The Reckoning on Cane Hill: A Novel by Steve Mosby

of trees that marked the city’s unofficial boundary with nature. They were so thick and tall here that it was impossible to tell how far back they went, but I knew they stretched on for miles: a vast sprawl all the way to the mountains.
    I grew up a long way from the city, and my childhood memories of woodland were happy, sunlit ones: playing with my friends; climbing trees; hacking paths through the undergrowth. Some woods are safe, I thought, watching the rough trunks and shadows flashing past beside me. Not these ones, though. Driving close to them, it always felt like there was something in there between the trees, watching you.
    And of course, once upon a time, there had been.
    My thoughts inevitably turned to my arrival in the city, ayear and a half ago. After Lise’s death, I’d taken a huge, hopeful leap career-wise by applying for a post here. I’d revered Detective John Mercer, a legend in the force, for years, and been desperate to join his team. A place as his interview man had opened up, and I’d been both overjoyed and nervous when my application was accepted. And then on my first day here, I’d been drawn into the hunt for a man known as the 50/50 Killer.
    I say man , but because the 50/50 Killer wore a devil mask while committing his crimes, and we never fully discovered the real identity of the man behind it, it was easy to think of him as both more and less than that. He abducted couples, tortured them over the course of a single night, and forced one of them to decide which of the two would die. Only one of them ever remained alive at dawn. The survivor was left not only alone, but with the terrible knowledge that their choice had resulted in their partner’s murder – that they hadn’t cared enough to sacrifice themselves instead. I’d die for you , we tell the ones we love. I couldn’t live without you . The 50/50 Killer wanted people to understand that those promises were lies.
    I watched out of the side window now as I drove past the place where, on that first day, a young man named Scott had emerged from the trees, tortured and confused. I’d spent the night interviewing him in hospital, while officers combed the woods for his partner, Jodie. And by dawn, despite our best efforts, Detective John Mercer’s distinguished career and mental well-being were both in tatters.
    The scene receded slowly in the rear-view mirror. I’d slowed down as I reached it, I realised; I accelerated slightly now to compensate, glad to see it disappear. About ten minutes later, I reached the patch of the ring road where Charlie Matheson’s accident had taken place.
    I pulled in by the side of the embankment on the left and got out of the car. I took a few photographs, although there wasn’t much to see: no sign at all of what had happened here two years ago. As I walked up and over the incline, the grass was soft and dry and seemed untouched.
    At the top of the embankment, looking down the steep slope beyond, I recognised the landscape from the pictures in the file. It was easy to pick out the lone tree, about thirty metres down, that Matheson’s car had crashed into. But again, the land appeared undamaged by the incident, and there were no longer any tracks on the ground to indicate the path the vehicle had taken on its descent.
    I took more photographs, but really, there was nothing to distinguish this stretch from any other. Something bad had happened here, I thought, heading back to the car; someone had been lost. At the time, there must surely have been marks and injuries to the land in recognition of that. And yet the grass had grown back, the tree had untwisted and righted itself. In less than two years, nature had healed those wounds without leaving so much as a scar.
    I drove away wishing it could be that easy for people. But then in some ways perhaps it was. Whatever happens, your life goes on, whether you like it or not. Your life is stubborn like that.
    I’d die for you .
    I couldn’t live