Crossings

by Ashley Capes

  “Too small.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Besides, got something else to show you. I was going to call, but you’re here now.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Something right.” He clomped over the grass to the shed. “There.”

  Half an entire panel looked to have been kicked in, hay peeking from a tear in the tin. Must have taken some force. “The white roo?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Hmmm.” She circled the shed, bending low to search for white fur or tracks. She paused by the big blue tractor, dust collecting in its seat. Nothing. No signs of any animal disturbance. “I can’t see any sign of her,” Lisa said as she completed her circuit.

  He nodded, as if he’d made the same circuit. “Heard a great thump last night. Dashed out with me torch but I was too slow. Something went crashing through the trees, though. I checked at dawn. Clear as rain.”

  “Over there?” Lisa turned to the treeline beyond the house.

  “Reckon she leapt the fence this time.”

  Lisa strode over. Something was going on at Pumps’ farm but a giant white kangaroo still wasn’t the top of the list, was it? Just beyond the fence-line lay the wreckage of crushed bracken and snapped branches. Something had gone through and roughed it up.

  “I’ll be back,” she said, bending to step through the wire.

  “Take a photo if you see her,” he called.

  “Got my phone.” She pushed into the damaged undergrowth, heading through the trees. Again, the messmate grew near enough that such a large animal would have had trouble squeezing through. At the least some fur should have rubbed off on passing but nothing. No clear tracks either. She pushed on, her pant cuffs soon damp from dew on the clinging bracken.

  The deeper she went, the less signs of disturbance she saw. She’d reached about as far as she’d walked last time and nothing – all she had to show for it was a scratch on the back of her hand, a bright red stripe. Like a ghost, the damn white roo. She sighed. If the kangaroo bodies hadn’t been turning up maybe she wouldn’t have given Pumps’ words much credence...but something odd was happening. Most likely trouble from another source.

  When she returned he was standing by the stump, a mug in hand, tag from the tea-bag hanging over the side. “Anything this time?”

  “No. The trail disappears back there.” She paused. “Is anyone angry with you?”

  Pumps gave a shrug. “Don’t think so. Why?”

  “Sure this isn’t vandalism?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that, it’s the roo.”

  “Well, maybe you should mention it to Gerry, anyway.”

  He chuckled. “No thanks. Don’t want him coming up and scaring her off.”

  “But you don’t think I’ll scare her off?”

  “I figure if anyone could manage not to, it’d be you, Lisa. You’ve got a way with animals, I suppose. Respect and all that.”

  She smiled at the old man. “Thank you.”

  He grinned. “Just remember, if you see something, I’m the one that saw her first, right?”

  “For the Book.”

  “Spot on.” He heaved a sigh. “Better get back to it then.”

  “Me too.” She patted Pumps on the shoulder then returned to the Holden and headed into town.

  Pulling up at Lidelson General Store, a sandwich chalkboard stood out front – the message today was courtesy of the CFA – ‘Be Fire Ready’. Good, a reminder about bushfires; the perfect way to ruin a summer’s day.

  But then, safe was safe. Wasn’t their fault.

  Dad had always said, better to prepare for the worst and be relieved when it never happened. And back when he’d volunteered at the fire station, he’d seen enough to know when to prepare for trouble. She’d have to check his gutters soon.

  It was cooler inside the store, between the tall shelves lined with bright packets and cans. Somewhere nearby a child wheedled with her parent, desperate for Sherbet Bombs. Lisa smiled; Sherbet Bombs had been pretty good as a kid. Not so great on the teeth, though.

  “Lisa?”

  Ben stood in the aisle.

  He wore a plain black polo shirt and jeans, arms laden with chips, soft drink and pretzels. His Southern Cross tattoo peeked beneath the sleeve of his shirt, the outline of the bottom star. Two friends hovered nearby, talking but obviously trying not to listen. Steve and...Fathead was the other guy’s nickname.

  They barely registered.

  “It’s good to actually see you,” he said with a smile. “You look good.”

  “What do you want?” She kept her voice even, despite the tension in her shoulders.

  “Just a chance to talk.”

  “No screaming this time?”

  He didn’t take the bait. “No. I’m sorry about that. Just talk. Maybe over lunch? I’m buying a house here and I want to apologise properly.”

  Lisa hesitated. There were things she wanted to hear from him – a real apology for one. And there were things she wanted to tell him. What he’d done, how hard it had been to get her confidence back – even with help – but mostly she wanted him to know she had moved on. That her life was better; that – in the end, he’d meant nothing.

  She didn’t need a meal for that. “I don’t think so, Ben.”

  He nodded. Was that a flicker of regret that he smothered? “I understand. It’s not like I deserve it. Well, see you round, then.” Ben turned to his friends and she heard him dump his junk food on the counter, pay and leave.

  Lisa stared after him. That wasn’t like Ben at all. Either he’d matured and stopped drinking – or worse, he was playing a game. A new game. His apologies always sounded sincere in the past but there had always been an element of blame-shifting. She’d made him angry. He was too drunk. A bad day at work. Getting knocked back for the house-loan.

  She shuddered; this new Ben was somehow worse because he seemed reasonable, as if he were nearly ready to take responsibility for his actions, if only she gave him the chance to do so by listening. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t Ben; it was as if someone else were operating his body, feeding him lines, keeping his cool.

  “Not falling for it, buddy.” She collected what she needed from the store and fixed up Mrs Lowell before heading home, where she pulled together a bag of snacks, water and a book then jumped back into the Holden.

  Maybe she could visit Dad then slip down to the coast and relax for the afternoon. West Beach wasn’t too far, just an hour. It’d be nice to get out of town for a bit, to forget about Ben and white kangaroos. Or dead ones.

  Lisa grabbed a jacket from a hook in the entryway and opened the door.

  A pile of dead mice lay on her step.

  “Again?” She dumped her bag and dashed into the street. No-one. They had to be close. The mice weren’t there when she walked in and she’d not been inside that long. Lisa shielded her eyes against the rising sun but as before, all was quiet. Just the buzz of blowflies. A silver sedan pulled out of the street but nothing else.

  “Fine.” She went back inside, grabbed her bag, locked up and hopped back into the Holden, heading for the station. Maybe Gerry would have some news. And if Gerry had found it was Ben trying to mess with her, she’d throttle the weasel.

  Twice.

  At the station no-one answered. She shook her head. Stupid. Gerry didn’t work Sundays – he had footy or cricket. And it seemed Karen was out on a call. Lisa headed back home, where she got her gloves then wrapped the bodies in a plastic bag. Outside, she paused at her garbage bin. Collection wasn’t until next week and the forecast called for heat. Best to take the mice out of town a bit and leave them for birds or other scavengers.

  She chucked them on the passenger floor and headed for Swallow’s Road. Once the bush rose up around her she pulled into a gravel truck stop. An old, tan Land Cruiser was parke
d beside one of the picnic benches that no-one ever seemed to use.

  It looked like the Healy’s vehicle – a rear mudflap missing, just like Clint’s car. She collected the mice and climbed from her Holden, approaching the Land Cruiser. The plastic bag swished as it swung from her grip. The cab was empty. Had it broken down? She circled the vehicle. The passenger door hung open, hidden from view from the highway. A picture of Clint Healy with his grandkids was taped to the dash.

  So it was his car. Where was he?

  “Clint?” Nothing. “Clint, are you all right?”

  Lisa turned a slow circle. There. A hint of colour. A leg and a boot? She left the car, feet crunching on the gravel, a chill climbing her spine as she walked.

  The bag of mice hit the ground.

  Deep in the grass lay Clint Healy.

  Unmoving. On his back, head turned away, flies buzzed over a wet slice in his stomach. More blood and the hint of intestine – black. One of his hands lay twisted up near his chest, tainted blue.

  “God!”

  She spun away, legs weak as she wobbled back toward the Cruiser. What was happening in Lidelson? Entrails everywhere! Like a nightmare... or a horror movie. She leaned against the tray and steadied her breathing.

  Who would kill Clint? It didn’t make sense; he was a nice guy.

  She pulled her mobile, almost dropped it, fumbling to dial triple zero. Then she hung up and called the station. It’d be quicker if someone was actually –

  “Lidelson Police Station, Karen speaking.”

  “Karen, it’s Lisa Thomas. I’ve just found Clint Healy – he’s dead.” She sounded too calm for someone who’d just found a body.

  Something smacked down on the other end of the line. “What?”

  “I’m on Swallow’s Road at the first truck stop. Looks like he’s been slashed.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Lisa lowered her phone and stumbled back to the Holden, where she got in and sucked in a long breath, releasing it slowly. What was going on?

  Death, death and more death.

  Chapter 7.

  The station had coffee.

  Lisa used the mug to keep her hands still. Even in the hot station, the warmth was somehow welcome. Years of handling dead animals hadn’t prepared her for finding a dead man, let alone one who had been cut open.

  Karen sat across from her, a scuffed table between them, as she fiddled with a recording device. “Piece of shit always does this.” Her hair was caught in a tight bun and a speck of blood was visible beneath a silver stud in her ear.

  “I can write my statement, if you like?” Lisa offered.

  “It’s fine. Good to have it on tape.” Karen thumped the deck and a red light flicked on. “There.” She placed it in the centre of the table and got the formalities of names and dates out of the way. “All right. Tell me what happened this morning.”

  “Ah, like I said at the truck stop. I was heading out of town to get rid of some dead mice. Someone had put them on my front step as a joke, I guess.”

  Karen nodded, her expression encouraging.

  “I noticed a Land Cruiser at the truck stop on Swallow’s Road.”

  “Did you recognise it?”

  “I thought it was Clint Healy’s so I went to see what he was up to. The Toyota was empty. I called his name but no-one answered.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I checked the cab and the passenger door was open. It was empty so I looked around.” She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. “Clint lay in the grass and he wasn’t moving. There was a gash in his stomach. He looked dead, he was dead.”

  “Did you touch him?”

  “No. I called the station and waited in my car.”

  “All right, thank you, Miss Thomas.” Karen clicked the tape off. “All done. How are you feeling?”

  “A bit numb.” Despite the promise of comfort from the coffee, she hadn’t taken a sip yet. Clint had been a penny-pincher but other than that, a nice guy. A grandfather. Dad’s age. “Who’d have wanted to kill him?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out,” Karen said.

  “Billy Brown?”

  “Too easy – but we’re certainly going to visit him anyway.” Karen paused. “About those mice – you said there were entrails too?”

  “That was another time.” It almost sounded stupid, saying it aloud. “You think I’m in danger?”

  Karen pursed her lips. “Better to be safe than sorry. Can anyone stay with you for a few days?”

  Really? Was it that bad? “You’re getting me a bit worried.”

  “Just want you to be safe is all. It’s probably not related to the death.”

  “Think so?”

  “I do,” Karen said with a smile. “I reckon whatever happened up at that truck stop had nothing to do with any of us. Not you, not the Browns.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You heard of ice?”

  “The drug?”

  “Right. People still seem to think it’s a city drug but it’s here too, I’m seeing more and more of it.”

  “And you think it’s responsible?”

  “Well, it screws with people pretty bad. Makes them violent, like, frothing at the mouth violent. Makes them more irrational too.”

  “You think it was random?”

  “Sadly for Clint’s family, I do. But we won’t know for sure until after the autopsy.”

  Lisa shifted in her seat. “I guess I’ll head home then?”

  “Go for it. And call a friend or even stay at your dad’s.”

  She nodded. “Maybe I will.”

  As she headed outside, Gerry pulled into the station. “Are you all right?” he asked as he stepped out of his car.

  “You heard?”

  “Everyone has.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He hesitated slightly, then gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Atta girl. I better get in there, there’s a big shot coming in from out of town.” He paused. “And I just visited Ben. Told him to keep his distance. I let him know I’d be watching too.”

  “Thank you,” Lisa said. “How’d he take it?”

  “Didn’t like it. But he’ll do as he’s told if he knows what’s good for him.”

  “And the entrails? Because, I found some mice this morning.”

  “Shit.” His brow was furrowed. “To be honest, I didn’t think it was him. Maybe I’m wrong. I’ll check on you later, if you like?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” It would be better to know for sure. If Ben was responsible, at least he was a jerk she knew. If it was some random creep...wasn’t that worse?

  Gerry headed inside and she leaned against her car door, keys in hand. Was it really a good thing that Gerry had been to see Ben? Felt like the right thing to do before, but now that she’d seen Ben a few times...it brought his pettiness and anger back. Two of Ben’s favourites. What if the bastard used Gerry’s visit as an excuse?

  Calling Steph might not be a bad idea at all.

  *

  After she checked on Dad, who seemed occupied searching for an old book in the shed, she dragged herself home and put a movie on while she waited for Steph or Robert, even Matthew from the pub, to call back. Eventually she switched off the TV and returned to pacing. Who was trying to scare her? And did it have anything to do with Clint’s death? An ice-addict could have been responsible for the killing – but no way was someone that trashed likely to go out and collect dead animals and place them on her doorstep.

  She paused in the hall, standing before the small painting of a tree on a hilltop. Another one of Dad’s – one of the last ones he painted before he stopped. It was a nightscape, pale moonlight filtering the scene. A branch was broken but the rest of the tree stood tall.

  Her hand closed into a fist.

  Whoever w
as messing with her would find that it took a lot more to really spook her.

  Night fell and she ate a dinner of pasta on the couch while the TV rambled. She checked her phone – constantly. Stupid, just sitting around and waiting. She got up and put the washing on, snapping the machine’s lid down. Inspired by Dad’s tree, she rummaged around in the spare room for hammer and hook before hanging the Monet print she’d been holding onto for ages. San Giorgio Maggiore at Twilight – its bright orange, almost like fire, caught the eye against the plain wall.

  Before the washing cycle ended lights flashed across the front windows and wheels crunched in her drive. The engine cut and a bottle smashed. “Lisa!”

  A slurred voice.

  “Lisa, get out here, you bitch.”

  Ben.

  She snatched the hammer from the kitchen bench and strode to the front door. If he was pissed he’d probably break the door down. She hit the switch for the outside light before leaving the house, stopping on the front step.

  Ben paused mid-stumble, can in hand. Heavy beer, no doubt. “Go away, Ben,” she told him. He cast an unsteady shadow in the front light; it stretched back to his Commodore.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  She crossed her arms, hammer in hand. “Go home; you’re drunk.”

  He squinted at her then laughed. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “You’ll find out if you don’t piss off.”

  “Yeah? Going to do it yourself, this time, are you?” He plucked at his shirt; the neck was ripped. “No? Well, I don’t see your boyfriend anywhere.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That fucking pig,” he spat.

  “Ben, get out of here.”

  He lurched forward. “No. This is bullshit. I come back, I drive all the way back from fucking Queensland and try and apologise and you sic your pet cop on me?”

  She raised the hammer and he stopped.

  “Fine.” He hurled his can into the yard and turned to his car, muttering as he went. He got in and after some fumbling and swearing, jerked out of the drive, smashing into a letterbox then screeching along the street. Burnt rubber filled the air.