The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery

by J. S. Donovan

  The man put his hand on hers. “We’ll be happier now.”

  Rachel couldn’t hold her eyes open any longer. She blinked. The man turned to her immediately.

  He quickly drew up the shotgun.

  “Wait—” The shotgun blast to Rachel’s chest interrupted her words.

  Her face fell limply forward. Crimson droplets leaked from her slightly agape mouth.

  That invisible sledgehammer hit her again, and Rachel was back. She patted down her chest. No wound. She was in perfect health, as though the gunshot had never happened.

  The bearded man glared at her. Smoke wisped from the shotgun’s barrel.

  Rachel glared back, holding back from putting a bullet into his ugly mug. If not for the noise, she would’ve done it.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Rachel said.

  A heavy frown made the bearded man’s face sink. He shot his arm across the table and grabbed Rachel’s wrist. His hard hand crunched hers. Rachel threatened him by aiming the pistol. He grabbed that hand as well, jamming Rachel’s fingers between the hard metal of the gun and his rock-hard grasp. He bent back Rachel’s wrist in an attempt to aim the gun at her. Rachel tried her hardest to resist. Her body shook as she attempted to pull away. Nonetheless, she was no match for the Delinquent’s supernatural strength.

  Rachel’s eyes grew wide as beads of sweat raced down her face. She remembered her broken phone and the broken window. The Delinquent couldn’t hurt her, but she could hurt herself. The eye of her pistol’s barrel slowly curved back to her. Rachel’s wrists felt as if they were about to snap. Her finger was locked in the trigger well. One small squeeze, and her brains would be painting the walls.

  “Stop,” Rachel commanded through her gnashed teeth. “I said stop!”

  The woman watched her with teary eyes but did nothing to stop her demented husband. In the hallway, the boy with the jack-o’-lantern mask stared with apathetic triangle eyes.

  Why did you take me to this place? Rachel had thought it was to lead her to the Poisoner. Was this nothing but a trap? It didn’t make sense. She feared she would die not knowing. She peered at the barrel, aimed directly between her eyes. The bones in her wrists splintered like snapped bamboo. A scream of pain escaped her lips.

  The boy watched her.

  “Help!” Rachel yelled out of pain and desperation.

  A smile crept up the bearded man’s face. His eyes were wide and crazed. He squeezed her fingers until they cracked. Rachel felt her finger unintentionally pressing on the trigger. She squirmed, using every ounce of strength in her to burst free. She failed. The Sense raged stronger than it ever had before. She expected to see flashes of her past, but instead she saw only the barrel of the pistol.

  If the Gift dies with me… she thought, who will guide me home?

  The front door opened. Peak!

  Her finger pressed a little more on the trigger.

  Footsteps passed into the living room, followed by the flood of the lantern light.

  Rachel wondered what her partner would see. Nothing, of course. He didn’t have the Gift.

  Rachel turned her bloodshot eyes to the living room door. She looked past the Delinquent and the boy and locked eyes with a man in a cracked pumpkin mask, held together by large staples. He held a kitchen knife.

  Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. This can’t be happening. No. Not like this.

  She blinked. The large man, the boy, and the woman had vanished. Rachel was suddenly pointing a gun at her own face. The Poisoner watched, as still as a statue. With completely recovered wrists and bones, Rachel swiftly turned the barrel to him and opened fire. He weaved to the side of the room and tackled Rachel’s chair. She slammed against the ground, crushed by the weight of the mysterious man. Her gun slid under the table. The Poisoner stabbed down with the knife, driving its point into the wood nearest her head. Rachel punched his mask, cratering the face of the pumpkin. It stunned him just long enough to kick out of his grasp.

  He reached for her ankle, but Rachel was already up. As she ran for the kitchen, she pushed the table and appliances to obstruct the path. When she got to the hall, she cowered behind the side table pressed up against the stairs. Her mag light and her weapon were lost. The hall was dark. Light spilled from the Poisoner’s electronic lantern in the other room. Rachel traced his path just by the shadow he made. She saw the front door. Running for it would be a risky move, especially if he picked up her gun. She put herself in his shoes. He would expect me to run. The stairs tempted her, but she would be trapped. The study was too far to run to and also a dead end. There has to be another way. A small crease ran up the stairwell wall and formed the outline of a tiny door. Rachel brushed her hand across it. Storage. She had a plan. Hide, wait till he went upstairs, and then rush outside. Better yet, give Peak a call. As the light slowly moved close to the hall, Rachel’s fingers found a little brass ring on the wall. She pulled it, opening the small hatch.

  The inside was black as pitch and full of creepy-crawlies, but it was Rachel’s only hope. On her hands and knees, she scurried inside and closed the latch behind her. The light breached the outline of the latch and cast a small bar over Rachel’s wide, olive-colored eye. The light stopped at the latch. Rachel covered her mouth with both hands, avoiding making a sound. She could see the man’s slacks and leather Oxfords. Rachel closed her eyes, praying that he’d pass.

  The light moved on to the front door and then down the hall toward the study. Rachel pulled out her cell phone and turned on the screen. The flash of light blinded her for a moment. She dimmed the illumination and turned back to the storage area behind her. The walls were wood and had nails sticking out. The floor was dusty and cold. The ceiling grew with each ascending step overhead. Two things stuck out to Rachel: the bared latch at the far end of the claustrophobic cellar and the child’s skeleton resting against the wall.

  9

  Lost Girl

  The bones were dry and old. Cobwebs filled the holes between the skeletal fingers. The child wore overalls with one jean suspender broken away, revealing a moth-eaten T-shirt hanging over beige bones like old skin. The skeleton was slack-jawed and had a small skull. Nearby, a jack-o’-lantern mask, fit for one’s head, collected dust. This is the boy, Rachel knew at once. He didn’t have any visible wounds or chipping on his bones. It just looked as if he’d died sitting in this dark, lonely place.

  Rachel listened for the Poisoner. By the rummaging, it sounded as if he was in the study. He’s still looking for me. Rachel needed to wait until he was upstairs before she made her escape. Otherwise, there was no chance. She checked her phone service. One bar. She quickly dialed Detective Peak.

  “Pick up,” she whispered.

  “Rachel. Where… you?” Peak’s voice was choppy.

  “I’m on Spring Street,” Rachel whispered. “The Poisoner is here. Send immediate backup.”

  “Wha… I can’t… Are you...?”

  The line dropped.

  No service bars.

  Rachel lifted her phone, seeking another chance to make a call. Nothing. She crawled back into the room, getting a service bar for a split second before losing it. Rachel’s shoulders slumped. Fate had pulled the rug out from underneath her. She might have avoided blowing her brains out, but she was dead the moment the Poisoner pulled that latch. Rachel glanced around the small chamber, barely fit for a child.

  Spider webs clung in the corners. Strings of dust dangled from the ceiling. It was a forsaken place. Fitting, Rachel thought, imagining her life. She didn’t pity herself. She only wished she could’ve done more. It’s not over yet. If he goes upstairs, I can still run. The odds were not in her favor. She closed her eyes. Perhaps her father’s God would hear her prayer.

  A lullaby drifted into Rachel’s ears. It was the sound of a broken angel. Rachel couldn’t hear the words, but she remembered her mother singing her a similar tune months before she snapped. The lullaby persisted. Rachel’s ears perked up as she realized that it mi
ght not be in her head. The sound leaked through a latch nearby. It wasn’t the one that Rachel had entered but another that led deeper into the sinister house.

  Rachel pressed the side of her wet face against the small wooden “door” and listened.

  Nothing.

  She wondered if it was another Orphan or her imagination.

  She listened for a few more seconds.

  Hope fled. Her rational mind told her to get out of the house, not go farther in.

  As she pulled her ear away, she heard the muffled but soothing melody. The words were indistinguishable, but its tone hinted at a sad song. A rusty metal bar slid between two metal rings adjacent to either side of the three-foot-by-three-foot latch and held it shut. The metal ground against the wood as Rachel extracted the bar. She turned back multiple times to the stair entrance, expecting to see the Poisoner crawling inside.

  The Poisoner’s lantern returned to the hallway. Rachel coiled her fingers around the bar. If anything, she could get a good smack in before he unloaded the stolen Glock into her belly.

  The footsteps moved across the hall and then to the living room. Rachel took a deep breath but kept the bar ready. Holding the phone in one hand and the bar in the other, she pulled open the latch with a light popping sound. Another room lay beyond. The ceiling was higher than the under-stairs room but much shorter than those in the rest of the house. Rachel would hit her head if she stood.

  A metal bed frame and thin mattress wrapped in clear plastic pressed against the back wall. Tiny rocking horses, Raggedy Ann dolls, and other toys from a bygone area littered the wood floor. A foul stench wafted from the tin bucket that sat in the corner of the room. Rachel didn’t need to look to know it was a makeshift chamber pot.

  There was a tall lamp in the corner nearest the door. Its shade had the shape of an upside-down cone. A collapsible TV dinner table with an empty tray sat beneath it.

  Rachel crawled into the neglected jail cell of a room. The small light on her phone flashed over the carvings on the wall. This is your home. This is your home, read the crude scratches. The phrase repeated up and down all four walls alongside an uncountable amount of tally marks and stick-figure doodles.

  Something moved underneath the bed. Rachel knelt back down and shined the light over the back of a dirty pink dress. Greasy brown hair fanned across the floor. There was a child under there.

  Rachel’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Hey,” Rachel said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The girl remained completely motionless. Rachel crawled closer, noticing the little princess trembling. The child’s skinny arms were clenching her stomach. Her feet were bare and black with dirt.

  “I’m a detective. My name is Rachel. Are you Mallory Stix?”

  Hesitantly, the girl turned back to Rachel. Dirt smudged her angular face and beneath her big blue eyes. Her tiny lips were chapped. She was eight years old and had been living in hell for a week. With her sunken cheeks and bony frame, she looked like it too.

  Putting aside the metal bar, Rachel extended her hand to the girl. “I need you to hurry. We don’t have much time.”

  The little girl locked eyes with Rachel. There were hints of trust. With a shaking hand, she reached out and accepted Rachel’s gesture. The child’s palms were cold and clammy.

  “I’m going to get you home.” Rachel helped the girl out from under the bed.

  Mallory’s pink dress was tattered and caked with dirt. She glanced around, clearly discombobulated. She spoke, her voice soft, gentle, and full of sadness just like the lullaby. “I don’t have a home anymore.”

  Rachel’s eyes watered. She couldn’t find right words to say.

  “Come on,” Rachel eventually let out. “Stay behind me, at least until the coast is clear.”

  Back on her hands and knees, Rachel crawled back into the room with the skeleton. With a frown, Mallory studied the little skull.

  Footsteps thumped up above. The Poisoner was checking out the second floor. With every step he conquered, dust pattered on Rachel and Mallory’s head and shoulders. Mallory pushed close against Rachel. “We need to be careful.”

  “We will be if we keep moving,” Rachel replied.

  The child mumbled something to herself. Rachel was too focused on her escape plan to notice.

  Cautiously, Rachel pushed open the latch and looked both ways in the blacked-out hallway. She hurried out and stood by the stairs, allowing Mallory to climb out. Rachel took her hand and helped her stand and patted her on the back... her way of telling her to run.

  The girl was smart; she didn’t hesitate going for the front door.

  “You!” A voice bellowed from the far end of the hall.

  Fury ruled the bearded man’s face. He leveled his shotgun. “I told you not to come out of there!”

  Rachel dropped prone as the shotgun thundered. Buckshot peppered the front door a few inches above Mallory’s head. The child hunched and turned back to Rachel with a worried look.

  “Go! Go!” Rachel whispered.

  Mallory Stix twisted the doorknob. The old house opened to the outside world and its welcoming breezes. Giving Rachel a final sad look, the eight-year-old raced down the entrance steps and out into the street.

  Rachel pushed her palms against the floor and rose up just in time to see the Poisoner dashing down the steps beside her. In his gloved hand, the killer held Rachel’s Glock 22.

  Rachel darted to the door. The wind slammed it shut in her face. Heart racing, Rachel grabbed the doorknob and started to twist it. She hesitated, knowing the gun was aimed at her back. Fear strangled her. She could try to run for it but would take a bullet, and the .40 caliber rounds she loaded in her pistol were meant to kill, not maim.

  Putting on a hard face, she turned back to the Poisoner as he descended the final step. Pistol in one hand and the small lantern in the other, his trek ended about seven feet from Rachel. At the back of the hall, the bearded man blasted off a shotgun round. Blood splashed from the Poisoner’s back as the barrage of buckshot shredded his skin. The Poisoner didn’t notice.

  Rachel stared at the disturbing jack-o’-lantern mask. Unlike the child’s mask, this one had sharp teeth and sharper eyes. The staple-stitched crack added to the fear factor. He wore an expensive suit and fine leather gloves.

  Rachel’s only hope was Mallory Stix. Rachel just needed to survive a few minutes. The Poisoner hadn’t shot her yet. That was good news.

  “At least show me your face before you kill me,” Rachel said.

  The man took a step forward.

  Rachel pressed her back against the door. “Can’t fault me for trying.”

  The Poisoner set down the lantern by his feet. The bearded man shot him again. Unfruitful in his efforts, the bearded man shook his head and walked away into the kitchen.

  “You hurt a lot of children tonight. I should’ve backed down, listened to the phone call, but that’s just not who I am,” Rachel said. “It seems you know a lot about me, and I know nothing about you.”

  If she could only get a conversation started...

  The Poisoner withdrew a few black, round berries in a plastic bag from his blue blazer’s pocket.

  Rachel’s heart rate spiked. The devil’s cherries.

  “Where are the other children?” Rachel asked. “Why did you take them?”

  The man took another step forward, keeping the gun aimed at her center mass.

  “I want to understand,” Rachel said. “Help me understand.”

  Give me something to work with.

  When he was about arm’s length away, the man shoved the pistol into his waistband. Rachel didn’t waste a breath. She plowed into him. The two tumbled to the ground. Swinging her fist furiously, she pounded the jack-o’-lantern’s ugly face.

  The Poisoner slapped Rachel with the back of his hand. The force sent her crashing to her side and made her right eye wet. The man scurried to his feet. She went to tackle his legs, but he slammed the toe
of his shoe into her gut. Rachel spit and hit the ground again. Grabbing the lowest vertical bar of the stair’s railing, she pulled herself up a few inches. The Poisoner leapt at her, sending his knee into her torso and landing the entire weight of his body on her.

  Legs pinned, Rachel reached around for the gun at the lip of his pants. He caught her hand and slammed it against another vertical bar. Her knuckles busted. She sent her other fist into his face. Instead of deflecting it, he slammed his handful of burst berries into Rachel’s mouth. She hit him again, slightly opening the staple-stitched crack.

  The Poisoner blocked Rachel’s nose and mouth with his gloved hand. The bittersweet taste of the berries ran across Rachel’s tongue. The force of his palm slammed her head back against the railing and held her there. She did everything in her power to avoid consuming the toxic fruit. Her free hand grabbed the man’s wrist and tried to pull it away from her mouth. Her other hand was still pinned to the vertical bars.

  Rachel’s face went from white to purple. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer. She pinched and clawed at his blazer sleeve while her horror-struck eyes looked into those of the mask. She could feel his muscles and racing heart pressing against her own. He was inches from her face. She felt the warmth of his breath through his mask. Painfully, he squeezed Rachel’s cheeks between his fingers and thumb, making her look like a humiliated fish. She tried to kick her legs out, but he was on top of her thighs. She spit the smashed berries against the cup of his forceful hand. The dark juices from the berries trickled down his glove and stained Rachel’s chin. The Poisoner’s grip was finally letting up. She grabbed his arm and kept pulling it away from her face. More of the bittersweet toxins trickled down her chin. So close. Rachel’s arm shook, and her muscles went taut as she pulled with all of her might to remove his hand. He pressed her head further against the vertical wooden bars. The pain throbbed across her skull. Spots filled her vision. She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. It felt as if her body were trying to consume the poison. The battle was against herself and her own strength, along with the killer holding her against the stairs.