plummeted off the deep end, then reminded himself that his curiosity burned for satisfaction.

He stabbed the driftwood into the mud. It sank a good foot, at which point he dredged up the sh.o.r.e. Black soon became red. The shirt revealed itself.

At first he dug around it as he realized it was balled up. He then paused, seized the fabric, and tugged. It refused to budge.

Okay. Time to fish it out the hard way.

Jay plunged the makeshift shovel into the center of the bunched shirt. A crunch sounded and the driftwood snapped. The bright red shirt darkened to crimson, then seeped from its folds.

Jay tossed aside the broken wood. He had crushed something beneath the shirt. His initial thought was of a turtle. They often buried themselves in mud. Maybe he had pierced its sh.e.l.l. But why was the turtle wearing Liz Claibourne?

Exactly.

He crouched down and eyed the soaked fabric. It spurted discolored fluid in short streams like a broken sprinkler.

My G.o.d, what have I done?

He knew he should have listened to his instincts and left the shirt alone. He should have sought out the nearest house and called the police. Now what was he going to do? Bury it back up and hope the search party crossed it without a second look?

Maybe it's just a turtle in a shirt, his conscience reasoned. Christ, I killed Franklin.

The image of the cartoon character disinterred thoughts of his daughters. He was glad they were sheltered from the dark side of reporting. They often commented on the hairstyles and ties of anchors while watching the evening news. The beauty of innocence made him wonder again why he was willing to get blood on his hands.

Because there's a body beneath that shirt!

He reached over to a nearby bush - which he prayed wasn't poison sumac - and tore off two large leaves. He then held one in each hand and used them as if they were surgical gloves. He pulled apart the seeping folds with his index fingers and thumbs.

A yellowish-brown skull with bludgeoned snakes slithering from the sockets stared back at him. Jay shrieked, hopped up, and stumbled toward the sh.o.r.eline. He doubled over and vomited on a dead shrub. He was unprepared for the moment of truth.

A body was buried in the swamp!

He ran through the wetlands with one word flashing in his head like an APB.

Help!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

Barter trained his .38 Special on the candy aisle as he took baby steps along the blood trail. The only sound in the store was the wind howling at his back. There were no whimpers or hyperventilating. There was the storm, which seemed to be dying as the downpour weakened to drizzle, feeling like a broken showerhead on his nape.

I know he's there, just itching to light me up like a Christmas tree. I ought to hit him from the rear of aisle four.

"Drop yer piece, Detective."

Barter froze in mid-step toward the rack of chewing gum. The moment he had dreaded kicked him in the groin. He turned and faced the demolished entrance. He clutched his pistol as he lowered it.

Pritchard stood near the counter with his Magnum pointed at Barter's head. His Stetson was still as if superglued, unaffected by the wind. His sungla.s.ses reflected a flash of lightning. His badge and belt buckle glinted in unison. Barter thought he looked like the Terminator.

Pritchard stepped forward. Gla.s.s crunched beneath his boot. "Drop it! Ya best start explainin' yerself. Ya got yer gun drawn and this store's shot to h.e.l.l. Give me a line, Detective!"

"I have orders from Chicago P.D. to arrest Hank Adler." Barter inched back toward aisle four. He wondered where the farmer was planted. "This is my jurisdiction, Sheriff. Now I'd appreciate it if you lowered your weapon."

"I ain't lowerin' jack. Let me see yer warrant."

"No warrant. Just orders."

"Sounds like breakin' and enterin'. Looks like vandalism. Judgin' by the blood on the floor, maybe even attempted murder."

Barter brushed the b.u.t.t of his gun against his pant pocket, double-checking that he had remembered to carry his cellphone. It nicked a bulge and jangled.

d.a.m.n! Left my phone in the car. So much for backup.

He knew the situation was on the verge of going from war zone to Armageddon. So far it seemed that Pritchard was intent on siding with Adler. He was in a st.i.tch.

Barter felt the metal rack nudge his leg. He glanced down the aisle. It was deserted. "It's too bad your man did all this. Aside from the blood. But I guess that's why you don't shoot at an officer."

"Ya kiddin' me?" Pritchard motioned his Magnum toward the floor. "Drop yer piece and step away from the aisle. Now!"

Barter dropped his head, using the brim of his cap to conceal his eyes. Pritchard had crossed the line. He was determined to control the crime scene and cover for Adler. He was certain the psycho planned to run him out of town or jail him. Pritchard was h.e.l.l-bent on a personal vendetta.

One at a time. Pritchard first, then Adler. I can do this. One at a time.

Barter lunged into the aisle. He glimpsed the gunfire, heard the wrench of metal. Three more shots followed. The first and second hit the floor, missing his right foot by inches. The third obliterated a Kit-Kat bar above his head and shattered a cooler on the other side of the store.

"You're under arrest, Sheriff!"

"Up yours, Chi-Town!"

Barter fired two shots, warning Pritchard to back off from the aisle. Both hit the damaged cigarette case along the wall. Cartons avalanched.

"Got ya on vandalism now!" Pritchard pocketed his sungla.s.ses and set his hat on the counter. The situation had escalated. It was time to put the punk cop in his place. "I'd say yer under arrest, but dead men can't hear!"

Barter scrambled across littered candy bars toward the rear of the store. He felt like an open target in the aisle. He needed a shield between him and Maniac Cop.

Pritchard headed for aisle three with his Magnum pointed over his head. He towered over the racks. He glimpsed Barter's head and fired. The bullet grazed the brim of his cap. Barter rolled to the left, out of sight. He reached the end of the aisle and then dove past a cooler of Gatorade.

Another gunshot.

Pritchard was as trigger-happy as Adler was. Barter glanced back. A purple waterfall spewed from the bullet hole in the cooler.

Barter eyed aisle five. The coast was clear. He spotted the trail of blood on the opposite end. His thoughts rested on Adler for a split second. Wherever he is, I hope he's down for the count.

He leaned against the rack, checked his clip. Four bullets remained. He had an extra clip in his left pocket. After that, he would be empty as a siphoned six-cylinder.

"Ya might want to put those hands up now, Chi-Town."

Pritchard strolled down the aisle like a focused shopper. He didn't buy Barter's orders for arrest, but he would sell his soul the moment his Magnum tunneled through his head. He was the sheriff of Onward. A washed-up detective from "The Windy City" would get blown out of the water.

The glare off Pritchard's baldness spurred Barter into action. He scrambled down the row of coolers to the next aisle. He rounded the end cap and faltered, his heart rapping his rib cage.

"Bet you thought you killed me, huh?" Hank shoved the shotgun into Barter's jaw. A dark bloodstain hooked from his shoulder to his chest. "Now toss that popgun before I blow off your head."

Barter threw his gun backwards.

Hank's eyes strayed from his target. "Paul! I got the bast -"

Barter saw his chance and took it. He seized the shotgun barrels and yanked. Hank refused to let go and was propelled into him. Barter hit him like a football player, flipping him end over end. The shotgun banged into the rack of paper towels and Hank's upside down body smashed into a cooler of milk. Gla.s.s rained down and cartons toppled as he crumpled on the floor, looking as if he was frozen in a failed headstand.

Barter grabbed the shotgun and posted up, scooting back a few feet as he ducked.