The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  As complacency and dread set in, something deep inside of Number One sparked: the will to live.

  He charged the truck’s double doors. His bare upper body smacked against metal and, with a loud snap, the latch outside snapped and the vertical gate slid upward a few feet. Number One dropped to belly and rolled out to his freedom in the blackest night.

  Icy wind hit One’s body like a thousand needles. For a moment, he imagined himself flying with the black birds he saw outside of Father’s window. The impact of the hard asphalt shattered his fantasy and his brittle right arm.

  He rolled down the steep mountain road, watching tall, skeletal trees spin with him. His cheek smacked against a sheet of black ice. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and warmed his body. He lifted himself from the asphalt. His right arm was useless and numbed by adrenaline, but he still had a left one and two good legs.

  The truck’s amber tail cast a red hue upon him as the tires screeched to a halt in the harsh winter night.

  Father was coming.

  Tears trickling down his cheeks, Number One bolted into the nearby woods. Snow bit the soles of his bare feet and froze his toes.

  The trees around him blurred as he limped through the woods. He didn’t know where he was running. As long as it was away from Father, that was all that mattered now.

  The gunshot sounded. Sharp pain ripped through his side like a lightning bolt. He grunted and smacked against hard tree bark. He put his hand on the wound leaking warm liquid into the lip of his pants and shoved himself off the tree. Feeling reality slip, he ran down into a snow-covered dip in the terrain.

  Something cracked beneath his feet. The moment he realized he was on ice, the sheet shattered and the cold abyss engulfed him. He got his head out of the water. He flailed his arms and splashed around, not knowing how to swim. Father, silhouetted in the darkness, came to a stop at the edge of the pond.

  “No, no, no!” Father shouted frantically. Twisting the gun around, he extended the rifle stock over the pond to save the boy.

  Feeling the cold water stealing his life, Number One reached out for the weapon--his last bastion of hope--as the icy water sucked him in. Before the deadly pond muted all other noise, Number One heard his Father’s tormented wail echo through the woods.

  4

  Snow Angels

  Rachel’s head screamed and, despite wearing three layers of dry clothes, cold water stiffened her bones. Phantom pains, she reminded herself as her gloved hand brought the mug of tea to her quivering lips. She was just thankful that she ended the vision before she began to seize. Nonetheless, using the Gift in such a way was like playing in a busy intersection: eventually, you get hit.

  Peak studied her from the other side of the cafe’s table. Steam from his black coffee shrouded his intense face in mist. His jaw was tight on his gaunt face. Hints of guilt lingered behind his coal-black eyes, though he wasn’t one for apologies. “What did you see?”

  “The inside of a truck,” Rachel replied, the searing tea pinching the tip of her tongue. “I couldn’t tell how big. Smaller than a semi, though. Maybe ten or twelve feet.”

  Rachel shivered, remembering the icy wind against her bare skin. Her broken arm. The sharp pain in her side. That wasn’t you. The thought wasn’t sincere. Number One’s dread and hopelessness pressed down on her. She longed to curl up into a ball and weep, but there was work to be done.

  “Could you see the killer?” Peak asked.

  Rachel closed her eyes, replaying the vision in her mind. “No. I heard his voice and his scream. I think...” Rachel struggled with the words. “I think he actually cared about the boy. He wanted to save him.”

  “Shooting at your loved ones is a great way to show affection,” Peak replied.

  “I don’t think he was trying to kill his captive. Maim him seems more accurate.”

  Peak’s skepticism was noticeable. “You said it was night, and he was running. It’s more believable the killer fudged the kill shot.”

  “Or his aim is spectacular,” Rachel replied. She did not like the sound of that. Rachel was a decent shot, but very rarely had she had to use her Glock 22. Facing off against a talented marksman didn’t inspire confidence. By Peak’s sober expression, he didn’t like the idea either.

  “Maybe we’re dealing with a Marine or a cop,” Rachel brainstormed.

  “It’s too early to jump to conclusions. Besides, we don’t know how reliable these visions are.”

  “Really, Peak?” Rachel asked with attitude. “I’d say they’re pretty reliable.”

  “In some cases, but a healthy amount of skepticism could be the difference between blindly pursuing a false lead and a thorough investigation.”

  Rachel didn’t reply. He made a good point. Putting on blinders this early in the case would hinder more than help. Also, everything Rachel saw using the Reality was from the victim’s point of view. If he wasn’t of sound mind, it could’ve muddled the perception of Rachel’s vision. Though one thing was certain, there was a killer out there capable of breaking both mind and body. God only knew when he’d take his next captive and mark them Number Two.

  The detectives ate a quiet lunch, soup and sandwiches, before returning to the bullpen. Despite his doubts, Peak searched the database for any rogue Marines and sharpshooters in the surrounding area. The search was fruitless, at least for those who had a criminal record.

  Rachel glanced up from her sketchpad and at Number One looming over her desk. His long hair tumbled down his shoulders and over his face. His teeth were rotted. His eyes were yellow, with red veins squiggling to his irises. He gagged and gasped, trying to communicate without a tongue. An officer walked straight through him without noticing.

  The gargling worsened. Rachel excused herself and exited the police station via the back door. She took a breath of crisp mountain air. The barometer dropped. She buried her gloved hands in the pockets of her saddle-colored leather jacket. Above, the sky had turned the color of dirty iron, masking the sun. McConnell was right. A storm was coming.

  A mix of the cold and lack of sleep gave Rachel a bad case of the yawns. After she had “clocked out,” if that was ever truly a possibility with her career choice and the Gift, Rachel returned to her rickety old home. The 1892 manse was much bigger than it needed to be and looked hollow, even from the outside. Snow gathered on the peaked roof. Icicles clung from the rim of the porch’s awning. Bony trees flanked both sides. In the wind, their wooden claws reached for the upstairs window. The backyard had a tire swing hanging from a frayed rope that seemed to coil and uncoil itself in the wind.

  Rachel entered her home, hearing the old walls groan as the sun fell away. She locked the front and back door and double-checked the protection bars under the doorknobs. The grandfather clock ticked along as Rachel finished sorting her herbs and roots. It was not the way she had planned to spend her Christmas evening. Ideally, it would’ve been with a carton of ice cream, a cozy book, and a warm fire. Despite how much work and stress was loaded onto her back, the world didn’t stop spinning. Responsibilities, chores, all the things that made her wish she had a significant other were still there at the end of a long day. Perhaps that’s why her father was always trying to hitch her with some successful suitor. At the age of forty, though, Rachel didn’t see that as a possibility. It’s better this way, she thought as she filled up her metal tea canister. Managing the Gift was hard enough already. To share it with someone else would be cruel. No doubt there was a fulfillment that came with helping the dead, but peace and joy on the other hand…

  As Rachel packed up her cupboards, Brett came to mind. They had bought this house together back when they both had art careers. After Rachel learned of the Gift, she changed her career path to law enforcement. Though Brett knew of her power, he couldn’t understand why she’d want to expose herself to the darker side of humanity.

  “Because I’m the only one who can make a difference,” Rachel argued.

  “So this family means no
thing?” Brett retorted.

  The ultimatum ruined their marriage, but perhaps for the better. For almost a decade, Rachel had completely devoted all of her time and energy to helping Orphans find their way home, Brett found another woman, and the world kept spinning.

  It was a little past ten when Rachel shambled upstairs, took a shower, and crawled into her big, empty bed. The heater hummed and warmed the old house with dry air. Like every night, Hadley House groaned and wood creaked, wind whistled through unseen breaches in the roof, and wooden shutters clapped against the side of the pale green walls.

  She dreamed of lying on her belly while the sharp, icy edge of a knife carved a number into her bare back.

  In a cold sweat, she jolted out of bed. The bright green numbers of digital clock on the lamp stand blinked at 3am exactly. Cold jets of wind seeped through the cracks around her closed bedroom door. Staying in her long johns, Rachel quickly threw on some pants and last night’s sweater. She grabbed her gun from under Brett’s pillow and clicked off the safety. Her bare feet pattered across the floor. The hardwood groaned and creaked beneath her freezing soles. Keeping one hand on the weapon, she twisted the copper doorknob.

  The hallway was pitch black and the gales of wind pushed through it like vacuum. One step at a time, Rachel neared the small balcony railing that eventually bent 90 degrees and turned into the handrail for the stairs. Rachel halted at the hall’s end and peered down at the wide-open front door. The same door she had secured hours ago. An ocean of snow spewed across the entrance hall like white tongue. Footsteps indented it.

  Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. She became goose skinned. Was this an Orphan or was someone in her house? Rachel didn’t know. Keeping both hands around her pistol grip, she descended to the bottom of the stairs. Aiming, she scanned the dark hall, living room, and the little bit of the kitchen she could see. Her steady breath fogged in the air. She flipped a light switch. Nothing.

  She toggled the switch a few more times. The hall stayed shrouded in darkness. Outside, snow piled on top of her white Impala. There was no other car.

  She entered the living room. Quiet. Calm. Nothing had been moved or touched. She moved into the kitchen. It was how she had left it. She looped back into the hall. In the front yard, something ran by. Was it a person? Rachel tried to keep her heart rate down, but failed. She moved towards the front door. Her toes curled as they touched the snow.

  She quickly dipped out to the front porch. The wind brushed her raven-black hair against her cheek. The silhouetted trees waved at her. Something crunched. That was when Rachel saw it: footprints suddenly appearing in the snow and walking across the front yard.

  The barefoot prints walked up the stairs and stopped right in front of Rachel. She felt the Sense pulling at her, yet there was no one to be seen. The footprints didn’t move until Rachel took a step back. Then a footprint closed the gap between her and the invisible figure.

  “One?” Rachel called out, wishing that she knew the guy’s real name.

  There was a creaking noise and followed by a slam!

  The front door had closed behind her.

  The lock clicked.

  Rachel’s eyes went wide.

  “No,” she whispered before dashing back to the entrance of her house. Her hand tried the icy copper doorknob, but it did not budge. The keys were still upstairs. She put her shoulder into the door and got a new bruise. The door didn’t budge.

  Rachel turned back to the footprints. They had stopped an inch from her.

  “Open it,” she demanded as her teeth started to chatter.

  The footsteps didn’t move. The Orphan refused to reveal himself.

  “I’m the only one that can help you,” Rachel explained. “Do you want me to freeze to death?”

  The footsteps started back to the front lawn. Against her better judgment, Rachel carefully followed. She kept her hands on her gun, yet she knew it would do nothing to the dead. As she trekked down to the front lawn, the footprints stopped and the snow began to part as if someone was running a stick through it. Rachel watched as the invisible stick created angles and a peak, windows, and door, and soon a house. At first, the drawing was simple, like a child’s, but then it became more complex, adding a second peak to the roof, a detailed porch, covered driveway, chimney, and more. Within a few moments, Rachel was looking at a masterwork: a lodge surrounded by trees.

  “Is this your home?” Rachel asked.

  Number One appeared standing by the house drawing. He groaned and gurgled as blood pumped from his bullet wound and splattered on the snow. Though the Orphan stayed motionless, markers appeared in the snow. It took Rachel a moment to realize he was trying to spell out words, but the letters were backwards and conjoined.

  He doesn’t know how to write. Rachel looked at the Orphan with pity. “How long were you captive?”

  The Orphan clacked his teeth and made no other reply.

  The front door opened. Rachel turned back to the house and then back to where Number One was standing. He had vanished.

  Rushing inside, Rachel grabbed her cellphone and took a few pictures of the snow lodge. She gave Peak a call.

  “What?” Peak said with a groggy voice.

  “I got a lead,” Rachel replied.

  “At 3:23 in the morning?”

  “It’s a lodge in the woods. That’s where Number One was being held. Let me send you the picture.”

  “It looks like snow.” Peak said flatly.

  “Right,” Rachel said, feeling embarrassed.

  Rachel got out her shading pencils and notebook and replicated the drawing in the snow. It would be easier to just show him the photograph, but only Rachel could see the Orphans’ influences over the world. Even if they smashed something over her head, only Rachel would see it and feel it.

  “You still awake?” Rachel asked as she finished up her replica.

  “Yeah.”

  Rachel imagined him pinching the bridge of his nose. She snapped a picture of her drawing and texted it to him.

  “That’s the lodge?”

  “We’ll see if we can convince McConnell to help us find it.”

  “Tomorrow?” Peak asked.

  “Yeah, it’s too late to call him now.”

  “But not too late to call me?”

  “Goodnight, Peak,” Rachel said.

  “Night, Harroway.”

  Their call ended. Rachel hugged herself and rubbed her arms up and down her biceps in an attempt to stay warm. You need sleep, a little voice told her. Rachel climbed into the bed. She closed her eyes and saw the twin-peaked lodge in the woods. The more she concentrated on it, the clearer it became. She could smell the wood in the fireplace and see the black bird perched on barren branches. It was like Rachel had been there before. Like it was her home.

  Rachel awoke when it was still dark, and her back was killing her. She tried to find the source of the pain, but her arm didn’t bend that far back. She dashed into the bathroom. Turning around, she lifted her shirt and looked at her back in the mirror, seeing her skin had been flayed in the shape of a “2.”

  An alarm clock screamed. In bed, Rachel awoke, for real this time, and gave the digital clock a good smack. 5:45am. Head throbbing, Rachel took a shower, checked her unharmed back, and got dressed in long underwear, snow pants, a t-shirt, button-up without a tie, leather jacket, scarf, black wool gloves, and beanie. The nightmare lingered in her mind as she grabbed a bag full of trail mix for breakfast and headed to the police station.

  Like most mornings, she got into the bullpen while the graveyard crew was still working. Yawning, she plopped into her desk chair and booted up her computer, spending the first hour of the day finishing a few case reports. The holidays had her slacking.

  Peak arrived a little before 8am. His copper hair was disheveled and his dark eyes were baggy. He wore his navy-blue windbreaker and ash-colored tie. Without a word, he sat at his desk. Rachel rolled her chair next to his.

  “Ready to talk to McC
onnell?” Rachel asked.

  He checked his watch and groaned.

  Rachel rolled back to her desk and got up. “I’ll see you in his office.”

  Grumbling, Peak rose from his seat, not bothering to tighten his tie, fix his hair, or push in his chair.

  Rachel gave McConnell’s door a knock. The tall lieutenant opened the door to them. “Detectives.”

  His office was humble, with pictures of his family on the desk, mainly his son in a soccer uniform throughout grade school and middle school. McConnell sipped office coffee from the Styrofoam cup. “What can I do for you two?”

  Rachel got straight to business. “We want to survey the area for any cabins or lodges where our killer was keeping Number One.”

  McConnell eyed her curiously. His bottom rested on the edge of the desk. “I see. What makes you think John Doe was held in this area? He could’ve come from anywhere.”

  Rachel hated this part. Part of having the Gift meant lying. Over the years, she had gotten pretty good at making up tall tales to keep her supernatural informants a secret. Nevertheless, Peak was a better liar than herself. Having spent a few years undercover with the Aryan Nation, he had to be.

  “We don’t know if he was there or not, but we need a complete geo-profile,” Peak explained with a plain face. “Cabins, lodges, trailers, any buildings nearby the pond that could lead us to our perpetrator.”

  “A fly-by would be sufficient,” Rachel elaborated.

  McConnell chuckled. “Wanting to take out the new toy before the storm comes?”

  “Something like that,” Rachel replied.

  The lieutenant bounced his glance between them. “Alright, but only because you’re my favorite homicide detectives.”

  “We’re your only homicide detectives,” Peak replied dryly.