The Bluffs : A Novel (2020)

by Perry, Kyle

  Butch howled inside the shed and something else smashed. Murphy dug his toes into his shoes, fighting the urge to run back to his brother. Drugs haven’t killed him yet . . . ‘If I was able to convince you, you could show me the list right now?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got it all on my phone. Encrypted obviously, so don’t try anything funny, but . . . mate, I’d need more than weed and condoms in a teenage girl’s room. There are rules, man.’

  ‘I’ve got proof,’ said Murphy. ‘In the dry room.’

  Skinner’s eyes went wide. ‘You’re gonna show me your dry room? I’m honoured.’

  ‘I just need to get something first.’ Murphy stepped inside the shed, seeing Butch curled up on his side. He crouched down behind the couch and pulled the Glock out of its hiding place. He tucked it into the back of his belt, then grabbed a key off the hook beside the door.

  ‘Really, I’m honoured, mate,’ said Skinner when he came back outside. ‘Truly honoured —’

  ‘Just have the list ready,’ said Murphy. He wondered if Butch was going to lose his shit if he found out Murphy was showing someone else where their dry room was: it was almost as bad as showing him their crop, it gave Skinner too much power over them, but he couldn’t see any other way.

  At the end of a concrete path down from the house, lit by the porch light, was a Hills Hoist, empty save a line of rusting pegs. Murphy cranked the handle until the arms of the clothes line were vertical.

  ‘What are you . . .?’ said Skinner.

  Murphy lifted up the edge of some fake turf, revealing a latch and a large padlock. He used the key from the shed to unlock it.

  ‘No bloody way,’ breathed Skinner.

  Murphy grabbed the clothes line with two hands and levered it to the ground, the metal groaning as the whole concrete base hinged open, revealing a rectangular hatch.

  ‘It’s right here in your backyard? That’s ballsy . . .’

  Murphy climbed down the metal ladder, into darkness. The air was heady – sweet and warm and full of life. He felt for a light switch on the end of a cable and flicked it on. Fluorescent lights lit a long metal room with corrugated walls.

  ‘It’s a shipping container,’ said Skinner, stepping off the ladder behind him. He knocked away the dangling basket that hung beside the ladder. ‘You buried a bloody shipping container in your backyard.’

  Drying marijuana plants were draped from long lines of wire, like clothes on a rack. A digital thermometer and humidity indicator hung on the side wall, and a thick air-conditioning pipe unit ran along the ceiling, curling around on itself, both ends burrowing through the ceiling into the earth.

  ‘I thought the cops brought dogs here?’ said Skinner. ‘How’d they not smell the ventilation?’

  ‘Goes up into the chicken coop – looks like a stilt above ground. All the dogs smell is chicken shit.’

  ‘This is unreal, mate. Absolutely unreal. You set this up?’

  ‘Dad buried the container. Had it brought in during New Year’s Eve, when the parties were all going on and no one heard the sound of the truck or the excavator. Butch and me have made some improvements since.’

  ‘I can’t believe Doble hasn’t found this. He’d be spewing if he knew, the fat fuck. Doesn’t the power show up on your bill?’

  ‘Siphon it from an old mate down the road – we’ve got a line buried under the fence. He had a deal with Dad.’ Murphy shrugged. ‘You’ve got your list?’

  ‘You know, I bet this is where you were the other night.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you weren’t in your bed. I came inside to find food, dropped by your room to see how you were doing, but you weren’t there. I looked all through the house – had me a bit worried, mate – but I guess you were here. You aren’t hiding one of them girls down here, are you?’ Skinner chuckled.

  Murphy, his hand behind his back, holding the grip of the Glock, paused. ‘I couldn’t have been in here,’ he said, ‘there’s only one key and it was hanging up in the shed just then.’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about it, mate. Angel dust is some crazy shit. You could burn your own house down and have no memory of it.’ Skinner looked at him quizzically. ‘What are you doing back there?’

  Murphy squeezed the grip of the gun.

  This was it.

  What was he willing to do?

  How far was he willing to go?

  Skinner is still a mate, I can’t threaten him with a gun . . . can I? What else can I do?

  He let go of the gun, his hand swinging back to his side.

  ‘I really need to see that list.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t. Unless you can prove it was one of my clients who took your girl, I can’t.’

  Murphy hesitated, then slowly kneeled. ‘Mate . . . my daughter . . . I’ve got to try. I’m begging you.’

  In this world, the Murphys’ reputation was one of the most important things they possessed. That’s why they put THE CAPTAIN on their product: they were in charge. They didn’t have many weapons in their arsenal – threats and intimidation could be the difference between them being players and losing everything.

  And now here he was, kneeling on the ground like a grub.

  He could get bashed for less. He could get rolled for less.

  ‘Get off the ground, Murph,’ said Skinner uneasily.

  Murphy put his forehead on the old stained carpet that covered the floor. ‘I’ll do anything. Anything.’ His throat felt tight. Tears broke through. ‘Just name it.’

  ‘Mate . . . you don’t understand. It’s not even up to me. All of us would be out of a job – my boss wouldn’t be happy. Don’t start crying . . . if you start crying, mate, I’m gonna start crying. I can’t handle this emotional shit.’

  ‘Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll tell you where our crop is. I’ll give you our crop. I’ll give you our seeds —’

  ‘Murph . . .’ Skinner crouched down. ‘Get up. Look at me. You gotta snap out of this. I’m not taking your seeds: I dunno how to grow shit. It’s alright, mate. You’ll find her. Someone will find her. It’ll be alright.’

  Murphy’s pocket buzzed. Someone was calling. He ignored it. ‘Your list is the only direction I know to go . . .’

  Skinner’s lip was wobbling. ‘Ah, shit, you’re getting me fucked up. I can’t give you the list. I can’t. Stop asking me. Please. Want me to call some of my boys, get them to rough some people up or something?’

  Murphy’s phone buzzed. Whoever it was, they were calling again.

  ‘I wanna help, mate, I really do,’ said Skinner. ‘I just can’t throw away my livelihood. I know I’m a coward —’

  Murphy pulled himself to his feet. He was very aware of the gun pressing against his back.

  He’d shown weakness, made himself vulnerable, and that hadn’t worked. Now the gun was his only option.

  But first he needed to focus – the buzzing in his pocket was distracting him.

  He pulled his phone out to switch it off. The caller name read Eliza Ellis. That stopped him cold.

  ‘We’re cool, right?’ said Skinner. ‘You’ve let me into your inner sanctum – I respect that. You know I don’t believe that shit they’re saying —’

  ‘Eliza?’ Murphy said, bringing the phone to his ear, his whole body suddenly awake. ‘What’s wrong? Did you remember something?’

  ‘No, I . . . It’s something else. I thought I’d better tell you myself before you heard it from someone else.’ Her voice was flat and tired. ‘I should’ve told you sooner, but I only found out the day before, and, well, he’s a friend . . .’

  ‘Eliza, what is it?’

  ‘Jasmine was sleeping with someone.’

  Murphy heard his pulse thudding in his ears. He stood up straighter. ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t freak out —’

  ‘Who is it?’ he shouted.

  ‘Jack Michaels.’

  Murphy stood in silence, then headed for the ladder.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said S
kinner.

  He hung up the phone. ‘Take care of Butch,’ he said, then climbed out of the hatch, stalking towards the house, his mind already on the road to Jack’s house.

  The gun was in his hand.

  CHAPTER 22

  CON

  Con and Gabriella parked the squad car. They were a block away from Jack’s house. They walked down the footpath huddled together under a shared umbrella, looking like a couple on an evening stroll. Con ignored the phone buzzing in his coat pocket: the commander had called twice on the drive over, and both times he’d ignored it.

  He knew she would be furious, but at the moment it was more important they get to Jack. Knowing police were on their way should make Jack act erratic or careless, and that meant his behaviour could be very telling.

  He lived in a small unit beneath towering golden elms and fenced in by rotten palings, dark but for the streetlight across the street. Gabriella squeezed Con’s arm. He stepped away from her, disappearing into some scrub at the front fence, squeezing between the palings into the overgrown yard.

  A thrill raced down his spine and down his arms. He had missed this.

  He walked around the house, peering into the windows where the lights were on but finding only drawn curtains or empty rooms. A dirtbike was in the carport. He kept on looking around until he saw a shadow inside moving against a curtain.

  He padded up to that window and pressed his ear against the glass. He could hear a voice, but couldn’t make out the words.

  He moved quickly to the back door but found it locked. He pulled his lock pick set out, sliding in the torsion wrench and a basic rake pick. It was louder than he would have liked, but he was counting on Jack being distracted. Finally the picks rotated fully and the lock opened.

  This was breaking a few laws, but the end justified the means. A girl was dead, three more were in danger, and the man inside had probably been sleeping with at least one of them.

  He crept inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The tiled floor of the laundry was strewn with boots, and shirts and trousers hung along a clothesline that stretched down the hallway.

  Con could hear a man’s voice further down the hall. He slipped his phone out of his coat pocket, double-checking that a blank text was ready to be sent to Gabriella, which would be the signal for her to knock on the door and draw Jack away if there was any danger of Con being caught.

  Carefully stepping over the shoes and around the hanging washing, he slipped into the bedroom next to the room where Jack seemed to be pacing. The bedroom was tidy but for the unmade bed, with posters of mountain bikers and half-naked women on the walls. He listened as Jack spoke hurriedly into his phone:

  ‘. . . of course I looked there. I’ve looked everywhere . . . Georgia is dead, of course I’m scared! I don’t know who told them. Who even knows about me and Jasmine?’ His voice grew higher and louder. ‘Where are they? Who’s taken them? No, no – I don’t care! I’m going back tonight. Maybe they’ve finally made it . . . I know! But we have to —’

  Thuds pounded on the front door.

  What are you doing, Gabriella? Con checked his phone in case he’d sent the message by accident – he saw there was a reply from Pastor Hugh.

  That’s when someone kicked open the door.

  ‘You bastard!’ called a male voice. ‘Where are you!’

  It was Murphy. Con peered around a corner and saw his wild eyes, Gabriella running in behind him. Jack came out into the hallway, slipping his phone into his pocket, and Con took the opportunity to dash away, back down the corridor and out the back door. He sprinted around the side of the house, slipping on the wet grass, and in through the front door.

  Gabriella stood between Jack and Murphy in the living room, turning from one to the other. Murphy towered over Jack, whose face was pale, cinderblock jaw clenched tight.

  ‘Stand down, Murphy,’ said Con, rushing to Gabriella’s side. He put his hand on Murphy’s chest, trying to hold him back.

  ‘I’m gonna rip you in half.’ Murphy advanced on Jack. ‘How long were you with her?’

  ‘Easy, Murphy, I d-didn’t take them, I s-swear,’ stammered Jack, looking for an escape.

  ‘You steal our seeds. You steal my daughter. Did you sell her to cover your ice debts as well?’

  Both Con and Gabriella were now pushing against Murphy’s chest, fighting to hold him back. He was reaching around them with his long arms. Con hadn’t realised just how strong the man was.

  For her part, Gabriella seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. Like Con, she had police training in hand-to-hand, but she also had the extra training of a Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt – she was probably looking forward to a showdown.

  Jack had backed into the wall, sweat shining on his forehead. ‘It’s not my fault . . . Jasmine came on to me!’

  ‘She’s sixteen!’ roared Murphy. He shoved Con and Gabriella aside and threw himself at Jack. The next moment he was slammed to the ground and Gabriella was straddling him, wrenching his hands behind his back and into handcuffs.

  Murphy struggled, but those wild eyes were still on Jack, fighting Gabriella’s iron hold.

  Con’s foot caught on a rug and he stumbled into Jack, reaching out to steady himself against Jack’s arm. Jack just watched, horrified, as Murphy kept fighting.

  Con quickly turned away to check the phone he’d just lifted from Jack’s pocket – he needed to see who he’d been on the call to – but it was locked. Cursing, he handed it back to Jack. ‘Here, you dropped this.’

  Jack took it wordlessly, still watching Murphy.

  ‘Jack, I’m gonna need you to come down the station,’ said Con. ‘You’re not under arrest or anything. You can drive yourself or you can come in the car with us. Me and Murphy.’ He nodded significantly at Murphy.

  Jack swallowed. ‘I’ll meet you there . . .’

  ‘Great. Gabriella can drive with you, then.’

  Gabriella shoved herself off Murphy. ‘Let’s go, then.’ She was flushed in the face: Murphy must have given her more resistance than she’d let on.

  Con helped Murphy to his feet, feeling the man’s giant bicep pushing against his fingers, ready to break loose. He pushed him harder towards the car, a little rougher than he needed to. Murphy had interrupted his plans, now they would have to interview Jack the old-fashioned way.

  ‘What am I being charged with now, Badenhorst?’ snarled Murphy.

  ‘If you can calm yourself down for like, five minutes, then nothing, mate,’ said Con. ‘Are you going to do something stupid if I put you in the front seat?’

  ‘No,’ said Murphy, as Con opened the door to shove him in the front seat. Murphy, off balance with his hands cuffed, stumbled back against Con’s side before he found his seat.

  Con walked around the car and climbed in the driver’s seat, watching as Murphy pulled his hands under his legs and back in front of him, still cuffed.

  ‘Behave yourself,’ said Con, pulling his AirPods out of the centre console. Plugging them into his phone, he dialled. ‘And don’t talk.’

  The commander picked up on the fourth ring, answering her work phone even from her Blackstone Heights home in Launceston. ‘Cornelius,’ she said, her voice silky. ‘How lovely of you to call an old woman on such a cold, blustery night.’

  ‘Sorry, Agatha.’

  ‘Oh? You’re sorry? Please, what were you up to?’ She chuckled. ‘Preparing for another YouTube cameo?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Con.

  ‘Yes, you do.’ All false kindness left her voice. ‘Is Pakinga there?’

  ‘She’s bringing Jack Michaels in to the station. We think he’s a suspect.’

  ‘And who are you with, in that case? Please don’t say Jordan Murphy.’

  ‘Would . . . would it help if I didn’t say his name?’ said Con. He started the car. He saw Murphy fiddling with his handcuffs and he swatted at his hands for him to stop.

  ‘You have Jordan Murphy.’ Her voice was
flat. ‘And Jack Michaels. And you’re taking them both to the station, even after Madison Mason just released a video declaiming their innocence.’

  ‘We can’t let her call the shots.’ Con had a growing sense that he should probably start lying.

  ‘You may encounter some difficulty, considering the mob surrounding the station.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘The citizens of Limestone Creek appear to be very civic minded. “Justice for Jack”, “Justice for Murphy”. Most of the crowd are the disgruntled would-be search volunteers who have been camping out beside the community hall, all at Madison’s direction. It’s amazing – a few hours ago, a mob wanted to kill Murphy. Now they want to save him. Believe me, the irony has been lost on no one.’

  ‘What should I do, ma’am? Where else I can take them?’ said Con.

  ‘Use your initiative, but don’t let it be the station.’ Her voice rose. ‘Calling out a sixteen-year-old girl online, on her own channel – what was Pakinga thinking?’

  ‘Gabriella has a plan, commander.’

  ‘Not anymore, Badenhorst. She’s off the case.’

  ‘I . . . no,’ said Con. He slowed down to pull over. ‘What? Agatha?’

  ‘Why are we stopping —’ began Murphy. Con hit in the arm to silence him.

  ‘We are making progress, ma’am. You can’t take her off the case.’

  ‘Any progress she can pass on to her successor – Melinda Tran. And yours, too, if you don’t start showing me something. Do you have any idea how much damage she caused? Now my judgement is being called into question. If I don’t take Gabriella off the case, they’ll keep digging, and before long someone will drag up your psych records, Con, and then I’ll have even more to defend. So I’ll give you one more strike, then you’re out and I’m getting someone else to run point.’

  Con could barely believe it. It took him a moment to find a response. ‘With all due respect, commander, that could be fatal for the missing girls, not to mention a colossal waste of time.’

  ‘You and Gabriella are all over the internet. That’s a bad look for the department. I know you like to break rules when you’re under pressure, and I can’t take that risk. You know I’ve given you enough chances.’