The Dark Horde Read online

  “There’s been a fire at the Weston farmhouse and we’ve discovered two fatalities.”

  “Two fatalities? Is the area secure?”

  “We’ve only just got here. It looks like they were murdered.”

  Great. What a fucking great start to Sunday morning. A fucking murder job, which he had a clear obligation to investigate being the head of Howqua Hills Police Station. And neither the monster headache nor the monster erection he had, helped. He looked at his bedside clock and saw that it’d been a little over three hours since he’d been on duty.

  “Right well, tape off the area and don’t touch anything until I get there.”

  “Pity the fire crew are still all over everything. They’re still putting out spot fires.”

  “Oh, that’s all we need is smokies going around fucking up evidence! As soon as they’ve declared the area safe, get them the fuck out of there.”

  “We’re working on that.”

  “How many officers are down there?”

  “There’s four of us.”

  “Okay well, isolate any witnesses and make sure no one except the smokies goes anywhere near the scene. So where is it?”

  “Lot 31. Maple Creek Road. The property backs onto Oberon Grammar School grounds.”

  “Right.” He sighed. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He hung up.

  Shit!

  It was, in a word, a mess.

  The Weston farmhouse was now nothing but a charred skeleton of a fire that had raged and then smouldered its way through the early morning hours.

  Neighbours on adjoining properties noticed smoke rising from the farmhouse with the first rays of autumn dawn and quickly notified the Country Fire Authority who reached the scene before seven. Immediately upon arrival, they realised the greater horror – the farmhouse had been host to murder. And so whilst the fire was doused, the local Howqua Hills police were contacted and were to arrive soon after.

  Sergeant Brian Derwent arrived shortly after eight in the morning, parking his 4WD patrol next to two others about a hundred metres down the driveway from the farmhouse that was flooded with water and foam. The fire crew nearby had finished their work and were packing up their equipment, whilst police were busy taping off the area. Constable Harrington came out to greet Brian.

  “So what makes you think it was murder?” began Brian.

  “Er... When you see the injuries on the bodies, I think you’ll agree it looks fairly obvious.”

  “Have any witnesses been identified?”

  “No, but no one’s come forward yet either.”

  Fucking great... Why did this have to happen to me? On my turf? Pain stabbed his right temple like a knife.

  “Have the CFA declared the area safe?”

  “Well, they’ve put out the fire, but they’ve also advised us that the floor and what’s left of the walls aren’t safe.”

  Brian saw that the farmhouse was reduced to burnt foundations with the occasional standing support beam. Piles of brick, ash and foam lay in the centre of the devastation, revealing the remnants of a cellar. He noted that the gardens surrounding the building seemed untouched by the fire, perhaps shielded by the light dusting of rain.

  “Any ideas on how the fire started?”

  “Not sure, but I was talking to the fire brigade OIC about it. He said that the cellar appeared to be where the seat of the fire was, but that identifying any accelerant used is virtually impossible due to the extent of the damage.”

  “Right well, you can get me a detailed report from the fire brigade, including what their activities were and their opinion on the fire’s cause.” Brian rubbed his forehead. “But first, show me what you’ve found.”

  Robert led Brian to an ash-covered orange Holden Kingswood nearby. Seated behind the smashed windscreen was the body of a man in his early twenties. Torn vertebrae poked forward through a gaping hole in his neck, his head hanging from his shoulders by flaps of muscle and skin. In death, his hands still gripped the wheel. Brian recognised it was Frank Weston. In a small community like Howqua Hills, roughly two-thousand, strangers outside the ski season were uncommon.

  “The fucking media are going to love this!” said Brian. “Has the Coroner been informed yet?”

  “Not yet. We were waiting until you got here and could make your assessment.”

  “I see,” said Brian, thinking.

  Robert pointed to the doorstep of the house. “There’s a second body without a head over there. Looks like it was torn off.”

  Brian looked where Robert was pointing, at what appeared to be a blackened skeleton. Not far away, the other officers were securing the crime scene perimeter. White police tape now surrounded the remains of the house and extended around the smashed Holden.

  Brian’s eyes returned to Robert. “We’ll have a close look at that body when forensics get here. In the meanwhile we’ll secure the scene and any witnesses we can get, and contact the relevant agencies.”

  Brian started over towards the other officers with a display of urgency and importance. Robert followed.

  Present were Sergeant Douglas McDougall, a complete arsehole you couldn’t trust not to chat-up your missus, Constable James Irving, smirking at some comment he’d just made to the others, a smug pretty-boy wanker that thought being in the force four years was a long time, and Constable Lisa Klopski, a thirty-something year-old woman with fake blonde hair, big tits and a nice arse.

  Brian greeted the officers abruptly, then gave instructions, “Lisa, I want you to notify the State Coroner’s office and request that an arson chemist, photographics, including video, and crime scene units attend.”

  “Shall I notify homicide as well?”

  “We will have to get those pushy self-important morons involved, but let CI do it. That’s their job. Tell CI that their assistance is needed urgently.”

  The sooner the Criminal Investigation Branch got there, the sooner they could take responsibility for this mess.

  “Okay,” Lisa quipped.

  “Douglas, I want you to do a check to make sure that there isn’t any evidence outside the sealed off area. Anything that may be the slightest bit relevant, I want taped off.”

  Douglas nodded, stroking the ends of his moustache in thought.

  “I’ve already given instructions to Robert to interview the fire crew. And smart-arse here,” Brian looked at James, “can establish a primary entry point past the tape and keep a log of who enters the crime scene and why.”

  James restrained a grin as he exchanged glances with Lisa.

  “Well, keep up the good work, guys. I’m just going to sit down for a few minutes. Get me if there’s anything urgent.” Brian walked away towards his patrol, massaging his headache.

  Robert followed.

  Douglas frowned at the Sergeant’s behaviour and mused that he wasn’t coping well with pressure of late. Brian had recently separated from his wife, Julie, and contact with his two children, Samantha and Howard, was limited. Little was secret in a small country town like Howqua Hills and it was well known that Brian had left his wife for a promiscuous young lady twenty years his junior. Julie hadn’t forgiven him for this and wanted to have as little to do with him as possible. Most of Brian’s colleagues, Douglas included, tried to tell him the error of his ways, but Brian was stubborn in ignoring all advice until no one cared anymore to help him fix the mess his life now was. Friends turned their backs on Brian and yet continued to support Julie, which only added to Brian’s frustration with the world. On occasion, Douglas had thought how differently things could have turned out with Julie. Douglas had known Julie before she met Brian, and back then, he fancied her himself. But that was a lifetime ago. Now he was married, with a family of his own. Dismissing further thoughts, Douglas began looking for any undiscovered evidence.

  Brian noticed Robert and stopped. “Yes?”

  “Are you alright, sarge?”

  “I just need to sit down for a few minutes alone. I’ve got a fucking-sp
litting-headache and right now you’re not helping.”

  Robert took the hint and left.

  Brian sank into the driver’s seat of his patrol with a deep sigh. He reached into the glove box for some painkillers and washed them down with cold coffee from a thermos that remained in the vehicle from last night’s shift.

  He really hated his job sometimes, but this had to be the worst. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, oblivious to the world around him.

  Oblivious to red eyes watching him from the trees overlooking his vehicle, appraising the enemy. Something stirred in those trees and moved closer...

  Brian was stumbling down a dim tunnel towards a morbid red glow far ahead. The sickly light cast sinister shadows that moved with his imagination. Something followed in the darkness behind, drawing relentlessly closer. The stench of it began to suffocate him and he broke into a run. In panic he fell, the rough ground scraping the skin of his palms and drawing blood. Quickly, he regained his footing and continued running, panting, his racing heart obscuring the sound of his footfalls. Not daring to look behind at what madness followed. Then he felt its rancid hot breath on his neck, its presence drowning him with its sickening aura. Blinded by fear, his will to live drove him onwards to the light. Then he saw that the red glow he was approaching came from a pair of eyes the shape of slits.

  Waiting.

  He tore away from the nightmare to find he was soaked with perspiration, his headache more unbearable than ever. He glanced at his watch. 8:50 AM. He’d only been asleep for a few minutes.

  He rubbed his eyes and stumbled out of his car. Trying to relax now was futile. He lit a cigarette and looked up at Oberon Grammar School on the hill overlooking the Weston property. Perhaps they could throw some light on what happened last night.

  Brian returned to the other officers, but no one asked him how he felt: his gait and expression made that obvious.

  “I’m going to ask some questions at the school. Maybe someone there saw something.”

  “I’ll accompany you if you like, sarge,” Robert offered with enthusiasm.

  Brian’s first instinct was to decline, but then he thought it’d be handy to have someone there to take notes for him.

  “Okay,” he said with a wry smile.

  SUNDAY 8:50 AM

  That smell.

  Lucas inhaled to immerse himself in its wondrous, invigorating energies again. It was the smell of autumn. The smell of fresh rain on dry dust. A smell he loved.

  The morning sun shone through tatters of fading cloud, warming his spirits. A gentle, refreshing breeze began to blow, making a brilliant day into a perfect one. Lucas Prescott stood outside his office to gaze upon his kingdom: ‘Timberhome’, a Year Nine coeducational campus at Oberon Grammar School, set in the high country on the slopes of Mount Warrambat amidst white Manna Gums and narrow-leaved Peppermints.

  Here at this elite boarding school in the mountains, the young adolescents learnt team spirit and self-reliance away from modern technology. Living in single-sex, fifteen-bed dormitories called ‘Units’, they were responsible for the maintenance of their Unit, including their wood supply for heating and their only source of hot water: a wood-stoked boiler. They were also given cleaning tasks about the school and kept fit with three cross-country runs a week. Every Wednesday, the kids went hiking in the surrounding bushland, returning on Friday before the area became busy with weekend campers. Classes were Saturday through to Wednesday. Timberhome was a unique educational experience like no other in Australia, possibly the world. And it was Lucas’ great privilege to not only be School Principal, but the grandson of its founder, Gregory Prescott, as well.

  Lucas could look down on most of the school from his office. Across the flagstone assembly courtyard were the dining hall, the sanatorium and the administration buildings. The other buildings, mostly classrooms, stretched out along the dirt roads running up to the school chapel, along to the five girls’ Units and down to the ten boys’ Units. Three dirt roads did not lead to the Units. One of these led to the houses of the staff village, another became a surfaced road back into the Howqua Hills township, and the last road led down the hill past what was once the Weston farmhouse, to paddocks owned by the school. Only the burnt carcass of the Weston farmhouse remained now, crawling with fire crew and police officers like ants over a bone.

  The fire wasn’t noticed until the light of day, the smoke blew away from the school and the interposing foliage obscured the flames. Lucas knew Barney Weston, the farm-owner. Barney and his son Frank had helped the school doing the odd maintenance job. The event dominated discussions at breakfast. “What happened? Was anyone hurt? Was it intentional?” were the questions that most were asking and none could answer. Before morning tea, he would contact the police and find out, but right now, he had other things to attend to.

  Lucas Prescott inhaled that wonderful, sweet aroma of rain on dust once more. Although now faded, he could still taste its rich qualities. He so loved autumn, the season of colour, of joy...

  Of death.

  Where had that thought come from?

  Lucas shuddered and turned to enter his office...

  And walked into a boy behind him.

  The small boy fell backwards, dropping an armload of books.

  Startled, Lucas apologised, “Dreadfully sorry! Are you okay?”

  The slender child pushed himself back onto his feet. He looked shaken but unhurt. He wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “Here, let me help you with those,” Lucas offered.

  The boy was silent as together they gathered up the books. Lucas realised he didn’t know this pupil.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?”

  The boy looked at him with hazel eyes from beneath a low brown fringe. His jaw quivered a moment, “D-Danny.”

  Lucas smiled before producing a calloused hand, “Pleased to meet you, Danny. You can call me Lucas.”

  Danny winced as he returned Lucas’ friendly shake and tried to smile. “Thank you,” was all he managed to say.

  What a strange boy.

  Then Lucas saw a police vehicle driving up the main road into the school. He thought better of using this opportunity to become more acquainted with the child.

  “On you go, Danny.”

  Without delay, Danny ran off to class, breaking into a dawdle once he was a few metres clear of Lucas.

  Two officers emerged from the 4WD police patrol. The younger of the two, bore a friendly smile. The other reeked of cigarettes and bore a grim expression as he said, “Are you the principal here?”

  “Yes, I am.” Lucas’ stomach turned. “This is to do with the Weston farmhouse, isn’t it?”

  The officer smiled. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

  We have time to spare. Death is forever patient. They crept closer...

  Lucas was now seated in his office with the two officers. Constable Robert Harrington sat cross-legged taking notes with a pen and notepad, whilst Sergeant Brian Derwent remained standing, making Lucas nervous.

  “So, do you have any ideas on what could have happened?” Brian asked Lucas.

  “None at all! I mean, it’s such an unthinkable thing to happen to anybody, but Barney and Frank Weston? They had no enemies, they were good people who earned an honest living and were well respected by the community. They were always such good workers for the school, but we didn’t realise what had happened until daylight, and we only thought it was a fire then. I’m shocked and speechless to hear that it looks like they were murdered. I have no idea who could possibly have wanted to do this, and I’m concerned that whoever it is, is still out there.”

  Brian raised a palm and opened his mouth to speak, when there was a scrabbling sound across the roof. The three of them paused and looked at the ceiling, puzzled.

  Lucas broke the silence that followed the noise. “What was that?”

  Brian looked at Lucas and then at Robert. “Probably nothing. Rob, can you go check that out
?”

  Looking apprehensive, Robert put down his notes and crept outside, gripping his loaded hip holster.

  Sunlight streamed through the gum trees in-between the buildings. Not far away, classrooms buzzed with the excited chatter of children, punctuated by the buzz of flies around him. Robert peered around the eaves of the office roof where the noise was last heard, his eyes straining against the sun.

  He was unable to see anything that might have been the source of the noise, but it was difficult with the sun and the trees.

  Must be a possum.

  Across the flagstone courtyard, a kookaburra in the trees burst into laughter, its song filling the air. Robert turned for a moment to see it launch from its perch and fly away, laughing.

  Robert shrugged his shoulders and headed back inside...

  Unaware of the dark shapes lurking in the trees behind him.

  SUNDAY 9:40 AM

  He crept closer, poised to strike.

  The desk creaked as Burke leant out of the aisle, aiming his peashooter – the cylindrical shell of a pen – at Danny. Danny sat at the front of the classroom gazing out of the window next to him. An easy target made even easier considering the teacher, Mrs Farell, was writing something on the blackboard and had her back to the class.

  Pfft! A spitball shot down the aisle and into Danny’s hair. Most of the class saw it, but not Danny who stared out of the window at the gum trees and the school weir beyond.

  Burke laughed with his mates, Brad and Martin, at the back of the class.

  Their laughter stopped when Mrs Farell turned to face them.

  “For today’s class I want you to write a story based on the words I’ve written on the blackboard.”

  Brad whispered to Burke. “She didn’t even notice man! Haha!”

  Martin held a peashooter of his own in his mouth, giving the appearance of a pen. He read the words “The Colour Crimson” on the blackboard and leaned back on his chair against the wall behind him. “How are we s’posed to write a story on that?”