by Perry, Kyle
‘So it’s all about optics?’ demanded Con, outraged. ‘Three girls are missing! One is dead!’
‘Grow up, Badenhorst. Everything is about optics,’ she snapped, then sighed. ‘Listen, you haven’t made any real progress, you have no leads, no significant evidence, and as you say: a girl is dead. You might not have to think about the funding and PR nightmare this will turn into in the long-term, but I do. Madison’s online presence only makes it more difficult.’ Her voice softened. ‘And if someone starts digging into your past, there’s going to be a lot of questions about why you weren’t discharged for your own benefit, never mind assigned to this case.’
‘Because I’m the best, Agatha. You know I am. It’s the right thing to do by the missing girls.’
‘Cornelius, the people on this island will shut you out as easily as look at you. They’ll turn against you – maybe they already have. This is Tasmania’s biggest case of the decade, maybe Australia’s too. It’s a media frenzy and you and Gabriella have just been painted as the bad guys by the town’s tragic heroine, Madison Mason. If your condition comes out —’
‘We’re about to interview Jack Michaels. We’re close.’
‘There is no “we”. Inform Gabriella she’s off the case, on my orders. Melinda Tran will take her place as your partner.’
‘Commander —’
‘That’s my last word, Cornelius.’ She sounded tired, sad. ‘Update me in the morning. An old woman needs her sleep.’
The line went dead. There were a few moments of silence as Con sat, breathing deeply.
‘These things are harder to use than you’d think,’ said Murphy.
Irritated, Con glanced across.
He saw his own lock picks sticking out of the keyhole in the cuffs, which were still fastened around Murphy’s wrists.
Con stared for several seconds, trying to make sense of it, then checked his pockets. ‘What the hell?’ He launched over the centre console to snatch them back.
‘You’re not the only one who knows how to pick pockets,’ said Murphy, leaning back in his seat. ‘But I never learned how to pick locks.’ He rattled his cuffs.
‘Stealing from a cop. Do you want to go to jail?’
‘Don’t act righteous, Badenhorst. I saw you lift Jack’s phone from his pocket.’
‘That doesn’t concern you.’
‘Since it’s my missing bloody daughter that he was screwing, I’d say it bloody does concern me,’ said Murphy. ‘You didn’t have a warrant to search his phone, did you? Be really interesting to see what your commander says about that.’
‘I don’t have time for this.’ Con revved the engine, then sped off the kerb. ‘What did you mean when you said Jack had stolen your seeds?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Murphy.
‘Oh, for . . .’ Con took a big breath. ‘Murphy, like you just said, he was with your missing daughter. Will you work with us or against us?’
‘I’ll work against anyone who thinks I’m to blame,’ said Murphy.
‘You think we’re going to frame you? Mate, do you think this is a bloody movie? You’re some misunderstood hero? The cops aren’t out to get you, Murphy.’
Murphy laughed, loud and sarcastic. ‘You really don’t know how things work around here, do you?’
I’m getting real sick of people telling me that, thought Con, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. ‘Then explain it to me. If you can manage to string three words together, you inbred country dipshit.’ He didn’t mean to shout the last words.
Murphy laughed without missing a beat. ‘Alright, since you’re too thick to get it . . .’ He chuckled again. ‘Listen closely, if you can hear past the massive stick in your arse. Hypothetically, these mountains – nice and remote, not many people around, pretty interesting climate – hypothetically, they’re perfect for growing really good bush weed. And I mean, really good. Now, imagine you’re a copper, and you work around here. You see how much people are willing to pay for bush bud. You try to shut it down, but it’s easy to hide it around here and you’re not getting anywhere. And then you start thinking, hey, I don’t get paid enough, and this is bloody Tasmania, no one checks up on us and the rest of Australia doesn’t give two bloody shits. You realise, hey, if I’m in charge of my own growing operation, I can shut down everyone else out here who’s trying to make an honest living and have a monopoly.’
‘An honest living?’
‘Now, since you’re a cop, you have more power than the normal bloke. You can absolutely demolish anyone who gets in your way.’
‘Are we talking about Doble?’ said Con. ‘I thought all that was because you slept with his wife.’
‘Yeah, but I did that out of revenge,’ said Murphy. ‘Doble has a nice greenhouse on the outskirts of town. Big hydroponics setup. That’s why he hates me, but even with all his buddies behind him, he can’t stop us.’
‘I thought we were talking about hypotheticals,’ said Con, as they approached the station. He’d been driving on autopilot – and he still hadn’t told Pakinga not to take Jack to the station.
From a block away, he saw the mob outside. They were in a marked police car and not their unmarked BMW, which was still parked at the station.
He pulled over – he needed to call Pakinga.
Murphy shifted uneasily. ‘The crowd is still here,’ he said. ‘Do you think they’ve built a gallows yet?’ Con glanced at him. Murphy didn’t know these people were now protesting for him, not against him.
Some members of the mob had spotted the squad car and were creeping closer, filming with their phones.
‘I think that’s Jordan Murphy in the front seat,’ shouted the closest. ‘Madison was right!’
Con did a U-turn in a screech of wheels. They sped off.
‘Didn’t realised you were so concerned about my safety,’ said Murphy, gripping the handle.
‘Of course,’ said Con. He unlocked his phone and handed it to Murphy. ‘Call Gabriella – uh, she’s in there as Gabby. Tell her not to go to the station. You pick somewhere for us to meet, somewhere discreet.’
‘You want me to choose?’
‘You know your stupid town better than I do,’ spat Con.
Murphy tapped at the phone
‘Hello? Yeah, no, it’s Murphy . . . Cornelius?’ He turned to Con. ‘Your name is Cornelius?’ Back into the phone, he said, ‘No, he’s fine, just busy driving . . . Why are you . . . What’s happened?’ Murphy sat up straight. ‘I knew it.’ He turned to Con. ‘Jack has done a runner. Gave her the slip and took off on his dirtbike. She followed him in his own car, but he headed down one of the trails. Wait, detective: the one just around the corner from his place? . . . I know where that leads.’
‘What?’ said Con. ‘Where is he going, Murphy? What did Gabriella say? Where does that trail lead?’
‘It leads to Lake Mackenzie.’
CHAPTER 23
ELIZA
‘I’m not sure this is a good idea,’ said Tom. He steered his white flatbed Landcruiser over the potholes and fallen gum branches on the Lake Mackenzie four-wheel-drive track.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Jack knew about this place?’ said Eliza.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Jasmine was dating Jack?’ said Tom.
‘If Jack knew about this place, maybe he told Jasmine. She might be hiding there, and Cierra and Bree, too.’
‘Then we should tell the cops,’ said Tom.
‘And what if what happened to Georgia was an accident? They might be scared. They’d think they’re in trouble. They might not want to be found. We bring the cops, they might bolt.’
‘Or whoever took them could be hiding here.’
‘I know,’ said Eliza. ‘And that’s why I brought you. And your gun.’ Tom’s .22 hunting rifle lay across the back seat.
The headlights bounced over the muddy track. Lake Mackenzie was invisible beside them in the thick, rainy darkness.
‘You
better turn the headlights off. We don’t want them to know we’re coming,’ said Eliza.
‘Well, we can walk from here. We’re about 300 metres away.’
They pulled over and climbed out of the Landcruiser. The darkness – the moon hidden by the clouds – was all but complete. Eliza flicked on her torch, shining it at her feet. Puddles and wet stones sparkled in the light.
Together, they walked down the road, Tom’s rifle slung across his back. The air was thick with the smell of wet, rotting leaf matter. ‘They would have had to walk a long way to get here,’ said Tom.
‘If they had a compass, they could’ve just bashed through the bush more or less in a straight line. It’s not that far, really, from where Georgia was found.’
‘They would have crossed the road. Someone would have seen them,’ said Tom.
‘But if they didn’t want to be found . . .’
‘It’s a stretch, Eliza,’ said Tom. ‘I think you want them to be safe so bad, you’ve made it all up in your head that they’re just waiting in the Fisherman’s Hut, safe and sound.’
‘Fine,’ said Eliza, speeding up her pace, footsteps squishing in the wet. ‘Go back to the car then. I’ll go by myself.’
‘Don’t be like that.’ Tom jogged to catch up. ‘I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.’
‘I know these girls, Tom. They’re capable of it.’
‘You think I don’t? I know Cierra better than anyone else.’
That wasn’t comforting in the slightest, as her mind replaced Cierra’s face with Denni’s. ‘Why the hell did you leave your bag of weed and condoms in her room, Tom. Are you insane? Wren needs you around, and needs you to have a job. You could’ve thrown it all away because you were . . . careless!’
‘I was greened out! You were there – you know I wasn’t in a good way. You should’ve remembered to bring it with you.’ Tom grunted angrily for a moment, footsteps squelching as he continued on, before he finally said, in a small voice, ‘Sorry.’ Then, like a little boy, ‘What if she doesn’t want to see me?’
‘Cierra loves you, Tom.’ She hated it, but it was true. It started to rain again. Eliza pulled her hood up over her head, but Tom left his down. ‘The hell knows why . . .’
They had reached the copse of white gums that signalled the wallaby trail down to the hidden Fisherman’s Hut, at the side of the lake. The torchlight glinted on the wet, dancing leaves and made motes of falling light where it hit the rain.
Eliza had first heard about the hut from Tom. Last year he had brought her, Wren and Monica here on a family date, bringing a picnic of sandwiches and wine and a mattress. They’d all watched the sun set over the lake. The hut was well hidden, overgrown, and the structure itself was partly dug into the ground. It was a perfect, secret gem.
Now she understood that it was Jack who’d shown it to Tom in the first place.
‘This is it,’ whispered Tom. ‘Let’s go see if they’re here.’
‘Wait,’ said Eliza, pulling the hood away from her ear. ‘Do you hear that? Sounds like a car.’
Even over the rain they heard the distinct sound of a car door slamming shut. Eliza and Tom froze, switching off their torches in unison. The sound had come from further down the track, the direction they were facing.
‘Stay here,’ said Tom, pushing the rifle into Eliza’s hands and running off into the darkness.
‘No, Tom!’ called Eliza quietly, but he was gone. ‘I hate shooting guns,’ she whispered.
It was scary how quickly she felt alone. The bush rustled with the rain and wind. It seemed to close in over the top of her.
Don’t freak out. Do not freak out.
There was the sound of someone stepping in a puddle.
‘Tom?’ she squeaked.
She heard a voice calling, gruff and angry. Not Tom.
She fled down the wallaby trail, towards Fisherman’s Hut. She swung the rifle over her shoulder and turned her torch back on, smothering the beam with her hand, leaving enough light to show the twisting roots and erosion holes.
The trail opened onto a clearing of rocks and soil and leaf matter.
Someone was already at the hut.
Her torch beam lit up the figure, who stood in front of the hut’s open door, back towards her, silhouetted in the rain. She dropped the torch from her numb fingers and it rolled on the ground, lighting up the trees, lighting up the figure. It turned and look at her.
She screamed. The figure was tall and dark as oil, with a head far, far too big for its body.
Terror flooded her. The person had no face.
A person as big as a bear . . .
She screamed again and reached for the rifle. A noise came from the figure, dark and deep and inhuman.
She backed away, levelling the rifle with shaking hands.
‘Stay away from me!’
The figure moved towards her, raising its arms, and at the same moment footsteps crashed down the trail right behind her.
Eliza fired.
The sound was like thunder.
The figure clutched its side and dropped to the ground. Eliza spun and pointed the rifle at whoever was chasing her down the path.
‘Stay back!’
Torchlight shone into her face, blinding her.
‘Eliza!’ It was Murphy’s voice. ‘Don’t shoot!’
Her knees buckled.
He caught her around the shoulders and eased the rifle out of her grip. ‘Eliza! What happened? Are you alright? Are the girls here? Tom said you thought —’
She heard muffled shouting from the hut behind her. Murphy snatched up her torch from the ground, far stronger than his phone’s flashlight. She saw the figure on the ground . . . its abnormally large head . . .
It was someone in motorcycle leathers and a matte black helmet.
‘Oh no,’ gasped Eliza.
‘Badenhorst! Down here!’ roared Murphy. ‘Jack’s been shot.’
‘Jack?’ whispered Eliza. ‘Oh no . . . oh no, oh no, oh no . . .’ She slumped and Murphy held her upright.
Detective Con Badenhorst came crashing out of the wallaby trail, his own torch in hand, his white linen shirt torn. ‘What happened?’ he shouted. Not waiting for an answer, he ran to Jack, easing the helmet off his head.
All the overlapping torch beams made the scene shift and dance, making crazy shapes in the trees around the clearing. Eliza couldn’t believe what she’d done. ‘I’m so sorry, Jack. Oh no, oh no, I’m so sorry, Jack, no . . .’
Con clamped his phone between his shoulder and his ear. ‘Gabriella, call an ambulance. Jack Michaels has been shot, down by Lake Mackenzie. We’re off the road. We cannot afford to lose him.’
‘No,’ Jack groaned. ‘Don’t bring anyone else . . .’
Con grabbed Jack’s hands and pushed them against his side. ‘Keep pressure on here, mate. We need to get you out of the rain. Murphy, help me take him into the hut.’
‘No,’ groaned Jack. ‘Don’t . . .’
Murphy helped Eliza to her feet. ‘Shine the torch for us.’
‘I shot him!’
‘Yeah, and I’ll congratulate you later, but right now, we need to get him stable, so can you light the bloody way?’ shouted Murphy.
Eliza took the torch from him, her whole body shaking uncontrollably. Murphy and Con lifted Jack through the hut’s open door in a chair carry. Eliza followed, the rifle in one hand and the torch in the other, lighting the way for them as best she could. She saw Jack’s dirtbike, resting against a tree nearby, hidden from view.
The hut was as she remembered it. Timber slats for walls, a rotten timber floor that slanted down to a rocky hollow dug out at the back. The camping mattress was still there and it brought her a strange lurch of sickening nostalgia. The men lowered Jack onto it.
Her torch beam found two large hiking backpacks propped against the wall, packed to the brim. One yellow, one pink.
‘What happened, Eliza?’ said Con, his hands over Jack’s, keeping the wound
tight.
‘I . . . I saw him standing there, and in the rain, with his helmet, he looked so . . . I just . . . Murphy crashed through the bush behind me and I just lost my head.’ Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry, Jack.’
‘What the hell is this?’ said Murphy. He unzipped the pink backpack and pulled out girls clothes, tent pegs, protein bars and ramen noodles, a first-aid kit . . .
‘Don’t, Murphy,’ said Con sharply. ‘It’s evidence. Don’t touch it.’
Murphy put the pack on the floor. He turned, his hair wet, his face fierce. He raised himself to his fullest height, voice filling the hut. ‘What are you doing out here, Jack? Why do you have a backpack full of girls clothes?’
‘Don’t, please,’ said Eliza, moving to stand between him and Jack. ‘Wait for the ambulance.’
‘Where is Jasmine?’ bellowed Murphy.
‘Gone,’ groaned Jack, shivering. ‘I dunno where.’
‘What do you know?’
‘Murphy, now’s not the best time,’ said Con through gritted teeth, pushing down on Jack’s wound as hard as he could.
‘They set it up, Murphy.’ Jack winced. ‘Need to know . . . the girls set it up.’
Eliza held her breath. Relief rushed in through the fear and guilt.
The fight. I’ll have to tell them now.
‘They set up what?’ said Con.
‘Madison’s . . . idea . . .’ Every breath seemed to bring Jack agony.
‘You’re lying,’ snarled Murphy. ‘Jasmine wouldn’t do anything that stupid.’
‘She would . . .’ said Jack. ‘If she thought . . . best thing.’ He gasped in pain. ‘Something went wrong . . . Georgia . . . her and Bree’s backpacks . . . Jasmine and Cierra’s backpacks gone . . . they were supposed to . . . they left before I got here . . . Bree . . . girls must have been taken . . . only reason. Someone took them.’ He dropped his head to the side and spoke no more, falling into fitful moans.
They all looked at each other.
‘It’s impossible,’ said Murphy.
