by Perry, Kyle
The doctor coughed meaningfully at Con and gestured towards the door.
‘Thanks for talking to me, Eliza. It’s been very helpful,’ said Con. ‘Focus on getting better first, but let us know if you remember anything else. That’s how you can help find the girls.’
He nodded at the doctor and stepped out into the corridor, where Gabriella was waiting for him.
‘I spoke to that doctor, but he wouldn’t budge,’ she said. ‘He told me we’re obviously dealing with a concussion, and that doesn’t just mess with your memory, it can affect your personality too – confusion, mood swings, paranoia. It’s not just that she doesn’t remember, she might not be entirely herself, and who knows how long that will last. We need to take everything she says with a grain of salt.’
‘Yeah, I gathered that. Just how hard did she hit her head?’
Gabriella showed him one of the photos from Eliza’s file: it was Eliza’s forehead, showing a big gash surrounded by a purple bruise. ‘She hit her forehead on the ground – but the wound on the back of her head . . .’ She showed him another photo: the back of Eliza’s head, her blonde hair pulled aside to reveal a bloody lump. ‘Blunt force. They found pieces of bark in there.’ Gabriella showed him a third photo. ‘The soles of her feet. Look how scratched up they are: she was walking around barefoot for hours, probably.’ Her face was flushed. ‘Isn’t this weird?’
‘You just missed the best part.’ He loaded up the recording on his phone and played it back.
When it was done, Gabriella let out a breath. ‘Georgia saw someone?’
‘Georgia thought she saw a bear,’ clarified Con.
‘Or a yowie. Could it have been one of the girls on its back?’
‘The girls were all still with Eliza at that stage.’
‘Maybe it was someone in a costume? Or just in a thick jacket?’ She sounded excited. ‘Or a yowie.’
‘Or the ravings of someone who’s just been hit over the head with a tree branch and then traumatised by the shock of losing girls in her care,’ said Con. ‘What does she mean, “everything went silent”? That part makes no sense either.’
‘Yes, it does, Con. It’s called the Oz effect,’ said Gabriella, bouncing on her heels and speaking quickly. ‘It’s a real phenomenon, there’s heaps of accounts. It usually begins with a sense of fear. Time seems to lose meaning. You feel isolation. And everything goes silent.’
‘And when do people feel this, exactly?’
‘Well, usually it’s associated with UFO encounters.’
Con was silent for five full seconds. He closed his eyes. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’
‘That’s not all,’ she said, only gaining speed. ‘Sometimes it’s experienced during Bigfoot sightings.’
‘Come on, Gabby —’
‘And in Australia, those are called yowies.’
‘I thought we finally got you off all of this conspiracy junk.’
‘Just because it freaks you out doesn’t mean we have to ignore it,’ said Gabriella, her Kiwi accent heavier as she took offence.
‘We are not having this conversation,’ said Con.
‘Just take your cynic hat off for one second of your life —’
‘Wait,’ said Con, stopping short. ‘Where’s Murphy?’
‘His brother came to take him home. The lawyer tipped him off. The brother was mad to find him alone with us. Probably just as well: poor bloke was a mess. Murphy started to break down after talking to Eliza – I’m not sure that was good for him.’ Gabriella’s voice was frosty, but it was better than having to hear her conspiracy theories. ‘Should I have stopped him from going home?’
‘Probably, but you’ll learn. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.’
She punched him in the ribs.
Con and Gabriella agreed the case was not going to be solved before nightfall, so before leaving Launceston they stopped by their homes to pick up enough gear to stay a few days in Limestone Creek. As well as packing several suitcases, Con grabbed the go bag from his personal car, which included a swiss army knife, lock picks, zip ties, parachute cord and a few other things that might come in handy.
Every trick in the book.
After that, without the sirens, it was a long drive back to Limestone Creek. Gabriella continued researching on her laptop, making the occasional comment, hoping to draw Con into speaking.
‘Oh, that’s right, the dogs didn’t want to search, did they? I wonder what they were scared of?’
‘Hmm, a history of Min Min lights in the Tiers. That’s interesting . . . did you know they still can’t explain what causes those lights . . .’
‘Third-most haunted town in Australia . . . how interesting.’
The sun had well and truly set by the time they reached the Limestone Creek station. They swapped the squad car for an unmarked police car, a silver BMW sedan, then finally pulled into the Western Tiers Country Inn.
The rain was torrential. Globular garden lights lit the driveway gold, right to the massive building itself, historic grey brick lit up by watery floodlights. He rolled their sedan under an ivy arch strung with white fairy lights and switched his wipers off.
The moment he stepped out of the car he was drenched again. He pulled the three large suitcases out of the boot, stacking and rolling them towards the main entrance with practised ease. Gabriella walked beside him with her own, much smaller suitcase, her shoulders hunched against the rain.
An elderly gentleman, having dinner in the Inn’s restaurant and in view of the door, leapt to his feet to open it for Con, helping him lift the suitcases over the doorstep.
‘Horrible weather, isn’t it?’ said the man once they were inside. He looked sadly towards the mountains.
‘Too right, mate,’ said Con.
The smell of food from the Inn’s restaurant made his stomach rumble, but the noise coming from the dining room was very subdued.
‘Feels like a funeral in here,’ Gabriella commented to Con.
Those four girls up there in this weather, at night, must have been in most people’s minds that night, not just here in Limestone Creek but all over Australia.
The woman behind the reception desk put down her magazine and eyed Con’s luggage up and down. ‘Another journo? Do you have a reservation?’
‘Not a journo, I’m a detective. And yes, surname Badenhorst.’
She tapped at her computer. ‘You’re late.’ She looked down at all his luggage. ‘And the reservation is for one.’
‘That’s a relief, because I only booked for one.’
She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Lot of suitcases for one person. Do you have ID?’
Gabriella appeared beside him, putting her arm in his. ‘Isn’t he a sweetheart, helping me with my bags?’
Con showed the receptionist his police ID and was given the key to his room.
‘Sorry for being stroppy,’ the receptionist said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘We’ve just had a lot of stickybeaks today. Some of them even pretended to be cops.’ She glanced towards the window and the rain that beat against it. ‘Poor girls. You lot will find them, right?’
‘Probably,’ said Con.
Gabriella hit him. ‘Yes, ma’am, we will definitely find them.’
Con waited as Gabriella checked in, and then they both rolled their luggage down the hallway towards their rooms.
‘Meet back in there for dinner?’ said Gabriella.
‘I think I’ll order room service and get an early night,’ said Con.
‘No worries,’ she said. She left him at his door.
Once he had closed the door behind him, he breathed a long sigh.
The room was sturdy, open, with elements of country homestead: brick veneer on one wall, a gas fire in a cosmetic fireplace, a line of wicker boxes that were surplus to use. It also had modern comforts, like a coffee machine, bar fridge, and a folding window into the adjoining bathroom, allowing someone taking a bath to watch the flat-screen TV across from the bed. The bed w
as king size, the carpet plush, the lamps golden soft.
It was part of Con’s self-care plan that he always stayed in the best hotel rooms.
His therapist was the one who’d suggested it. Con had never been the self-care type, not until the Jaguar case. Cheap rooms and surf clothes and basic essentials. Things were different now – a lot of changes had been made.
He lifted each of his three suitcases up onto the bed and unzipped them. For the first time all day, the tension in his shoulders eased.
First, he plugged in his faithful old radio, sitting it on the bedhead. The soft sound of a news broadcast.
‘. . . have begun a petition to instate a curfew for all young women in the Limestone Creek and Meander Valley area. The petition has received over 5000 signatures already, most of them from outside of the town itself, which has led to mixed responses from the community. Local MP Alejandro Tully has described the petition as both alarmist and sexist, but a small committee of concerned mothers . . .’
He lined up his medication bottles beside the radio. Sertraline, 200 mg. Temazepam, 15 mg. Mag phos, as required. Nexium, 10 mg.
He walked to the windows and lifted the curtain rod down off the hooks. Sliding the heavy grey curtains off the rod and folding them carefully, he pulled his own navy curtains from a suitcase and replaced them. Setting the rod back in place, he stepped back.
‘. . . meanwhile, the search has officially ended for the night due to bad weather. But dedicated individuals from the community – including extended family members and friends of the missing girls – have refused to stop their search. They will continue throughout the night with spotlights and wet-weather gear, against the strong advice of emergency services . . .’
The framed photographs on the walls – Australian forests and aerial shots of the Great Western Tiers – Con stowed in the wardrobe. In their place he put up a framed photo of his parents, a photo of his cohort from the academy, and a group shot of him and his Sydney mates. He stacked a few books he’d been reading on the dressing table, although he knew he wouldn’t get to them.
He placed his laptop in the middle of the oak desk, beside the coffee machine, and his own bright LED desk lamp replaced those trendy golden lamps. When he switched on the TV it showed a re-run of House Rules; Con left it, the volume turned low, adding to the background noise of the radio.
His pistol he placed on the bedside table and he slipped a cricket bat under the other side of the bed. Finally, he took his much-lighter suitcases off the bed and replaced the bedcover and sheets with his own – navy, the same colour as the curtains.
When he was done, to his immense shame, his throat itched and his eyes began to leak. He rubbed them. It sometimes happened at the end of a long day. He ordered room service – a chicken parmi – that arrived in record time. He chewed it thoughtfully, mind on the case, then rinsed the plate in the bathroom sink before leaving it neatly outside the door.
He checked the thermostat and stripped naked. He left his damp clothes beside the bed and then walked into the open shower. As the water fell down onto the back of his neck, steam billowing around him, he unwrapped the complimentary soap and began to think.
Schoolgirls lost in the bush . . . schoolgirls taken from the bush? A string of disappearances decades earlier . . . a resurgence . . . a copycat?
His mind went back to the blood on the drink bottle, and Eliza’s testimony.
Eliza’s head injuries . . . Eliza’s shoes . . . the Oz effect . . .
He hadn’t wanted this case. The commander had told him that morning that it was probably just girls lost in the bush, that he’d most likely be sleeping in his own bed back in Launceston that night.
Of course he had been assigned to this case. He always got the cases involving teenagers or kids. Because he was good at them. When he transferred from Sydney, he’d just solved one of the biggest cases involving . . . well, he’d been too late to save anyone, but still, he had solved it . . .
The theories would come. They always did.
A transfer to Tasmania. Not even to the busy part of Tasmania – if the word “busy” could ever be applied to Tasmania. He needed the break, but he wasn’t going to give up his job. He was good at it. Even the commander thought so. She was the one who advocated for him to come here. Not a leave of absence. He wouldn’t leave. When he was doing something, it felt good.
Alright. Focus, Cornelius. What are the interesting points about this case? Jasmine is the daughter of a possible drug dealer. Jasmine fought with Madison and had a cut lip. Cierra and Madison are twins: is that important? Madison has some YouTube channel, and she’d split from the rest of the group before they disappeared. Tomorrow, I’ll need to make time to talk to her. And Georgia saw a bear-man . . .?
He began to consider the suspects.
In the safety of his own mind, he used the alignment system from Dungeons & Dragons, a system from his childhood and one that he’d always used since joining the force, but one he would never, ever admit to. It was a matrix used to categorise ethical and moral perspectives: good versus evil, lawful versus chaotic, and neutral right in the middle.
Good and evil were self-explanatory. But lawful and chaotic . . . that was the category that had always fascinated Con.
‘Lawful’ implied someone adhered to a system, some code or set of rules. ‘Neutral’ meant they had no qualms about hurting people, but they wouldn’t go out of their way to do so for no reason. And ‘chaotic’: no governing logic to their behaviour except their own desires.
Slowly, using the system, he worked through the possibilities. He stepped out of the shower, dried with a towel, and typed up his current list of suspects on his laptop.
1. Eliza Ellis (& accomplice?) – Neutral Evil?
2. Jordan Murphy – Lawful Evil
3. Unknown Drug Agent – Lawful Evil
4. Unknown Sexual Predator – Chaotic Evil
5. Mentally-Ill Psychopath (?) – Chaotic Evil
6. Bear-Man – Who the hell knows
Con hesitated before adding a final suspect:
7. The Hungry Man of 1985 – ? Evil
He snorted softly and deleted the final line.
He saved the file, closed the laptop and slipped into bed.
A second later, he returned to the laptop. He opened the file and quickly added the Hungry Man again.
He went back to bed, swallowed his medications, flicked the lamp off. Outside, the rain howled and beat against his windows.
When he finally slipped into sleep, the girls from his last case in Sydney – the Jaguar’s victims – strolled into his mind. Their beaten faces and bloody limbs. They were screaming for his help. But he was, as always, too late to save them.
CHAPTER 9
ELIZA
It was morning at the hospital.
Eliza stood in the bathroom attached to her ward, naked, looking at herself in the mirror, heart beating fast. Slightly dizzy – slightly nauseated. But she’d had a shower and was beginning to regain some sense of self.
Lungs tight, stomach clenched, eyes on the brink of tears.
It’s my fault.
Her twin sister, Monica, had brought her a bag of clothes, as well as toiletries and make-up and jewellery. Monica was waiting, right now, out on Eliza’s bed. It had been easy to pack Eliza a bag – most of Eliza’s things were at Monica’s house already. Ever since Denni had killed herself, Eliza had been living with Monica and her husband, Tom.
Eliza dried herself slowly, looking over her scrapes and bruises. She dressed. Underwear, make-up, clothes, jewellery.
She stood before herself, feeling a little renewed. She wore her spare glasses – round-wire rims, big and retro. She wore a grey knit sweater, blue jeans, flats. Gold hoop earrings. The nurse still wanted to re-dress the wound on the back of her head, but she felt a little more normal. Just in so much pain.
No matter what anyone says, it’s all my fault.
She examined the cut over her brow, a butterf
ly stitch holding it in place. She dabbed more foundation over the bruise on her cheek. She wanted to hide what had happened to her – she didn’t deserve the sympathy.
She thought of Wren – Monica’s little girl. Then she thought of her and Monica’s older sister Kiera, who was Denni’s mother. Denni, with her underage tattoos and her sense of humour and her long brown side-braid.
Denni, who had killed herself on the Hanging Tree almost a year ago, the discovery of her body streamed live on the internet.
Denni, who had been like a daughter to Eliza.
Guilt. Indecision. What should she tell them?
Use your tools, Eliza, she thought. The tools the therapist had given her, to help her work through the insurmountable grief of losing Denni. Use your permission slips.
She had a small hospital notebook that the nurse had procured for her. She wrote:
I give permission for Eliza Ellis to be strong today, to not feel guilty, and to work her hardest to find the missing girls.
Signed, E. Ellis
She ripped it out and tucked it into the frame of the mirror. A token to leave behind. Signing a permission slip for herself was an intention-setting exercise she now swore by, a technique that had worked well for her this past year.
A knock on the bathroom door. ‘You okay in there, Eliza?’ It was Monica.
‘You have permission to be strong,’ she told herself in the mirror. ‘You will find the girls. You’ll fix this.’
She opened the door. Her identical twin sister, with the shorter haircut and the unbruised face and the watering eyes. Monica hugged her tight. She smelled like cinnamon and roses. ‘Shhh, it’s okay . . . we’ll find them . . .’
The familiar nurse walked into the room. When she was done re-bandaging Eliza’s head, she pulled a leopard-print headscarf out of her pocket.
‘I brought this in from home this morning, poor love. It’ll cover both this bandage and the butterfly stitch.’
