by Perry, Kyle
Jasmine kept watching. After a while, her breathing slowed down. ‘Just a tree,’ she said. She chuckled and tapped out the remaining weed. ‘Gotta be careful with this stuff, it’ll make you paranoid.’
Cierra laughed too, and they both stood up. She gave Jasmine a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘You’re my best friend, Jaz. Thank you for doing this.’
They walked back to the tents, shoulder to shoulder.
A branch cracked behind them.
‘Just a wallaby?’ said Cierra, even more high-pitched than normal.
The two of them walked faster, faster again, until they were running.
CHAPTER 3
MURPHY
It was well after nightfall when there was a knock on the door. Butch, rubbing the crick from his neck, went to answer it.
Murphy pushed himself away from the table and gently nudged Gus the Muss off his lap so he could stand, a headache sitting at the base of his skull. He stretched his back. The day had been long.
‘G’day, lads,’ drawled Skinner. He wore servo sunglasses, had long stringy hair, and tribal tattoos up both his wiry arms. He hugged Butch first, then Murphy. Murphy automatically turned to the side to avoid Skinner’s bad breath – drugs had ruined his digestion. ‘I brought a little gift tonight, to thank you for all your hard work.’
Butch’s eyes lit up. ‘What have you got?’
Skinner slipped a white spray bottle out of his pocket. ‘Angel dust, my angels. And the best shit of its kind I’ve ever tried. Who wants fries with that?’
‘I might sit this one out, mate,’ said Murphy, eyeing the bottle. A fry was the street term for a joint sprayed with angel dust. Murphy had tried a fry only once, and it had been a very bad experience. Besides, he avoided hard drugs like angel dust whenever possible. He was a father, after all.
‘Don’t be chicken shit, you’re trying it,’ said Skinner.
‘Murphy is in, or I’ll call the school and tell them Jasmine brought something a little extra to camp,’ said Butch.
‘She didn’t bring anything,’ said Murphy quickly.
‘Murphy is in,’ said Butch.
‘Good man,’ said Skinner. He tugged Murphy’s beard as he walked towards the back door.
Their shed was decked out with plush couches, a loud sound-system, a fully stocked beer fridge, and a rusty wood stove.
Murphy sat smoking the fry he had reluctantly lit, watching the flames in the stove. Gus the Muss was on his lap again, purring. Skinner and Butch were debating something about politics – Skinner always got political when he was high.
Sara’s face appeared in his mind. Ginger hair, brown eyes, wide smile, perfect teeth. Something twinged in his chest. Sara had always won political debates with the boys. It helped that she was always sober – she’d never even smoked weed. Still, she hadn’t minded rubbing shoulders with Skinner. She was good like that. She didn’t judge any of them for their business. She’d been a lawyer; she’d seen all kinds. Was fiercely smart.
He missed her so much. He’d do anything to have her back again. To have been there to keep her safe, somehow, from the illness that took her life.
A fierce fear ripped through him and he sat up suddenly. Jasmine . . .
The world lurched, the couch seemed like it was swallowing him. The PCP was setting in, waves flushing through his body – except not his body anymore, it felt like he was floating away from it. The fear seemed both childish and feverishly important.
He glanced out the cracked window, into the inky blackness of the Tiers at night. As the crow flew, the girls weren’t really that far from where Murphy sat right now. Jasmine. I can’t lose you too . . .
That was strange. His face was hot. He felt good. He felt scared.
The couch laughed, its stomach growling as it swallowed him deeper. He lifted up Gus the Muss, the cat looking at him, full of alien intelligence. It was beaming thoughts into his head. White lights flitted across his vision. A pleasant buzzing echoed in his ears, in his belly, in his groin . . . his heart pounded as he watched tears running down his own hairy cheeks.
He had two thoughts: Take that fry out of your mouth before you pass out or you’ll singe your beard and Sara . . . I can’t lose you again.
‘Murph. Shit, man, wake up.’
Murphy stirred. Strobe lights pulsed under his eyelids, and when he opened them he saw it was morning. He was lying under a cabbage gum at the edge of the yard, protected from the rain. He had his big hunting jacket on but he was still freezing cold, and aching, and he was covered in scratches and scrapes. Even under the cover of the big tree, it felt like every stitch of his clothing was drenched.
He rolled onto his side and retched. Nothing came out; he could barely spit.
Butch patted his back. ‘Clean yourself up, a bloody cop’s here. She’s inside. Wants to talk to you.’
‘What?’ His mouth felt as dry as cotton wool. Twigs stuck to his clothes, and thorns were caught in his hands. Had he been rolling around in the bush? How high had he been?
He put his hand to his head – his whole arm felt light as a feather. Scratch that: he was still high.
‘Cops?’ came Skinner’s voice. He poked his head out of the shed. He looked to be naked.
‘Nothing to do with you, Skin,’ said Butch. ‘Something’s happened on Jasmine’s school trip —’
‘What?’ said Murphy.
‘I said, something’s happened —’
But Murphy was already stumbling through the rain, into the house. He lurched from side to side, one leg feeling bigger than the other. The lights were still stuck to his vision.
A blonde policewoman stood in the dining room. ‘Murphy. Remember me? Constable Cavanagh.’
Of course he remembered her, he knew all the local cops. ‘Where’s Jaz? What’s happened?’ He rested a hand against the table as the world tipped away from him.
When she spoke the words seemed to come from far away, as though deadened by strong wind. He shook his head, trying to dislodge whatever was in his ears. He had heard wrong.
‘I think you better come with me,’ said Cavanagh slowly.
‘. . . but she wouldn’t have left the track,’ repeated Murphy over the sound of the siren and the wiper blades. He was hunched in the front of the police car, a Kia Stinger, gripping the handle. He was sobering up, but too slowly. Adrenaline and shock were making him shake. The car smelled of bloody lavender, and it was doing his head in.
‘I believe you, Mr Murphy,’ said Cavanagh.
Murphy understood he’d probably already told her all of this, but he couldn’t remember how many times he’d said it. The world kept spinning around like he was on a show ride. And his mouth was so bloody dry. The rain on the outside of the windscreen, getting swished to the side, was enough to make him pant.
‘We’ll find them. But think, are there any other places she might have gone?’
‘I’m telling you, she’d have come home first. And she’s not stupid: there’s no way she’d walk off in weather like this!’ he shouted.
Cavanagh winced. ‘Can you try not to yell? You’re hurting my ears.’
A minute later, they turned a corner and pulled into the gravel car park of the hiking track.
Murphy was out and stumbling along before the car had even stopped.
Above them loomed the Tiers – misty, impenetrable. People were swarming everywhere in the sassafras clearing of the car park. Murphy was soaked with rain again. He tried to cup it in his palms to drink.
The largest assembly of people were huddled around the school bus, where he could make out a group of teenage girls dressed in hiking gear. None of them was Jasmine. Among them were two men he recognised, Thomas North and Jack Michaels.
Murphy felt a surge of anger at the sight of Jack, but pushed it to the side.
Everywhere were journalists – rough ones rugged up in jackets, dainty women with make-up and high heels who had assistants holding umbrellas over their heads, even a couple with big remo
te controls in their hands, flying camera drones overhead.
Watery flashing lights came from three ambulances and five police cars. One of the Limestone Creek rural fire trucks was also parked to the side, with equipment being unloaded. A few more dirtbikes were being unloaded from utes and even a couple horses in fluoro horse coats were interspersed in the crowds.
‘Stop, mate.’ A burly blond man in a suit stood in Murphy’s way. He had the face of a boxer: crooked nose, scar on his eyebrow, looking slightly punch-drunk, with a stupid blond moustache. ‘Where are you going?’
Murphy pulled out of the man’s grip. ‘Piss off.’
‘He’s with me, Detective Coops,’ said Cavanagh, jogging up to them. ‘His daughter is one of the missing.’
‘There’s a tent set up for families over there, there’s soup and coffee —’
‘Like hell,’ said Murphy.
‘— or if you want to help the search, go to the orange SES tent,’ said Detective Coops. ‘Join a search party, don’t just run like a maniac through the kind of bush that’ll kill you before you’ve gone fifty metres.’
‘Want me to cuff him, Coops?’ said a voice from behind.
Murphy spun, hands curling into fists.
Don’t punch him, they’ll lock you up, you have to find Jasmine . . . The voice of reason was stronger, but it took a physical effort not to square up to the man who approached.
Fleshy-faced with wobbly jowls like a basset hound. Police uniform stretched tight across a beer belly. Sergeant Doble.
‘Heard your daughter is one of the missing, mate. You alright?’ Doble’s voice showed concern, but Murphy knew better.
‘I’m going up there, Doble,’ he said through clenched teeth.
‘You’ve gotta follow rules, Murphy.’
‘Sergeant Doble —’ began Cavanagh.
‘Thanks, constable. Leave him with me,’ said Doble, then turned to the detective. ‘I know this one, Coops,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘Good job stopping him. Who knows what damage he might’ve caused up there.’
The detective looked Murphy up and down one last time, then continued on his way.
Murphy’s skin felt like fire: the rage was building.
‘Speaking of: where were you early this morning, Murphy? We aren’t gonna find any sweet little girls in your basement, are we?’ said Doble.
Murphy began to raise himself to his fullest height, ready to punch this fat prick —
‘Everything alright here?’ came a deep voice, a broad Australian accent with the faintest burring lisp.
‘We’re fine, Badenhorst,’ said Doble. ‘This is Jordan Murphy. The one I was telling you about – I bet you have some questions for him.’
‘Ah. Good to meet you, mate.’ The newcomer held out his hand to shake; the burr came from the way he spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘I’m Con Badenhorst.’
‘Senior Sergeant Detective Con Badenhorst,’ muttered Doble for Murphy’s ears. ‘Running lead on this.’
Badenhorst was a good-looking man with light sun-streaked hair, rain-swept to the side, and a jaw roughened with five o’clock shadow. He was lithe and athletic, but Murphy thought he could beat him in a fight. He looked like a surfer from the Gold Coast – distinctly out of place in Limestone Creek.
Badenhorst still had his hand held out, all the time in the world. His blue eyes studied Murphy, unaffected by his stiff refusal to shake his hand. He glanced away, over the crowd, taking in everything else, before swinging back around to Murphy. Arm still outstretched. Calm and assured.
There was a bustle of movement at a nearby tent, then a group jogged towards the head of the trail, guided by men and women in orange SES overalls.
Ignoring Badenhorst, Murphy ran after them, shaking his head to clear the last of the dizziness.
An SES officer stopped him at the entrance to the trail. ‘Who are you?’ she snapped.
‘My daughter is up there.’ He tried to push past her, but she moved in front of him.
‘Then go to the tent. You can join the next party.’
‘I don’t need your fucking permission to search for my daughter!’ Murphy shouted.
‘Everything alright here?’ said a large bearded man, one of the other SES officers.
‘He wants to join the search, but doesn’t want to join a team.’
‘Then tell him to piss off.’
Murphy lunged for the trail, past them both, but the giant man grabbed him from behind. Murphy roared, twisting the man’s pinkie finger back on itself until it popped, and the man howled.
Murphy ran three more metres before two SES workers tackled him to the ground, shouting, burying his face into the gravel.
Murphy went wild.
Minutes later, he was being muscled into the back of a police van, a bruise already forming on his cheek, a small trail of bruised searchers and bloodied noses behind him. He roared insults at the officers as he strained against the handcuffs, veins popping in his neck, his beard flecked with saliva, blood dripping from his nose. Cameras flashed, even as lightning streaked through the clouds and thunder boomed.
CHAPTER 4
CON
Detective Con Badenhorst watched the police van pull out of the car park, with Jordan Murphy still raging inside. His eyes lingered on the road even after the van had disappeared around the corner.
Bit of a loose unit, he finally decided.
‘I’ll go down to the station and have a chat with Murphy now, Badenhorst,’ said Sergeant Doble, appearing at his side.
‘Thanks, mate, but I need you here.’
‘Nah, I’m telling you, if anyone in this town has something to do with this, it’ll be Murphy. You saw him.’ He spoke half to himself. ‘Someone needs to find out why he was so keen to get onto that track, and if this blows up any more than it already has —’
‘It’s alright, mate. Thanks for the offer,’ said Con again, eyes roving the car park.
‘Look, Badenhorst —’ began Doble.
‘Detective, a few words?’ came a voice from nearby. It was a newswoman, closing in fast.
Her approach identified him to the gaggle of media huddled under a shell of umbrellas. They came swarming like seagulls to a chip.
‘Of course,’ he said, forcing a smile.
Once word had got out about four teenage girls going missing, media from all over Australia had gathered to this nowhere country town with inhuman speed. Con had transferred to Tasmania from his native Sydney over a year ago, but even there he’d rarely seen so much media assemble so fast.
Commander Normandy should have been dealing with them. Which, of course, meant Con would be dealing with them. It’s all part of the job, he reminded himself. But damn, he wanted this case solved as quickly as possible.
‘Are you expecting to find the girls safe and unharmed?’ asked one journalist.
‘We are hoping for the best, of course, but preparing for any eventuality.’
‘But the Tiers are dangerous, especially this area,’ prompted another. ‘What safety precautions are the SES taking?’
‘They’re trained for situations exactly like this.’
The media swarm shuffled, jostling for position.
‘Could the girls have just run away?’
‘Considering the conditions, it’s not likely,’ said Con.
‘Is there an assumed connection to the 1985 disappearances in the Meander Valley area? Teenage girls, taken from bushland?’ The journalist paused for effect. ‘Is the Hungry Man active again?’
The swarm pressed closer.
‘We have four teenage girls missing on a hiking track in a storm,’ said Con. ‘So it would be helpful not to make it bigger than it is. It’s not something we haven’t dealt with before, we know where the girls are – they’re up there somewhere,’ he waved his hand in the direction of the looming bluffs, ‘and the SES will get to them.’
‘So why are the CIB here?’
‘Standard procedure,’ said Con with a t
oothy grin.
‘So there is no assumption that the 1985 killings are related . . .?’
‘No. The 1985 killer was found,’ said Con.
Now the questions came hard and fast.
‘Could there be a copycat killer?’ shouted one newswoman.
‘The family of Theodore Barclay still claim his innocence,’ shouted another. ‘And the bodies were never found.’
‘Should the teenage girls of Limestone Creek be taking extra security measures?’
‘A man was just taken away,’ said another. ‘Jordan Murphy. He’s the father of one of the missing. Is it true he assaulted a search volunteer? Is he considered a person of interest?’
‘Well, yes, but we can’t discuss our suspects yet,’ said Doble loudly.
‘Sergeant, leave this to me,’ said Con firmly.
‘Of course, if anyone has information, please come forward,’ continued Doble, shouting over the top of Con. ‘You can call Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000, or come down to the Limestone Creek station. We promise you – your safety is our concern. We do not condone intimidation of any kind, and you don’t need to be afraid of men like Jordan Murphy.’
‘Enough, mate,’ said Con.
Doble looked pleased with himself: the damage was done. He muttered under his breath, ‘Out-of-towner dipshit . . .’
Just what Con needed: local police with attitude.
Over the heads of the media, he could see his partner, Detective Sergeant Gabriella Pakinga. She was leading one of the uniformed officers over to the media pack. She shoved him in front of the cameras and shouted, in a husky Kiwi accent, ‘This is Constable Darren Cahil. He’s a local and he knows these mountains, so he’s going to be coordinating the search. Any questions?’
As the cameras and reporters descended on the sharp-eyed Constable Darren, Gabriella pulled Con away, holding her umbrella above them both.
Doble was still alongside him, and Con grabbed his arm. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Head down to the station. You can write a report for me on everything that’s happened so far. I can send it through to the commander.’
