Read Online Unholy Rites by Kay Stewart, Chris Bullock - Free Book Online Page A

“Don’t get yer knickers in a twist, I’m just joking.”
    â€œDon’t forget the plastic bag in case it rains,” Eric said, knotting it. He knelt down at the base of the tumbled rocks. “See this big rock with the black figure like a star on the side? That’s a pentangle, the Grand Master’s magic sign. There’s a hollow between these rocks.” He slipped the plastic bag into the hollow. “See? That’s all there is to it. It’ll be our secret. You like a little adventure, don’t you?”
    Stephen took a long look at the marked rock. He did like adventure, but he didn’t like trouble. Eric’s adventures always got him into trouble. But walking by the river on a Sunday afternoon, leaving a little piece of paper, what harm could that do? He wouldn’t have to meet the Grand Master. He let out a sigh, and with as much bravado as he could muster, said, “You’re too right, I do.”

Seven
    â€œWhat’s on for today?” Danutia asked Kevin when she arrived at Buxton Constabulary one Monday morning in March.
    â€œNot much so far. A Burglary Dwelling over in Cressbrook. Couple came back from three weeks in Spain and discovered their place had been broken into, who knows when. A constable’s taking a statement. Not much chance of nailing the perp. Another sheep mutilation, this one on a farm near Priestcliffe. I said I’d take a look.”
    After a week of meetings with project managers and statisticians, Danutia was glad to be back to casework. Soon they were speeding east out of Buxton, the blustery wind pushing the River Wye along beside them, shaking the swelling buds on bare branches. She brought her attention back to the task at hand.
    â€œYou said ‘another’ sheep. You’ve had other cases in the area?”
    â€œTwo since the first of the year. One in January near Tideswell. Then one near Mill-on-Wye in February, just after you came. You were meeting with the bigwigs in Ripley that week. The fishing club graze a few sheep on their land. A work party from Derbyshire Wildlife Trust were clearing litter from the river when they came across a pregnant ewe, half in, half out of the water. It had been dead a few days. In both cases, the necks had been broken, an eye had been removed with a sharp instrument, and a hind leg was missing.”
    â€œI haven’t dealt with a case like that in Canada,” Danutia said, “though a lot of horses were cut near Vancouver a couple of summers ago. A homeless man was suspected for a while, but there was also speculation that a satanic cult was cutting the horses to drain blood for their rituals. At the end of the summer the mutilations stopped, and no one was ever arrested. It all seems so senseless.”
    â€œSatanic cults make more sense than UFO s, which is the most popular explanation over here,” Kevin said, veering off the A6, then doubling back under the highway onto a secondary road little wider than a sidewalk. Dry stone walls rimmed with frost ran along the road and cut the surrounding hillsides into patchwork squares, dotted with sheep like sequins on a skirt.
    â€œWhat about rustling? That’s a much bigger problem on the Canadian Prairies, where I grew up, than mutilation.”
    â€œAnd here I’d pegged you for a city girl,” Kevin said, winking. “You’re right. Our farmers lose millions of pounds worth of livestock and equipment every year. Even so, rural police stations are shut down and money diverted to the cities.”
    â€œMost people don’t understand what a small margin there is in farming. My dad lost ten head one year, so my mom went to work selling cosmetics to make sure we had Christmas presents.”
    A Subaru station wagon was parked beside the road ahead. A man in a brown deerstalker hat and Wellington boots waited next to it, a border collie crouched at his feet. Kevin pulled in behind the Forester