The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  Wanting to save a few gifts for tomorrow morning, Rachel opened an envelope she had received from an anonymous sender last week. She opened it, revealing a photo of Brett and a fashion model-tier blonde amidst towering Redwood trees. Little grey flakes peppered Rachel’s ex-husband’s long, auburn beard. His hair was gelled, sheared at the sides. He wore square glasses with nice frames, a blue and white plaid shirt, and beige jeans rolled up at the ankle with leather shoes. Most noticeably of all, Brett looked happy. The card wished Rachel happy holidays and nothing more.

  Seeing the card, Liam looked at Rachel with pitying eyes.

  With pursed lips, Rachel smiled back at him.

  THUMP!

  The noise came from upstairs. Rachel’s eyes traced a dragging noise across the ceiling to the direction of her bedroom.

  “Excuse me,” Rachel said and headed for the stairs.

  Peak studied her as if he were trying to crack a code.

  “Tell me about yourself, Jenson.” Liam said to Peak.

  Rachel reached the steps opposite of the front door. Grabbing the wooden railing, she ascended into the darkness of the second story. Soon, Liam and Peak’s conversation faded, and Rachel only heard the rattling of the strong gales against her window. Her bedroom was at the end of the hall. She flipped the light switch. The ceiling light flickered a few times before giving the hall a sickly hue. Back to the small interior balcony, Rachel stepped gingerly toward the ajar bedroom door. She removed her police issue Glock 22. With her free hand, she slowly opened the door. It creaked far enough that Rachel could see the bed. The covers made a tent around the child-sized figure who sat upright, back toward Rachel.

  Rachel moved with silent steps and grabbed the corner of the heavy blanket. Holding her breath and counting back from three in her mind, she yanked the covers toward her. The sheet drifted through the air and bunched at Rachel’s feet.

  There was no one on the bed.

  Rachel felt a cold chill race up her spine. There was a tugging at the back of her shirt, as if a child was pulling at her clothes. Rachel’s grip tightened around her pistol.

  Taking a deep breath and clenching the weapon tightly, Rachel twisted around and faced the eleven-year-old Korean girl. She had an adorable soft face and welcoming eyes. The side of her forehead bulged out a few inches. The skin on the lump was purple, black, and busted, leaking crimson ooze down the child’s cheek. A few droplets dangled at the curvature of the Korean girl’s jaw.

  Rachel glanced about the room before stowing her weapon. Unfazed by the gore, she looked at the girl sternly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  A frown sank the child’s face.

  Goose bumps painted Rachel’s skin.

  “Your uncle Jeong is behind bars. Case closed,” Rachel said, leaving no room for negotiation.

  The girl’s eyes were bloodshot, dry and unblinking. Her stare seemed to cut right through Rachel and crawl into the deepest depths of her soul.

  Mi Na whispered something in her native tongue. By the girl’s angry expression, Rachel guessed it was a command or an insult.

  The two of them stared each other down.

  Rachel broke. “Fine. But this ends tonight.”

  Mi Na replied in Korean. Rachel hoped it was affirmation.

  Retrieving her saddle-colored leather jacket from the coat rack, Rachel shouted into the living room. “I’m making an eggnog and hooch run. Want anything?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Rach,” her father exclaimed. “Nothing’s open.”

  “I’m getting the gas station special.” Though it was her suggestion, Rachel nearly shuddered at the idea of questionable eggnog.

  Liam leaned out of the living room and into the entrance hall. “Stay with us. Your free days are so rare.”

  “I’ll only be thirty minutes,” Rachel replied. “Peak can keep you company.”

  Neither of the men seemed enthusiastic.

  Rachel exited before her father could say anything more. Mi Na followed her out. Liam didn’t make mention of the little girl with a leaking head.

  After rubbing her gloved hands together, Rachel started up her drab Impala: the standard undercover car for most detectives. It took a few moments for the window frost to thaw out, and then Rachel was on her way.

  Like every night in Highlands, the sky was black and spotted with thousands of stars. The silhouettes of the Appalachian Mountain rose and dipped for miles like the teeth of an animal’s lower jawbone. Thousands of leafless trees blanketed the mountains, occasionally disrupted by a few sentry pines standing tall and green.

  Inviting mom-and-pop shops, cute colonial buildings, and historical museums rich with Appalachia culture lined Rachel’s trek. With a population of just over a thousand, there were miles of untouched woods sprawling down the plateau's sides. On Christmas Eve, the humble buildings were blacked out, and a layer of snow covered the street and piled on the tops of black lampposts. Rachel slowed to a stop at the edge of town.

  The house before her was single story but classy. It had a fine wood frame and stood at the top of the inclining front lawn. There were more upper-class homes on either side of it. Lights streamed through their window and smoke wafted from their chimneys. A long line of cars was parked outside of the residence. Through the wide living room window, the Jang family stood and celebrated with champagne flutes and laughter. The homeowners. Mr. and Mrs. Jang, sat on the couch. They were a lovely couple, short and slender with onyx hair and red-rimmed eyes. Though weeks had passed, they were still dressed in their funeral blacks.

  From the passenger seat, eleven-year-old Mi Na leaned over Rachel with a wide smile. Her eyes bounced between her aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents with inconceivable happiness.

  In her native tongue, she made a request to Rachel.

  Keeping her hands on the steering wheel, Rachel replied, “They can’t see or hear you.” Only I can. “It’s time for you to go to your home.”

  The girl crossed her arms, pouted, and said something rude.

  “This isn’t where you live anymore. Do you understand?” Rachel hated this part, but it had to be done.

  Mi Na’s eyes watered as she watched her family enjoying the festivities inside while she sat in Rachel’s cold car.

  Sensing the girl’s longing, Rachel sighed and opened the door. She stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced back at the little girl. “Well?”

  After a moment of hesitation, Mi Na crawled over the seat and exited beside Rachel. Light flurries drifted down on them as they watched the family chuckle like the final scene in a Hallmark movie.

  The little girl took Rachel’s hand. Her touch was faint and icy, and the gloves did nothing to lessen the chill. Nonetheless, Rachel didn’t let go. Snowflakes landed on Rachel’s nose and rosy cheeks, melting upon impact. They phased through the little girl beside her. For the next few minutes, they watched the perfect picture.

  Mi Na Jang slid her hand out of Rachel’s grasp.

  There was a maturity to her face that hadn’t been there before. She understands now, Rachel thought proudly. With a small smile, the child walked down the sidewalk and disappeared into the snowy night. Rachel listened to the wind whistling in the serene town of Highlands before returning to her car.

  “I’m home,” Rachel yelled as she shuffled through the front door, dangling the carton of gas station eggnog by two fingers. She tapped the toe of her boot on the welcome rug, shaking off loose snow. In the living room, Liam put on his winter coat and beanie and yawned. On a knee, Peak helped Clove with her gloves.

  “Leaving?” Rachel asked, masking her disappointment with a casual tone.

  “Gotta get up for sunrise service tomorrow,” Liam declared and gave her hug. “Thank you for hosting. Sorry I couldn’t stay.”

  “It’s not a big deal,” Evelyn said, hiding her disappointment.

  “See you New Year’s?” Liam asked with a raised brow.

  “You can count on it.” Rachel gave him another hug and op
ened the door for him. He waved Peak and Clove goodbye before walking to his blue minivan.

  Clove ran out ahead of Peak and unlocked Peak’s car: an unmarked Impala like Rachel’s.

  Peak stopped on the front porch. The wind ruffled his copper hair, black tie, and navy-blue windbreaker he wore all year. He turned back to Evelyn, the entrance hall light streaming across her long face, box jaw, sunken cheeks, and pursed lips. His eyes were like shiny coal. “You were with an Orphan tonight.”

  “Lucky guess,” Rachel replied.

  “Do they ever leave you alone?”

  “Only when I drink the smoothie.”

  Peak put his hands in his pants’ back pockets. “Who was it?”

  “The Jang girl. Head smashed in on her drunk uncle’s bedpost.”

  Staring at nothing in particular, Peak nodded to himself. After a moment of silence, he said. “Merry Christmas, Harroway.”

  “You too, Detective.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Rachel crinkled her brow. “How’s that?”

  Peak cracked a sad smile. “Someone always dies on Christmas Eve.”

  “Dad, hurry up!” Clove shouted.

  Hugging herself, Evelyn watched her partner’s car vanish down the tree-flanked road before shutting the front door and locking it tight. She set up the safety bar below the doorknob and killed the downstairs lights. She removed her jacket, shirt, and pants on her way to the bathroom door. When she had finished showering, she put on long johns, lathered her hands with ointment to keep her skin from cracking, and put on black gloves. She checked her pistol’s magazine and slid it under her ex-husband’s pillow before spending the next two hours staring at the ceiling. She recalled all the people she had failed to save and all those that still needed her help. Some days, life felt like the cabin of a sinking ship; there was only a fleeting pocket of air and every breath was a struggle. Thankfully, today was not one of those days.

  Before the sun rose, she got up, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and then put on dark blue jeans, belt, gun, and her badge out of habit. Once she slipped into her ironed and tucked-in grey shirt, she headed downstairs and opened the cupboard, fishing out a tin tea canister. She popped off the lid, seeing the shiny metal bottom. Perfect, she thought sarcastically. After a moment of contemplation, she opened the gift her Native American friend Sequoyah gave her.

  Inside of the paper-wrapped box, an assortment of herbs and roots were packed in individual airtight bags. On the countertop, Rachel removed them one by one, taking inventory of the roots that looked like warted chicken feet and a number of poisonous dried leaves.

  “May the Gift serve you well,” Sequoyah’s card read. He was one of the few people who knew about Rachel’s condition, and though he claimed ignorance to supernatural things, Rachel was always under the suspicion that her Cherokee friend knew more than he was letting on.

  Rachel set the note aside and pulled out a few mason jars. Drinking the dirt-tasting smoothie keep the Orphans away from her for seventy-two hours. Merry Christmas to me. Rachel used plastic gloves to handle the herbs and put in them in their designated jar.

  Her mother’s rustic leather-bound journal was open on the middle page. It showed the exact ingredients and proportions of the grey/green concoction that muted Rachel’s Gift. Rachel was no stranger to the instructions, but there was something powerful about referencing her mother’s weathered notebook. Most of the other pages contained passages from other dialects, some as common as French and others as obscure as Cherokee. There were pictures, too, of twisting trees, bloodied bodies, and disturbing objects.

  Rachel’s phone buzzed on the countertop. Rachel answered and held it between her shoulder and ear.

  “This is Dispatch. We have a 10-67,” the mechanical-sounding female operator said.

  Rachel grabbed a pen from a cup and jotted down the location on her wrist.

  “On my way.”

  Leaving the herbs on the countertop, Rachel slung on a black and white scarf and headed outside. The sun cast crimson rays across the indigo sky. The scarlet glow reflected on the powdery snow that painted the mountains and trees. Rachel’s Impala clunked down the black asphalt road, tires slipping on the invisible patches of ice. Dispatch took her farther up the plateau and deeper into the woods. She pulled into a dirt shoulder on the road that eventually merged with an RV camping site not too far beyond.

  Snow crunched below Rachel’s boots as she stepped into forested winter wonderland. A calm breeze swayed bone-like tree branches. Colossal clouds gathered at the edge of the blue sky.

  Alone, Rachel followed the dozens of snowy footprints down the old hiking trail. She came to the clearing where the other officers had gathered. The earth here dipped into a fourteen-foot wide cattle-watering pond. The upper quadrant of the ice-covered pond had been smashed into large chunks. Officer Jones, a young man with blond hair and a thick golden mustache, and Officer Lindsey, a mean-looking brunette, cast long metal hooks into the freezing water, planted their feet, and fished something from the water. A few more hands came to assist them in their pulling.

  Dripping water, a shirtless stiff cadaver with long ginger hair was dragged face up from the watery grave via hooks beneath his armpits. Wet and dirty rags stuck to dead flesh. Partially opened eyes sank into dense skull. Freckles spotted taut, pasty skin. Buckteeth jutted from under a busted upper lip.

  Dressed in puffy winter garb with their hoods up, a few children gathered nearby and chattered to a police officer, who kept them from looking at the body.

  “Told you,” Peak said behind Rachel.

  She turned back to her partner. She had not heard him approaching. “I hate when you’re right.”

  “You must hate me all the time,” Peak said dryly.

  “Give me the skinny,” Rachel said as they waltzed around the pond on this beautiful Christmas morning. A few officers and forensic analysts nodded at her and grumbled “happy holidays.” The murder had ruined everyone’s day plans. Rachel glanced up the tall trees and potential paths leading to the pond. Most of the trees in the area were not tightly clustered. The killer or/and victim could have come from a half-dozen directions. Last night’s snowfall concealed the footprints, but the body could be much older than a day.

  “See the boys over there. They called it in. Saw the body beneath the ice,” Peak said with intrigue. “We’ll need Gates to analyze the cadaver.”

  The officers dragged the exhumed body across a blue tarp held to the ground by metal stakes. The cadaver’s arms had hardened in place just above his bare chest. The body wore long, tattered pants, but no shoes. A chilly breeze whistled through the woods. Heck of a time to go swimming, Rachel thought.

  She approached the children: four boys from ages of five through eight. The younger they were, the more layers of clothing swaddled their frail bodies. The smallest looked like a puffball. Their breath misted out of their trembling lips. The officer talking to them stood from his kneeling position. He brushed off his knee and spoke softly in a Southern accent. “They snuck out here before their parents awoke.”

  “Why?” Peak asked.

  The officer rubbed his hands together. “Sledding.”

  Peak elaborated, “Why are they out here on Christmas morning?”

  The officer pointed east. “The campsite ain’t far. There are at least a dozen RVs out there.”

  “In weather like this? Sounds like national selection at work.”

  “They’re children, Peak,” Rachel said.

  “It was a joke,” Peak said dryly.

  Another officer called over the one Rachel was to speak to. He left Rachel and Peak with the boys. Rachel eyed the children, finding the one who seemed the most confident, but somehow all of them looked guilty.

  “Sledding, huh?” Rachel opened.

  The boys traded looks, and all of them nodded rapidly.

  “Then where’s the sled?” Rachel said.

  The boys fidgeted.

  “Thi
s is scary, I know,” Rachel leveled with them. “But, I can’t help you unless you’re honest with me.”

  The youngest asked sheepishly, “Do you think we killed him?”

  “Did you?” Rachel asked.

  The boy’s eyes went wide and he shook his head.

  “I believe you. Now empty your pockets.” Rachel clapped. “All of you. Come on. Hurry up.”

  The boys reluctantly obeyed and withdrew fireworks and a lighter. They presented them before Rachel and Peak.

  “We just wanted to see if we could blow up the ice, that’s it,” the oldest said, eyes watering. “Please don’t tell our moms.”

  “Please! Please! Please,” the other boys pleaded.

  “I won’t, but you need to tell me why you wanted to launch fireworks instead of sneaking a peek at your Christmas presents?”

  “We already opened presents,” the youngest said.

  One of the older boys punched his arm. “Don’t tell her that. We’re already in enough trouble.”

  “Ow.” The youngest one rubbed his new bruise.

  “We heard fireworks last night,” one of the boys explained. “We thought it would be cool if we set some off too.”

  “How did it sound?” Peak asked.

  “Pow!” One of the boys said.

  Peak and Rachel traded looks.

  “Could be a gunshot,” Peak said.

  If Peak was right, that gave the murder a time of death. The boys claimed to have heard it between nine and eleven pm. With nothing else to ask the children, they sent them back to their worried parents.

  The coroner, Woodrow Gates, knelt next to the cadaver. His grey hair was combed over the patchy bald spot on his crown, and his eyes were almost silver. Wearing plastic gloves over his winter gloves, he moved aside the cadaver’s stiff arms and examined the hole on the right side of his torso. Hearing Rachel and Peak approach, Gates said, “Gunshot, through and through, probably a hunting rifle by the wound’s diameter.”

  The body looked to be between the age 17 and 25. He was so skinny, his ribs could be seen pressing against his pale skin. His arms and legs were little more than skin and bones.

  “Arm is broken,” Gates said, pointing at the lump under the skin a few inches from the elbow. There were a number of scrapes and bruises surrounding the lump.