The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery Read online

  A flock of black birds took flight in the distance, followed by a silent eleven-foot-long helicopter holding a black canister. It zipped toward the crowd. The nozzle on the canister popped open, raining down a billowing stream of orange gas as it neared the men and women, young and old, all with their heads bowed in prayer.

  Time seemed to slow for Rachel. She couldn’t stop the drone, even if her aim was perfect. Only one other option came to mind. She pulled her pistol, aimed for the clouds and squeezed off a few loud gunshots into the early evening sky.

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  The crowd screamed and saw the helicopter swiftly approaching. Orange pesticide enveloped those at the far reaches of the crowd like the shadow from the angel of death. They ran away shrieking in pain and horror as their eyes swelled and they spewed vomit and blood. They tripped and tumbled into each other, forming piles on the ground that were consumed by the toxic gas. The fire from the candles spread to shirts and pants and hitchhiked on the backs of screaming sprinters.

  The speakers on stage clambered to get off of the platform. One tripped over an audio cable, sending an electrical screech into the already chaotic cacophony of shrieks, cries, and footfalls. Liam stood alone on the stage, gawking at the horror while people fled around him. The orange death would be upon him soon.

  “Dad!” Rachel’s cry was lost in the hundreds of others.

  She ran against the stampeding crowd, getting pelted by shoulders and elbows as she pushed against the tide of bodies. The rising smoke was about a fourth of the way over the blockaded area. The copter itself was about halfway over the crowd. Time was running out.

  Rachel hurtled over a felled man and nearly knocked over a woman clenching her newborn babe tightly to her chest. As she reached the steps on the side of the stage, a man built like an ox plowed into her. She smacked against the hard asphalt and guarded her face as an elderly woman stomped her chest. She grabbed a metal cross bar supporting the platform and started to pull herself up, when she was nailed by a flaming man. His entire face was swollen and blood red from the toxins. He screamed into Rachel’s face, spitting into her eyes and on her brow. She pushed him off and crawled under the stage. Sharp pain hit her right arm. She realized it was on fire. She slapped out the flame, searing her palm. Hunched, she ran under the stage and to the steps.

  Liam stood by the podium with a look of complete despair. Rachel grabbed his wrist. “Dad. Run!”

  As she dragged him away, the vibrant cloud of death nipped at her heels. Liam pointed to a rooftop across the way. “There.”

  She looked up and saw a figure silhouetted at the top of the building. He held a remote control. A jack-o’-lantern mask that was staple-stitched down the middle covered his head.

  Rachel put her arm around her father and ushered him down the side steps.

  “Rachel. Rachel. He’s killing those people.”

  “I know, Dad,” Rachel barked as she pushed her elderly father away from the smoke.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked with dread in his voice.

  His run was a sorry thing. It was slowing Rachel down, but she wouldn’t dream of abandoning her father. “Dad, you have to run fast. Find shelter.”

  “But—”

  She found the nearest open door and pushed her father inside. It was small antiques shop, and there were already other event-goers inside. “If you see the smoke coming in, get out.”

  Before her father could reply, she slammed the door behind him. Tires screeched down the road and bowled though a few pedestrians to escape the chaos. Police sirens screamed. Rachel faced the twenty-foot wall of orange toxins rolling toward her. She bolted into an alleyway in search of stairs, a ladder, or anything that she could climb.

  She found a fire escape on the side of a brick building. It would work. Clambering up the dumpster, she watched the orange gas tumble by on the adjacent street. An arm of it branched into the alley next to her. She leapt from the dumpster to the suspended ladder’s lowest rung and used all of her arm and core strength to heave herself up. She wasn’t twenty anymore, and it felt as if all of her muscles were tearing. If you fall, you die. She repeated it to herself a million times as she got to the second and then third rung. The metal bars stripped layers of skin from her palms. The pain that remained was fiery hot. She continued her climb. The rising gas coasted to her. She reached the top of the ladder and hurried up the steps.

  Before long, she reached the rooftop. Over the air conditioning units and snaking vents, the Poisoner stood. His gloved hands, one stained black from his encounter with Rachel on Halloween, toyed with the remote control. His thumbs worked the pitch-and-yaw joystick.

  Rachel whipped out her pistol. “Martin Malone!”

  The man in the jack-o’-lantern mask swiftly turned his attention to her.

  “You are under arrest! Drop the controller!” she shouted. Everything inside of her wanted to pepper this man with bullets, but that wasn’t her way.

  Martin tilted his head slightly to the side like a confused dog. Under his unbuttoned blazer, Rachel’s Glock 22 was held snugly in a leather holster. “Show’s over, Detective. I’m nearly finished.”

  Rachel fired off a round, blowing off the upper corner of his pumpkin mask.

  Martin recoiled but didn’t drop the controller. No blood poured from the wound. It missed his skull by centimeters.

  “Next time, I’ll put it between your eyes!” Rachel promised.

  Shaken, Martin flicked the joystick.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the small, unmanned helicopter make a sharp turn and charge right at her. She swiveled her waist, firing off two rounds into its nose as it angled forward and down, aiming the rotating blades Rachel’s way. It came swiftly. She felt the jets of wind pump at her and tousle her hair as it raced forward. Rachel dove, belly-flopping on the rooftop as the helicopter smashed into the place where she had been standing. Its swirling blades fragmented on impact, sending flying metal over Rachel’s skull. The nose of the machine crunched, slid, and erupted into fire.

  Rachel turned her eyes up to the Poisoner as he tossed the control aside and drew out the gun. Wincing from pain in her core, she fired off a round. It missed Martin. He hurried for cover behind one of the ventilation units.

  On her tender palms, she pushed herself up. The barrel of the Poisoner’s gun pointed over the top of the square unit, and he fired off a few blind rounds. She kept her head low and dropped prone behind one of the snaking ventilation tubes.

  The Poisoner shouted from behind his cover. “I imagined a much more romantic end for you, Detective. Don’t make me spoil it with a bullet.”

  Rachel crawled on her hands and knees, keeping herself behind her low cover.

  The Poisoner fired off a few more rounds. The bullets zipped over her head. In the town below her, screaming, shouting, and sirens echoed far worse than they did on Halloween night.

  Rachel reached the corner of the snaking vent, rose to a crouch, and kept an eye out for the Poisoner. She couldn’t see him. Carefully, she made her way around the rooftop. Sweat glued her hair to forehead. Pain throbbed in her palms and torso. She shoved the feeling aside the best she could and neared the killer.

  Like a jack-in-the-box, he popped up from behind cover and fired off the rest of the clip at Rachel. She kept her head low and ran until she knew his pistol was depleted. He tossed aside the Glock and sprinted to the roof’s edge. On the street below, blinded, sobbing pedestrians crawled on their hands and knees. Others twitched. Martin turned back to Rachel and pulled off his mask.

  The plastic jack-o’-lantern cracked open the rest of the way when it hit the street behind him. As Rachel’s sketch described, the man had a handsome, roguish face and slicked-back black hair. His eyes were dark and daring, and his skin was the color of olives. He looked like an older, mature, more handsome version of his teenage self.

  He spread out his arms like Jesus on the cross. The orange smoke dissipated at his back.

&
nbsp; Rachel trained her weapon at his center mass, remembering the dozen lives he had took and countless others he had injured. That such a beautiful man could produce so much evil made her stomach churn.

  He looked Rachel up and down. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

  She had nothing to say to that.

  “What happened here today, what happened on Halloween, that will stay with people for a very long time. Many of us dream of being legends, Detective. Few actually achieve it.”

  “What’s next? Going to tell me your sob story?” Rachel asked as she stepped closer to him. “I know it. I know how you were raised in that dark room. I know that you left your brother to die. I know your father killed your mother. I know your life was one endless disaster after another. That’s no excuse for the things you’ve done. Throughout your life, people have loved you, Martin. Your mother. Your brother. Jessie Coleman. All those women you poisoned. If you’d just embraced it, you wouldn’t be going down this lonely road.”

  Martin thought about her words for a moment. “Romance is an illusion. This world is only tragedy. Think about all the innocents that are killed daily. Where is the justice?”

  Rachel’s blood pressure spiked. “It’s here, Martin, but you chose to bring only more hurt into this world. Now, get on your knees.”

  Martin cocked a smile. “Going to execute me?”

  She kept aiming at him. “Just do as I say.”

  He chuckled. He shoved his hand into his jacket and swiftly removed a vial. She was half tempted to shoot him then and there, until he consumed the liquid in a single sip. “I’ll see you soon, Detective.”

  His eyes rolled into the back of his head. His body collapsed.

  Rachel paused. Was that it?

  She approached him, knelt down, and checked his pulse. Nothing.

  Police cruisers raced down the road as the sun started to set. She thought about his words, and a foolish thought crossed her mind. Does he know about the Gift? She scoffed at the notion. She peered down at the bodies littering the street, counting at least a dozen and a half limp bodies on the road. She made the call. “Martin Malone is dead.”

  She gave the address and picked up her Glock 22. Something about it felt wrong. Perhaps she’d stick with her new gun after all. She shambled down the fire escape and dropped into the alley, thinking about how she’d help the living and the dead.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon the next day that Rachel found herself looking at Sunny Pines Orphanage. She had her hands in the warm pockets of her leather jacket, and her mind was replaying her final encounter with the Poisoner. Over a dozen lives were lost in the event, though Lieutenant McConnell made it very clear that it could’ve been hundreds if Rachel had not intervened. Her father was safe, Peak was planning a vacation for him and his daughter, Clove, and journalists had filled up Rachel’s voicemail mailbox, asking her when she’d be available for an interview.

  She pulled open the double front doors, requested a visitor pass, and found Mallory Stix seated on the edge of her bed and looking down at the middle-aged woman crouched before her. Martha had long brown hair and wore matching fall attire. She turned to Rachel and got up. Rachel felt a tugging feeling from the Orphan as they stared at one another. After a moment, Martha stepped through Rachel and went out the door.

  Mallory turned her big blue eyes to Rachel. “She hasn’t gone home yet.”

  Rachel leaned in the doorway. “Sometimes it takes a little time for them to let go of this world.”

  “Will I ever see her again?” Mallory asked.

  “That’s out of my hands,” Rachel replied honestly.

  Mallory got out of bed, rushed to Rachel, and gave her a hug.

  The spontaneity stunned Rachel for a moment, but then she returned the action.

  Mallory said, “I was worried you would stop visiting.”

  “That’s why I’m here, actually,” Rachel answered softly. “This will be my final visit to this place.”

  Mallory swiftly separated herself from Rachel. She was seconds away from crying.

  Rachel smiled softly at her and pulled out a folded form from her jacket pocket. “That’s because you’ll be staying at my house.”

  Mallory’s jaw dropped, and her eyes watered. After the moment of shock hit, she leapt into Rachel’s arms.

  “Oof,” Rachel said in reply.

  “I won’t let you down, I promise,” Mallory said. “I’ll do everything you say, wash my own dishes, fold my own laundry. I won’t even talk to any Orphans without your permission.”

  “Slow down, little missy,” Rachel cut her off. “You’re not going to boot camp. Yeah, you’ll be have responsibilities, but this is going to be your home.”

  “Last time someone said that, it wasn’t much fun,” Mallory replied with a cheeky smile.

  Rachel chuckled. “Get packed and ready. There are still a few more documents I need to sign.”

  Mallory hummed the whole way to Hadley House. She looked out of the window and watched the pin oaks zip by. Rachel chewed her lower lip. She wanted this. She knew she wanted this, but everything inside told her not screw up.

  The twin peaks of the 1892 Queen Anne manse grew out of the treetops. Standing two stories high, the house had a large front porch with custom wood trimming that curved around one side of the building. One of the two peaks jutted out from the rest of the house in a half-octagonal shape, thus giving the building the shape of an L. Its roof was shingled, and the windows had wooden shutters.

  Putting her hands on the car window, Mallory stared up at the ancient home.

  They stepped out of the car, crunching dry leaves on the old asphalt. The wind blew Rachel’s dark hair, brushing it against her pale cheeks. Tall sentry oaks concealed the house, leaving a little clearing for the front and backyard. Their skeletal branches waved at Rachel. Their pointed fingers clawed at the left and right sides of the house, narrowly missing it by a few yards.

  “What do you think?” Rachel asked, seeing all the curling paint chips, the leaky gutter, and the other flaws she’d been planning to correct for years. “I know it’s old and a little beaten down, but the place has heart. For me, anyway.”

  Mallory walked a few steps forward. She twisted back to Rachel. “It’s wonderful.”

  Rachel smiled to herself. The last time that was said about her house was when she and Brett first moved in. She let the memory marinate before hiking up the steps and giving Mallory the grand tour.

  “You remember I’ve been here once already,” the little girl said.

  “Yeah, well, now it’s official,” Rachel said. “You can pick whichever room you want. I’ve already washed the sheets and cleaned out the bookshelf.”

  Mallory chose the bedroom nearest Rachel’s. It had a wardrobe left behind by the Barnes family. As she settled in, Rachel unloaded her groceries, trying to remember a meal her father used to make her.

  Woodrow Gates had been running behind on Martin Malone’s autopsy. The Poisoner’s body had been stripped and laid bare on the slab, though he thought it fitting to take care of the victims first. It was Gates’s form of karmic justice.

  With a fresh pair of blue latex gloves snug against his bony fingers, Gates turned on his CD player and put on one of his favorite Chopin’s Waltzes. There was something soothing about ending his day on a musical note. He set aside his bone saw, scalpel, and other instruments of dissection, taking a few moments to twirl around and dance with an invisible companion.

  He danced over to the cabinet and pulled out the embalming fluid, put it on his special stainless-steel tray, and returned to the drawers, where he gathered rubber tubing, rib shears, bone-cutting forceps, chisels, a bone mallet, and his favorite: the Virchow skull breaker.

  Just like in med school, he liked to have everything laid out in front of him before he started on a job. With his assistants all taking night classes to get their diploma, he couldn’t rely on some young hottie to pull over the hazardous waste hamper if he accidenta
lly punctured the large intestine. Gates did not mind, though. He liked being able to dance and hum and enjoy his own weirdness. He’d say he was the oddest duck to pass through this office, though the world would never know it. Besides, there was only one other person stranger than him. The enigma that was Rachel Harroway. He thought she was epileptic, but that made very little sense considering that she never had a seizure away from a cadaver. Some of the local law enforcement called her a witch or clairvoyant behind her back. Gates wouldn’t go that far in his theories, but there was something Harroway was hiding from the world, and he was intent on finding out.

  Grabbing the final tools, he turned back to the dissection table and gasped. Martin Malone was sitting up on the cold slab. His head was downcast, with his greasy black hair dangling over his face. As fast as lightning, his dark eyes, full of life and vigor, locked with Gates’s, which were grey like dirty ice and wide with terror.

  On autopilot, Gates slung a deep stainless-steel tray at the living dead man’s face. Martin took the hit across the jaw, staggered off the table, and then rammed the scalpel into Gates’s neck. The coroner stumbled back, hitting the sink as Martin punched him with the scalpel in the stomach and chest. Gates’s legs betrayed him, and he hit the cold floor. Crimson painted his white lab coat at his front. His gloved hand held the puncture in his neck, which pumped a steady stream of blood. He tried to talk, scream, anything, but could only gurgle blood.

  Naked and dripping with Gates’s blood, Martin Malone stood over the old man with a look of fascination on his handsome face. “Detective Harroway—where does she live?”

  Gates kept his mouth closed. It quickly filled with blood.

  Martin squatted down to his level. He put the scalpel’s bloody point on Gate’s groin. “Speak.”

  “H-Hadley.” Gates spat blood.

  “Hadley House? The old one on Oakland Drive?” Martin asked.

  Gates nodded weakly.

  Martin reached into the coroner’s pocket and pulled out his car keys.