Search for a Kiwi Killer

by Des Hunt

  Out loud he said, “Nah. You’re a bit early for him. He could be hours yet.”

  “He said he’d be home and ready by five. We’re going out for the evening.”

  This was news to Tom.

  “I guess he’s running a bit late,” Marika added.

  “He’s always late,” complained Tom. “Get used to it.”

  Marika raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “Look,” he said, “why don’t you come over to Dave’s, we’ll hear Dad arrive from there.”

  Dave was sitting in a chair on the lawn enjoying the late-afternoon sun. After greetings, Marika asked, “So how’s our story about the transmitters going. When am I going to be able to publish? Our deadline for Thursday’s edition is Wednesday midday.”

  “We’re getting there,” said Dave. “We have a suspect.”

  “Who?”

  Dave took his time before answering. “Mike Davidson.”

  Tom expected Marika to show surprise. Instead she gave a little nod.

  “You expected that?” asked Dave.

  “Let’s just say, I’m not surprised he’d be doing something illegal. He has a history.”

  “Tell us.”

  “Mike lived in Dargaville before he came up here a couple of years back. He had a property out of town, much like that one on Bush Road. One day a man came onto the place and Mike confronted him with a shotgun, telling him to leave. The man wouldn’t, so Mike fired off a couple of cartridges. They weren’t fired at the man but, wisely, he took off before some were. He went straight to the police and laid a complaint. It turned out the man was on a designated road that has never been built. It’s public land, a so-called paper road. Mike had access to it because it was next to his place. The police charged Mike with reckless discharge of a firearm. That’s $4,000 or three years prison, right there.”

  She paused and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “In the end he got nothing. When it came to court it was revealed the man was an activist who set out to draw attention to public land being used privately. It was considered he provoked the reaction. In the end, the judge gave Mike a telling off, before discharging him without conviction as long as he did some community work. I don’t know what that was, but I gather he completed it because I’ve seen nothing in court documents since. The thing is, Dave, I think you need to be careful in dealing with Mike Davidson. What have you got against him so far?”

  Dave outlined Buffy’s reaction to their drive along Bush Road.

  “So he’s got a lot of dogs there?” said Marika. “That’s interesting. I wonder if they were tested by DoC. That road doubles back onto the forest. It wouldn’t be far from there to where most of the dead kiwi were found.”

  “You think he’s harbouring a kiwi killer as well?” asked Dave.

  Marika shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. Probably not. It’s just that he’s very vocal about kiwi killers. Who knows?”

  “When will the results be through?” asked Dave.

  “Monday, I believe.” She looked down to Buffy. “You know if it is her, then I’ll publish anyway, even if we haven’t confirmed the owner.”

  Before Dave could answer they heard the unmistakeable sound of Brandon’s van arriving home.

  Marika looked at her watch, then at Tom. “You said he’d be hours late. It’s only twenty minutes.”

  “Must be because it’s you,” mumbled Tom.

  She was about to take off down the path when she turned back. “When are you visiting Mike?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Dave.

  “You going too, Tom?”

  Tom looked to Dave who said, “Yes.”

  “Take care, please. Both of you.” Then she was gone.

  Chapter 10

  When Tom went back to their house at nine on Saturday morning Brandon was not home. Whether he’d ever returned after the night out was unclear: there was no note saying what he was doing, nor had the shower been used recently. Without having a phone, there was little Tom could do, except assume his dad was at work. He was happy enough with that as it meant he could return to Dave’s place and be with Buffy.

  Mid-morning, Dave sent Tom and Buffy on a walk out to the road so Tom could spy on the subdivision. His job was to check if Mike Davidson was working on the block wall. He wasn’t visible, but parked by the gate was a ute with dog boxes on the back. It had to be his.

  Three more visits were needed before Tom could report back that the ute had gone, suggesting Davidson had finished for the day. Now was the time to visit Bush Road.

  Sitting beside Buffy in the cab, Tom’s anxiety became more intense the closer they got to the turn-off. While the three encounters he’d had with Mike Davidson had been friendly enough, this was an altogether different situation. Dave’s silence suggested that he too, was nervous about what might happen.

  Once again Dave drove to the locked gate before turning around and driving back. This time he stopped and parked the ute on the verge outside the house. Buffy was already barking, as were the dogs from the shed in the back. Davidson’s vehicle was parked in the carport.

  “Quiet, Buffy,” commanded Dave. “You’re staying here until we sort things out.” Then he looked at Tom. “Wind the window down a bit to let in some air. I’m locking up. Just in case.”

  With that done, they moved down the track around to the back door. Surprisingly, the barking from the shed had stopped. Dave knocked on the open door, stood back and waited.

  First out was a dog, similar in breed to Harvey, except taller and nowhere near as fat. The growling suggested it was also meaner. Tom took a couple of steps backwards. Then a woman appeared and shouted, “Shut up, Spot.” Instantly, the growling stopped and the tail-wagging began.

  “He’s all noise,” explained the woman. Two young children came out the door to stand beside her. “He’s the kids’ dog. Far too spoilt he is. Anyway, how can I help you?”

  “Mike home?” asked Dave.

  She nodded towards the shed. “He’s feeding the dogs. You can go down if you want.”

  Thanking the woman, they moved off.

  The shed was shaped like a small barn, with open doors in the middle of both ends. Storage cupboards and shelves lined one side, and there were five dog cages on the other, four of them with a dog in each. The cages were filthy, as if they hadn’t been cleaned for days. To Tom it seemed as if the only time the dogs got out was when Davidson went hunting.

  No wonder Buffy likes being with us, he thought, staying close to the door to avoid the stench.

  The four dogs were each feeding from a bowl. Mike Davidson was leaning against a centre pole facing the door as if expecting them.

  “You’re the one who drove past the other day,” he said. “Wondered when you’d be back.” There was a hint of suspicion behind the words.

  Dave stepped forward with his arm extended. “Dave Hughes,” he said.

  Davidson shook the hand before turning to Tom. “Hi Tom,” he said. “How come you’re with this man?”

  “Dad’s at work. Dave’s looking after me.”

  “You’re big enough to look after yourself, aren’t you?”

  Tom shrugged. “Dad says I’m not.”

  Davidson turned back to Dave. “What is it you’re after?”

  Dave waved his arm in the direction of the pens. “You’ve got an empty cage. Is one of your dogs missing?”

  For several seconds it seemed as if Davidson wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, “Could be. Why? You found one?”

  “Yes. A greyhound-cross by the looks of it. Grey and tan bitch. She yours?”

  “Yeah, that sounds like Lucky. When did you find her?”

  “Monday. Her GPS collar was caught on a broken branch. She’d tried to get free and rubbed the skin on her neck raw.”

  “You got her with you?” asked Davidson.

  Dave nodded.

  “Then let’s go get her.” He took a step towards the door.

  “Not yet,” said Dave
. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Davidson stopped, turned, and gave a sneering smile. “I get it,” he said. “You want a reward.”

  “No. I want to talk about that GPS transmitter you had on her.”

  The sneer turned to a snarl. “What about it?”

  “It’s an American one. That frequency’s illegal in this country. Did you know that?”

  “So what? Doesn’t cause any harm.”

  “Yes it does. It’s the same as the forestry uses. You’re interfering with their traffic.”

  “I don’t go hunting when they’re working.”

  “They say you do. Your dog was certainly there at the same time they were.”

  Davidson changed tack. He gave a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I suppose it does happen sometimes.” He spread his arms wide. “Okay, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. Now can we go and get Lucky?”

  Dave shook his head. “Not yet. I want to talk about those new batteries you put in.”

  “What!” said Davidson. “This is crazy.”

  “Not crazy at all,” replied Dave. “The battery was ready to explode. Which it did when we took it out. What if that had happened when it was still on the dog? That wouldn’t be ‘crazy’, would it? That would be cruelty, maltreatment, abuse. You choose the word.”

  Davidson’s face darkened. “I do not abuse any of my dogs.”

  “Yes, you do. Every time you put one of those collars on a dog, you’re close to setting fire to them. Give me the collars and I’ll give you your dog back.”

  “This is all bull,” shouted Davidson. He began pacing around the barn. “I don’t have to take this nonsense. Some one-armed freak comes on to my property, accusing me …” He stopped and turned to Dave. “You want abuse. I’ll give you abuse. Get off my property. Get off, or … or … Just get off.”

  Now Dave was equally angry. “Or what? Or you’ll start shooting? Like you did over Dargaville way.”

  This took a moment for Davidson to process. His eyes narrowed. “Yes! That’s not a bad idea.” He moved to one of the cupboards at the side and began fiddling with the lock.

  “That’s right, get your gun,” said Dave, not letting up. “I hear you talk big about shooting things. Kiwi killers and the like. Well maybe you need to take the gun to one of your own dogs.”

  Davidson, who was about to pull the cupboard door open, froze. “What was that?”

  “You heard. If you want to shoot a kiwi killer, this shed is a good place to start.”

  “Jeeze, you really are crazy,” said Davidson, throwing open the door. “Well I’ll soon fix—”

  “STOP IT!”

  The two men turned to stare at Tom who was standing rigid, his arms stiff and tight by his side, his whole body shaking.

  “Stop it!” he said again, slightly quieter. “Stop it.” This last one was a cry.

  Then he ran.

  He burst out the door, across the yard, out to the road and towards the gate. There was no thought to where he was going. He just had to run. Run from the fighting, the arguing, the yelling. Where, didn’t matter, as long as it was away from the shed, away from everybody, away from it all.

  * * *

  When he did stop running, he found he was deep in the forest. He must have climbed the gate, but had no memory of doing so. Nor did he have any sense of how long he’d been running, either in distance or time. This part of the forest was much steeper than where he normally ran. The road was narrower with a steep bank rising on one side, and a sharp slope, almost a cliff, falling away on the other.

  Looking upwards to the narrow strip of sky visible between the tree tops, he saw the blue was changing to orange towards the east. Somehow, a couple of hours had passed since they’d set off from Dave’s place. Another hour and it would be dark.

  Turning back was not an option. Back was where things went wrong. The only way to go was forwards, following the track towards the setting sun. Sooner or later it would link up with a road that he recognised, one that would take him home.

  Being in the forest, listening to the birds sing their last songs for the day, would normally have been enjoyable. Not on this day. He’d calmed enough to think clearly about the events in the shed, and to figure out his chances of keeping Buffy. They were slim. The bottom line was that Mike wanted his dog back, and Dave was prepared to do that in exchange for the illegal collars. All the other accusations were just angry talk. Once the men calmed down they’d come to an agreement. Chances were it had already happened, and Buffy was back in a filthy pen, known once more by her old name of Lucky.

  “Lucky?” Tom asked of the forest. “What’s lucky about living in a cage all the time?” In answer the birds paused their singing for a while. Long enough for him to hear the whisper from the top of the pines moving in the evening breeze, but that still told him nothing. He continued on his journey.

  Moping and walking. He’d done a lot of that in his life. It always seemed that when something good was happening, it was taken away. The first week of these holidays had been one of the best ever. Now, with Buffy gone, the second week would be back to the boring stuff. He might as well be down in Hamilton with his mum. At least there they’d give him some money; living with his dad he didn’t have enough to even go to the movies. But what did it really matter: without Buffy, he’d be lonely in either place.

  These thoughts continued until an over-powering smell of death dragged him back to the present. Another dead kiwi? he thought.

  Actually, it was two of them, a father and a chick. Their bodies lay on a carpet of pine needles at the bottom of the steep slope beside the track. The needles made the surface too slippery to investigate closely. Anyway, there was no need. The injuries were the same as they’d seen with the kiwi by the pond, a week before. A dog had done this. A dog had come all this way into the forest for the single purpose of killing. This had nothing to do with food, with the need to stay alive. These birds were killed for one reason only – for pleasure.

  Looking around, Tom wondered how many other dead kiwis there were in the forest. So far, the ones that had been found were always close by a road or track, the easily accessible ones. But the dog could have roamed anywhere. There could be dozens of others, in amongst the trees, maybe hundreds.

  Then he saw another one, further along the road, that he could climb down to. When he did, the first thing he noticed was that the smell was different: not of death, but something else. What was it? Something to do with cooking, maybe. Then he had it: one of Brandon’s favourite breakfasts was mushrooms fried in butter. The kiwi had the same smell as mushrooms that had been kept too long in a plastic bag. This had to be the smell people talked about, the one that was so attractive to dogs.

  Then another thought came: did it mean the kiwi was freshly killed?

  Yes it did! The blood around the wound was also different, red not black, and there were no flies. It had happened that day.

  Although Tom was saddened that yet another kiwi had been killed, this was mixed with a feeling of relief. There was no way Buffy could have been involved in this bird’s death. She’d been with him all night and day up until when they’d arrived at the Davidson house, and even then she’d been locked away in the cab of the ute. She was in the clear. She was not the kiwi killer. Maybe life wasn’t so bad, after all.

  His spirits rose even higher over the next twelve minutes. The first five of those he was travelling downhill to a junction with a road that he recognised. The next five were walking along that road, knowing he was heading in the right direction. The final two good minutes came after he saw the headlights of a vehicle flickering between trees as it travelled towards him. Hopefully it was Dave coming to rescue him. Only after the vehicle pulled alongside did his emotions take a downward dive. And this time they fell all the way down to deep bottom.

  The ute was Dave’s, and Dave was the driver. However nobody else, human or canine, was with him. In the space to the left of Dave, where Buffy shou
ld be, was a cardboard box, filled with a jumble of collars and electronic gizmos. Tom knew then that his fears had become reality – Buffy’s freedom had been swapped for a pile of dangerous junk.

  Chapter 11

  “What do you want done with this?”

  These were the first words Tom had spoken since Dave had picked him up in the forest. They were back at the house and the ‘this’ was the box of collars.

  “Put them in the shed,” replied Dave. “I’ll deal with them Monday.”

  “What if they explode?”

  “I think it only happens when they’re moved around a lot. Anyway, the shed’s all metal. They’re not going to cause too much damage.” Then he smiled. “But you’d better carry them carefully.”

  Tom didn’t smile back. He was still angry with Dave for what had happened to Buffy.

  The shed was tucked away against some bushes behind the house. Inside were metal shelves holding a few tools, and a lawnmower with a can of petrol. Tom put the box on a top shelf well away from the mower and the petrol. If a battery did catch fire then the roof would get a bit hot, but that would be all.

  Dave was on the phone when he got back to the house. Tom noticed that Buffy’s bed, food bowl, and water had already been removed. It was as if she had never existed.

  When the call finished, Dave said, “That was your father. He’ll be late home tonight, so you need to stay here.”

  “Aw, no,” moaned Tom. Every other night he’d stayed at Dave’s he’d had Buffy to make sleeping on the sofa bearable. “Do I have to?”

  Dave sighed. “Yes. You know you’re not to be left by yourself.”

  “When’s he coming home?”

  “He said he’ll be home before I leave in the morning.”

  “What time’s that?”

  “I’ll be getting up around five.”

  Tom almost let out another groan. That meant he’d have to get up at the same time. “What if he’s not home by then? He doesn’t always do what he says, you know.”

  Dave thought about this. “Tell you what, Tom. You can have my phone for the day. I won’t be needing it, they don’t work in the forest. Then if anything goes wrong, you can ring your dad and he can sort it. You do know how to use a phone, don’t you?”