Search for a Kiwi Killer

by Des Hunt

  “Duh,” said Tom, pulling a face.

  “Yeah, all right. Point taken.” Dave moved to the coffee table against the wall. “I’ll put it on the charger now, so it’s here if you need it. Okay?”

  Tom nodded. The thought of having use of a phone for the day brightened his mood a little, but nowhere near enough to make up for the loss of Buffy.

  * * *

  As expected Brandon wasn’t there when Tom went home shortly after five o’clock on Sunday morning. Not that this worried Tom. He crawled into his bed determined to sleep all day if he could.

  Hunger woke him around lunchtime. In the meantime Brandon had been back and gone again. He’d even left a note.

  I’ll be home around five. Pizza tonight as usual?

  Tom could have done with a pizza right then. Instead he went to the fridge to see what was left there. Nothing. Dave will have something.

  As usual, Dave had a well-stocked fridge. Tom decided to make the next best thing to a pizza – cheese, bacon, and tomato, grilled on toast, which he ate sitting in front of Dave’s television.

  After that he thought of going for the long ride he’d planned for the weekend but, somehow, he couldn’t raise the energy. His attention drifted from the television to Dave’s phone, which was likely to be much more interesting than the dumb comedy he was watching.

  The first thing he noticed when the display opened was the message icon showing two unread text messages. Tom’s finger hovered over the icon for a moment, before his brain issued warning signals about prying. The finger moved to the Google Earth icon instead. Soon he was looking at a satellite image of Waitangi Forest. From it he was able to trace the route he must have taken from the Davidson house through the forest. He could even identify the steep bit where he’d seen the dead kiwis. This gave him an idea.

  Getting the phone number for the local DoC office was easy, making contact with a human was not. A recorded voice told him the office was closed on a Sunday, however a message would receive attention when the office opened on Monday. Tom told the machine about the dead kiwis and their location, reading the GPS coordinates from Google Earth. As he was ending the call, the phone vibrated in his hand. Another text message had come through. This time the first part of the message appeared on the screen so he couldn’t help but read it.

  Hughes, I want my gear back, you …

  Is that Mike Davidson? thought Tom. Maybe the other messages are from him too. This time he did tap the message icon. Yes, all messages were from the same sender. No name showed, only the number. He couldn’t read the full messages without opening them, but he could see all three had abusive swear words.

  Tom had no doubt the messages were from Mike Davidson, and that the man had not willingly handed over the tracking gear. Clearly the matter was far from over. In a strange way, that pleased Tom. If the man wanted his gear back, maybe the swap could be reversed, and Buffy could become his again.

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon was spent at home playing games on Dave’s phone. Just after five o’clock he heard a vehicle moving along the track. Maybe his father was on time for a change. No, he wasn’t. When the vehicle got closer the sound was all wrong, and it continued past their place to Dave’s – it must be him who had finished for the day.

  After half an hour Dave’s vehicle left again. Maybe he’s gone out for pizza too, thought Tom. Then he realised how disastrous that could be. If Mike Davidson got pizza every Sunday night, then there could be a fight right there in the shop. The same thing could happen when Tom went too. Suddenly the taste of pizza was no longer so attractive. He picked up the phone and rang Brandon.

  The phone rang and rang before it was answered. Even then Brandon sounded distracted.

  “Dad, Tom here.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll be home soon. We’ll get pizza as usual. See ya.”

  “No,” said Tom quickly. “I don’t want pizza tonight. Let’s have Indian.” Indian food was Brandon’s favourite.

  “Yeah, all right. I’ll pick you up soon.”

  “Why don’t you bring it home. It’ll be quicker that way.”

  After some thought, Brandon agreed and the call ended. One looming crisis averted. However, there was nothing Tom could do about the other one. If Dave was going to the pizza shop, he’d already be there. Tom returned to the game.

  * * *

  The first to arrive at the house was Dave, and he was angry.

  “Have you been home here all day?”

  “No, I was over at your place for a while.”

  “So it was you who made all that mess?”

  “I only made lunch. It wasn’t much … I was going to go back—”

  “Not much!” yelled Dave. “I’d hate to see what you thought a real mess was.”

  Tom opened his mouth to speak, before thinking better of it. From past experience he knew how futile it was to argue with a tired, angry adult. Nothing good ever came from it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll go and clean up now.”

  Dave calmed a little. “No, leave it. You can come over in the morning.” He scanned around the house. “Where’s Brandon.”

  “Collecting dinner, I hope.”

  “Have you been here by yourself all day?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Has he been working?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what else would he be doing?”

  Tom kept his mouth firmly shut. If he voiced his suspicions, it might make them true.

  “All right,” said Dave with a sigh. “When he does come home tell him I need to see him. I’ve got to work again tomorrow. Ray’s mother has taken a turn for the worse. I’m filling in.” He paused. “You got my phone? I’d better put it on the charger. You can pick it up when you do the cleaning. No need to get up early, though.”

  As soon as he had the phone, Dave checked his messages. His body stiffened as he read the first one, and remained that way as each of the others was opened and read. Before he could make comment, the sound of Brandon’s van indicated dinner had arrived.

  “Good,” said Dave. “I’ll talk to him now.”

  They waited in silence until Brandon breezed in.

  “Ah great,” he said. “I thought you might be here, Dave. You like Indian? There’s more than enough for everyone.” He put two bulging plastic bags on the table, and turned to them with a big grin. Only then did he notice the grim faces. His jaw dropped. “What?”

  “You said you’d be here to look after Tom,” said Dave.

  “Yeah … well … something came up.”

  “What?”

  Brandon squirmed. “Um … just some business.”

  “What business is more important than your son?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

  “So where were you?”

  No answer.

  “He was at the pub,” said Tom. “That’s where he always goes.”

  “No!” shouted Brandon. “I was not at the pub. I don’t do that any more.”

  “Then where were you?”

  More squirming. “At the arcade,” he mumbled. “Playing Gods of Zuron.”

  “What!” said Dave and Tom together.

  Brandon tried a grin that didn’t work. “It’s a console game. There’s a group of us play online. We’re pretty good.”

  “And you call that business?” said Dave with a sneer.

  “Yeah. We make money out of it. As I said, we’re good.”

  Dave shook his head in disbelief. “You can make money from playing computer games?”

  “Yes,” replied Brandon, gaining in confidence. “You can make thousands.”

  “So how much did you make today?”

  “Ah, it doesn’t work quite like that. Some of the games can take days to finish. This one will last a bit longer. But we’re winning.”

  Dave stared at him. “Brandon, you need to take a good look at what you’re doing, mate. You’re letting people down. You let Tom down all the time. You’re
always late and he has no idea what’s going to happen from one day to the next. And today you let me down. You said you’d be home here with Tom and you weren’t. What would have happened if something had gone wrong, eh? You could have got both of us into a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “Yeah, nah,” said Brandon looking at the floor. “I know I got it wrong. It won’t happen again.’

  “Well, we’ll soon find out,” said Dave. “I have to help out again tomorrow, so you’ve got Tom.”

  “Um …,” began Brandon. “That’s bit awkward. I just got a call asking if I could start at first light in the morning. Boss wants us to finish picking before the storm comes through in the afternoon.”

  “So when can you get back?”

  Brandon shrugged. “Lunchtime?”

  Dave thought about that. “All right. Tom will have my phone so he can call you if there’s an emergency. Is that okay Tom?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be right.”

  “And you,” said Dave, pointing a finger at Brandon. “You keep your word. Stop playing computer games and start being a father.” And with that, he left.

  Chapter 12

  When Tom woke on Monday morning Brandon had already left. A note outlined his intentions for the day.

  I’ve arranged to finish work at midday. Remember, you can use Dave’s phone to call me at anytime if something comes up. I should be home by midday. See you then.

  PS. I think we should get you a phone. Maybe do it this afternoon. What do you think?

  PPS. Don’t use the Indian for breakfast or lunch. We’ll have it for dinner tonight.

  Tom read it a couple of times: this was more detailed than any previous note from his father. Maybe Dave’s harsh words had achieved something. That thought, along with the idea of getting his own phone, immediately raised his spirits. He decided to start the new week with a run: this one would be running for enjoyment, not away from an argument.

  For the first time in weeks, the sky was not wall-to-wall blue. High clouds glowed red with light from the rising sun, a sure signal trouble was on the way.

  He chose the same run as the previous Monday, the one to the truck roundabout where he’d discovered Buffy. Although he told himself it was the best run to do in the morning, deep down he wished he could turn back the clock and Buffy would be sitting there, waiting for him.

  She wasn’t. Even so, he sat on a log catching his breath and listening to the sounds of the forest. The bird calls were more subdued than usual, more like chatty chirps than joyful songs. Perhaps the birds could also read the danger signal in the sky.

  This time, the noise from the tree tops was the howl of the strengthening wind, which also carried sounds from the logging operation where Dave was working. The roar of multiple chainsaws suggested a rush to fell the remaining stands before the winds made further work impossible.

  There was no sound of a dog whining, of course, and nor would Tom have wanted to hear it. If Buffy couldn’t be with him, then shut away in Davidson’s shed was as good a place as anywhere to survive the coming storm.

  On the run back home, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a vehicle coming from behind, a diesel engine but smaller than a logging truck. He stopped running, moving to the side of the track to let it pass. When it came into view he recognised the dark green markings of a DoC vehicle. At the wheel was Sally Page, the woman who had visited Dave’s place the week before. The authorities.

  She pulled up alongside. “Getting your run in before the storm?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ve been collecting those dead kiwi you reported yesterday.”

  Tom’s eyes widened. He hadn’t left his name, had he?

  Sally chuckled. “I recognised your voice.” Then more seriously, “You don’t have to be scared of us, Tom. We’re here to help.”

  He remained silent.

  “But it would have helped if you’d told us about that injured dog when I called last week. We could have started the tests earlier. That would have helped a lot.”

  Tom froze, thinking, The killer’s Buffy.

  Sally went on. “You see it would have allowed us to eliminate her straight away.”

  “How?” he asked, his eyes growing even wider.

  “Because at that stage we already knew from the DNA on the kiwi that we were looking for a male dog, not a bitch.”

  Tom let out a long sigh. “So all my worrying was for nothing,” he said, mostly to himself.

  “Not exactly,” said Sally. “I gather she’s still unregistered and unchipped.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll pass it on to the local dog enforcement officer. But the best thing would be for you to take her in and get her registered before he calls. She’d get a chip and then you’d be all legal.”

  “Except,” said Tom, sighing, “she’s been taken back by the owner.”

  Sally nodded slowly. “And you’re upset about that?”

  The smallest of nods.

  “Who is the owner?”

  Tom’s first thought was to remain silent. Then his mind began working overtime. If Buffy was taken away from Davidson, then that would allow him to go to the pound, claim her, get her registered, chipped, and then she’d officially be his dog.

  “Mike Davidson,” he said.

  Sally grunted. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Tom had another thought. “Did you DNA check his dogs?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s too far away from where the kiwi were killed.”

  “No, he’s not,” said Tom. “His house is quite close to those I found on Saturday.”

  “Yeah, I suppose the road does turn back in.” She thought for a time before adding, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. The results have come through and we know who the killer dog is.”

  “You do! Who is it?”

  “Aw, I can’t tell you that, Tom. We’ve got to go through a process. All I can say is we’ll be picking the dog up later today.” She patted the box on the seat beside her. “And that will mean no more of these dead kiwi.” Then she sighed. “But that’s only until the next killer comes along.”

  * * *

  Tom had even more things to think about when he resumed his run. Top of the pile was the big question: whose dog was the killer? The only other dog he knew in the area was Harvey. Could he really be the killer? He did attack moving things such as bike wheels. But it was a big jump to go from there to attacking kiwi. One thing he knew for sure was Mrs Hopwood would be devastated if it turned out it was her dog.

  As usual, thinking of kiwi killers soon had him seeing shapes in the undergrowth. He rejected them as fantasy until one shape seemed to be moving, running along parallel. Then he got a clear view for a fraction of a second. It was Harvey.

  “Harvey,” he called, slowing to a walk.

  The dog also slowed.

  “Come here.”

  Now it stopped and turned towards Tom.

  “Come here, boy. You need to be taken home.”

  Harvey raised his head, sniffing the air.”

  “Yes. It’s me, Tom. Come on.”

  The head went higher, revealing a small patch of white on the chest, a feature Tom hadn’t noticed before.

  “Come on, Harvey, let’s go,” said Tom, resuming the run. “Go, go, go!”

  This time Harvey did move, but not to follow Tom. He moved deeper into the shadows, disappearing from view.

  Tom kept running, deciding that he’d better let Mrs Hopwood know. Even if Harvey wasn’t the killer, he was certain to be picked up if Sally Page saw him running loose.

  Harvey still hadn’t come out of hiding by the time Tom got to the main road. Pausing to check for traffic, he noticed Mike Davidson was working on the concrete posts to the fence, fixing hinges in place. The temporary gate had been moved to one side. On the back of Davidson’s ute two fancy wrought iron structures were taking the space where the dog boxes normally sat. Mrs Hopwood was finally going to get a prope
r gate.

  With Davidson around, there was no way Tom was going any closer. Harvey would have to remain free. Anyway, he wouldn’t be harming anything, would he? Probably just getting a bit of self-exercise. Tom turned and ran back home.

  * * *

  After a shower and late breakfast, Tom went over to Dave’s place to do the dishes he’d left in the sink Sunday lunchtime, the ‘mess’ that Dave had got so upset over.

  Taking the key from under the steps, he unlocked the door. That’s when he saw what Dave had been complaining about. The place was a mess, with furniture in the wrong places, chairs toppled over, cupboards left open. It had not been like this when Tom left the day before. Someone else had been inside between then and Dave arriving home.

  As Tom restored order, he thought about why someone would want to mess up Dave’s house. Could it be that the man had lots of enemies? Or was there only one – Mike Davidson? With this thought in his mind, he began to see that the mess might not have been created out of spite – someone could have been searching the house. And, if it was Davidson, then Tom knew exactly what that man would be looking for.

  A quick trip out to the shed confirmed his suspicions: the box of tracking gear was no longer sitting on the top shelf.

  Back in the house, he considered what he should do. The man might be going on a hunting trip, and that would put the dogs in danger. Tom had to try and get them back.

  One idea was to go to the subdivision and confront him. Better still was to sneak over and see if the box was still in Davidson’s ute. However the chances of approaching the ute without being seen were slim. Unless Davidson could be distracted in some way.

  Alongside Dave’s phone on the charger was a local phone directory and Mrs Ellen Hopwood was listed. Tom rang the number.

  “Mrs Hopwood, it’s Tom here.”

  “Oh, hello Tom. Did you get your bike fixed?”

  “Yes thank you. Um … did you know that Harvey is outside your gate, over in the forest?”

  A sigh. “So that’s where he’s gone. I did see the gate had been moved. That horrible man is working again.”