Moving into the room, she sat down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.
“I need to talk to you,” Carrie said.
Cal ignored her and flipped the button on the remote.
Taking it from him, she switched off the television. Cal furrowed his brow.
Slowly, Carrie unrolled Melissa’s picture.
“Do you see this? Do you see what Melissa drew?”
Cal’s eyes begrudgingly moved over the sketch.
Carrie pointed to the three children running from the house. “Melissa says this is you, this is her, and this is a boy called Noah. He’s Jago’s little brother and he’s been missing for a while. Have you heard about him?”
She watched as Cal focused on where she was pointing. His eyes seemed to grow darker.
“The police have looked all over but they can’t find him. No one can.” She leaned in closer. “Do you know where he is?”
There was something in Cal’s eyes. Something black and impenetrable. He turned his head and stared at the blank television screen. “What about this character?” She pointed to the demonic figure. In the dim light of the living room, he looked even more terrifying. “Melissa called him the bad man.”
Cal’s eyes wandered back to the picture. She couldn’t be sure in this light, but his face seemed to grow a shade paler. He turned away again, his breaths audible.
Carrie put the picture down on the carpet and flattened it out.
“Cal, I want to help you,” she said, watching as he stared down at Melissa’s drawing. “I know it’s difficult. I know you don’t want to think about it, but I need you to try. If Noah was with you... If he’s still alive...”
Cal’s fingers curled over his palms and dug into the flesh.
“I want to help,” Carrie said again. “Can you tell me who did this to you? Where they’ve kept you all this time? If you can’t tell me, can you show me?”
She stood and grabbed one of Melissa’s sketch books from the side. She held out a pencil.
Cal glared at it.
“If you know where Noah is, you can tell me. Write it down. Do you remember how to write?” She could feel frustration bubbling inside her as Cal remained unmoving. He turned his head away from the pen and paper. His faced drew up into a scowl.
“Please,” Carrie said, resting a hand on his knee. Her voice trembled. Tears welled in her eyes. “I know you speak to Melissa. I know you’ve told her things. And I just—”
Without warning, Cal batted her hand from his knee and jumped up. He headed for the door.
“Sit down!” Her voice was loud and angry, startling them both.
Cal bowed his head. He remained standing.
“Sit down,” Carrie said again, this time in a soft, guilty tone.
Cal stayed, rooted to the ground.
“Why can you talk to Melissa but not to me?” They were not the words she’d intended. She looked up at him, her eyes begging. “Please, Cal. Please, talk to me.”
But Cal did not talk to her. Instead, he left the room.
She heard his footsteps thunder on the stairs. She heard his bedroom door slam shut. She heard Melissa, startled and awake, call out for her.
Ignoring her daughter’s cries, Carrie brought her hands to her face. She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears came. She let them run down her face and drip on the empty sketch paper.
After a minute, she stopped crying, dried her face, and cleared her throat. Melissa’s drawing caught her eye. The bad man stared at her, his glowing eyes burning into her skin.
Cal was not going to tell her what she wanted to know. Nor was Melissa. But perhaps she would tell her father.
Suddenly, Carrie wanted nothing more than for Dylan to come home. To be wrapped in his arms. She thought about contacting him on the satellite phone then changed her mind. He wasn’t due back for another forty-eight hours. Telling him everything now would leave him trapped on a boat and worrying about his family. And he would turn against Cal. He would make her send him away.
Upstairs, Melissa had fallen silent. Carrie got to her feet.
As soon as Dylan was home, she would get him to talk to their daughter. Until then, she was on her own.
Picking up Melissa’s drawing, she stared at it for a while longer. Dread crept beneath her skin. Making her way to the kitchen, she pulled open a drawer and hid the picture inside. She locked the back door, slid the bolt across, and pocketed the key. Then she moved from room to room, ensuring all the windows were locked and the curtains were closed. Finally, she locked the front door and removed the key. She would think about calling Detective Turner in the morning. Until then, no one was getting in or out of her house.
34
NAT’S HEAD FELT AS if someone had opened it up with a pickaxe. She’d been awake for thirty seconds, had no idea what time it was, and was vaguely aware of a buzzing somewhere near her right ear.
Last night, she’d downed half a bottle of cheap whiskey stolen from Jack Dawkin’s shop. She felt bad for stealing it, but what choice did she have? She was still six months away from being legally able to buy alcohol, and thanks to her youthful looks, no fake ID in the world was ever going to convince Jack to take her money. Besides, Jack overpriced everything. If they didn’t use those damned security contraptions at the supermarket, she would steal from there. At least they’d be able to afford losing a bottle or two.
It was risky stealing from Jack. His shop was small and cramped, making it easy to get caught. She’d only stolen from him once before. The guilt had stopped her from doing it again, until last night.
She supposed she could, like any other underage kid in town, persuade someone old enough to buy the booze for her. But that meant having more friends than Jago. He’d been in a mood last night and hadn’t wanted to see her, leaving her no choice but to slip a whiskey bottle into the inside pocket of her military jacket before paying for her tobacco at the counter.
Now, after a night of knocking back whiskey and listening to punk music at a damaging volume through her headphones, she found herself regretting stealing the booze in the first place.
Nat groaned as she scrabbled for her phone and opened an eye to see who was calling.
“What time is it?” she mumbled.
Jago’s low tones mumbled into her ear. “Nine-thirty. You sound like shit.”
“It’s Saturday morning. Why are you calling so early?”
“Have you seen the police outside?”
“What? Wait a second.”
Nat pushed herself up onto an elbow and grimaced as the pounding in her head intensified. Dragging herself out of bed, she stumbled to the window and pulled back the curtains. A patrol car was parked outside. A few metres along, the journalist’s car was being loaded onto the back of a tow truck.
“What’s going on?” she said into the phone.
“I don’t know. But if they talk to you, you can’t tell them what I did.”
Nat looked around for her tobacco pouch and papers. “So, you punched him. He deserved it.”
“What if I was the last person to see him? It won’t look good.”
“That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?”
“Just keep it to yourself.”
Tobacco located, she tucked the phone between her ear and her shoulder, and began rolling a cigarette. “Fine. What are your plans for today?”
“I’m searching the hotel. Want to come with me?”
“Maybe. But it seems like a waste of time. The police already searched it.”
“That was two months ago. Besides, they’re under resourced because of the cuts. Maybe they didn’t search the whole place.”
“There’s no chance Noah could have climbed the hotel gates; they’re two metres tall. And they’re the only way in.”
“Whoever abducted him could have helped him over.”
Hearing the desperation in Jago’s words, Nat softened her voice. “If someone had taken him up there, don’t you think the police would h
ave found him? Besides, the whole place is boarded up. Come on, Jago. Noah’s not up there. He can’t be. And if you really thought he was up at the hotel, wouldn’t you have searched the place already?”
Silence. The cigarette rolled, Nat licked the gum and sealed it shut. She sighed.
“There’s a window at the back,” Jago said at last, his voice cold and distant. “The board is loose. Some of the kids from town go up there to hang out. He could have got in the same way.”
Nat shook her head. Jago’s reasoning was becoming more ridiculous by the second. Tucking the cigarette behind her ear, she bent down to search for her military boots. The pain in her head grew sharp and nauseating.
“I thought you were going to speak to Cal again,” she said. “It sounds like a safer idea than wading through used condoms and junkie needles.”
“I’ll talk to him later. When Carrie lets me.”
“She must be so weirded out with her dead son walking around like that.”
Jago was silent again. Guilt pulled at Nat’s conscience. She supposed if it were her little brother who was missing, she would go searching places he couldn’t be in, too. The alternative was to give up hope.
“Look, I’ll check with Rose and see if I can come with you,” she said, letting out a heavy breath. “Margaret Telford’s dead dog has made her all twitchy, and now that the police are outside I’m anticipating a full curfew, effective immediately.”
“Whatever,” Jago said. “I’ll be heading up there as soon as the police are gone. Let me know.”
Nat slipped her feet into her boots and scanned the floor for her jacket. “Sure thing, Mister Monotone. I need to smoke a cigarette then throw up. See you later.”
Jago huffed a sigh into her ear.
She hung up and let the phone fall to the bed. Sometimes, she felt like murdering Jago in his sleep.
Giving up on finding her jacket, she pulled a black hooded top over her head, grabbed a lighter from the bedside table, and stumbled downstairs.
Her attire looked out of place in Rose’s cottage, which was rustic perfection, kitted out with a whole farmyard of porcelain animals and soft furnishings in floral print.
Nat hated every inch of it. But she loved Rose, who was kind and caring; much more than her parents had ever been.
She found her in the kitchen, staring worriedly through the window into the back garden.
“Have you seen the cops outside?”
Rose jumped. Her hand shot to her chest.
“I’ve just had an officer on the doorstep,” she said. “They wanted to know if we’d seen some journalist hanging around. Apparently, he’s missing.”
“Oh?”
Rose turned back to the window. “He’s not the only one.”
“What is it?” Nat asked, as she moved further into the room. The smell of coffee hung in the air, tantalising her hungover taste buds. A fresh pot sat on the side, next to a mug that already contained milk and sugar.
Rose shook her head. When she turned around again, her round face had grown two shades paler.
“I can’t find Honey,” she said. “I’ve looked all over the house.”
Nat poured hot black coffee into the mug and stirred the liquid with a teaspoon. She glanced up. “She’ll be around somewhere. She only ever goes outside to take care of business. She’s probably asleep under a cushion somewhere.”
“No, I’ve looked. She’s not in your room?”
“Honey doesn’t go upstairs. Besides, she’s not allowed in my room.”
“What about last night? You made sure she was in when you locked up before bed, didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
The truth was Nat had been so drunk when she’d last gone outside for a cigarette, she couldn’t remember where the damn cat had been.
Having stirred her coffee, she picked up the mug and took a sip. It was hot and glorious. Instantly, the hammering in her head receded a little. But now she felt another sensation. Guilt.
Had she accidentally locked Honey outside? Sometimes the cat did follow her outside when she went for a smoke.
“She’ll be around somewhere,” she said. “I’ll smoke this, then I’ll help you find her.”
Rose glanced at the cigarette in Nat’s hand. “Those things will kill you.”
“So will those curtains,” Nat muttered, glancing at the windows.
“You’re not seeing Jago today?”
“Maybe. He wants me to go on another one of his searches.”
“Where to this time?”
Nat raised an eyebrow. Sometimes it was safer to lie. “The woods again, I think.”
Rose thrust a hand on her hip and stared through the window. “I don’t know, Nat. The whole cove doesn’t feel safe today. I asked that policeman about Margaret Telford’s dog but he couldn’t tell me a thing. Said they’re still looking into it. I don’t like the idea of you wandering off.”
“I’m almost eighteen. I’ll be fine.”
“The last thing I need is social workers coming around, telling me I’m not doing my job. That I’m not taking care of you.”
Nat took another sip of coffee.
Rose stared at her for a long time, worry lines ageing her skin. “I could do with your help looking for Honey. That awful business with poor Margaret has got me worried out of my mind.”
“Cats wander sometimes.”
“Not my Honey.”
Guilt pressed down on Nat’s shoulders as she brushed past Rose. “I’ll ask the neighbours if they’ve seen her. Once I’ve smoked this and drank a gallon of coffee.”
“You were boozing again last night, weren’t you?” Rose said, shaking her head. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
Nat pulled open the kitchen door. Fresh air rushed in, making her feel a little better. “Come on, Rose. Even you were young once.”
Rose wagged a finger at her. “You have a shower before you go and bother the neighbours. Or they’ll smell you coming.”
Giving the woman a military style salute, Nat stepped outside and sparked up her cigarette. The lawn was choked with weeds. She’d promised Rose several weeks ago that she’d mow it. She’d get around to it one day.
Puffing on the cigarette, she glanced at the tall wooden fence that separated their garden from Grady Spencer’s. Perhaps Honey had found her way to the other side and was now stuck.
“Damn cat,” she muttered and took another sip of coffee.
Uneasiness returned to her as she thought about the police outside. What had happened to that journalist? To Margaret Telford’s dog?
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out.
35
CARRIE WOKE WITH A start, pulling herself from a nightmare. She’d been running through the streets of the cove, calling for Cal, already knowing she’d lost him forever. Turning over, she reached out for Dylan. It took her a second to remember he was still at sea. After all these years, it still took her a second.
Blinking the sleep away, she checked the time and was startled to see it was almost ten. Memories of last night’s confrontation with Cal played on her mind. He could talk. He hadn’t admitted it but the look in his eyes had told her Melissa had spoken the truth. And the truth felt like a hundred bee stings.
Hauling herself out of bed, Carrie threw on one of Dylan’s sweaters and grabbed the door keys from the side. Out in the hall, a voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Mummy?”
Melissa sat on her bedroom floor in her usual position. Her typical morning cheer was absent.
“Morning, sweet pea. What’s up?”
Melissa put down the doll she’d been playing with and folded her arms. Her eyes glistened. “Are you mad with me and Cal?”
Guilt squeezed Carrie’s lungs. It took a few seconds to think of the right words. “I’m not mad. I’m worried.”
But this only confused Melissa further. Her forehead wrinkled. Her eyes moved off to the side.
Carrie moved further into the room and crou
ched down. She stared at her daughter for a long time, then ran a hand through her long hair.
“I want you both to be safe,” she said. “If there’s a bad man that wants to hurt you, I need to know who he is. I need to tell Detective Turner all about him, so he can stop him from hurting anyone.”
Melissa picked up her doll and wrapped its hair around her fingers.
“If you don’t want to tell me, maybe you can speak to Daddy when he comes home tomorrow,” Carrie said. She slid a finger beneath Melissa’s chin and gently guided her face upward. “You can tell us anything, sweet pea. Even if you’re scared or worried that someone will hurt you. We’ll always make sure you’re safe.”
Melissa blinked. She let out a long sigh through her nostrils. “I want Daddy to come home now.”
Carrie felt a sting in her heart. She forced a smile to her lips and stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You know I love you, don’t you?”
Melissa avoided her gaze. She nodded then picked up another of her toys.
Leaving her daughter to play, Carrie returned to the landing. It was beginning to feel a lot like her family was falling apart. She walked a few steps to Cal’s room and paused outside, wondering if she could take another rejection. But wasn’t that part of being a parent? Sometimes you just had to take your children’s feelings on the chin.
Knocking softly on the door, she entered Cal’s room. She wrinkled her nose. That bad smell was still there, despite her having aired the room yesterday. She would need to have a conversation about personal hygiene.
Carrie turned to the bed. She gasped. Cal was not lying under it in his usual position. He was on his side on the mattress, the bedsheets draped over him, his back to the room. He was asleep.
Carrie watched the gentle rise and fall of his ribcage. The pain she felt in her heart lessened.
“Cal?” she whispered.
He didn’t stir. She stood for another minute, watching her son sleep in his bed. It was a simple yet wonderful sight.
But she needed him awake. She needed to ask him again about the bad man. About Noah Pengelly.
Detective Turner would soon be expecting a phone call. She would have to tell him about Melissa’s drawing. About the fact that Cal had been speaking to his sister. And once the police had learned he could talk, there would be an expectation he tell them everything he knew.
The Cove: a shocking thriller you won't be able to put down (The Devil's Cove Book 1) Page 19
