brought me here for, son? Tonight we go hunting.”
***
24th April 1986. Mill Woods, High Moor. 19:30.
Steven gripped the wet surface of the tree trunk and hauled himself up towards the makeshift platform that he and Carl had spent most of the afternoon constructing.
The American located a clearing in the woods around a quarter of a mile away from where the Williams boy had been found and carried out his site preparation with an air of casual confidence. That should have made Steven feel better about the situation, but for some reason it had the opposite effect.
They built the platform on the intersection of two branches, almost thirty feet from the forest floor. They had trimmed the lower branches of the tree so that there were no obstructions to their field of fire. It had been cold, wet, unpleasant work, and every time Steven looked at the platform, he had visions of a similar structure where a boy had died the previous month. The thought did nothing to settle his nerves.
Steven reached the platform and hauled himself over the edge of the wood, praying that it would support his weight. The rain had stopped around an hour earlier. The only sounds were evening birdsong, and the sporadic patter of droplets of water falling from leaves.
Steven heard a rustling in the undergrowth, and his hand moved towards the flight cases containing Carl’s weapons. A moment later, Carl Schneider emerged from the bracken holding a length of rope. At the other end of the rope was a goat.
Steven was puzzled. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Carl flashed him a knowing grin. “From a farmer on the outskirts of town. Cost me twenty pounds, which of course I’ll be expecting back on top of my fee.”
“Great. So now, Durham Constabulary is the proud owner of a female goat. Have you thought about what exactly we're going to do with it if your plan doesn’t work?”
Carl tied one end of the rope to a metal stake in the centre of the clearing. “You could always keep it as a pet. Or eat it. Some good cuts of meat on a goat.”
“Something tells me that the wife might object to my showing up with a slightly used goat. What makes you so sure that our mystery beast is going to take the bait?”
Carl finished his knot, walked over to the goat, and stroked the animal’s head. Then he drew a knife and sliced the flesh across the goat’s ribs. The animal squealed in pain and pulled at its tether. Carl walked away from the stricken creature and attached his tree climbing harness.
“What the fuck are you doing? I should arrest you right now for animal cruelty.”
The old man looked up at the police officer in the tree. All traces of humour had vanished from his face. “Steve, I do what I have to. Hopefully, this will save some lives. Now, the light is going, and soon the moon will be up. I don’t want another fucking sound out of you until daybreak. No talking, no moaning. Don’t even breathe loud. Both our lives depend on it. Do you think you can do that?”
Steven shrugged and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “Sure, not a sound till morning. I think I can manage that.”
“You can forget about the cancer sticks until daybreak, too. It’ll smell the smoke half a mile away. We want the goat to be the bait, not us.”
Steven sighed and put the cigarettes away just as the rain started to fall once more. This was going to be a long night.
Chapter 7
24th April 1986. St Paul’s Church Hall, High Moor. 20:15.
John and Michael peered through the glass door at the rain-soaked street outside. The water came down in waves, driven by the wind into ice-cold darts that hammered against the thin glass sheet.
John turned to Michael. “I thought your dad was coming to pick us up?”
“He’s meant to do a lot of things, but mostly he just sits and gets pissed. He was always like that, but ever since…” said Michael, wiping his eyes with his Cub Scout neckerchief.
John put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
***
24th April 1986. Mill Woods, High Moor. 19:30.
Steven gripped the wet surface of the tree trunk and hauled himself up towards the makeshift platform that he and Carl had spent most of the afternoon constructing.
The American located a clearing in the woods around a quarter of a mile away from where the Williams boy had been found and carried out his site preparation with an air of casual confidence. That should have made Steven feel better about the situation, but for some reason it had the opposite effect.
They built the platform on the intersection of two branches, almost thirty feet from the forest floor. They had trimmed the lower branches of the tree so that there were no obstructions to their field of fire. It had been cold, wet, unpleasant work, and every time Steven looked at the platform, he had visions of a similar structure where a boy had died the previous month. The thought did nothing to settle his nerves.
Steven reached the platform and hauled himself over the edge of the wood, praying that it would support his weight. The rain had stopped around an hour earlier. The only sounds were evening birdsong, and the sporadic patter of droplets of water falling from leaves.
Steven heard a rustling in the undergrowth, and his hand moved towards the flight cases containing Carl’s weapons. A moment later, Carl Schneider emerged from the bracken holding a length of rope. At the other end of the rope was a goat.
Steven was puzzled. “Where the hell did you get that?”
Carl flashed him a knowing grin. “From a farmer on the outskirts of town. Cost me twenty pounds, which of course I’ll be expecting back on top of my fee.”
“Great. So now, Durham Constabulary is the proud owner of a female goat. Have you thought about what exactly we're going to do with it if your plan doesn’t work?”
Carl tied one end of the rope to a metal stake in the centre of the clearing. “You could always keep it as a pet. Or eat it. Some good cuts of meat on a goat.”
“Something tells me that the wife might object to my showing up with a slightly used goat. What makes you so sure that our mystery beast is going to take the bait?”
Carl finished his knot, walked over to the goat, and stroked the animal’s head. Then he drew a knife and sliced the flesh across the goat’s ribs. The animal squealed in pain and pulled at its tether. Carl walked away from the stricken creature and attached his tree climbing harness.
“What the fuck are you doing? I should arrest you right now for animal cruelty.”
The old man looked up at the police officer in the tree. All traces of humour had vanished from his face. “Steve, I do what I have to. Hopefully, this will save some lives. Now, the light is going, and soon the moon will be up. I don’t want another fucking sound out of you until daybreak. No talking, no moaning. Don’t even breathe loud. Both our lives depend on it. Do you think you can do that?”
Steven shrugged and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. “Sure, not a sound till morning. I think I can manage that.”
“You can forget about the cancer sticks until daybreak, too. It’ll smell the smoke half a mile away. We want the goat to be the bait, not us.”
Steven sighed and put the cigarettes away just as the rain started to fall once more. This was going to be a long night.
Chapter 7
24th April 1986. St Paul’s Church Hall, High Moor. 20:15.
John and Michael peered through the glass door at the rain-soaked street outside. The water came down in waves, driven by the wind into ice-cold darts that hammered against the thin glass sheet.
John turned to Michael. “I thought your dad was coming to pick us up?”
“He’s meant to do a lot of things, but mostly he just sits and gets pissed. He was always like that, but ever since…” said Michael, wiping his eyes with his Cub Scout neckerchief.
John put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
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