The Bone Yard and Other Stories

by John Moralee

  That was when the shooting started.

  The four men standing close to the hole were cut down by three or four shotgun blasts coming from the opposite edge of the woods. Frank and I dived into the long grass before we were targeted – but the killer turned his attention on the men at the so-called burial site. They had dropped their spades and were struggling with their shotguns as they were hit at close range. Blam. Blam. They went down, screaming. The top of one man’s head jerked sideways, blood spraying. I fired where I’d seen the flashes, Frank shooting his 9mm Beretta in a more or less continuous spray. The killer stopped shooting to reload, but I could see the blur of his camouflaged clothing moving anticlockwise. I shot at him, but he ducked behind the trees and sprinted away.

  “Frank, I’ll get Bane. You nail that guy.”

  “With pleasure.” Frank covered me as I ran to the fallen men. They were wearing Kevlar vests under their windbreakers, but they’d been shot in the neck or face. They were all dead. I grabbed a flashlight and a shotgun, tossed another to Frank, who was making a radio call for backup at the same time as reloading his Beretta. Frank ran off into the trees as I lowered myself into the hole. I landed on my feet in a dank tunnel. It was some kind of storm drain. Smashed plywood, grass and soil were under my feet, pieces of the false ground. Water was running through the tunnel from somewhere up the mountains. It chilled my feet, making my shoes heavy. I looked in both directions, but couldn’t see Bane. I assumed he’d head downstream, perhaps letting the slight current carry him along on his backside, like a water chute. That was the way I went. If he’d gone upstream then there was nothing I could do. I dashed down the tunnel for a hundred yards, slowing when I came to a tight bend. I shone the light ahead, edging forwards with my shotgun raised. He wasn’t waiting. I could see a light in the distance. I could hear splashing and a metallic rustle. I fired at the sounds. The shotgun roared. The blast echoed in the tight space. Bane cried out, then he was scrambling out into the daylight. I fired again, but missed.

  I got to the end of the tunnel only twenty seconds later. The tunnel unloaded its water down a steep bank into a river. Bane was slipping and sliding towards it. His shoulder was bleeding.

  I aimed at his head and pulled back the trigger.

  Finding there were no more shells.

  Swearing, I dropped the shotgun in favour of my .44. It was empty, though. I found a fresh clip in my pocket. I dumped the empty one, slammed in the loaded one then aimed.

  But Bane had gone.

  I climbed out of the opening and steadied myself on the bank beside the entrance. I looked for him. Where was he? He couldn’t have gone far – he was still in his leg irons and handcuffs.

  There he was. In the water. He was in a black dinghy moving fast in the current. Already, he was a small target. I tried aiming, but I couldn’t aim and keep my balance. It was like standing on ice. My bullets struck the water. Bane was using a paddle to take himself into the faster water.

  “See you in hell, Ben!”

  I fired regardless.

  Bane flinched, but he wasn’t hit.

  He was getting away.

  I ran up the bank and along the cliff’s edge, ducking and dodging tree branches. Something whipped into my vision, cutting my forehead, but I didn’t slow down. I just blinked away the blood and speeded up. Bane was now at the far bank. He stood up and hopped onto the rocks like a kid in a sack race. Then – perhaps sensing his vulnerability – he dived forwards, saving himself from my bullet in his back. He crawled out of sight.

  I looked down the river, seeing a place where the banks almost touched. I hurried down the mossy rocks and leapt across. Sheer determination helped me avoid a dip in the water, but I landed hard, losing my footing. Then I was up and running again, running to where Bane had disappeared. His blood was on the rocks. I followed it up the bank. The ground was soft and wet. His footsteps were easy to see.

  I thought about him being prepared for me, but frankly I didn’t care. I had my weapon fully loaded, and he was handcuffed and unarmed. I knew what a coward he was. When Bane didn’t have the element of surprise or superior strength, he was nothing.

  I chased his tracks through the woods, but after a short distance the ground became hard and the trail ended. I stopped and listened. My heart was thudding. My breathing was ragged. But I could still hear the rattle of his chains. I followed. The trees were claustrophobic. I came out of the woods onto a narrow road. About fifty feet ahead, parked in the darkness, was a black flatbed truck. Its engine was running. Someone was behind the wheel. He was camouflaged, his face blacked up with boot polish. I glimpsed medals on his jacket. We locked eyes for an instant, then he lifted a handgun as if saluting. Before he could aim, I plunged behind a tree. We exchange fire until I needed to reload. He stopped firing too – I peeked around the tree to see why. Bane was hopping towards the passenger door. The driver shook his head and pointed at the rear. As soon as Bane was on the back, the truck drove off, the tyres spewing up dust and pine needles. I raced after it, unloading every bullet at Bane and the driver. Bane lay down behind the panel, keeping his head down. I smashed the licence plate, hit the roof, and shattered a taillight. One tyre exploded, but the truck kept going, vanishing around a curve. When I reached the curve, my lungs burning, the truck wasn’t in sight, but I could smell the exhaust fumes.

  I called Frank on my radio, but he didn’t respond. I hurried back the way I’d come, worried Bane’s partner had killed Frank. By then, a couple of local police had arrived at the glade wondering what the hell was happening. A medic was treating the only surviving guard. I was surprised the man was still alive. I went up to the deputy and told him to contact the sheriff. “My partner’s in the woods. He could be injured or dead. Get someone to look for him. I’m going after them before they get too far. Set up roadblocks to the north ASAP. The killers are in a black Ford pickup. The licence is ...”

  *

  Soon after, I was driving on the road where I’d seen the truck. Roadblocks had been set up at the main junctions, so there was a limited number of ways for it to go. The road wound up into the mountains, with too many trees close together for it to slip into the woods. There were a few rough tracks here and there – but I could see the tyre marks in the dirt, so I couldn’t lose it. After a few miles, I saw the truck by the roadside. It looked as if the burst tyre had proved fatal. Both doors were open. It looked abandoned. I didn’t take any chance, however. I parked right behind it and blasted it with a 12-gauge before proceeding. I looked underneath. I saw no one hiding. Then I checked the cab. It was empty. However, I could see a body on the bed of the truck covered in a tarpaulin. Blood was all over the bed of the truck, leaking out from under it.

  I could not tell who it was from this angle.

  I swallowed tightly, approaching.

  I had a dark thought about the truck. Why had Bane’s partner not wanted him in the front of the cab?

  Was it because he’d captured Frank?

  Had Frank been in the passenger seat?

  Had Frank been on their side?

  I got a part of the answer when I pulled away the tarpaulin.

  The body was Bane’s.

  I suspected a trick, but Bane was quite dead. My bullets had not killed him, though. He’d been gutted, his internal organs exposed. His arms and legs had been chopped off. His eyes were staring down at the viscera. He looked surprised.

  Whoever his partner was, he had killed him to protect his own identity. There was a cold-blooded logic to it.

  There was no sign of the mysterious other man.

  *

  Frank was missing. Blood matching his type was found by a tree, but no body. The woods were searched for days, but neither he nor the killer was discovered.

  The FBI were put in charge of the investigation, but I was given the job of assisting them. The FBI were working two theories. They thought Frank had either been working with the suspect, or he was an innocent victim. I believed the latter. I
had to believe Frank was innocent for to believe otherwise meant trusting no one. His wife begged me to find him, even if he was dead.

  I promised her I would.

  I looked into Bane’s background, obtaining declassified records that simply hadn’t been available in 1985. I learned about his time in Vietnam as a nineteen-year-old. I learned about his sergeant, too. He was called Joseph Michaels. He and Bane had been as close as brothers. Michaels bore an uncanny resemblance to Bane, only he was taller. Michaels had taught Bane how to kill on a series of dangerous missions. For this, they were given medals. They were told to kill more. Bane was promoted from private to corporal. Under Michaels tutelage, Bane would go into villages and kill young girls, girls he believed were deliberately impregnating themselves to create new VC soldiers. Michaels liked to defile the bodies, but because the men were only killing Vietnamese peasants, the Army didn’t investigate the claims or pretended it never happened. Basically, it was covered up. The men only stopped their killing campaign when Michaels supposedly died during the Tet Offensive and Bane was wounded. But in war truth and lies meant nothing.

  Michaels was alive.

  They’d merely returned to America to continue the slaughter.

  *

  I was at home when I got the phone call.

  The man said: “Carson Ridge. The cabin.”

  That was it, the whole message.

  I knew it was Michaels.

  I dreaded what I would find.

  *

  The cabin was little more than a derelict shack. FBI helicopters swarmed over the cabin, sharpshooters leaning out of the sides. A SWAT team surrounded it. Even the bomb squad was present. They were expecting the serial killer to be inside, but I knew he was long gone.

  “I have to go in first,” I told the agent in charge. He studied me for a while, then nodded. He clearly didn’t want the responsibility; he was glad I volunteered. I put on a flak jacket, then approached the cabin. I looked in the only window, but I could see nothing. I crept to the door. I studied it for a time, looking for signs of a trap, such as a tripwire. I saw nothing. I didn’t think there would be any traps because Michaels wanted me to be a witness to his crimes. Besides, he could have killed me anywhere. I had to test the door. It was unlocked. Inviting me inside. I pushed it open and shone my flashlight into the dark. I recoiled. I could see bodies. Lots of bodies. They were in rows, as though on display. Each had been recently exhumed from the ground. Some were more preserved than others. They were all young girls. I felt sick, but I stepped into the doorway.

  There was a man tied to a chair at the back wall. He was gagged.

  It was Frank.

  He looked in a bad way, but he was alive.

  I stepped forward and groaned as I shone light on his face.

  Dear God, Frank …

  How …?

  Why …?

  Frank’s his eyes had been gouged out.

  There were two dark, red caves blinking and blinking.

  The killer hadn’t wanted any witnesses who could describe him. So he had removed the only witness’s eyes.

  Again, it was the cold-blooded, logical thing to do.

  A message was written on Frank’s bare chest in deep, savage knife gashes:

  NEXT TIME IT’S YOU!

  The Gift

  As Rachel searched for the unpaid telephone bill among the bills and receipts Dominic kept in his desk drawer, she found a receipt for £600. She would have thought nothing of it except the date on it was from only last week, but she had no knowledge of it. The £600 had been paid to a company called Black & Sons. Dominic had not mentioned spending £600, which was usual with purchases over £100. Rachel wondered if he’d paid for a surprise holiday, but when had a travel company had a name like Black & Sons? There was a phone number listed on the receipt and she considered calling it, but thought it was best to wait until Dominic arrived home.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Rachel looked after the baby and worked on the lyrics for a new song she was writing for her fourth album. Royalties from the first three albums had paid for her house, the BMW, Dominic’s Porsche, the holiday home in Majorca. The record company was expecting the new material to be ready for studio-time in three weeks. They wanted twelve songs, but only nine were composed to her satisfaction. She really needed to work on the last four. But she could not concentrated when something else was on her mind. Spending £600 was no big deal, but what had Dominic spent it on? Rachel really hated surprises, he knew that, so it would not be a holiday, especially not now when she had a deadline. She stared at the receipt until curiosity sent her to the phone. She entered the number and listened as an old man answered. “Good day, this is Black & Sons. I am George Black. How may I help you?” She could tell he was old by his fragile voice. He sounded eighty or ninety, perhaps in a wheelchair. Rachel was often right about visualising a person from only their voice.

  “Hi, I was hoping you could help me. I’d like to know what Dominic Carpenter purchased last Wednesday for £600?”

  “I can’t give out customer information,” he said. His tone was haughty. “I’m sorry. Mr Carpenter stressed the importance of it remaining secret.”

  “He wouldn’t mind you telling me,” she said. “I’m his –” She nearly said “wife” but something made her change it to “- secretary”. She paused, thinking up an excuse. “Mr Carpenter is away and I need information for his tax records. You know the Inland Revenue.” She felt guilty for lying to an old man, but she could not help it. “Please tell me what he bought.”

  She heard him sigh, as though bored by her. “It was a gift for his wife, I believe. I really can’t say more than that, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be saying that.”

  “But what did he buy?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Well, maybe you can tell me what business you are in?”

  Another sigh, as heavy as the weight of the world. “I am a stonemason. It’s been my family business for over 150 years. My sons David and Nathaniel will take over when I die, but for the moment I remain the best stonemason in the country, with no exceptions. Now, I am rather busy. I hope I’ve helped. Goodbye.”

  He hung up on her.

  After that call, she could not concentrate on her writing at all. What gift could Dominic have bought from a stonemason? It bothered her. Her birthday was not for another five months. There were no dates of special significance coming up, either. She desperately wanted to ask Dominic about it when he came home, but what if he had gone to great trouble buying her a special gift in secret and she ruined his surprise? It would be like the time she accidentally found out about the dinner reservations for their fifth wedding anniversary. Dominic had not been able to enjoy the dinner once the surprise of it had been ruined. But what if she showed him the receipt and casually asked him about it? He would have to say something.

  *

  It was seven p.m. and dark when his Porsche drove up the driveway. The Porsche’s headlights made the heavy rain look like liquid mercury. Rachel watched him through the windows as he parked it in the double-wide garage. She waited in the kitchen, making coffee. He entered the house wearing his black raincoat over his dark suit. His hair was thick and wet, his cheeks flushed by the cold. Rain dripped off his nose. He gratefully accepted an Irish coffee, after dropping his briefcase in the hall. We’re just like a married couple in a 1970s BBC sitcom, she thought. Only we don’t kiss as much. She had noticed the affection between them had noticeably reduced since Angela’s birth. She thought she was the one supposed to be having post-natal depression.

  He sipped at his coffee, saying nothing, taking it through to the living room. She followed.

  “Honey, what did you buy for £600?”

  Dominic saw the receipt and froze. He put the coffee down on a coaster and turned to face her.

  “Where did you find that?”

  “It was in your drawer.”

  “Hell. I didn’t want you to find that. I bought you a little
gift. Something for your birthday. Now it’s ruined.”

  “It’s not ruined. I don’t know what you’ve got, do I?” She looked at the receipt as if for the first time. “What’s Black & Sons?”

  “Black & Sons is a jewellers.”

  “A jewellers.”

  “Yes. A jewellers.”

  It would have been a believable answer if she had not already known the truth. Why was he lying? Rachel did not ask. If he wanted to surprise her with something unusual, she could not spoil it by persisting. But she did not like him lying. His reaction to what to her seemed a harmless inquiry was frightening. The way he had frozen when he saw her with the receipt in her hand, it was almost like she had caught him committing adultery. She had a horrible thought then – what if had bought something for another woman? A gift for his mistress. That could be why he wanted to hide the receipt. He had a mistress.

  “Something wrong?” he said sweetly.

  “No. I’m fine. How was you day?”

  “Tough. The suits in accounting demanded another budget cut. Like the art department can just snip away at our budget. I’ll be making adverts with crayons and Plasticine if they keep cutting.”

  Dominic was an artist working for the London-based ad agency Image Perfection. He hated it. Rachel had met Dominic at the Metropolitan Creative Arts College when they were young, driven optimists. She had wanted to be a professional musician and Dominic had wanted to be a famous artist. When they graduated, they vowed to achieve their dreams together.

  Her musical career had exceeded her expectations, but his had not been so lucky. New art was not easy to sell, even in London, and a reputation as an artist was very hard to build. Not every artist could be paid for dissecting cows. Dominic had been unemployed for years during the 1990s while she supported him. Demoralised, he went into advertising. He was now a commercial artist, but he no longer did it for his own pleasure. It was just a way of earning money for him just so he did not feel as though he were a drain on her. Though he had never said it, she knew he resented earning less money than she did.