The Lost Orphans: Book 0

by J. S. Donovan

  “We’re looking at another snow shower,” Peak said, his hands in his windbreaker pocket and his head craned to the sky. Rachel paced around the frosty grass, hearing the soft crunch under her feet while she looked at the lake. The mass of water looked pretty but was unimpressive in size. When the water dropped in the winter, a three-foot muddy ring encircled the lake.

  “What are we looking for?” Peak asked.

  “The Tafts,” Rachel replied.

  “Ah,” Peak said, unsure how to respond.

  Rachel’s reflection followed her as she walked the water’s edge. The tree line was silent. The roads were empty. The water was a sheet of glass, where a single canoe rowed.

  “Come on,” Rachel mumbled. She held on to her anger. She let it drive her to stay out of the cold with nothing but the hope that the twenty-year-old dead would meet her by the lakeside.

  She spotted a three-year-old boy with curly hair so blond it was almost silver. He wore swimming trunks and popped floaters. A steady stream of water fell from his lower lip and cascaded down his chin. He didn’t bother wiping it away. Rachel kept her eyes from the drowning victim. No sign of Hannah or Roger.

  The canoer waved at Rachel. It was an old man, probably senile, out on the lake during this time of year especially with the water so low. The canoe passed through a floating corpse. Nice. Cupping her hands around her mouth, Rachel called to the old man. With a few moments, he arrived, and the child’s body sank below the surface. The old man wore a swimming vest over his heavy winter coat. His skin was spotted and a fur-lined Russian trapper hat warmed his oval-shaped head and droopy ears. He smiled stupidly at Rachel as the nose of the canoe sliced the ring of dirt. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rachel cut him off by showing off her detective badge.

  “I’m going to need that canoe.”

  The old man’s stupid grin remained.

  Not long after, Rachel and Peak were out in the lake with small snowflakes raining down around them.

  “It’s going to be fun explaining this one to McConnell,” Peak said as he rowed.

  “Never hijacked a canoe? I thought you were a professional.”

  The old man watched them from the lake’s edge, more confused than ever.

  Rachel saw something move beneath the water, much larger than any fish. She gestured for Peak to stop moving.

  The canoe bobbed in place. Rachel’s and Peak’s breaths misted in the cold air. Something tugged at Rachel beneath the water.

  “Orphan,” she declared.

  Peak straightened his posture. With an intense look, he studied the water. There were days when Rachel wished she could show him the Gift. It would make her life a lot easier. Yeah, and subject him to your torment. Her institutionalized mother told her that the power was a blessing, a curse, and a joke all at the same time. Rachel couldn’t agree more.

  The boat jolted as if it hit something heavy. Rachel grabbed ahold of the sides to keep her balance. “You feel that?”

  Peak crinkled his brow and shook his head.

  Thump!

  The canoe rocked to the right, as if hands were pulling it down. Icy water sloshed around Rachel’s boots. She blinked a few times, and the canoe was dry again. Peak looked at her with deep concern.

  Suddenly, a hand rose out of the frozen lake. Its bony fingers wrapped around the rim of the boat, pulling it to one side. Rachel scooted away from it, evening out the weight as another hand burst from the water and grabbed the boat’s edge.

  Peak glanced between Rachel and the side of the boat. “What is it?”

  The arms reached inside of the boat and grabbed the metal bars with the seat. The arms pulled tightly, lifting an unseen figure over the edge. Dripping wet, the man slowly turned his face to Rachel. His hair was brown and rich, square glasses covered his bloodshot eyes, and his long, purple tongue dangled out of his slack jaw.

  The slack-jawed man shook his head rapidly. His dangling tongue wagged, slinging spit down the front of Rachel’s leather jacket and peppering it with blood. Rachel concealed her terror under a straight face, though inside something screamed for her to ditch the boat and find solid ground.

  The man lifted himself up to where the boat’s rim rested below the ribs of his pearl-colored sweater. The water behind him was still for a moment before the crown of someone’s head parted the glassy surface. Snowflakes fell upon the lake as the woman’s head rose out of the water. She had cherry blonde hair and a pretty face that was rounded out with age and motherhood. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, and full of judgment.

  Peak noticed Rachel glancing between the lake and the boat. “How many?”

  “Two,” Rachel replied, glaring at the Orphans. “Hannah and Roger Taft, I assume.”

  The woman in the water stayed completely still as she spoke. “Help. Us.” Her voice was garbled.

  The water around her swirled with red from some unseen, leaking wound.

  As the woman repeated her plea, the slack-jawed man shot his hand out at Rachel’s neck. She leaned back far enough to nearly lose her balance and felt gravity sucking her toward the icy water. Peak’s iron grip around her upper arm prevented her from spilling over. He helped steady her back in the boat.

  The slack-jawed man retrieved his outstretched hand and strengthened his grip on the boat’s edge.

  “Easy,” Rachel said sternly. “We’re all on the same side.”

  The Orphans glared at her.

  Despite her audience being deceased, Rachel struggled with her words. “The same man that killed you has also killed your son and may still have your daughter.”

  The woman’s face turned blood red, and she screamed into the steel sky. Her wail pierced Rachel’s eardrums, causing her to grimace. The slack-jawed man released his grip on the boat and slipped into the water without a splash. The boat rocked for a moment.

  The woman began to sink.

  “Hannah, wait!” Rachel shouted. “There can still be peace.”

  Hannah Taft’s wail died as she returned her attention to Rachel.

  “I can find your killer,” Rachel said. “But you need to help me.”

  The Orphan stayed silent.

  “Show me where it happened. I need to understand,”

  The woman mumbled the name of a road before returning to the water. A crimson swirl marked her last location before dispersing into the glassy water being sprinkled by snowflakes.

  “Take us back,” Rachel said off of Peak’s inquisitive look.

  He started rowing toward the lakeside without taking his eyes off of Rachel.

  “What?” Rachel asked.

  “I’m questioning your sanity, that’s all.”

  “What else is new?”

  Peak had a unique perspective on Rachel’s Gift. Even though he was an atheist, he couldn’t deny Rachel’s results. The Gift allowed Rachel to catapult through the police ranks even past Jenson Peak, who was once her superior/mentor. Peak believed the Gift to be the next evolutionary step for mankind or a genetic mistake that natural selection would soon correct. Rachel disagreed, though not completely. There was still much she didn’t know about her power, and her only guide was her institutionalized mother’s discombobulated leather-bound journal. The contents on those old, yellow pages were highly questionable.

  Rachel and Peak dragged the canoe’s nose into the muddy rut of the lakeside. The old man smiled stupidly. “What were you all doing out there?”

  “Ask her,” Peak replied, hiking his thumb back to Rachel.

  Thanks, pal. Rachel gave him a look and then addressed the old man. “Looking for something.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I believe we did.” Rachel headed to the car. “Stay safe. Blizzard’s on its way.”

  Peak drove Rachel on the winding road up the side of the mountain. To the left of the black asphalt road, the tree-spotted mountain dropped out of sight and seemingly rose into another tree-covered mountain miles away. To the right, the mountain ascended deeper into white s
now and leafless trees.

  Peak drove a few miles per hour less than the speed limit. The tires slipped multiple times on unseen patches of ice. A thin layer of snow blanketed the road.

  “Salt trucks haven’t made it up here yet,” Peak declared.

  That didn’t surprise Rachel. Highlands was a quaint town with limited resources. The amount of town-owned salt trucks could be counted on one hand.

  Rachel leaned forward in her seat and pointed. “There.”

  Two dozen yards away, Hannah and Roger Taft stood in the middle of the road with emotionless faces. Though it appeared they were breathing, no air misted out of Hannah’s lips or Roger’s exposed throat.

  Peak parked the car on the road’s shoulder. He held his pale hands over the dashboard heater and flexed his fingers.

  “Coming with?” Rachel asked as she opened the passenger door.

  “No,” Peak replied without hesitation.

  Rachel closed the door behind her and marched to the Orphans. The icy air slapped her across the face. Despite wearing gloves, her fingers tingled in the cold. She sniffled as she stopped in front of the Orphans. To the right of her was a guardrail and, to the left, the mountain climbed. That was where the woman pointed.

  “Shooter,” the woman said.

  The area where she pointed was scattered with tall trees and frost-coated bushes. During the day, it did not provide much cover, but at night, anyone crouching down could hide and have a vantage point over the entire street.

  “How did the shooter do it?” Rachel asked.

  “Parked here,” Hannah explained, looking at the empty street behind her. “Killed Roger. Killed me.”

  Crimson pulsed from the woman’s torso and splattered on the ground. She wore faded denim jeans held at her belly button by a skinny leather belt, plus a loose and cozy winter sweater.

  Hannah pointed at the guardrail. “Chased Vinna and Yogi.”

  “Did you see the shooter’s face?” Rachel asked.

  Rachel interpreted the woman’s lack of response as a “no.”

  “Describe his car to me.”

  “Box truck.”

  Rachel took a mental note of that. When she blinked, she saw herself as Number One locked in the back of the truck. Perhaps it was the same one that Hannah saw. Many serial killers were creatures of habit, so the possibility was not as unlikely as it might seem.

  “License plate?” Rachel inquired.

  “No.”

  Can’t win them all, Rachel thought. “Make and model?”

  Roger twisted his head to his wife, showing his disturbing, slack-jawed profile to Rachel as he attempted to speak to her. However, no words came out.

  The woman locked eyes with Rachel. “Ford.”

  It was better than nothing.

  She left the Orphans on the road and returned to Peak. She didn’t realize how much she missed the heat until she was inside of the Impala.

  “The truck was a Ford,” Rachel explained as she pulled her gloves off with her teeth and let the warm air kiss her bare skin.

  “The killings happened in ‘92,” Peak thought out loud. “Let’s put out an APB for any Fords dating back to 1980 in the local area.”

  “Good thinking.”

  While they were eating plates of country-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans at a local mom-and-pop restaurant, Rachel and Peak received the call.

  “A 1990 Ford F350 was spotted on Horse Cove Road,” Office Jones said over the radio. “Should I investigate?”

  In mid-chew, Rachel and Peak exchanged looks.

  “No,” Peak replied with a mouthful of potatoes. “Keep your distance. We want to know where this guy’s hiding.”

  “You got it.”

  “We’re on our way now,” Rachel said, fishing out a few bucks from her wallet and throwing them on the table.

  Taking one last bite of his gravy-drenched country-fried steak, Peak headed out the door. Horse Cove wasn’t a far drive. When they caught up to Jones, they sent him home. Peak’s unmarked Impala would fare much better in tailing the mysterious box truck than a police cruiser.

  The truck drove a few miles per hour over the speed limit. Its body was white and blue and chipped with rust spots across the luggage area. The front end had the appearance of a normal Ford pick-up. It chugged around up the street. Peak kept a safe distance from the vehicle, not wanting to raise any alarms. Rachel got a pen to write down the license plate number, however, she could only get a partial read. The rest of it was caked with mud, just like the wheel wells.

  The windshield wipers worked vigorously to brush away wet snow falling from the evening sky. The barometer dropped and the wind howled. It pushed the truck, forcing the driver to correct. The more sleet that fell, the slicker the roads became and the more Rachel’s vision was limited. The truck kept on pushing onward and upward, getting higher into the mountains.

  “The guy is crazy to be driving in this,” Rachel said. “Let’s pull him over before the weather worsens.” They’d already been on him for thirty minutes, and the truck’s path seemed random.

  “If he still has Vinna, we need to find out where he’s hiding,” Peak said, putting the wipers on their highest setting.

  Rain and snow at an elevation of over four thousand feet was never a good combination. It would be dark in 45 minutes. The mountain’s peak neared.

  The Ford followed the curve in the road, past a dirt ramp, and temporarily went out of sight. Something about that made Rachel’s skin crawl. She couldn’t tell if it was the cold, a nearby Orphan, or the Sense alerting her to imminent danger.

  As Peak rounded the curve, he cursed loudly.

  Up ahead, the box truck floored the accelerator, fishtailed, and screamed up the road at full speed.

  “How did he see us?” Rachel exclaimed.

  “He probably knew the whole time. That’s why he led us to the middle of nowhere,” Peak replied hastily. “We’ve got to go after him.”

  Though knowing the roads would be treacherous with invisible black ice, Rachel agreed.

  Chapter Six

  Black Ice

  The chase began with the screeching of tires. The world blurred into a flurry of sleet, trees, and snowy mountaintops as the two vehicles climbed the mountain as fast as their engines would take them.

  “This is Detective Harroway requesting all available units,” Rachel shouted into the dashboard radio. “We are in pursuit of a suspect considered armed and extremely dangerous!”

  The Ford box truck drifted up the corner. Despite its appearance, the bulky vehicle handled the snow deftly. It was a testament more to the driver than the weathered all-season tires.

  “Sorry, Detective. The storm is too strong to get the helicopter up and running. You’re going to need to rely on ground support.”

  The information didn’t surprise Rachel, but her heart still throbbed violently.

  A few squad cars reported in. “On our way, Detective. Keep on the target.”

  “Already on it,” Rachel tossed aside the radio, watching the truck gain distance ahead of them. “Peak, can’t you go any faster?”

  Peak hit the gas. The engine hummed. The RPM dial climbed and wobbled. The Impala jetted up the mountain. The snowfall smacked the windshield with a wet, pelting sound. The wipers couldn’t keep up. The amber glow of the box truck’s taillights was their only guide.

  Oddly, the truck changed lanes as it ascended. Peak mimicked, closing the gap between them. They were roughly forty feet apart now. A deep horn sounded in the distance. The box truck swerved back into the proper lane, quickly revealing huge glowing headlights ahead.

  “Oh Lord,” Peak prayed as the sleet-concealed semi-truck plowed toward them.

  Rachel’s heart skipped a beat as the Sense tore at her from all directions, warning her of imminent death.

  The semi’s brakes screamed, but that forty-thousand-pound eighteen-wheeler barreled closer to the puny Impala. Peak quickly turned the steering wheel, launchi
ng the Impala up the right side of the mountaintop, avoiding the horn-blasting semi by inches. The interior of the car battered Rachel as their vehicle arched up the slope of the mountain for two seconds and crashed back on the asphalt street. On impact, the rear bumper snapped off and bounced down the icy ridge. In the rearview, Rachel saw the semi correct itself and vanish into the storm.

  Rachel’s insides jostled, and she wanted to vomit. The blood had left Peak’s face and knuckles. Not turning his wide eyes from the road, he pursued his suspect. They reached the peak of the mountain, thank the Lord, and sped by a lowly trailer with a breathtaking view of the misty white Appalachian Mountains.

  The road momentarily flattened out, allowing Peak to catch up. Thirty feet away. The driver-side window of the box truck lowered, sucking in harsh, sloppy snow into the Ford’s cab. Rachel straightened her posture, eyeing the window with horror and expectation.

  The long barrel of a chromatic revolver jutted from the shadow-shouldered window. It pointed back at Rachel and Peak.

  Rachel’s skin crawled. Peak pulled back in his seat.

  Boom!

  The barrel flashed white.

  The weapon’s discharge echoed in the snowstorm.

  Peak’s driver side mirror exploded into plastic shards.

  Peak swerved, unintentionally changing lanes and narrowly missing a ditch.

  He cursed. “That’s a .44!”

  The movie Dirty Harry came to mind. A pit formed in Rachel’s gut that was so tightly knotted, it cramped. Peak re-corrected as the revolver fired a second time.

  A massive hole blew through the center of the windshield and out the back. Peak and Rachel ducked their heads. Frigid wind jetted through the baseball-sized hole. Its roaring howl muted Rachel’s thoughts.

  Rachel lifted her head. “This guy’s aim is--!”