The Orchard

by Charles L. Grant

  As close as the length of a finger, she looked into his eyes and he dared not look away. A hand pushed away a trailing lock of her hair, and her lips began to twist into a one-sided smile. “He’s afraid of you, you know.”

  “Who?” he said, his voice harsh and strained.

  Closer, and he could feel her naked stomach push gently against his belt.

  “Leslie, who else? He thinks you’re going to arrest him because you think he’s a killer.” She giggled, and her tongue brushed pink across her lips. “He wants to run away, Mr. Gilman. And he wants me to go with him.”

  He grabbed her waist angrily to shove her aside; she clapped her palms to his cheeks, pulled his face down, and kissed him hard, thrust her hips into his before twisting away.

  “He’s not yours anymore,” she said, starting to run. “He isn’t. He’s mine.”

  Too surprised to move, too confused to think, he watched as she dashed across the open ground, turning once to grin before she vanished through the hedge.

  “God Almighty.” He wiped a hand over his mouth, over his eyes. “Good God Almighty.”

  He wondered then how often Denise had spoken with the girl, if she had ever followed Amy out here as he had done; he wondered if she suspected what the girl had become.

  Les, he thought suddenly; Christ, he had to get to Les and find out what was going on. But the step he took faltered when he tasted the girl’s mouth on his, her cool skin in his hands.

  God, what the hell’s the matter with you? he told himself.

  A cigarette in his hand, the match lit, gone, tossed over his shoulder.

  He didn’t know.

  Since this case had begun he’d been walking around as if in a daze. Normal procedures seemed to blossom into major obstacles, and under ordinary circumstances he sure as hell wouldn’t have followed a young woman all the way out here just to ask her a couple of questions. He would have waited at the house. He would have gone to the college and waited for her there. He would have done a hundred other things. But he hadn’t.

  And now, abruptly, he was feeling terribly alone. As though everyone he cared for was drawing slowly away.

  A glance down at his shadow, spiked and gored by the grass and the weeds. It was harder to see as the mist thickened and rose, and he shook his head quickly, looked at his cigarette and realized it had burnt down to the filter, and he was sure he hadn’t taken more than one puff. The ash still there was cold.

  “Christ,” he whispered, and heard the footsteps behind him.

  He turned slowly, tense in case he had to react, ready with a smile in case it was only someone just out for a walk.

  No one was there.

  His head tilted slightly to one side, his ears strained, his eyes narrowed in the dusk suddenly upon him.

  No one was there.

  Mist into patchy fog as if something was burning deep beneath the surface.

  A slow and steady walk, light, quiet.

  And finally, back in the shadows of the orchard’s far side, a hint of something white moving around the boles.

  He stepped to his right for a clearer view, craning now, one hand slapping his leg nervously.

  “Hey!”

  Tall and white and long, without definite form yet anything but spectral as he took a step forward, checked himself, and stepped hastily back when a gust of wind spun ash in a dervish, when he realized that whatever was back there was pacing and watching.

  “Hey, who are you? This is the police! What are you doing out here?”

  He almost giggled. His voice quavered, authority shredded, and the command on the face of it was ludicrous and weak. He started toward the figure, stopped at the orchard’s edge and waited for another gust to pass, listening as it rattled through the trees and hissed like sand through the field.

  And when it was over, he didn’t want to go in.

  Moving farther to his right, he thought to circle the fire-spot and come at the watcher from behind. Tripping over a hillock and nearly landing on his shoulder. Slapping impatiently at the gnats that returned to bedevil him, dancing black and swift in front of his eyes no matter which way he looked. Picking up another stick and using it to knock away weeds whose heads were like dried wheat, branches that would not give, the dark that increased as the sun dropped and died. Reaching the last of the apple trees and skirting them, a headache building behind his forehead as he stared even harder to keep the white shape in sight.

  Pacing, watching, quietly and soft.

  Telling himself it was only a gag, that he was the butt of a prank, and before he went much farther some of Les’s friends would throw off a thin sheet and laugh at his nervousness, his gullibility, and ask him snidely if Amy Niles was his girl.

  He stopped.

  A slither of grey ash rounded the toe of his left foot.

  His right hand slashed the stick through the air, a cat’s tail expending anger, testing fear.

  Pacing, in the mist, and footsteps hard and hollow.

  He blinked rapidly and swallowed, demanding to know what in god’s name had gotten into him? If it was a joke, what the hell was he doing playing along, walking right into it like some kind of fool?

  He turned sharply and stalked away, hurriedly when he reached the field again, almost running when he was less than a hundred yards from the road. He hoped they were watching. He hoped they saw how he didn’t much care for their stupid jokes, their infantile notions of what was supposed to be funny. He hoped that whatever it was back there … whoever it was, he told himself angrily. Whoever, not whatever. Because it’s only kids in a sheet and you know it, you jackass, you know what they want and you won’t let them have it.

  He plunged through the hedge without looking for a gap, grunting at the thorns that tore at his shirt, scratched his hands, and drew blood; across the road and into town as the streetlamps buzzed on and the pavement writhed with shadows.

  Scared, he thought in amazement; Jesus, I’m scared.

  He rejected the notion with a disdainful snort, saw shadows, heard footsteps, and felt the fear again.

  This time he didn’t fight it—he ran, knowing he had to talk to Les, to tell him what Amy had done there in the field, to try to stop him from running away, from ruining his life. From deserting his father.

  Heedless of his appearance, knowing he must look like someone fresh from a beating, he ran until he fell against the fence around his yard, panting, wrinkling his nose at the sweat that poured from his hair, rolling his shoulders against the sweat that turned his shirt flat cold. He gasped and leaned back, hands propping him up on either side, gulping the night air and feeling his heart build pressure in his chest. His legs buckled, but he didn’t fall. His head throbbed at the temples, but he didn’t close his eyes.

  “Damn,” he said. “Jesus, damn.”

  He waited until he was sure he wouldn’t faint, then staggered up the walk and dropped onto the porch. Waited a minute more and almost fell through the door, calling for his son and hearing only the silence, seeing only the outlines of furniture in the feeble light from the street.

  “Les,” he called as he hauled himself up the stairs, stripping off his shirt, kicking off his shoes. “Les, goddamnit, don’t you do this to me!”

  The hall was empty, Les’s bedroom, his own.

  Swiftly, he changed into dry clothes and called Denise, without luck, immediately called Vicky and explained that it looked like his boy had gotten scared and had run away—and he nearly broke into grateful tears when she told him to hold on, she was already in her car and cruising the streets, don’t worry, love, we’ll find him before he does anything stupid, we’ll find him, don’t worry, just calm down and go looking yourself when you can.

  At the front door he paused, hand on the knob. She had called him “love.” He smiled. And the smile faded when he shook his head violently, not needing that now, needing only his son.

  He stepped out, car keys in hand, and called Les again when he saw someone on the walk.
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  “No, sir,” Lonrow said, puzzled. “It’s me.”

  Oh, god, please no.

  “What is it, Nick? Is it Les?”

  Lonrow shook his head. “The Chief sent me for you, sir. She’s in the park.”

  He grabbed a post and leaned against it. “Who?” he said wearily.

  “Amy Niles,” the man answered. “Someone saw her and your … saw her and Les go into the park about an hour ago.” He turned away, stared at the elm. “She’s dead. Your son’s gone.”

  The park’s high iron fence formed a slatted black wall when the gates closed behind him. There were a dozen or more of the curious on the street, and he could hear them talking, whispering, as he followed Lonrow quickly up a winding tarmac path, then through a break in thick laurel on his right. Directly ahead, across a wide stretch of grass, a tall stand of pine stood between him and the pond; on his left was open ground, which eventually rose to a low hill, whose face had been cleared and whose crown was black with low brush and trees. Midway to the rise was an unofficial ballfield, and he could see several men moving about, stick figures dancing jerkily against blaring flashbulbs and four high-intensity spotlights fixed on ten-foot tripods placed at each of the bases.

  The fog reached for the lights, blurred the men’s outlines, and again he was reminded of something burning underground.

  No one looked up as he approached; they only backed away to let him see.

  There was a low cordon of rope enclosing most of the infield; there was no one inside except Amy Niles.

  She was lying on an irregular bare patch of earth used for the pitcher’s mound: on her back, t-shirt only half covering her breasts, brown hair bleached to dull grey by the strength of the artificial light. Her arms were flung out and back, one leg was tucked up, one ankle bloodied, nothing on her face but a coating of fine dust, and by the look of the ground around her, she had been tossed around in a manic frenzy, or had been fighting whoever had killed her.

  His legs moved, though he didn’t want them to; his hands relaxed, though he wanted someone to hit. When he reached her, he knelt, closed his eyes, touched her arm and felt the last of her warmth seep into the ground.

  “Tell me,” he whispered, and Lonrow was there.

  “A lady—she’s back there with Chief Stockton— she said she was coming home from shopping when she saw Les and Amy run in here. They were laughing, horsing around; the woman said she didn’t hear any shouting or anything. She figured they were just kids, y’know?”

  There was too much blood on her chest, but not enough to hide the hole.

  “Who found her?”

  “The night patrol.” Lonrow cleared his throat and coughed harshly. “They were on routine through the park and thought they saw something out here. So they looked and … and they found her. The woman, the one who saw them come in, she lives across the street. When she saw the cars, she came out.”

  Brett rose abruptly, and the young man nearly stumbled as he got out of the way. “Keep everyone out of here but me,” he was told, and didn’t have time to nod before Brett was heading across the infield, watching where he put his feet before he stepped over the rope.

  Stockton was still in uniform, and he took Brett’s arm, led him into the shadows and swore so viciously, so suddenly, Brett couldn’t help gaping. “I hate this sonofabitching job,” he said then. “I hate kids dying.” Brett could barely see his face, and what he did see he didn’t like. “You’ll have to bring the boy in, son. He’s gotta tell us what he knows.”

  Brett swung between hatred and anguish, chewing hard on his lips until he tasted salt and blood. “You think … you think now he did it?”

  “Just bring him in, Brett. Do what you have to do out here, then get him and bring him to me. I’ll take it from there.”

  He was left alone once the body had been taken. In the dead harsh white he scoured the field, sectioning it with his mind’s eye and crawling over it on his knees. The hot lights kept the fog from interfering, building a white wall, killing the stars, muffling the sounds of the Station and magnifying his panting, the scrape of his knees on the dirt, the occasional grunt when he thought he’d found something and found it was nothing at all.

  Until he saw the prints.

  They were in a worn trough that served as a baseline, and he remembered seeing them before, behind the theater, under the trees.

  This time they were clearer, and he circled them carefully, scowling because he didn’t know what they were, exasperated because he knew what they weren’t—no animal in the village ever had paws or hooves like these.

  He sighed, and unexpectedly yawned, rubbed his eyes fiercely, swallowed and realized his throat was filled with dust. As he walked to loosen his legs, drive the tension from his back, he knew there was little more he could do now, at least not until he had cleared his head, had something to drink, and had had a chance to find Les and talk.

  The patrolman on guard at the gate nodded when Brett told him to keep the place locked until he returned, and he felt the man watching him keenly as he started for home. He knew what the man was thinking—a cop with a son for a killer, and redemption was something that happened only in the movies.

  Les was in the living room when he came in the door.

  “Jesus, Dad,” he said, standing quickly, his face pinched with worry. “Jesus, what am I gonna do?”

  Brett sagged against the door and waved a weary hand. “Where were you?” he asked. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Out.”

  “No shit,” he snapped. “I’ve been looking for you all goddamned day!” He raised his head and glared. “Stockton wants me to bring you in. To talk,” he added hastily. “There aren’t any charges; you don’t have to worry.”

  Les laughed, but there was no humor in his smile. “Oh, right, Dad, sure. No charges. But let’s not forget that Les was with each of those girls before they died, okay? And I suppose you know that Amy and I went for a walk in the park, too. I know she talked to you. She told me.” And his arm lashed out at Brett’s chair, knocking it several inches to one side.

  Brett nodded, wanting to go over there and put his arms around the boy, comfort him, say something that would banish the fear. But he couldn’t move. Not now. Now he was a cop, and now he was a father, and now he wished to hell Stockton wasn’t so goddamned understanding.

  “So now what?” Les said dully.

  “Now … now you tell me how you knew about this. The radio? Someone call? What?”

  “Denise,” the boy said.

  Brett stared at him stupidly. “Denise?”

  “Right. That’s where I’ve been since school practically. Jesus, didn’t you know any of that?” He laughed again, and sniffed as if he were trying not to cry. “She talks to me, Dad. She had the time. She’s the one who told me I ought to think about moving out.”

  “She … what?”

  Les started for the kitchen, changed his mind, and stopped in front of him. “Yeah, right. I’m eighteen, remember? It’s legal. And I sure don’t get much sympathy around here.”

  Brett covered his face, dropped his hands. “That’s crazy, boy. This isn’t the time to talk about it, but you aren’t moving out. Certainly not now.”

  “Why? Because you think I killed my friends?”

  Brett raised a hand to slap him and Les grabbed the wrist to force it back down. “You can’t hold me anymore, Dad. You can’t. You don’t let me breathe, I have to check in and check out like I was some kind of—”

  Brett yanked his hand free and slammed its heel against the boy’s shoulder, knocking him back to arm’s distance. “I told you this wasn’t the time for that. You don’t seem to realize, boy, what the hell’s happening.” He stopped to take a breath, take another. “Now listen to me and no arguments. Get your coat. You’re coming with me so we can straighten it all out. Now. Before it gets any worse.”

  “The hell I am. I’ll go by myself.”

  He was too shaken to resist when Le
s moved him out of the way and opened the door; he was too torn between rage and weeping to prevent him from running down the walk, vaulting the gate, and disappearing into the dark. And when he finally stopped trembling, finally dispelled the sensation he was suffocating in a coffin, he grabbed up the telephone and dialed Denise’s number.

  Who the hell did she think she was, handing out advice like that, especially to his son? She knew full well the kind of trouble the boy was facing. What she was doing didn’t make any sense.

  “Hello?”

  And she had told Amy that practical was out and dreaming was all right.

  “Hello?”

  “Denise,” he said, his voice hollow.

  Jesus, it was as if she actually wanted him—

  “Oh, Brett, thank god! I was so worried about you. I heard about poor Amy and I couldn’t imagine—”

  He hung up.

  He stared at the receiver, heard her voice, heard echoes of other words and finally cornered them, listened to them, and realized what they’d been doing.

  He was being isolated.

  He was being eased into a room with no doors, no windows, and only she had the means to get him out again.

  Dream, she had told Amy; dream, and it’ll be yours.

  With a directionless oath he raced for the door, flung it open, and charged down the walk. The gate latch jammed, and he yanked the whole thing off its hinges, swung left and ran, for the first few seconds paying no heed to a car that sped after him, slowed, and began blaring its horn to stop him. When he did turn, he saw Victoria, and when she braked, he skirted the hood without slowing and jumped in beside her.

  “I saw Les,” she told him as he waved her to drive on. “He was running, and I couldn’t get him to stop. Brett, what’s—”

  “Later,” he said. “We’ll get him later and straighten it all out. Right now, go to the park. There’s something there I need you to see. I need your help.”

  She kept glancing at him, but he refused to meet her gaze, staring instead at the street ahead, at the clouds of fog in the trees, at the image of Amy in the orchard, and Amy on the ground.