The Orchard by Charles L. Grant Page B

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.
    The patrolman had the gates open as Vicky skidded to a halt at the curb, and said nothing when they ran inside, following the path to the field, slowing, and stopping.
    The lights were still on.
    He took her hand and brought her to the place where Amy had fallen, tersely explaining what he had seen, then took her over to show her the prints. She said nothing as she hunkered down beside them, brushing her hair back over her shoulders, tilting her head from one side to the other, and freezing when they heard someone moving toward them out there, beyond the white wall the fog formed with the light.
    “What are they?” he asked quietly, tapping her shoulder to bring her to her feet.
    The wall of white sparkled like mica when a breeze shifted the mist.
    “Like a horse,” she whispered, “only they’re not quite right.”
    “A horse?”
    She nodded, and looked down again.
    “What’s wrong with them? Too small?” He looked around and took her arm.
    “No. Just … not right.”
    One of the lights snapped out and there was black behind them.
    Slowly, listening to the footsteps, steady and quiet, he pulled her with him as he backed away, shaking his head when she questioned him with a look, damning whatever had made him leave his gun at the house.
    A second light flared to blind them, and died a moment later, spraying sparks to the grass and hissing at the fog. Their shadows crossed on the ground, aiming for the trees.
    “Brett,” she whispered.
    The third light, and the fourth, and he was frozen by the dark, squinting as he waited for his night vision to work, holding her arm tighter, waving his free hand in front of him as if to hold back the footsteps that sounded now like drums.
    And when he saw it, saw the moon over the trees and the greylight it cast, he stopped and released her and waited for Denise.
    He had no idea what she had used for a weapon, but he thought now he knew why—to drive Les away. They were too close, too well knit by the death of their family, and Brett wouldn’t let the boy go. The killings had brought pressures on them both, making him cling even harder and aggravating Les’s drive for independence. Using Amy, alive, and using Amy, dead. Using his guilt, and his grief. Forcing him to remember Grace and his daughter, asking all those questions to prove he couldn’t make it alone, not anymore, not without her.
    He turned to Vicky with a bitter smile, to tell her what he knew, and felt the air leave his lungs as if he’d been punched. She was gone, and he could barely see her making her way toward the low hill, crouching, gun in hand, heading for a dark figure midway up toward the trees.
    He called out and started to run.
    She whirled and gestured angrily, turned again, and Denise had moved to the right, out of the shadows and into the light.
    “Stop! Vicky, Jesus, stop!” he screamed, but he misjudged the way the park rose, and he stumbled, fell, scrambled on hands and knees until he could stand again. Walking now, slowly, finding his breath as he kept Victoria on his left, himself the point of the triangle.
    Then Denise laughed in delight as the moon brightened, and he saw her as she wanted to be seen—young, and