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“Sir,” whispered George, aiming his flashlight through the trees. “I always find the woods so sinister at night, don’t you?”
Detective Murdoch squinted into a clearing, shining his torch on the ground before him. “I don’t know, George,” he said. “There’s nothing to fear about a little darkness.”
“Well, sir—” the constable examined his surroundings, pointing his light into the canopies of the trees. “You never know what could be lurking in the shadows.” He kicked at the ground. “A mountain lion, perhaps, just waiting to pounce.”
The detective breathed a faint scoff. “George,” he shook his head. “I highly doubt there would be a mountain lion this close to the city.”
“Sir, perhaps there are, but they’re so sneaky that no one’s ever seen one.” A solemn expression molded itself onto his face. “At least, sir, not until it gets you.”
Murdoch glanced at the constable, one side of his face clouded with shadow. “Gets you?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.
George nodded. “Sir, tears you limb from limb.”
“Thank you, George.” The detective aimed his flashlight between two trees. “Perhaps we might continue in silence? If there are any…” He sighed. “Mountain lions around, we wouldn’t want to draw their attention towards us, would we?” He eyed the constable pointedly. “Not to mention Edward Faber.”
George nodded.
They were on the trail of Edward Faber, a man who’d shot his wife and two of her friends nearly two months ago and was now on the run. They’d thought he had escaped to Montreal, but witnesses reported seeing a man matching his description roaming the Don Valley woods, and recently, a body had been found in the area, the killing bullet matching those from Faber’s previous murders. They’d broken out the armoury. They didn’t want him to escape their clutches again.
There was a rustle in a nearby bush, and both men jumped, fixing their flashlights on a figure emerging from the foliage.
“Toronto Constabulary!” barked Murdoch. “Show yourself!”
“Oi, bloody hell!” The figure shielded his eyes.
“Inspector,” Murdoch lowered his flashlight. “Did you find anything?”
Inspector Brackenreid shook his head. “Quiet as a mouse up there.” He gestured up a hill.
“Nothing here as well, sir,” said Crabtree.
“Hang on.” Detective Murdoch stooped down, lifting up some leaves off the ground. He aimed his torch downward. He gestured with a curled finger. “Sir.”
The inspector knelt down next to him. Crabtree shone his light on the ground, illuminating a set of footprints in the soft, muddy forest floor.
“Footprints, sir.” George swallowed. “Do you suppose they belonged to Mr. Faber?”
“It’s possible, George.” Murdoch fixed his light a little further, revealing a trail of footprints, embedded with leaves and twigs. “These tracks are fresh. Whoever made them isn’t too far ahead.”
The inspector sucked in a breath. “Right,” he breathed. “Keep your guns at the ready. Faber’s a crafty bugger, and he’s armed and dangerous. No sudden moves, alright?” He held up a finger, shooting a pointed look at Crabtree. “That means you, Bugalugs.”
The three men followed the trail of footprints, which curled and twisted between tree trunks, all the way down to the river’s edge and back up again.
Murdoch squinted at the tracks, then shone his light at the horizon ahead. He held out both his arms to stop the others, pressing a finger to his lips and pointing up ahead.
A silhouette stood before them, carrying a basket of some kind. Perhaps sensing their presence, the figure turned to face them, dropping the basket.
“Edward Faber?” Murdoch called. “You are under arrest for the murders of Agatha Faber, Mildred Jacobs, Rebecca Fawkes and—”
Before he could finish, Faber turned on his heels and sprinted away.
“Bollocks!” Brackenreid gripped his rifle tightly. “After him, lads!”
All three policemen sprang into action, running after the man at top speed.
George quickly overtook the inspector, his feet pounding rhythmically against the ground underfoot. He caught up to the detective in no time. He was a swift runner, always had been. He was perhaps faster than even Detective Murdoch, but the detective had the advantage of endurance. George had always been more of a sprinter.
They’d nearly caught up to Edward Faber, and George was beginning to think that all was well in hand when he heard it: a sharp click, a metallic clang, and George suddenly found himself on the ground.
The pain registered moments later, a searing, excruciating pain radiating from his lower leg. It blinded his mind, no other thought able to penetrate through. Oh, God. A hoarse scream escaped him.
A hand gripped his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. “Crabtree! Christ!” The inspector waved frantically to the detective. “Murdoch!”
The detective came running. “What’s happened?”
Through the pain, George was wondering much the same.
Brackenreid aimed his flashlight at the constable’s leg and breathed a curse. “Bloody hell.”
Wincing, George managed to swallow a groan. “What is it?” he hissed.
Murdoch’s eyes widened, his face paling. “An animal trap,” he said. “George, you’ve stepped in an animal trap, your leg’s caught.”
George blinked, craning his neck to see. From the glimpse he managed to catch, a large steel jaw was clamped around his leg, with jagged, pointed teeth pressing into his calf. Good Lord.
The inspector held George’s shoulders, keeping him as still as possible. “Don't move, Crabtree. You'll make it worse.” He glanced at the detective. “I'd have thought a trap like this would go right through a man's leg like it was butter.”
Murdoch shook his head. “The trap is designed to catch an animal, sir. If the jaws broke bones or severed the leg, the animal would be able to escape. What makes these traps so deadly is how the animal struggles to escape once they’ve been caught.” He let out a breath. “A trap this size would likely be designed for a large animal, a wolf perhaps. Perhaps even a bear. It’s likely to have broken George’s leg.”
“Broken it at least,” muttered Brackenreid.
George’s breath hitched on a pained gasp. The criminal was getting away. “Sir…” He fought the urge to move. “Mister Faber.”
Brackenreid swallowed, glancing at the constable, then turned to the detective with wide eyes. “Can we get him out?”
Detective Murdoch tilted his head, inspecting the trap. “If we can depress the springs,” he began, gesturing to the trap. “The jaws should open.” He positioned his hands firmly on the two springs. “We’ll have to work slowly; we don’t want to risk further injury.”
Brackenreid nodded. “Right.” His grip on the constable’s shoulders tightened. “On three?”
“Sirs, stop, stop!” George winced. He gestured weakly. “Faber’s getting away.”
Murdoch and Brackenreid exchanged a grim look. “That doesn’t matter, George,” said the detective, shaking his head.
George fought off the inspector’s hands, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Sirs, you said it yourselves: Faber is armed and dangerous. If he is still here in Toronto, that means he still has unfinished business.” He stared pointedly at his superior officers. “I won’t let another innocent soul die simply because I made a clumsy misstep.” He sucked in a breath. “Sirs, please. Go after him. Leave me here, I promise I’ll be fine.”
Murdoch and Brackenreid pursed their lips, glancing at each other. “He’s right, Murdoch,” sighed the inspector. “Faber’s seen us. If we don’t get him now, he’ll be bound to move. It could take ages for us to find him again.”
The detective looked at George, his eyebrows furrowing as he made a grim decision. He let out a breath of resignation. “Alright.” He pulled off his jacket, balling it up and pressing it under the constable’s head. He locked eyes with Crabtree. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”
“Yes, sir. Go.”
Brackenreid gripped his firearm, shooting the constable a tight look. “Hang in there, Bugalugs,” he said. “We’ll only be a minute.”
George craned his neck backwards to watch them jog away, swallowing his screams.
The shock of the situation had worn off, along with any mask it had over the pain. His leg screamed in agony, and it took all of his self-control not to twist around.
He stifled a yell as a sharp jolt of pain shot up his leg. Breathe, George. He swallowed hard. Don’t scream. There’s a killer running loose. Not to mention countless dangerous creatures coming out at night. Don’t scream. Breathe.
The wind whipped across the forest floor, sending tornadoes of leaves spinning and dancing between the trees.
George shivered, tightly squeezing his eyes shut. Breathe, he told himself, sucking in a breath through pursed lips. You'll be fine. Detective Murdoch and the inspector will catch Faber and they'll come back any minute now. Just keep still and breathe.
His ears pricked, a chattering sound muttering out from a nearby shrub. He turned towards it, clamping a hand over his mouth and nose to quiet his gasping breaths.
Two gleaming eyes shone back at him through the leaves, and a lumbering raccoon waddled out into the moonlight. It noticed George, its tail flicking in silent judgement, as if to say 'I can't believe you fell for that trap,' before it sauntered off, scaling a large conifer tree.
A cool breeze sent a shudder through his spine, jostling his leg. He bit his lip. Don’t scream. He could taste blood, and he slowly released a long, slow breath. His voice croaked towards the end of his exhalation in a pitiful-sounding whimper. Don’t scream.
He should have worn a coat. He had thought about it, while leaving the station house, but he had decided against it. He had thought it would get too hot to have a coat if he was running about after criminals.
George breathed a sardonic laugh. Right, he thought. Running after criminals. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He shivered again, closing his eyes and breathing through the pain.
He suddenly remembered the detective’s jacket, balled up under his head. Gulping down a groan, he slowly lifted his head, sliding his hand underneath and pulling out the coat. He draped it over his upper body like a blanket, wrapping his arms around himself. It helped, but not much.
He heard another rustle of leaves.
Another raccoon, I suppose, he thought blearily, but the moment the thought entered his mind, he reconsidered.
He could hear breathing, quick, gasping inhales and panting exhales. The faint thud of footsteps shuffled through the undergrowth, growing progressively louder.
That sounds like a person. George blinked, turning to the direction of the sound. He glanced sideways, spotting his rifle lying where it had fallen in the leaves. Slowly, he stretched his hand out towards it, his fingers curling around the trigger.
Easy, George. He released a breath, lifting his hand off of the gun. Ten to one it’s just another raccoon. He paused. A very large, bipedal raccoon… who’s panting… He gulped. Right.
A moment later, a figure came crashing through the bushes, much taller and much more humanoid than any raccoon. Their gaze whipped around, like a hunted deer, and, seeing no one, they doubled over, catching their breath.
George clamped his mouth shut, holding his breath until his lungs felt like they might burst and then slowly blowing out through his nose. This wasn’t the inspector, nor was it the detective. He only knew of one other person in the woods with them: Edward Faber, the wanted killer.
Edward Faber straightened up, running a hand through his thin hair. The dim moonlight cast eerie shadows over his face. He shot a breathless look at the sky, and laughed.
His laugh made George’s stomach roll.
Any moment now, he told himself. The detective and the inspector will come running after him. They’ll be here any moment now. When moment after moment passed with no sign of neither Murdoch nor Brackenreid, George’s heart clenched.
Why would Faber be laughing? Why would he stop running?
George grit his teeth, his blood boiling. For a moment, anger outweighed the pain.
The only reason Edward Faber would be laughing right now is if he knew for certain that the inspector and the detective wouldn’t be after him.
George didn’t want to think about what he could have done to them.
Reaching for the gun, he swallowed a sharp wave of pain and struggled into a sitting position. “Edward Faber,” he said. His voice was scratchier than usual.
Faber jumped in surprise. When he spotted the constable on the ground, he breathed a disbelieved chuckle. “Oh, Constable,” he simpered. “You startled me.”
George clenched his jaw. “Edward Faber, you are under arrest.”
Faber laughed again. “You’re not serious?” He took a few steps towards George, sneering. “You can’t even move. How do you expect to arrest me?”
A wave roaring in his ears, George aimed his gun at Faber. “You have a right to silence, Mister Faber, and I suggest you exercise it.”
Faber’s smile dropped off his face. “I am not interested in your suggestions, Constable.” He smirked. “You know, I set loads of those traps. I was hoping I’d catch all you coppers. Too bad you were the only lucky one.” He strode towards George, stretched out a leg, and forcefully pressed the toe of his boot against the iron jaws of the trap.
George couldn’t hold in his scream this time. All thoughts were dragged from his mind as the teeth dug into his skin. His vision turned white.
“See?” said Faber, kneeling down to whisper in George’s ear. “You can’t do anything, Constable.” He wrapped his hands around George’s throat and squeezed. “And now, you’re going to die here. All alone. Useless.”
George struggled against his grip, sucking in what little air could pass through. Through the haze of pain, his fingers found the rifle’s trigger. The edges of his vision darkened. He didn’t know where he was pointing the gun, but he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
The sound of gunfire shook the forest.
A flock of birds fluttered from the nearby trees.
Faber stopped strangling George.
Shivering violently, George shoved the gun and Faber’s limp body away from him, his heart pounding. Good lord, he thought dimly. I’ve killed him . He glanced at the corpse beside him, swallowing hard. He fell back onto the ground, closing his eyes. His head was lighter than a balloon.
He shuddered, pulling Detective Murdoch’s jacket tight around him. He swallowed. I’m going to die, he thought. I’m going to die, stuck here in a bear trap. Perhaps I’ll freeze to death, or perhaps I’ll bleed to death. Perhaps I’ll just waste away and starve. He let out a sigh. He hoped the detective and the inspector would be all right.
In the confusing blur, his fuzzy mind imagined their voices echoing through the woods.
“Crabtree? Crabtree!”
“George! George, are you there?”
Frowning, George pried open his eyes. He wasn’t imagining that. He swallowed. “Sirs?” he coughed. “Sirs?” he repeated, louder.
“Shut it! I think I heard him. Crabtree? Oi, Crabtree, you there?”
George cleared his throat. “Sir!” he croaked.
“Over here,” came the detective’s voice. Footsteps jogged closer.
A bright, blinding light pierced George’s vision. His eyes flew shut.
“George!” A pair of hands wrapped around him. “We heard gunfire. Are you all right?”
George nodded. “F-faber… he’s…” Gesturing off to the side, he shuddered again, wincing. “I… I shot him…”
Brackenreid shone a flashlight at the body on the ground. “Dead,” he said simply, stepping over the corpse. He knelt down beside George with a tight smile. “Bloody good shot,” he said.
George dropped his head against the ground. “I didn’t mean to kill him,” he mumbled. “He was throttling me, I just wanted—” His voice broke off into a pinched yell as the detective fiddled with the trap.
“Sorry, George,” said the detective.
Brackenreid patted George’s shoulder. “Oi,” he said warmly. “He killed four people. I’m bloody glad you shot him before he could add you to his list.”
“We shouldn’t have left you alone,” said Murdoch, his face pale. “I’m so sorry, George.”
George shook his head. “You had to catch him, sir.”
The inspector frowned, tucking the detective’s jacket around the constable. “Oi, you’re shaking like a leaf.”
“It’s cold,” murmured George.
Brackenreid frowned again. “It’s not that cold,” he said.
Murdoch shot him a worried look. “He may be in shock, sir.”
Raising his eyebrows, the inspector’s grip on George’s arms tightened ever so slightly.
George sucked in a quivering breath. “I thought… he got you, sirs…”
“Hm?” The inspector snapped his attention back to the constable. “Who, Faber? Nah. He gave us quite a chase and managed to shake us off his bloody tail, but the gunshot gave him away.”
George nodded, choking out a pathetic whimper.
“The teeth are quite a bit deeper than I remember, George.” Murdoch glanced at him with a worried frown. “Were you moving?”
George shook his head. “Faber stepped on it.”
Murdoch blanched, swallowing. “We’re going to get you out, George, all right?” He paused, cringing. “This… might hurt a bit.”
“Oi, Murdoch, don’t sugarcoat it; this is going to hurt like hell.” Brackenreid gripped the constable’s shoulders, holding him steadily in place. “It’s alright if you scream, Crabtree,” he said. “Lord knows you’ll need to.”
Murdoch positioned his hands above the springs. “Ready, George?” he asked, looking to the constable for confirmation.
George nodded. “Do it, sir,” he breathed. “Please.”
As the detective pressed his full weight into the springs, the jaws of the trap snapped open with a metallic clang.
George’s vision immediately went black. He could hear screams, and some small part of his mind numbly thought they were coming from him.
Hands pulled him close. A reassuring voice threaded through his mind. “Steady on, Crabtree. That’s it. Steady on.”
George’s pulse hummed in his ears.
“There’s a lot of blood. Sir, I need your coat.” Murdoch's voice was low, like he was trying very hard to carefully control it.
There was a shuffling, and then something soft and warm wrapped itself around George's leg.
Slowly, as the pain gradually fizzled away, the world came back to George. The ground underneath him felt like it had been in the icebox, but the inspector’s arms were warm. George heaved a groan.
"Steady on, Crabtree," Brackenreid said, gripping his arms. "It's all right, lad. Just breathe."
George peeled his eyes open, blinking hazily.
"Are you all right, George?" Asked Murdoch.
George nodded, mustered up a faint smile, and promptly passed out.
He awoke sometime later, in the back of a horse-drawn cab, leaning on the detective's shoulder. The inspector sat on his other side, his fingers interlaced with George’s.
Murdoch caught his eye, a vague, slightly sad, Mona Lisa-esque smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “George,” he said lowly. “You’re awake.”
George molded his face into an expression that he hoped was a grin and not a wince. It took all of his energy to keep his eyes open. His leg throbbed painfully.
“We’re on the way to the hospital, George,” said the detective softly. “You’re going to be alright.”
The longer his eyes were open, the more George’s leg hurt. He groaned.
Brackenreid gently squeezed the constable’s hand. “Oi,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep, Bugalugs. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”
George nodded, letting his eyes slip shut again. This was an order from his superior he was more than happy to obey.
Over the next several hours, George swung between wakefulness and sleep, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. The few flashes of the world that he caught made little sense to him, so he just closed his eyes and passed out again.
When George finally awoke properly, he was in a comfortable bed, with pillows stuffed under his head. His leg didn’t hurt anymore, it just felt odd: itchy and about twice as heavy as it normally was. There was a crick in his spine.
He blinked. His bed was the only one in the room. A few rays of golden sunlight filtered in through the curtains.
“Oi,” said a voice, coming from George’s right. “He’s awake.”
George shifted, the vertebrae in his back popping as he struggled to sit up. Multicoloured spots flashed in front of his eyes, and he would have fallen back onto the pillows had a pair of hands not shot out to help him, guiding him into an upright position. When his vision cleared, he mustered up a lopsided grin. “Hullo, sirs,” he said.
Detective Murdoch and Inspector Brackenreid sat at the bedside with bloodshot eyes and smiles on their faces.
“He lives,” smirked the inspector.
“How are you feeling, George?” asked Murdoch. “How is your leg?”
George lifted the blanket up to peek at his leg. It was tightly bandaged and plastered below the knee. No wonder it felt so heavy. “Well, sir,” he said, shrugging. “It feels better than it did in the trap.”
Brackenreid rolled his eyes, looking like he might want to smack the constable in the teeth, but he wore a smile. “Well, you’re at least feeling well enough to crack bloody jokes.”
George grinned. “It itches, sir,” he said. “I can’t say it feels pleasant, but it’s much better than being pinched in an animal trap.”
“You’re certainly looking much better, George,” said the detective.
The inspector nodded. “You were white as a bloody ghost last night. Good to see you looking like yourself again.”
George grimaced, trying to swallow the stale taste out of his mouth. The word ‘ghost’ made him think of Edward Faber. “Sirs,” he began. “I… I’m sorry about Edward Faber. I… I really didn’t mean to kill him.”
“It’s not your fault, George.”
George let out a breath. “Sir, I murdered him in cold blood.”
“Oi, stop spewing that nonsense, Crabtree.” Brackenreid lightly whacked George’s arm with the back of his hand. “You know as well as I do that that was self-defense. If you hadn’t shot the bugger, he’d have killed you for sure.”
Murdoch nodded. “Killing in self-defense is not murder, George. No jury would—”
George shook his head. “Oh, sir, I’m not worried about a jury.” He shuddered. “I’m worried about Mister Faber’s restless spirit. I mean, what if he decided to remain here as a ghost and has sworn revenge on me? I could be haunted for the rest of my life!”
Brackenreid snorted a laugh. “Now I know he’s feeling himself again,” he said, smirking at Murdoch.
Murdoch smiled. “I don't think you need to worry about that, George.”
“And if any vengeful spirits try to mess with you, Bugalugs, they’ll have to answer to Thomas C. Brackenreid.” The inspector curled his hands into fists, boxing the air.
George grinned. “I’m sure no ghosts could get past you, sir.”
There was uncomfortable silence for a few long moments.
Murdoch shuffled his feet awkwardly. He looked sheepishly at the floor. “George,” he began. “We shouldn’t have left you trapped there alone.”
“That’s all right, sir,” said George. “I know you didn’t have a choice.”
“One of us could have stayed behind with you, George.” The detective swallowed, fiddling with his hat in his hands. “One of us should have stayed with you.”
“Sir, I was the one who suggested it—”
“You were in so much pain; you couldn’t have been thinking clearly, George.” The detective shook his head. “If your shot had missed…” Murdoch left the rest of his sentence unsaid.
“Well, lucky for us, it didn’t.” Brackenreid reached out and playfully ruffled George’s hair. “We’d have missed you, Bugalugs.”
George swatted his hand away. “I’d have missed you as well, sirs.” He looked at the detective. “And sir, please don’t feel bad for leaving me. You had to catch a killer. I don’t blame you.” He stifled a yawn.
"We'll let you get some sleep, George," said the detective kindly. He had released some of the guilty tension in his body. "You need your rest."
Brackenreid nodded. "You'll be needing quite a bit of rest." He pointed a stern finger at the constable. “Don't even bloody think about coming back to work until you're all healed up. We'll be checking up on you to make sure you stay in bed until you’re good and ready.”
George yawned again as the detective helped him lie back down. He mumbled a thank you, closed his eyes, and slept like a baby for hours.