The Dry

by Harper,Jane

  There was the dreadful ringing in his head again, and again—oh dear God, please, no—something else. He thought for a hideous moment the cries were coming from Billy, who was missing half his head and chest. He wondered if he was making them himself, but when he put his hand to his mouth it was closed.

  He followed the noise, almost curiously, across the hall. The child was in the nursery, standing in her cot, bawling. Whitlam stood in the doorway and thought he might vomit.

  He positioned the barrel of the gun toward his own chin and held it there, feeling the heat radiate off the metal, until the urge passed. Slowly, he turned the weapon around. It wobbled as he trained it on the baby’s yellow jumpsuit. He took a breath. The chaos in his head was deafening, but amid the noise was a single urgent note of reason. Look! He made himself pause. He blinked once. Look at her age. And listen. She’s crying. Crying, not talking. No words. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t tell.

  It scared him that in that instant, he was still tempted.

  “Bang,” he whispered to himself. He heard a scary laugh, but when he looked there was no one else around.

  Whitlam turned and ran. Over Karen’s body and out to Luke’s truck and then behind the wheel and roaring out onto the country road. He passed no one and drove until the jitters got too strong for him to hold the wheel. He took the next turnoff he saw. A pathetic track leading to a small clearing.

  Whitlam climbed out and dragged his bike from the truck, his teeth chattering in his skull. With shaking hands, he threw back the tarpaulin, obscuring four horizontal streaks left against the paintwork as the bike’s wheels had shifted and moved during the journey.

  Instead, Whitlam steeled himself and leaned over the body. There was no movement. He peered at Luke’s face, so close that he could see where the other man had cut himself shaving. He felt no whisper of air. Luke had stopped breathing.

  Whitlam pulled on new gloves and a plastic rain poncho, then dragged the body to the edge of the tray. He hauled it with some trouble into a slumped seated position. Shotgun between Luke’s legs, his fingertips pressed to the weapon, the barrel propped against his teeth.

  Whitlam was terrified the body would slip and crumple, and he had the bizarre thought that he should have practiced this somehow. Then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Luke’s face disappeared, and his body fell backward. The blow to the back of his skull was lost in the mess. It was done. Whitlam crammed his gloves, poncho, and the tarpaulin into a plastic bag to burn later. Then he took three deep breaths and wheeled his bike onto the empty road.

  As he rode away, the blowflies were already starting to circle.

  39

  Whitlam’s office was empty. His wallet was gone, along with his keys and phone. His jacket still hung from the back of the chair.

  “Perhaps he’s popped out,” said a nervous secretary. “His car’s still here.”

  “He hasn’t,” said Falk. “Barnes, you get to his house. If his wife’s there, detain her.” He thought for a moment. Turned back to the secretary.

  “Is Whitlam’s daughter still in class?”

  “Yes, I believe s—”

  “Show me. Now.”

  The secretary was forced to jog down the corridor to keep pace with Falk and Raco.

  “Here,” she said breathlessly at a classroom door. “She’s in here.”

  “Which one?” Falk said, searching through the small window for the child he’d seen in Whitlam’s family photo.

  “There.” She pointed. “Blond girl, second row.”

  Falk turned to Raco.

  “Would he leave town without his child?”

  “Hard to say. But I don’t think so. Not if he could help it.”

  “I agree. I think he’s close.” Falk paused. “Call Clyde. They must be nearly here. Get roadblocks out, then gather everyone we can get with search-and-rescue experience.”

  Raco followed Falk’s gaze out of the window. Behind the school the bushland sprawled dense and heavy. It seemed to shiver in the heat. It gave nothing away.

  “Going to be some bloody hunt,” Raco said, putting the phone to his ear. “Best hiding place in the world out there.”

  The search-and-rescue crews formed up shoulder to shoulder, a splash of high-vis orange along the bushland track. The gums were whispering and rattling overhead as the wind tore through. Gusts whipped up the dust and grit, forcing them to squint and shield their eyes. At their backs, Kiewarra sprawled out, squat and shimmering under its heat haze.

  Falk took his place in the line. It was midday, and already he could feel the sweat pooling under his reflective vest. To his side, Raco was grim-faced.

  “Radios on, ladies and gents,” the search-and-rescue crew leader called through a megaphone. “And it’s tiger snake territory here, so watch your feet.”

  Overhead, a chopper whapped hot air down. The leader gave the word, and the orange line stepped forward almost as one. The bushland closed behind them, swallowing them tight. Towering gums and thick scrub growth separated the team as they delved deeper, and within a few paces Falk could see only Raco to his left and one orange jacket in the distance to his right.

  Probe searching, the leader had explained to them with definite impatience. Good for dense bush. The searchers would line up and each walk directly into the bush ahead, checking along their own lines until their paths were blocked.

  “Theory is if we can’t get through, your principal’s not about to either. You get blocked, you turn around and come back to the path,” the leader had said, thrusting a jacket at Falk. “Just keep your eyes open. It can get hairy in there.”

  Falk pushed onward. It was strangely silent apart from the crackle of dry twigs underfoot and the wind whipping through the branches. The sun was high and white, forcing its way through occasional gaps in the trees like a searchlight. Even the noise of the chopper seemed muffled as it swooped high overhead like a bird of prey.

  Falk stepped cautiously, the patchy sunlight playing tricks on the ground. He wasn’t completely sure what signs he should be looking for and felt sick at the thought of missing them. He hadn’t done a full-scale bush search since his police training, but all hands were needed in these woods. He’d spent enough time among these same trees when he was younger to know they dragged you in far more easily than they let you go.

  A heavy bead of sweat stung the corner of his eye, and he wiped at it impatiently. The minutes ticked on. Around him, the trees seemed to get closer together with every step, and Falk found himself having to lift his feet higher as he waded through the tall grass. Straight ahead, he could see a thicket, sprawling and overgrown. Even from that distance it looked tangled and impassable. He was nearly at the end of his line. No Whitlam.

  He took his hat off and ran a hand over his head. No shouts of success had made their way along the row of searchers. The radio on his belt was silent. Had they missed him? The image of Luke lying flat on his back in his truck flashed in Falk’s head. He put his hat back on and pushed forward, forcing a path through the overgrowth toward the thicket. The going was slow, and he’d gained only a few meters when he felt a stick bounce off his jacket.

  Falk looked up in surprise. Some distance to his left and a few paces ahead, Raco had stopped and turned toward him. He was holding his finger to his lips.

  “Whitlam?” Falk mouthed silently.

  “Maybe,” Raco mouthed back, raising one hand in a not-certain gesture. He lifted his radio to his lips and murmured something.

  Falk scanned the surroundings for any other splash of orange. The nearest searcher was a distant spot behind a curtain of trees. Falk crept toward Raco, wincing as his footsteps crunched loudly against the undergrowth.

  He looked to where his friend was pointing. A fallen log had created a hollow in front of the thicket. Barely visible but so very out of place against the backdrop, something pink and fleshy peeped out. Fingertips. Raco pulled out his police-issue pistol.

  “I wouldn’t.” Whitl
am’s voice floated out from the log. He sounded oddly calm.

  “Scott, mate, it’s us.” Falk forced himself to match the tone. “Time to give it up. There are fifty people in here looking for you. Only one way out.”

  Whitlam’s laugh floated up.

  “There’s always more than one way out,” he said. “Jesus, you cops lack imagination. Tell your mate to pocket his weapon. Then he can get back on that radio and tell the others to back off.”

  “Not going to happen,” Raco said. His pistol was aimed at the log, steady in his hands.

  “It is.” Whitlam stood up suddenly. He was filthy and sweaty, with a web of fine scratches standing out purple against his ruddy cheek. “Steady there,” he said. “You’re on camera.”

  He pointed one finger overhead to where the police chopper loomed against the cloudless sky. It appeared and disappeared against the gaps in the treetops as it circled in a wide arc. Falk wasn’t sure if it had seen them. He hoped so.

  Whitlam suddenly thrust his arm out straight in front of him like a low Nazi salute and took a step away from the log. He was clutching something in his fist.

  “Stay back,” he said, rotating his hand. Falk caught a first glint of metal and his brain screamed gun, while a deeper part flitted frantically, trying to process what he was seeing. Raco tensed next to him. Whitlam unfolded his hand finger by finger, and Falk’s breath left his chest. He heard Raco groan long and deep. A thousand times worse than a gun.

  It was a lighter.

  40

  Whitlam flicked the lighter open, and the flame danced dazzling white against the dull bushland. It was the stuff of nightmares. It was a tangled parachute, failed brakes on the motorway. It was a premonition, and Falk felt the fear flood from his core until it prickled against his skin.

  “Scott—” Falk started, but Whitlam held up a single finger in warning. It was an expensive lighter, the kind that stayed lit until it was closed manually. The flame shivered and danced in the wind.

  In one movement, Whitlam reached down and whipped a small flask out of his pocket. He flipped off the cap and took a sip. His eyes never leaving theirs, he tilted the flask and poured a trickle of the amber liquid on the ground around him. The whiskey vapors hit Falk a moment later.

  “Call it an insurance policy!” Whitlam shouted over. The spark fluttered as his outstretched arm shook.

  “Scott!” Raco yelled. “You stupid bastard. You’ll have us all with that. You included.”

  “Then shoot me, if you’re going to. But I’ll drop it.”

  Falk shifted his weight, and the leaves and branches under his feet cracked and snapped. Two years without decent rainfall and now doused in alcohol. They were standing on a matchbox. Somewhere behind them, invisible but linked by an unbroken chain of gums and grass, lay the school and the town. Fire would barrel along that chain like a bullet train, he knew. It surged and jumped and gorged itself. It raced like an animal. It ravaged with inhuman efficiency.

  Raco’s arms were shaking as he trained the pistol on Whitlam. He turned his head a fraction toward Falk.

  “Rita’s somewhere down there.” His voice was low and his teeth clenched. “I will shoot him dead before I let him light this place up.”

  Falk thought of Raco’s vivacious wife, weighed down by her pregnancy, and raised his voice.

  “Scott. There’s no chance of you getting out of here if that flame hits the ground. You know that. You’ll be burned alive.”

  Whitlam’s head jerked in a tiny spasm at the suggestion, and the lighter jolted in his hand. Falk sucked in a sharp breath, and Raco took half a step back and swore.

  “Christ, bloody watch that thing, will you?” Raco shouted.

  “Just stay back,” Whitlam said, regaining control. “Put your gun down.”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t got a choice. I’ll drop it.”

  “Close the lighter.”

  “You first. Gun down.”

  Raco wavered, his finger white on the trigger. He glanced at Falk, then reluctantly bent and placed his gun on the ground. Falk didn’t blame him. He’d seen what bushfires could do. A neighbor had lost his home and forty sheep one summer when a controlled burn had gotten out of hand. Falk and his father had tied rags across their faces and armed themselves with hoses and buckets as the noon sky turned red and black. The sheep had squealed until they hadn’t anymore. The fire had screamed and roared like a banshee. It was terrifying. It was a flash of hell. The land was drier now than it had been then. This would be no slow burn.

  In front of them, Whitlam was flipping the lighter open and closed like a toy. Raco followed the action in mesmerized horror, fists clenched. The helicopter hovered directly overhead, and in his peripheral vision Falk could see a handful of orange vests dotted in the trees. They’d been warned to keep their distance, no doubt.

  “So you worked it out, then?” Whitlam sounded more interested than angry. “The trust money.”

  He flicked the lighter open and this time left it burning. Falk’s heart sank. He tried not to look at the flame.

  “Yes,” he said. “I should’ve seen it before. But you hid the gambling well.”

  Whitlam sniggered, an odd, sinister little noise whipped away by the wind. “I’ve had a lot of practice at that. Sandra warned me. She said I’d pay for it one day. Hey—”

  Whitlam pointed the lighter at them, and Raco made a primitive sound in the back of his throat.

  “Listen. Sandra had nothing to do with this, right? She knows about some of the gambling, but she didn’t know how bad it was. Or about anything else. Promise me you understand that. She didn’t know. Not about the school funds. Or the Hadlers.”

  His voice stumbled at the mention of the family, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

  “And I’m sorry about the little boy. Billy.” Whitlam winced as he said the child’s name. He looked down and pushed the lighter lid closed. Falk felt a first flutter of hope.

  “I never thought Billy would get hurt. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. I need you to believe me. I tried to keep him safe. I want Sandra to know that.”

  “Scott,” Falk said. “Why don’t you come with us, mate, and we can go and find Sandra and tell her that.”

  “As if she’ll have anything to do with me now. After what I’ve done.” Whitlam’s cheeks shone with tears and sweat. “I should have let her leave me years ago, when she first wanted to. Let her take Danielle and get far away from me and be safe. But I didn’t, and now it’s too late.”

  He wiped his hand over his face, and Raco seized the chance to reach toward his gun.

  “Oi!”

  Before Raco could touch the weapon, Whitlam had set the flame dancing once more. “We had a nice arrangement going.”

  “All right,” Falk said. “Just keep calm, Scott. He’s worried about his family. Same as you are.”

  Raco, frozen with one hand outstretched and his face a mask of fear and fury, slowly straightened up.

  “Scott, she’s pregnant,” he said, looking right at Whitlam. His voice cracked. “My wife is due in four weeks. Please. Please just close the lighter.”

  Whitlam’s hand shook. “Shut up.”

  “You can still turn this around, Scott,” Falk said.

  “I can’t. It’s not that simple. You don’t understand.”

  “Please,” Raco said. “Think about Sandra and Danielle. Close the lighter and come with us. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for your wife. For your little girl.”

  Whitlam’s face twisted, and the scratches on his cheek turned an ugly shade as his color darkened. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was heaving.

  “It was for them!” he screamed. “All of it! This whole mess has been for them. I wanted to protect them. What was I supposed to do? I saw the nail gun. They made me touch it. What choice did I have?”

  Falk didn’t know for sure what Whitlam was talking about, but he could guess. Beneath the rising panic, he felt
strangely unmoved. Whitlam might be able to justify his actions to himself, but his monstrous acts were spawned by a beast of his own creation.

  “We’ll look after them, Scott. We’ll take care of Sandra and Danielle.” Falk said the names loudly and clearly. “Come with us and tell us what you know. We can make them safe.”

  “You can’t! You can’t protect them forever. I can’t protect them at all.” Whitlam was sobbing now. The flame shook as his grip tightened, and Falk’s breath caught in his throat.

  He tried to still the swarm in his mind and think through the danger clearly. Kiewarra, huddled behind them in the valley with its secrets and its darkness. The school, the livestock, Barb and Gerry Hadler, Gretchen, Rita, Charlotte, McMurdo. He ran frantic calculations. The distances, the number of homes, the routes out. It was no good. Fire could outrun a car, let alone a man on foot.

  “Scott!” he shouted. “Please don’t do this. The kids are in still in the school. Your little girl is down there. We saw her ourselves. This whole place is a powder keg—you know that.”

  Whitlam glanced in the direction of the town, and Raco and Falk took a fast step forward.

  “Hey!” Whitlam barked, waving the lighter. “No. No more. Stay back. I’ll drop it.”

  “Your daughter and those kids will burn to death running for their lives.” Falk tried to calm his voice. “This town—Scott, listen to me—this town and its people will burn down to the ground.”

  “I should be given a bloody medal for putting Kiewarra out of its misery. This town is a shit heap.”

  “Maybe so, but don’t make the kids pay.”

  “They’ll save the kids. The fireys will go there first.”