A Harvest of Blood - An Action Thriller Novel (Omega Series Book 5)

by Blake Banner

  She left.

  “With a population of less than barely eighty people, you can’t afford to sack somebody like Mrs. Entwhistle. Her ironing and cooking are second to none.”

  “I’m sure. She looks formidable. You were saying about Peggy.”

  He went and poured the coffee, handed me a cup with two biscuits, and sat in the other chair.

  “Either she had a bad fall, or she was beaten. She may, of course, have been struck by a vehicle. Sometimes you get trucks coming this way, to the farm, then they go on down Independence Road, over the Humboldt Mountains.” He shrugged and shook his head. “The long way around. I’ve never understood why.”

  I studied him a moment. “I found her at the junction, Doc. It’s about as flat as it can get without your Mrs. Entwhistle taking an iron to it. How do you fall and get that kind of bruising, at her age, somewhere that flat?” He didn’t answer, just stared at the flames in the fire. “There’s something else, Doc. The bruising you get from a vehicle is different from the bruising you get from a fist, or a foot. I’m pretty sure you know that. I’ve seen my fair share of both. I’d like to have a look at Peggy’s bruises.”

  He sighed. “I know. That’s why you’re here. Fact is, I’d like you to look at them too.”

  I carried on as though he hadn’t spoken. “You see, I am having trouble understanding what a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girl was doing three miles from her home in the middle of a blizzard, with no coat. So I am thinking that her bruises were not received where I found her. I think she got those bruises somewhere else, and was dumped.”

  He raised one of his Gandalf eyebrows at me. “You weren’t a military policeman, were you?”

  I raised a more modest eyebrow back. “Are you telling me you hadn’t come to the same conclusion?”

  He looked suddenly depressed. “No, I’m not telling you that. Come on, let’s go and have a look.”

  He led me up the stairs I had seen earlier, to a landing with three bedrooms and a restroom. He opened one of the bedroom doors and I followed him in. There were two single beds and a broad window overlooking snowy hills, abundant pine trees and what seemed to be a frozen creek.

  Peggy was lying in one of the beds. She had been bathed and her hair washed. I could see now that was blonde; a very pretty child. She had more color in her face and her lips were no longer blue, but she was still unconscious and had a large bruise on her right cheek. I felt a hot twist of anger in my belly and heard my own voice as though it were somebody else’s.

  “A year ago, she was probably still playing with dolls.”

  “You’re not far wrong. She was just fifteen last month.” He pulled back the covers. “She’s in a coma, Mr. Walker. She is not aware of what I am doing.”

  He showed me her arms, and then her neck. There were deep purple marks consistent with having been gripped, possibly strangled. He pulled back her nightgown and on her ribs there was further bruising, consistent with having been punched. He put back her gown and pulled up the bedcovers, then stood staring at her for a moment.

  “There could be internal bleeding, I can’t tell. As I say, she should be in a hospital.” He paused, hesitated a moment, then said, “I keep a rape kit. Nobody in the village knows that I do, but I do.”

  “Was she raped?”

  Now he looked me straight in the eye. “You know that she was.”

  I frowned. “You saying you think I raped her?”

  He smiled, shook his head and sighed. “No, of course not. The logistics alone would be impossible. Where? When? How did you get her there? No, Mr. Walker. I am saying that from the moment you found her by the side of the road, you have been thinking she’d probably been raped. The beating simply confirms it.”

  I nodded. “It was the only explanation that made sense.” I studied his face a moment. “If this village has less than eighty people, plus a handful of men at the farm, and you keep a rape kit…” I shrugged. “That’s telling me you have a fair idea who did this.”

  “Obviously. But I am not going to tell you.”

  I scowled. “Why not?”

  His face became suddenly irritable. “Because it’s more than my life is worth! That’s why! Hell! I’m taking a risk just talking to you.” He sighed again. “But there is something I want you to do.”

  “Name it.”

  “When you leave, soon, go back to Lovelock, tell the sheriff what you’ve seen here. Make them investigate.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “There have been other rapes of young girls…”

  “I am not going to tell you another damn thing. You come in here, throwing your weight around, demanding to see this poor child. You’ve seen what you’ve seen, now pack your things and get out of this town. Leave us be… You understand me?” He said it all without a trace of anger or feeling.

  I nodded. “I understand, Doc. But there is worse weather on the way. I’m stuck here for at least another twenty-four hours.”

  “I know. Just keep a low profile, get out of here as soon as you can, and stay out of Joe Vasco’s way.”

  Four

  When I stepped out of the doc’s cottage, it was just after eight forty-five. I glanced up at the saloon and saw there were two pickup trucks parked outside. They looked like the ones I’d seen earlier down at the depot. I thought of the doc’s advice about keeping a low profile, and decided, with an ugly smile on my face, that the best way to do that was by blending in and having a morning coffee with some of the guys. Maybe they’d introduce me to Joe Vasco.

  I pushed in and the door swung closed behind me. The place was empty but for four men standing at the bar. They all turned to look as I came in. Earl was one of them. Standing beside him was a tall, rangy man of about forty, with dark hair and dark eyes, wearing a white cowboy hat. Beside him were a swarthy, Mexican-looking man in red and black checked fleece, and an athletic blond with amused, cruel eyes. Behind the bar, looking worried, was Abi.

  I smiled. “Good morning.”

  They didn’t answer, so I went and leaned on the counter next to Earl. “I’ll have a coffee, please, Abi.”

  She went to the kitchen without speaking. The tall guy in the hat spoke suddenly, with a voice that sounded like he was shoveling gravel. “You the feller who found Peggy at the crossroads?”

  I turned to look at him before answering. “Yeah. That was me.”

  “Pretty lucky for her you were there. Almost a miracle.”

  I gave it a moment to let him know I understood where he was going. Then I asked, “You believe in miracles?” He drew breath to answer but I cut him short. “I don’t. See, the unusual thing was not me being there. That might happen on a night like last night. A car traveling on the I-80, blinded by the snow, trying to get back to Lovelock. It could wind up at Independence. What is unusual is to find a young girl, without a coat, three miles from her home, lying in a snow drift by the side of the road. That’s unusual. But it’s not a miracle.”

  “You got quite a mouth there.”

  I didn’t smile. “Again, I don’t agree with you. Because, when you said it was almost a miracle, you were insinuating instead of coming out and saying what you really think. Now me? I’m talking straight. You? You’re hinting and implying and suggesting. So to me, that gives you the mouth.”

  He stood and squared his shoulders.

  I leaned my elbow on the bar and pointed at him. “Thing is, even if I did hit her with my car, you still have to ask yourself the question, what the hell was she doing at that crossroads at that time of night, in a blizzard? Shall I go on?”

  Now he was frowning. His friends had turned back to the bar and were studying their cups. He said, “Who are you? You a cop?”

  I smiled. Abi came out of the kitchen with my coffee and gave me a warning glance as she poured. When she was done, I looked back at the big man. “I’m just a man on his way to Wyoming, who happened to turn right instead of keeping on straight. Fortunately for Peggy I did.” I took a sip and set my cup
down again. “Forgive me if I came back a bit strong, but I find it best to nip that kind of insinuation in the bud. My name is Lacklan Walker, and I plan to be on my way as soon as the weather permits.” I raised an eyebrow at him.

  He was still frowning.

  “I like to think that during my brief visit I did your town a good turn, and not a disservice.”

  He grunted and his three friends smiled at their cups.

  “Name’s Joe Vasco. I manage the farm.” He indicated with his head in the direction of the crossroads. “I didn’t mean no offense. Just…” He shrugged. “We’re a small community here, Lacklan, and we all know each other. Naturally we are suspicious of strangers… It’s hard to think of anyone ’round here doing anything to Peggy.”

  I nodded like I agreed. Then I asked, “Doing anything?”

  His frown deepened. “Hurting her in some way.”

  I made a face that said I knew nothing. “I was under the impression she had been knocked down by a passing vehicle. I was confused at what she was doing out there in the snow, but I did not realize somebody had done something to her. What had they done, Joe?”

  His friends had turned again to look at me and listen. Joe’s face had taken on some color around the cheeks. He’d stopped frowning and he looked mad.

  “I only know what I been told.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “I thought maybe you talked to the doctor, or her parents. Have they been in yet?” I shook my head and sipped my coffee again. “They must be sick with worry wondering where their little girl is.”

  He stepped up close to me. “Yeah, well, that’s the town’s business, Lacklan. We’re grateful for everything you’ve done an’all, but now maybe it’s time for you to be getting along. I’m sure you’ve got folks in Wyoming who must be wondering about you.”

  I studied his face. I knew exactly the way he would fight. He’d think of himself as a dirty fighter, clever, devious, a cheat; but above all, he was a pack animal. He would depend on his friends to dominate his prey, before he moved in to claim the kill. I offered him a thin smile that told him I knew who, and what he was.

  “That’s awful thoughtful of you, Joe, but I haven’t got anyone waiting for me at home. It’s just me and my curious mind; nobody to worry about me, nobody to wonder where I am, nobody to report me missing.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, “You have a safe trip, Lacklan.” He turned to his boys. “C’mon boys, we got work to do.”

  They ducked out the door and let it slam behind them. I turned to Abi. She was watching me as she polished glasses behind the bar. She didn’t look happy.

  “That wasn’t smart. I told you to stay out of things.”

  I made the face of innocence and showed it to her. “Me? I was just hanging out with the guys, Abi. Where do Peggy’s parents live?”

  “Don’t, please.”

  I smiled. “Shall I go and ask my new best friend, Joe?”

  She sighed and let her hands drop by her side. “You’re going to get yourself hurt, Lacklan. And you might get other people hurt in the process. Just please stay out of it!”

  I leaned on the bar with both elbows. “Maybe you didn’t notice, Abi, but somebody already got hurt. She was just fifteen. A child. You know what happens when something like this goes unpunished?” She bit her lip and looked away. I pressed on. “The person who did it begins to think he’s above the law, he gets bolder and does it again, and then again. Maybe next time it will be you, or your daughter, Primrose. Let’s face it, Abi, the selection here is not all that wide.”

  She picked up a glass and stared at it. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Please…stop…”

  “Where do they live?”

  She didn’t look at me. “The Apple Orchard, a quarter of a mile up the road.”

  By the time I stepped outside again, an icy wind had whipped up and was lifting clouds of frozen flakes from the ground and trailing them, like giant ghosts playing tag across the plain below. I turned away from them, hunched into my shoulders, and made my way up the canyon, toward the dense woodlands, crunching shin-deep through the snow. But as I climbed, the snow grew more shallow, most of it having been caught by the canopy of trees above.

  After about fifteen minutes’ walk, the pine trees on my right began to thin and opened into farmland. There, set back some twelve or fifteen feet from the road, I found The Apple Orchard. It was a quaint farmhouse on two floors, with a paved path leading through a rose garden on the right, and an orchard on the left that, despite the name, seemed to be mainly cherry trees and plums; all now covered in icing, like a Christmas cake.

  A dog began to bark as I pushed through the gate and made my way along the path. I noted that I was the first to disturb the snow. They hadn’t left the house yet. I hammered on the door, and after a minute it was opened a few inches, and a woman peered out at me. She was in her mid-thirties with thick black hair pulled back into a bun. She had no make up on her face, and her clothes could have belonged to any decade from the 1930s to the present time: brogues, a tweed skirt, a plain blouse, and a knitted cardigan.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning, ma’am, I am sorry to disturb you. Abi at the Pioneer Guesthouse said I could find you here. I have news about your daughter, Peggy…”

  I heard the intake of breath. The fingers of her left hand went to her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.

  “It is extremely cold out here, ma’am. Do you think I might come in and get warm while I give you my news? I won’t stay long.”

  She opened the door and let me in to a broad hallway. On the right there was a door. It stood open and there was a man in it, watching us. He was a little older than her, perhaps forty, though like his wife, he gave the impression of being older. He wore black pants and a black cardigan over a brown shirt. His black hair was slick and shiny as though he’d used brylcreem on it, and a thin, black moustache gave him a mournful look.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  I took off my jacket and, as she didn’t offer to take it from me, I hung it on a peg on the wall. The man stood back and said, “You’d better come in, in front of the fire.”

  The room was not large, and had the same unhappy air as its owners. He returned to his chair, where he had a pipe and an ashtray on a small occasional table beside it. I noticed there was also a Bible with a marker in it. I wondered if it was Matthew 18:6. His wife sat on the sofa, leaving the other armchair for me. I sat and turned to the woman.

  “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Martin, Peggy-Sue’s parents?”

  She nodded.

  I glanced at him. He was staring at the fire, as though he was in some kind of horrific trance. “Mrs. Martin, Mr. Martin, I have some very bad news for you. I found your daughter last night…”

  Before I could finish, she had covered her mouth with her hands, squeezed her eyes tight and let out a terrible, inhuman noise. Her whole body shuddered and she cried out, “Oh God! Oh God, oh God, please help me…”

  I looked at him. He had gone gray and his bottom lip was quivering, though his eyes were still fixed on the fire.

  “Mr. Martin, your daughter is not dead.”

  He turned to stare at me. It was an expression of shock, tortured hope and equal despair.

  His wife cried out, “What?” and I felt her hands clawing at my arm.

  I turned to face her, shaking my head. “She would have died if I hadn’t found her. But she is at the doctor’s house now. She is very ill, badly hurt, but she is alive.”

  He collapsed in tears, curled forward onto his lap, his face buried in his hands. She dropped to her knees, half-hysterical, giving thanks to the Lord. For a moment, I felt like reminding them it was me who’d found and saved her, not their god, but it doesn’t do to mess with people’s faith. I gave them a while. Eventually, he stood and left the room. After a moment, I heard him noisily blowing his nose. She had a handkerchief up her sleeve. She used it and sat again on the sofa. For the f
irst time then, she actually seemed to see me.

  “You found her?”

  I nodded and wondered if she was going to ask me where.

  Instead she said, “Thank you so much. You were truly sent by the Good Lord.”

  I waited, watching her, but all she did was turn toward the fire and gaze at it. After a moment, he came back and sat down again. He looked at his pipe, like he was wondering if it was too soon to light up.

  “Mr. Martin, I can’t help noticing. Neither of you has asked me what happened, where I found her. You both seemed to be expecting this. Your fifteen-year-old daughter was out last night, without a coat, in a blizzard, and you didn’t raise the alarm. What’s going on here?”

  He looked at his wife. Then he looked at me. “We knew,” he said, “May God forgive us, we knew where she was and we knew she probably wouldn’t be coming home.”

  Five

  There was an unreal stillness in the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire. It is a strange fact that in life the most terrible things are often not awe-inspiring or momentous, but simply banal, and the more horrific for being mundane and unexceptional. I found myself wishing I could find what I had heard unbelievable, but the tragedy was that it was all too believable.

  “You knew where she was?”

  It was his wife who answered. “Who are you?”

  I turned to her and there was bitterness in my voice. “You mean aside from somebody sent by the Good Lord?”

  Her face tightened.

  I went on. “My name is Lacklan Walker. I got lost in the blizzard last night. By pure chance I happened to see your daughter lying by the side of the road. She was barely alive. I got her to the saloon and the doctor was there. She is with him now, but she is still in a coma. I’d like you to tell me how she came to be lying at the side of the road, with no coat, at that time of night in a snowstorm.”

  Her face was still taut, but her gaze drifted away from me. “It is none of your concern. We are very grateful to you, and if you want money we will happily pay you, but it is not your place to ask impertinent questions.”