The Orchard by Charles L. Grant

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