“Come on, mate, let’s get somewhere safe. Then you can tell me all about it, alright?” Cecil reluctantly coaxed his brother. In truth, he was dying to know, right now, what had happened to their father. He wanted to know, right now, who the intruders were and what they had done to his brother. All these things had to wait, though, because the immediate threat was greater than information. With a struggle, he pulled his brother’s unwilling body up to his feet. Gary’s body felt like a sack of lead; dead weight in the arms of his desperate brother, but he made a small attempt at walking.
With every step further away from the house, Gary’s feet moved faster. His burden on his brother became less as he started to move on his own. The four of them trudged hastily downhill towards the foreboding gates of Nekenhalle, each with their own sense of misery attached to recent experiences. The sun licked at the horizon, soon to fall away and introduce the night. Over the treacherous frame of corroded iron and steel, the four people struggled to scale their way to safety.
Immediately after landing on the sand of the road, Sgt. Anaru grabbed the com device in the police vehicle and rambled off on a tangent about the urgency at Nekenhalle. Cecil and Gary, now far more animate than before, helped the lady officer from the last steel bar of the gates.
“Gary, do you have a key for this gate?” Cecil huffed.
“I had one, but Dad was wearing my jacket when we went up to clear the bush. I don’t know where his set is,” Gary answered, sounding almost normal again. Again, his brother ached to ask that simple question, but it was not the time for it.
Cecil motioned for his brother to get in his car. Before Cecil got in, he stood on the stepping and asked Sgt. Anaru, “Will you be coming back to look for my father?”
“Absolutely, mate, but we have to take a statement from your brother at the station first, alright?” the sergeant answered.
“How long until we can get back here with a small army?” Cecil inquired again.
“As soon as they get here, Doctor,” the police officer answered. “Now come down to the station with us so that we can get the formalities out of the way. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can get some men out here.”
The interior of the SUV was silent as Cecil and Gary followed the police car on the dusty road, heading toward Moana. Cecil was terribly concerned for his brother’s well-being, but he knew him too well. Voicing such concerns would just elicit some demeaning name calling from the macho younger brother, who’s slightly homophobic remarks had always irritated Cecil.
“When last did you eat?” he asked Gary. It was a good way to break the silence, he figured.
“That depends,” Gary replied. “What day is today?”
“You are fucking with me, right?” Cecil gasped.
“Nope,” his brother replied indifferently, “have no eaten since Tuesday morning, actually.”
“Crikey, Gary!” his big brother wailed. “You haven’t eaten in three days, mate?”
“It’s Friday today?” he asked sincerely. “Jesus.”
“Exactly. Here, here is some shepherd’s pie in that lunchbox,” Cecil offered, fumbling between the seats to retrieve the container Sally had given him when he left. “Good stuff, this, made by the neighbor’s wife. You know them?”
“Who?” Gary asked, ripping open the lid to have at the delicious nosh inside. “The Cockrans? We met briefly when Dad and I came to the farm with the truck, you know, with the furniture and all that.”
“Oh, good, because we are sleeping there tonight,” Cecil smiled.
His brother was stuffing his mouth with the pie, wolfing it down in less than four bites, but he did not look too happy about the accommodation arrangements.
“You don’t like them?” Cecil asked.
His brother shrugged, “I don’t know. I suppose it is better to sleep there than at Nekenhalle.”
Cecil was just happy that his brother did not kick up a storm over the arrangement. Normally Gary could be a bit headstrong, but Cecil reckoned that the trying experience he must have suffered pacified him somewhat. After all, his first meeting with old Nigel Cockran was less than pleasant as well, so he could not really fault his little brother for not liking the idea of staying over at the Cockran’s.
As they drove into Moana, Gary fell silent again. Having had some food, he felt reasonably strong, but it was painful to gobble down mash potato and meat so quickly after such a long fast. His hands locked over his gut and he winced at the discomfort. “I think I ate too fast, mate,” he told Cecil. “But Christ, I was so hungry.”
“Why didn’t you make something to eat?” Cecil finally asked. “Even in the state you were in, I am sure you could still whip up a meal, right?”
Gary gave him that same look as when he asked about their father back at the house. It was a glare of raw emotion that covered a few different hues. “I was too scared to eat anything, Cecil,” he admitted.
“Why?” his brother asked, narrowing his eyes at the sharp red brake lights of the police car in front of them.
“I was worried that it was poisoned,” Gary replied weakly, hoping that his brother would dismiss the answer if he kept it timid.
“It was what?” Cecil pushed, acting exactly as Gary had hoped he would not.
“Look, on Sunday last we found Harrington’s head lolling to the side, killed, dead, broken neck and all, you know?” Gary started explaining, referring to one of their dogs. Harrington had been with the Harding’s since they were teenagers, along with two other family dogs.
“What?” Cecil gasped. “Harrington? Oh God, no, mate.”
“True,” Gary continued. “But what we found when we put him in the ground, is that his front paw was swollen up like a cricket ball. It was a snakebite! A fucking snakebite!”
“That’s impossible, Gary. We’re not in Australia,” Cecil scoffed.
“No shit, mate!” his brother exclaimed. “Then we found Gina next day out on the cistern. Same thing. But she was not chewed up, just died of poisoning. I mean, Jesus, I know what a snakebite looks like. I spent some time in South Africa and Australia when I was in high school, Cecil, remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” his brother concurred, hoping that the conversation was not about to take a turn into rugby and how Gary excelled at it in Wellington.
“Now, she vomited her guts out before she died. Like the poison was not enough to kill her at first, but made her just sick enough to die overnight, you know? Cruel, man, cruel. We buried her with Harrington,” he recounted.
“And Sparky?” Cecil asked, fondly remembering the fox terrier they acquired right before he left for the big city life.
“No sign of Sparky, mate,” Gary answered. “I hope he is somewhere, still alive. You see, then Dad and me, we started thinking maybe the dogs were poisoned by someone who was on the farm, you know, someone who squatted there and thought the dogs would out them, see?”
“That makes a lot more sense that snakes,” Cecil agreed.
“So I was scared that, if they could poison the dogs, they probably poisoned us too,” Gary speculated. “That is why I could not eat any of the meat we had left.,” he suddenly caught his breath and grew upset at what he was hiding. “Plus, after what I saw happen to Dad, I did not have much of an appetite, and I did not want to move a goddamn inch from the spot where I collapsed on Tuesday. I think, maybe,” he looked at his brother in bewilderment. “I did not even wake up, you know, woke up like in brain function, until I heard the cops break down the door.”
“My God, Gary,” Cecil sighed. “I am so sorry I did not have the guts to come in and find you earlier. I guess Dad’s right about me not being close to Bill Best, hey?”
“You and me both, bro,” Gary chuckled dryly. “You and me both.”
17 Gathering a Posse
After the two brothers finalized their statements at the police station, Sgt. Anaru sent them away to get some rest. While they caught up on some sleep, he decided to get some men together, mostly from
the local stations. These were people who knew the area, people who came from generations of native families and a few of them were police officers from surrounding towns. The latter were on loan from their respective authorities for the sole reason that they were intrigued by the case. Not all missing persons cases were this interesting, but this one was a gem.
“Why do you need so many men, Sergeant?” the captain of Greymouth Police Station.
“We have reason to believe that the attackers are armed and dangerous, Henry,” Sgt. Anaru explained. “And the land area we have to cover to find Mr. Harding is substantial enough to merit more than a four-man search team.”
“Alright, I can send you three men,” the captain announced. “What is this all about, Mick?”
Sgt. Anaru took a breath. “It is a missing farmer, sir. The man vanished on his own farm.”
“I do understand that, Mick, but since when do you care that much about one missing farmer?” he asked Sgt. Anaru again.
“Because this is the new owner of…Nekenhalle,” Sgt. Anaru revealed.
There was a long pause before the police captain from Greymouth spoke again. “Nekenhalle. Holy shit, mate.”
“I know. So you see why I need men to search and men to keep their eyes on those men. Buddy system. But they don’t have to know, you know?” the sergeant warned. He was exhausted, propping himself up on his elbow while holding the phone. In his other hand was a lit smoke, hanging dangerously over his cold black coffee. Under a bland ceiling light above his desk, the Maori cop struggled to stay awake, succeeding only by the mercy of his adrenaline drive and a bit of bad caffeine.
“There are some blokes coming from as far as Christchurch, so I reckon we will soon have the bloody media on our asses too,” Anaru moaned. “But we hope to get some answers as soon as we get up there. Constable Ballin and me, we chased down a big son of a bitch, but these bastards are so fast. It would be good to know that we have the manpower to pull this off, sir.”
“Nah, you’re welcome, Mick,” the captain said. “Just make sure you don’t get swallowed up by the mountain, you hear me? That ranch is rancid, mate. Something made the mountain wake up again, and now we are up to our balls in guardians.”
“Christ, Captain Waikoto, don’t you go talking like that, please,” Anaru implored. “I don’t need that kind of talk before the search.”
“Don’t worry, mate,” the captain scoffed, “that palangi and his family will never believe the stories of the hungry mountain and all the Guardians. Most they would do is laugh it off.”
“But I don’t have only palangi on my team of rescue workers. I have Samoan and Maori men too, so we need to keep the Guardian talk between us,” Sgt. Anaru insisted.
“Alright, alright, Sergeant, relax,” the captain calmed him. “I will send my boys as soon as they arrive for tomorrow’s shift. Now you take care and for God’s sake, get some sleep, Mick.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Sgt. Anaru replied.
Only the constable and two desk officers were still at the small, informal station. They were muttering under their breath as he emerged from his office. “Have the brothers left yet, Const. Ballin?” he asked, stretching his back.
“Yes, sir. They just left, about five minutes ago,” she replied, still looking like a puppy’s chew toy.
“You had best get home too, Constable,” he said firmly. “We have had one intense day and we have to be fresh on our feet tomorrow.”
“Are we going back to Nekenhalle, sir?” she asked reluctantly. He could see her eyes begging him to negate her suspicion, but he could not please her with the answer she wanted.
“Yes, we are all going back,” he said.
“Oh Jesus,” she whimpered softly.
“We have at least 11 men so far willing to go with us,” he attempted to comfort her. The desk officers looked worried for them, but grateful that they would not have to join in the excursion to the wretched patch of black soiled land. After all, small as the division was, there had to be someone manning the station. From screening the calls and taking down details, to delegating basic duties to the officers left to deal with the usual police matters on call-outs.
“Well, I’ll be off home then, sir,” she ask-told her superior.
“Good night, Constable,” he nodded and returned to his office to finish up before going home as well.
When the Harding brothers arrived at the Cockran farm, they found the barn light on and its doors ajar. It was well past 10pm, which was an odd hour for the old man to still be up. As they pulled up to the barn, Nigel’s wife, Sally, appeared in the headlights. She was carrying a mug and held something in her fist.
“Hey, Sally,” Cecil greeted. “Did Nigel tell you that I took him up on the offer to stay another night?”
She smiled. “Of course he did.”
“And…would you mind much if my brother, Gary, stayed over too?” he asked carefully. “We found him alive today, thank God.”
“Oh my God! Is he alright?” she asked in her typically mothering manner. “Where is he?”
Gary stepped out of the SUV and gave the lady a courteous wave. “Nice to officially meet you, Mrs. Cockran,” he smiled. “May I say your shepherd’s pie is fucking epic.”
“Gary!” his brother shrieked.
Gary did not even realize at first, but quickly apologized. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cockran. I don’t mean to be such a pig, but I have not exactly been feeling very human these past few days.”
“Oh, come on, it’s alright,” she soothed. “I think when it comes to cussing we are all half pig anyway. As soon as I have given Nige his coffee, I will go and make you boys some hot chocolate and dish up some beef stew we have left over from tonight.”
She came to shake Gary’s hand, and Cecil saw what she had kept in her fist. A small, white pill changed hands as she took his brother’s hand. She gave the young man a wink and whispered, “You’ll love my beef stew, Gary. May I say that it is fucking delicious.”
Gary laughed in a loud cackle and his usually rigid brother even chuckled along as Sally led them into the barn. Nigel, on the other hand, felt no cheer whatsoever. His normally loud mouth was silent and he busied himself with wrapping up another sheep. Sally gave him a kiss on the top of his head when she gave him his coffee and painkiller. Before she walked out, she gave the Harding brothers a sorry look to warn them of Nigel’s dismay.
“Hello, Nigel,” Cecil started uncomfortably. “Please don’t tell me that that is a fresh kill.”
“Yup,” the old man replied slowly. His back was turned to them and he did not bother to face them. “I found this one a few hours ago. Just like the dogs.”
“Your dogs were poisoned too?” Gary gasped. At the sound of the alien voice behind him, the old man swung around and saw Gary standing there. He vaguely remembered briefly speaking with the young man and his father when they disturbed his sheep with their noisy furniture truck.
“I see you found your brother, Cecil,” the old man said without much amity toward the younger brother.
“Yes! I am so glad he is alright, but there is still no trace of my father,” Cecil reported to the distraught farmer. The old man looked furious and defeated. He did not really care to impress on Cecil his dislike for Gary. According to him, the boy was insignificant in the light of what was happening to his livestock.
In all this, Gary did not care what the old farmer thought of him. What he just heard was familiar and he instantly reckoned that there was some sort of corroboration. “Listen, Mr. Cockran, were your dogs poisoned?”
“What is it to you, son?” Nigel whined. “I have lost another sheep right under my fucking nose and I could not see the bastard that did this!”
Cecil caught on to what his brother was trying to get at. He jumped in too. “Nigel, we found the same thing on Nekenhalle! Our dogs have been poisoned and one of them had its head wrung like your first sheep the other day.”
Nigel took a moment to mull it all around. The
Harding brothers could be onto something if they were speaking the truth. “My animals were…poisoned? Not any poison I know that can make an animal’s head fall off.” His sarcasm was potent, but well founded.
“I know it sounds preposterous, Nigel, but what if both causes of death are feasible? Maybe…” he seemed to bob slightly as he thought up a scenario to use as analogy, “the person poisons the animals and then rips them up like that.”
“Yeah, mate, that sounds like a thing,” Gary agreed, slapping his brother on the back. “Maybe they kill the dogs so that they can get to the sheep.”
“I would have found that theory plausible, my boy,” the old man said, “…if it made sense. Why would they go through the trouble of poisoning the dogs to get to the sheep and then mutilate them and just leave them there? Whoever is doing this is doing it for sport, not to steal meat. What? What? Are you suggesting we have an animal serial killer on our hands?”
He blurted out the crassest laugh that affirmed his hopelessness and intolerance towards the two young men. The Harding’s had to agree that these were senseless and cruel killings, perpetrated for no reason. They had to concur that the modus operandi left a big hole in their hypothesis.
“Alright, I tell you what,” Cecil told the old man. “We have to get to the bottom of this from the point of view we hold. The police are not skilled in forensics, are they? No, but I am. While they look for the people who took Dad from a criminal angle, I can investigate this tragedy from my perspective, hey?”
“You are going to give the dogs an autopsy?” Nigel mocked him. The farmer had a good chuckle and carried on wrapping the tarp around the latest slain animal.
To Cecil the mockery was unnecessary, but he insisted. “Nigel, I am dead serious. Don’t bury the dogs. Tomorrow, first thing, I am driving through to Christchurch to book out what I need from Henslow’s Veterinary Clinic. They know me there. I am going to lay out the two dogs and this latest sheep for a pathological examination. Then we can know, once and for all, what the bloody hell is after the animals. Whoever is doing this, is going to run out of animals soon enough.” His eyes were wide and serious. “And who do you think will be their next quarry?”
Keepers of the Lost City Page 10
