but closer to home he could hear nothing. He shone the torch to the left and right. The droplets continued to the right along the path that led to the side gate to the back yard. Nate moved towards the gate. Whatever it was, it was hurt. Probably a small animal, by the look of the droplets. There was a small copse behind the houses and sometimes small rodents or cats got injured on the road. But Nate feared something more. His wife’s precious cat. The droplets went directly to his front door, suggesting that the animal had tried to get in.
His wife’s cat, Emerald, was an eighteen-year-old Exotic Shorthair. She was the laziest cat you ever did see and rarely moved, but she had the kindest nature and a small grumpy face that everyone seemed to love. Lillian doted on the cat and the cat doted on Lillian. If something had happened to Emerald, it was real bad news.
The torchlight shone up towards the wooden gate. It was ajar, which was unusual, and the drops of blood continued on through the gate and beyond.
The backyard was dark, lit only by a bright, cold moon. The light wind was shaking the tops of the trees. Williamson shone the light across the lawn. At the centre was a small apple tree. The drops of blood carried on across the grass but were harder to detect. Williamson shone his light into the trees at the back of the garden. He felt suddenly alone in his own yard. Then the bright green eyes of a cat lit up in the torchlight.
‘Emerald,’ he called. He felt his heart warm to the small pudgy face of his wife’s pet. She was sitting close to the tree trembling and looking terrified, but she was alive. That’s what mattered. Nate strode across the lawn towards her. She might have been in a fight with some local cat who had no idea that Emerald wouldn’t raise a paw for a treat let alone to defend herself. She was real class. You even had to take the food out of her bowl to feed her. A true Williamson.
The grass by the tree was thick with leaves. They crunched under his feet. That was another of Nate’s failures. He hadn’t swept up the fall leaves and now they were heaped all over the yard. ‘Come here, baby,’ Nate called out but the cat didn’t move.
Nate padded round towards the tree trunk. It was very silent, but Nate could hear some creature noises and shuffling in the trees.
He took the final step to reach Emerald. His foot landed on a soft bedding of leaves, almost a small mound — not flattened like the rest. His head had just sensed this as his foot came down through the soft leaves and on to something hard. Not earth, but metal. His foot touched a wide plate.
A low creak rose from the ground followed by a horrifying clash of metal and a sudden snap as a great iron jaw sprang up and butchered his right calf like a shark bite — two huge tooth-filled jaws and a massive force.
The pain was explosive. It sent splinters into every part of his brain — horrific pain as the flesh split and the bone crushed and cracked. Nate buckled, his great weight thrown forward, and his fibula snapped at the weakest point. As his weight was falling, the bone ripped through the front of his shin. Williamson’s wild scream echoed along the back yards.
Williamson grabbed onto the tree. Against the pain, he lifted himself and looked up. He was panting. He gazed down at his leg, but was near to passing out.
What the fuck was it? Two great iron jaws clamped fast to his leg. A mantrap? A bear trap? Was this left here by accident? Surely not.
And if not, then what? Against the flood of pain from the injury and his body’s own pain-relieving releases, he managed to take out his gun. He searched around. Emerald was a foot away. He scooped her up in his arms and pointed his gun at the trees. In the corner of his eyes he saw lights flicker on in the adjacent houses. His scream had woken them.
‘Call the police!’ shouted Williamson. ‘Call 911!’ He turned back to the woods. ‘Come out and face me, you coward bastard, whoever you are!’ His courage had not faltered. He hid Emerald in the crook of his arm and stared ahead, feeling the surges of pain hit him in sudden waves, over and over.
‘Ready to die?’ a voice called from the copse.
‘Who are you? What the hell do you want?’
‘You’re a detective. Work it out.’
Williamson had heard enough. He raised his pistol and unleashed two rounds towards the voice. There was silence. Maybe he’d hit the bastard. He looked up. There was a long pause.
Then Williamson heard a strange noise. It was hardly a sound at all. Like a piece of wood twanging on a desktop. A wooden thrum. A moment later, an aluminium bolt thumped into Williamson’s chest. He cried out again. The guy had a crossbow. Williamson managed to lift his gun hand and let off another two rounds.
Then he heard a swish of air again and felt the thud of something landing in his thigh. He looked down, shocked. Another bolt was lodged deep in his leg.
‘You’re a fucking dead man!’ Nate screamed. ‘You’re fucking dead. They know I’m here, so screw you! This place will be crawling with cops.’ Williamson fired until his gun was empty, but the rounds zipped into the trees and no one screamed.
Again, the deep thrum of wood and an arrow hit him hard in the stomach. Then another hit his shoulder and threw his upper body backwards. Williamson was almost out. The pain and blood loss were taking his mind away. He was going to die.
Vvv-dumm, sounded the crossbow. The thrumming of the shot echoed across the backs of the houses and the bolt ripped hard into Williamson’s arm. He hardly felt it. Then he heard something moving towards him and another bolt hit him in the stomach.
The killer emerged from the shadows, his face illuminated by the white light of the moon. Williamson focused his eyes and furrowed his brow in confusion. He saw the face of his killer silhouetted against a beautiful spread of stars. He opened his mouth to speak, to plead, to talk to this man, but before he could utter a word an arrow entered his brain through the roof of his open mouth.
The American Devil smiled down at his victim. ‘You’re just not good enough, Detective Williamson. I want a better challenge. I want Tom Harper.’
PART TWO
‘In each human heart terror survives The ravin it has gorged’
Chapter Thirty-Four
East 71st Street
November 21, 10.00 a.m.
Marty Fox wore plaid suits and still smoked, which almost no one else in the world did. He was forty-one, chronically unfaithful to his wife and wanted life just as it was — comfortable. Why he slept around was because he liked it. Why else do people do things? And he liked the sensation of new flesh better than flesh he knew. What was so odd about that? It was a proven fact that new experiences produced more serotonin than habitual ones. Man was hard-wired to go somewhere new for his fun and games, and the truth was Marty was just not strong enough to override the temptation.
Man, Marty maintained, is a primitive beast wearing a civilized coat. At times, the coat must come off or man cannot operate. It was his release valve, that was all.
He’d married his wife some long-ago distant time in the past, for hell’s sake. She had been pretty and vivacious. She was a bombshell, as they used to call it in the good old days of black and white TV. All platinum
