The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  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--!”

  “I know!” Peak replied. “You have to take him out, Harroway!”

  The vehicle had become a wind tunnel. The heater, though at full blast, did nothing to warm them. Snow and sleet smacked flesh. It fluttered in the interior, turning the car into an 85-mile per hour snow globe

  Rachel pulled her pistol out of the holster when Peak swerved. Her forehead almost smacked the dashboard as another .44 round zipped by the car. Keeping her head behind the dash, Rachel lowered the passenger side window. She reached her arm out of the vehicle. The storm bit her through her glove and jacket and fought against her weapon. She pulled her weapon’s stiff trigger, firing off her pistol multiple times.

  All misses.

  I need to get a clearer shot. Biting down on her lower lip, Rachel unclipped her seatbelt and leaned her torso out of the vehicle. She could only hear the wind as both vehicles descended down the other side of the mountain. Her ponytail fluttered in the constant gale. Taking snow in one eye and squinting the other, Rachel aimed at the truck’s tire. She fired. The forty-caliber bullet from her Glock 22 chipped away a piece of the asphalt behind the box truck’s tire.

  The driver noticed. He quickly turned left and then the right, the back of his bulky vehicle swaying at the motion. Rachel fired again and again. Miss. Miss.

  The driver fired back, obliterating one of the Impala’s headlights. Peak hit black ice and slid toward the guardrail and the abyss of spiked trees beyond. At the motion, Rachel almost flew out the window. She swiftly pulled herself back inside of the vehicle. Her lips were cracked and chapped, clear snot had frozen beneath her nose, her brows were frosted, and her face was numb and ice cold.

  She gave Peak a death glare and pulled the dashboard radio to her mouth. With chattering teeth, she yelled over the rushing wind. “We need backup now!”

  “The storm is too strong, Detective! We’ve already had one squad car spin out! We advise distancing yourself from the suspect! We’ll get him at the bottom of the mountain!”

  “No! We’re not losing him!” Rachel shouted and tossed the radio. It smacked against the dashboard and dangled in her foot cubby. Not when he’s right in our crosshairs.

  As they rounded the corner, the box truck pumped its brakes.

  “Rachel!” Peak yelled a second before the Impala slammed into the slowing truck's rear end.

  Guarding her face with her forearms, Rachel hit the dashboard and chomped her tongue. She tasted copper and felt her mouth fill with blood. Their vehicle punted off of the guardrail, removing the paint from the passenger side door. Peak turned the steering wheel back and forth, trying to regain control. His wheels hit the tread on the roadside, causing the world to rattle.

  The descending mountain road evened out long enough for the truck driver’s revolver to peer out of the window and aim at the Impala. Using his driver side mirror, the silhouetted driver took aim at Peak. Despite the wind, sleet, and high speed, his arm was nearly completely steady.

  In a split-second decision, Rachel, with a mouth full of blood, stuck her upper half out of the window, faced the torrent of frigid wind, and squeezed the trigger.

  The box truck’s back tire popped and the entire vehicle dropped down on to the back-right corner. The dirty rim stripped the black tire like old skin and sparked across the asphalt road. In that same second, the driver fired the revolver. For the first time since the firefight started, he missed their vehicle.

  The box truck veered to the right and blew through the guardrail with a loud crash. It rumbled down the mountainside and out of sight.

  Peak slammed on the brakes. The Impala skidded on the asphalt and came to a stop ten yards from the breach in the guardrail. Rachel pulled herself into the vehicle, spewing a glob of spit and blood on the road outside. Warm crimson trickled down Rachel’s chin and dribbled onto her scarf. She rubbed it away with her shaking palm.

  Looking like he was about spew, Peak took a deep breath. He peeled his fingers from the steering wheel, but his shoulders were still tense.

  Putting a hesitant hand on Rachel’s knee, Peak gave her a look of uncertainty and then stepped out of the vehicle. As the wind ruffled his brown hair and turned his gaunt cheeks rosy, he drew out his Glock 19 and started toward to the guardrail. Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. Her cheeks filled with more metallic-tasting blood. Taking the radio mic from her foot cubby, she called in her location. She checked her nearly depleted pistol magazine, swapped it out with her spare, and followed after her partner.

  The storm died down, but not by much. Up ahead, the guardrail had been severed and the parts adjacent to the breach curled back into the mountain slope.

  Gun raised, Rachel and Peak stopped at the threshold. Tire tracks trailed over the snow, through a cluster of skinny trees, and ended at the back of the halted box truck twenty-ish yards away. It was not a big tree that stopped the vehicle, but the number of thin trees it plowed through.

  Peak shuffled down the slope, careful not to slip on the soggy snow. Rachel trailed behind him. Time seemed to stand still as they moved closer to the disabled vehicle. Only their ragged breathing, crunch of snow beneath their boots, and the quiet hum of the smoking engine broke the silence.

  The Sense grew stronger the closer Rachel got to the truck. The trees around them were skinny while the ones further down the hill had substantial girth. Rachel and Peak paused at the sight of the ajar driver door.

  Swiping his two fingers in the air, Peak gestured that he was going to move up and explore farther. Rachel spaced herself from him, knowing that the driver’s revolver could blow through both of them if they stood in a line. To make matters worse, neither of them had bulletproof vests. With a wide berth, they got parallel with the truck’s driver side door. The cab was empty. A series of footprints in the snow revealed the driver’s path deeper into the woods.

  “I’m going after him,” Peak said, leaving no room for argument.

  Keeping both bare hands around his 9mm pistol, he walked parallel to the trail of footprints and out of Rachel’s sight.

  Rachel felt the Sense pulling her towards the truck. She sniffled and neared the cab. Gun up, she peered inside. The driver seat cushion had faded in the shape of the person’s buttocks and back. The armrest on the inner driver side door had cracked upholstery, revealing the hardened yellow foam within. The ignition was empty. The driver took the keys with him, meaning that it probably had his house key or other important baubles attached to the ring. The passenger side of the truck had a few food stains an
d a crusty fry wedge between the backboard and seat cushion. There was no back seat. A drab white wall separated the front seats from the storage area that was fifteen feet long.

  Rachel turned back to realize her partner wasn’t there anymore. “Peak?”

  No reply.

  He couldn’t have gone far. Rachel followed his trail into the woods. It took her by leafless bushes and bony oaks. They swayed in the wind and had mounds of falling snow on their limbs. The sleet, however, melted the white fluffy snow and left behind dirty slush. Rachel passed under a branch bent beneath the dirty snow’s weight. The slush narrowly missed Rachel’s crown.

  The more Rachel walked, the more concern filled her mind. The footprints in the wet snow were stained with dirt. By the prints smeared on the ground, Rachel knew that the suspect was running. If there was any positive to this whole fiasco, Rachel was fairly certain this was her guy. Innocent people didn’t shoot at the cops.

  A stream came into view. Chunks of thin ice drifted down its current, getting snagged on felled branches dammed against the creek side and stubborn rocks. It was largely insignificant and only a foot-wide, with a series of mini-waterfalls that lined its descent down the mountain. Rachel stopped at the edge of the water and chewed the inside of her cheek. The footprints ended at the creek’s edge, meaning that the driver was trailing through the shallow water. Masking his footsteps, Rachel theorized. This guy is smart. She took off her glove and dipped her fingertips into the ice-cold water. And desperate.

  “Peak?” Rachel called into the woods around her.

  Every second alone made her fear more palpable. A million scenarios played out in her mind, and all of them centered on the demise of her fellow detective/best friend. Only friend.

  He’s okay, she told herself, and decided to follow the stream down the mountain.

  Her ears were pink from the cold and ached along with her joints and swollen tongue. The gun started feeling heavy in her hands. The bruises across her forearms throbbed. At least her arms kept her nose from breaking on the dashboard. She covered her mouth with her scarf.

  The stream seemed to travel forever. Rachel continually glanced behind her to make sure her footprints were visible. Being lost out in these woods would be death, and every second she moved forward was another second for slush to cover her muddy tracks.

  She heard a twig break behind her. Swiftly, she spun around, looking out into the silent woods. The branches on the bush swayed more than the rest. Someone or something had brushed against it. Primed for the kill, Rachel held her breath and kept her gun aimed. Another brush moved.

  Rachel’s finger lingered on the trigger. Out from behind a tree, a snow hare hopped. It glanced at Rachel, sniffled its nose, and twitched its ear before traveling onward. Nonetheless, Rachel didn’t let her guard down. She had to trust her gut that someone was watching her.

  Movement rapidly approached from behind. Rachel turned her heels and took aim.

  It was Peak. His hair was disheveled and sweat was glued to his forehead. His boots were wet.

  Letting out an exasperated sigh, Rachel lowered her gun. “You want me to shoot you?” Rachel asked through her scarf.

  Peak ignored the comment. “I lost him.”

  Rachel couldn’t lie. That disappointed her, especially after all they had risked to get him. However, being a homicide detective meant knowing when to push the envelope and when to fall back. They’d gone far enough for today. Combing miles of woods after an armed man with immaculate aim was about as suicidal as chasing a truck through black ice. Rachel was done with risk-taking today. She needed a cup of tea or hot chocolate and twelve hours of sleep.

  They followed Rachel’s trail to the truck and arrived as the sun was setting, though the clouds masked it. The sleet had stopped falling, but the temperature still dropped and the world was cold and gray.

  “Backup should be arriving soon,” Rachel declared.

  “Hurray,” Peak replied dryly.

  They arrived at the box truck.

  “I’m half tempted to smash its headlight and shoot its windshield,” Peak said, visibly angered by the idea of his own car being severely damaged. Though the department would give him a new one by tomorrow, it didn’t lessen the headache of today.

  Rachel paused next to the box truck. She felt something nagging at her, drawing her to the latch. By the looks of it, the latch was a replacement. If Number One sabotaged the last one, it made sense that the driver would replace it. Good. That means a sales receipt. She made a mental note to look into various local mechanics and scrap yards that would sell such items over the holidays.

  The Sense kept tugging at her like a child’s hand at the corner of her shirt. Orphan or danger?

  “We need to check inside,” Rachel declared.

  “We should wait for backup before we mess with anything,” Peak replied.

  “I can feel something in there, Peak,” Rachel explained.

  Peak set his jaw and glared. After a moment, he nodded.

  Rachel approached the truck’s sealed, vertical sliding door. Peak stood behind her, keeping his gun low but holding it in both hands.

  Rachel grabbed ahold of the metal bar and slid it upward with a harsh scraping noise. Keeping one hand on her pistol, Rachel yanked up the sliding gate. It rolled to a rough stop at the top of the box truck. Something moved swiftly inside. Before Rachel could comprehend the situation, her back hit the damp ground and her gun had slid out of her hand.

  A short figure in rags with long knotted hair landed on Rachel and started raking at Rachel’s face with her gnarly nails. Rachel held up her arms to block the screaming figure’s attacks.

  Peak took a step back, aiming the gun at the figure but unable to get a clear shot.

  “Peak,” Rachel called out as the figure buried her teeth into Rachel’s forearm like a rabid dog. It didn’t feel like much through the leather jacket and long johns underneath.

  “I can’t,” Peak retorted. “She’s a little girl, Rachel.”

  The revelation hit Rachel when she realized just how short her attacker was. The child, somewhere between 5-10 years old, raked her chipped fingernails across Rachel’s brow. Wincing, Rachel grabbed each of the little girl’s skeletal wrists and shoved her off. The child flew back into the dirt. In a matter of seconds, she was back on Rachel, screaming like a banshee. Rachel pushed the girl to the side. The stranger rolled through the dirty snow, grabbed a felled branch, and charged at Rachel.

  “Hey--” Rachel was cut off by the stick smacking her bruised forearms. She cursed, and the girl hit her again, this time harder.

  “Do something,” Rachel yelled at Peak as she scooted on her knees to subdue the little girl. She wore a tattered dress that covered her malnourished body like a pillowcase. Blood caked in her knotted hair. She swung at Rachel again. Rachel grabbed the branch.

  Putting his gun in his holster, Peak raced around the little girl and picked her up from under the armpits.

  “Bad,” he said as the girl kicked and screamed. She drove her heel into Peak’s groin as he lifted her. Peak grunted and lost his grip on the girl. She took off into a sprint.

  Rachel chased and dived after the runaway little girl. Her head landed on the girl’s back as she took her down as gently as possible. The girl fell face down into the wet snow. To keep her from squirming, Rachel grabbed the back of the child’s sleeveless dress. Accidentally, her grip tore the thin, dirty fabric, revealing the number “9” carved into the girl’s back.

  Rachel stared at it in horror and then turned back to Peak, who was equally shocked.

  Burying her face in the snow, the little girl screamed and cried.

  Someone coughed in the back of the truck.

  Quickly cuffing the little girl, Rachel pulled her out of the snow. The child was shaking so much it seemed like she was having a seizure.

  Keeping his hand on his holstered gun, Peak cautiously approached the back of the truck. He went tense at the open gate. The breeze
flapped his navy-blue windbreaker, making rippling waves across his chest.

  As police sirens wailed in the distance, Peak turned back to Rachel with a sober expression. “There are two more in here.”

  7

  Hush

  An oppressive atmosphere sucked the life out of everyone in the dimly lit hospital observation room. On the other side of the wide rectangular window, eggshell white curtains separated three beds. Notched leather straps bound the children to their mattress handles. Spotted patient garb had replaced their tattered rags. The medication kept them docile. It was obvious they hadn’t bathed in weeks. Their bodies were so skinny, their ribs protruded from their skin and their bellies were like pots. Their mouths were full of crooked, rotting teeth. All of them boasted a scar that took up the middle third of their upper back. The number had been carved a quarter-inch wide with a razor blade.

  Rachel stared at her incomplete reflection in the window’s glass. Her hair tumbled down the sides of her face, with a few loose strands lingering on the side of her nose. Wrinkles etched her muted green eyes. She looked like a shell of herself and felt like it too. Standing beside her, Peak didn’t fare much better. His cheeks were extra sunken and his intense eyes were red-rimmed. Anger caused him to set his boxed jaw, and his black tie hung loosely around his neck.

  In the bed to the far left lay Number Nine. The doctors estimated her to be six years old. She was hours away from pneumonia when the EMTs brought her in. The box truck crash left her with a nasty head wound, but thankfully no concussion. The same could not be said for Number Seven in the middle bed. The nine-year-old girl had suffered major head trauma during the crash. She was as close to being in a coma as one could get without actually being comatose. Number Four, a thirteen-year-old girl, rested on the far right. She was spotted with purple bruises and cuts, but conscious.