The Lost Orphans Omnibus Read online

  The Lost Orphans Omnibus

  J.S Donovan

  Copyright 2017 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.

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  Contents

  The Lost Orphans: Book 0

  1. Winter 1992

  2. Frozen Stiff

  3. Number One

  4. Snow Angels

  5. Feather Beds

  6. Black Ice

  7. Hush

  8. Father

  9. The Wheel

  The Lost Orphans: Book 1

  1. Ashton

  2. Harroway

  3. The Wailing Woman

  4. Leaves Like Fire

  5. The Mothers

  6. Nature Run

  7. Halloween Night

  8. The House on Spring Street

  9. Lost Girl

  The Lost Orphans: Book 2

  1. The Man

  2. The Girl

  3. Rope and Cinder

  4. This Is Your Home

  5. A Child’s Bones

  6. Woodhall

  7. The Missing Ones

  8. Cellar

  9. Vigil

  10. Smoothies

  About the Author

  The Lost Orphans: Book 0

  1

  Winter 1992

  The night was as cold as death. Tires screeched on black ice. The four-door Buick station wagon slid around the road’s bend. To the right of the winding asphalt path, the steep mountainside climbed into the inky, snow-distorted night. To the left and separated by a rust-spotted guardrail, the mountainside dropped into an abyss filled with the snowcapped trees.

  Steamy hot chocolate splashed down Roger Taft’s pearl-colored sweater and onto the groin of his tapered slacks. He grabbed the rigid steering wheel with both hands and turned hard in an attempt to save his family’s lives. His fluffy wife’s scream rattled his eardrum while bucktooth Yogi and adorable Vinna shouted from the back seat. The station wagon whipped around, straightened out, and slowed down at the center of the cracked asphalt road.

  Roger’s heart pounded against his ribs, and though the scare had ended, he couldn’t let go of the steering wheel. With wide eyes and a searing crotch, he slowly turned to his wife Hannah. She was an attractive woman with a cute face that had softened after the birth of their second child Vinna six years ago. She wore faded denim jeans held at her belly button by a skinny leather belt, a loose and cozy winter sweater, and earmuffs over scrunched, cherry-blonde hair.

  “Are you trying to kill us?” Hannah barked as she pulled crumpled napkins from her purse and patted down Roger’s lap.

  “I’m trying to get us to the party on time,” Roger replied, brushing her hand away.

  Mom and Pop expected them an hour ago. The storm and his pissed-off wife weren’t doing him any favors. He didn’t blame Hannah. With the toy company in flux, they had been tearing through their savings these last few months. The mandatory 400-mile journey to his family’s winter reunion had not helped with the money problem.

  “Why are you in such a rush? All your parents ever do is make fun of your job,” Hannah berated him.

  Elf, his father would tease him, along with the rest of the in-laws. Get a real job. Oh, how Roger hated that. He was thirty-five years old, the sales manager of one of the largest toy manufacturers in the nation, but that would never be enough to please his father, a successful lawyer, or compete with his brother, the handsome Dr. Decker Taft.

  Roger tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His bony knuckles turned frosty white. “It’s a Taft family tradition.”

  “So my family is chopped liver?”

  “We visit them in the summer!” Roger argued.

  “Not this year.”

  “I was working.”

  “Uh huh. Sure,” Hannah said, but her words were not convincing.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think you know,” Hannah replied.

  Roger honestly didn’t have a clue.

  The station wagon climbed farther up the mountainside.

  “I have to go pee,” six-year-old Vinna complained. She was a cute little girl with platinum blonde hair, a heart-shaped face, and little nose that looked like a red button in the cold. In the rearview mirror, she looked like a little chubby pillow in her dense purple snow jacket, heavy snow pants, and thick beanie with a little fuzzy ball on top.

  “We’re almost there,” Roger said sweetly, though he felt stress squeezing his forehead. He adjusted his square rim glasses to their proper position and scratched his wooly mustache. His pants and shirt had a hot chocolate stain down the front. Wonderful.

  “Pew. Pew.” Yogi, the name Hannah gave their son, made a gun with his finger and “shot” at Roger.

  “Hey, stop shooting your father,” Hannah yelled at the boy with buckteeth in a heavy blue winter coat.

  Yogi put Hannah in his sights. “Pew. Pew. Pew.”

  The boy had ginger hair and a permanent jaw like his father.

  Hannah crossed her arms and made herself small in the front seat. “I told you we shouldn’t have let him watch Terminator 2.”

  “The movie is a year old, and he already owned the toy.”

  “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

  Roger grumbled and pressed the play button on the cassette player. Amy Grant’s Most Wonderful Time of the Year masked his son’s pew-ing.

  The snowfall thickened. The station wagon’s headlight barely breached more than thirty feet ahead of the vehicle. Roger felt the tires slipping on the black asphalt. He glanced at the clock. Thirty more minutes, he reminded himself.

  “Roger!” Hannah screamed.

  Roger glanced up and saw the box truck parked horizontally across the road. Roger slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel. His taillight smashed against the guardrail, erupting into amber shards. Ignoring his family’s shouting, Roger turned the steering wheel the other way, fishtailing the station wagon and bringing it to a sliding stop nearby the white box truck.

  Roger took a deep breath along with the rest of the family.

  Frost inched up the truck’s glowing window. The interior lights of the truck illuminated the empty seats. The engine rumbled softly.

  Roger turned off the music and looked around the station wagon. “Everyone okay?”

  The other Tafts nodded.

  Roger scrutinized the truck from his seat. “I’m going to check it out.”

  Hannah grabbed his bicep. “No. Let’s just go back.”

  “Down the mountain, you mean? People don’t park in the middle of the road for no good reason. We need to see if they need help.” And I have no intention of making the drive back.

  Roger pulled out of his wife’s grasp and opened the car door. The screaming wind cut through the station wagon and give them all a chill. Roger quickly hustled outside and slammed the door behind him. He pulled his warm gloves from his pocket and slid them on his skinny hands. He marched toward the vehicle, feeling the gust pushing him closer to the guardrail and the abyss behind.

  The box truck was white and unassuming. It was a third the size of a semi, and the front end looked like the front of a pick-up truck.

  “Need help?” Roger yelled out. His ear ached and his nose leaked. He stared into the passenger side window. Fast food wrappers and cups filled the wheel well. The key was still in the ignition.

  Roger tried the passenger handle. Locked. He glanced at the back of the truck near the guardrail but saw nobody. He turned to the vehicle’s nose and glanced up at the slopped mountainside behind it. Snow blanketed the
trees like bed sheet ghosts. A shadow stood amidst the flora. In the shadow’s hands, Roger saw the glint of a rifle’s scope.

  With an angry scowl, Hannah watched her husband staring into the woods like a village idiot. She felt something inside her twist as she recalled her dream all those months ago. It was of Roger and his new assistant, a bimbo who looked awfully cute in a skimpy Santa outfit, going to town on her bed.

  “It’s just a dream!” Roger shouted at her when she exiled him to the couch. She slammed the bedroom door, sank to the floor, and allowed herself to weep. The dream had seemed so real; how could she know if it was true or false? You’re being foolish, she told herself, yet she couldn’t erase the image that branded her mind. She longed to see her mother and get her advice. It wasn’t a conversation worthy of just a phone call. If only she could visit her parents instead of Roger’s.

  Boom!

  Roger’s face took a hit. Spilling red down his jacket and turtleneck, he hit his back against the box truck’s door. Without blinking, he sank to the ground, eyes wide open, his head cocked to the side.

  It took Hannah a second to realize that the blood-curdling scream that assaulted her ears was her own. Vinna and Yogi screamed as well.

  Tears streaming down her face, Hannah reached for her door handle and then suddenly paused.

  Holding a raised rifle, the shadowy figure walked out of the woods and turned to the station wagon. In his puffy snow coat and pants, he looked like the Michelin man.

  “Get down!” she told her children as she desperately tried to cross to the driver’s seat.

  There was another loud bang and Hannah slammed into her seat. She glanced at the spider web crack in the windshield and then the bullet hole in her abdomen.

  “Mom!” Vinna screamed.

  “Run,” Hannah commanded with a froggy voice.

  “But--”

  “Now,” Hannah barked.

  Her children each opened their own door and darted outside.

  As the gunman approached, Hannah glanced at her rear view, watching the children reconvene at the guardrail and hurry into the woods.

  The gunman jogged after them. He vaulted over the railing and vanished into the abyss.

  Hannah Taft was alone and cold. She locked eyes with her dead husband before the world faded.

  Nearby, a sign read, “Welcome to Highlands. Elevation: 4118 ft.”

  2

  Frozen Stiff

  December 24, 2017

  It was a quiet Christmas Eve at Hadley House, an 1892 Queen Anne manse built at the end of a forested road seven point six miles from the small town of Highlands, North Carolina. The four-bedroom, three-bath pale-green house stood two stories tall. Four inches of snow covered the yard and clumped on the skeletal branches of barren trees that stretched for miles across the rising and falling Appalachian Mountain. Clouds like pulled cotton coasted across millions of stars and a crescent moon. Dim light streamed through the house’s old wooden shutters.

  In the large living room and opposite of the grandfather clock, a small Christmas tree stood by the front windows. The smell of sap and evergreen tree filled the musty room. A few small presents lingered below the lowest pine branch.

  Liam Harroway cleared his throat, as he did on the church pulpit before his battle with the bottle. He raised his mug of non-alcoholic eggnog. “Another year has come and gone, and it is time to celebrate the birth of our Savior.”

  Rachel Harroway sat at the edge of the couch, warming her hands on her mug of black tea. Her slick, raven-black hair was cut at her shoulders. She wore a muted purple sweater and dark blue jeans. Seated next to her atheistic detective partner Jenson Peak, Rachel patiently listened to her father’s rendition of the Christmas story as she did every winter.

  Peak slouched. His soot-colored slacks hovered above his pulled-up black socks and nice shoes. His navy-blue windbreaker was unzipped, his black tie was loose around his shirt collar, and his left arm was around the shoulder of his five-year-old daughter Clove, who leaned into him. Like Peak, the little girl had intense dark irises and copper-colored hair. They stared off at nothing in particular.

  “...Jesus, born in a manger. The most humble of beginnings for the Redeemer of all mankind...”

  It was just Peak, Liam, Clove, and Rachel. The perfect Christmas.

  Something moved upstairs.

  Well, almost perfect.

  “Let us bow our heads in silence,” Liam said, closing his eyes.

  Rachel shut her eyes as well, but she could only see the bloodied faces of hundreds of people: victims and killers alike. Some to be stopped and others to be saved. She returned her sight to the world, realizing that Peak had never shut his eyes.

  Liam smiled at Rachel in a way that only a father could and grabbed a present from under the tree.

  “Detective Peak, there’s a tradition we Harroways follow every Christmas Eve. Each of us opens one gift before the big day, so choose wisely,” Liam explained as he handed the small rectangular box to Rachel.

  “What happens if I only have one gift?” Peak replied dryly.

  “Then you better make it count,” Liam replied.

  Rachel pulled off the wrapping paper and held the black cardboard box. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Don’t thank him until you open it,” Peak said. “No offense, Liam, but the only gifts I got from pastors were pocket bibles.”

  “Sounds fitting for the season,” Liam replied.

  “I would’ve preferred something by Darwin.”

  “Darwin doesn’t hold the secret to eternal life, now does he?” Liam said jokingly, but was obviously serious.

  Peak smirked.

  Rachel slid open the box, revealing a silver necklace with a dark blue jewel. “I can’t take this.”

  “Why not?” Liam said with offense.

  “It's too expensive.”

  “Nonsense,” Liam lied. “You deserve something special. Let me help you put it on.”

  Since his retirement a few years ago, Liam would throw money at Rachel every chance he got. With her father’s help, the cold silver chain fell upon her neck like a pretty noose.

  “You look pretty for an old person,” Clove said.

  Peak gave his daughter a stern look.

  “Thanks, Clove,” Rachel replied. “They say forty is the new twenty-five.” Though it sure doesn’t feel like it. In cold winters like these, her joints ached, she slept wearing gloves to keep her skin from cracking, and dark brush strokes underlined her muted green eyes. Like her institutionalized mother, Rachel had a defined jaw and pretty nose. She stood eight inches over five feet, with a slender body apart from the “parts that count,” as her ex-husband used to say. Natural remedies kept her skin soft, and her makeup and jewelry was minimal. Many days, she would forego them altogether. The time to impress suitors had passed years ago. People got what they saw, though Rachel still turned heads.

  She picked up a big box and approached Peak. When he reached out to grab it, Rachel quickly pulled it away and gave it to Clove.

  “That’s for you,” Rachel said with a smile.

  “Cute,” Peak replied dryly.

  With wide eyes, Clove tore into the packaging. She pulled out a box with a translucent plastic window on the front. Clove gawked at the porcelain doll within. Wearing a white dress and little slip-on shoes, the doll had long copper hair, dark eyes, and little plump lips. “Does it have…”

  Rachel nodded. “Yes, it has real human hair.”

  Clove put aside the gift and gave Rachel a quick hug before pulling out the doll and making it dance through the air.

  Liam struggled to find some kind words. “Well, uh, it’s definitely… unique.”

  “You know I hate creepy dolls,” Peak said to Rachel.

  “That’s a shame. I got you one to match,” Rachel teased and gave him the heavy ammo box.

  Peak popped it open, examining the gold-headed rounds within.

  “9mm hollow point.” He pulled one out an
d held it between his fingers. “124 grain FMJ.”

  “For that puny Glock 19 of yours,” Rachel replied. “That’s a thousand rounds, don’t use them all in one place.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that. When I was undercover, they called me Shooter.”

  “You use that on all the ladies?”

  Peak ignored the comment. “Thanks for the gift. I know having you open two gifts breaks the sacred Harroway tradition, but here.”

  He handed her a present concealed with Santa Claus-decorated wrapping paper.

  After removing the wrapper, Rachel took out the packet of artistic shading pencil. There was a little note stuck to the front. It read, “For your Orphans.”

  Rachel and Peak exchanged a look. Liam was clueless.

  “I needed a new set,” Rachel replied.

  “I bought the best brand I could find. Eight-four bucks for the twelve pack, if you can believe it.”

  Liam opened the gift Rachel got him: a new bowling ball. With a giddy smile, he put his fingers in the grip hole and prepared to roll it across the ancient hardwood floor.

  Rachel’s glare deterred him.

  “Why don’t you open another one, Rachel?” Liam said, putting the bowling ball aside and refilling Peak’s mug with the last of the eggnog.

  “That would break tradition twice now.” Rachel replied.

  Liam examined the empty eggnog carton. “You’re the host. Treat yourself.”

  Wanting to save a few gifts for tomorrow morning, Rachel opened an envelope she had received from an anonymous sender last week. She opened it, revealing a photo of Brett and a fashion model-tier blonde amidst towering Redwood trees. Little grey flakes peppered Rachel’s ex-husband’s long, auburn beard. His hair was gelled, sheared at the sides. He wore square glasses with nice frames, a blue and white plaid shirt, and beige jeans rolled up at the ankle with leather shoes. Most noticeably of all, Brett looked happy. The card wished Rachel happy holidays and nothing more.