Even though it was across the far side of the country, the town north of Sydney on the banks of the Hunter River in New South Wales would need looking into, but it was the suburb at the southern reaches of Perth that grabbed Chandler’s attention. Gabriel originated from Perth, or at least his accent indicated as much. From the picture onscreen the suburb looked like nothing more than a small outpost dotted with rundown bungalows, houses and a few essential stores, the last reaches of civilization, a greener version of Wilbrook. The only building with a website was an orphanage. He clicked on the link.
The website was professional, the photos of the building proving it to be nothing like Chandler had imagined. It was small, and almost quaint, a building that looked like something from one of Sarah’s Harry Potter novels. He got the impression that the layout of the website and the angle of the pictures were designed to mask the flaws.
Putting a late-night call into the IT section of Central HQ in Perth, he was directed to the female operator on duty. He asked her to send over the admittance records at the orphanage from the last thirty years.
Ten minutes later a massive folder crashed into his inbox, the computer refusing to open it as if the contents held a secret it was under pain of death to keep. A second attempt was more successful and he forced the machine to search for Gabriel Johnson amongst the names. It brought back no results. Chandler tried Heath Barwell. Again it brought up a blank. A search for Seth brought up a couple of results that were busts. Out of ideas, Chandler was left with thousands of records accompanied by photos. He settled in for a long night.
The first half hour brought nothing, no photos that even resembled the image of Gabriel implanted in his brain; none that might even have resembled Gabriel in his youth. After an hour staring at the screen, his eyes began to hurt. His search became more cursory, continuing to flick through the records as he considered the next angle to pursue. There had to be some connection to the beginning, to religion, to what had made Gabriel this way. Chandler knew it in his gut.
It was an hour later, as he worked through alternative possibilities, that Gabriel’s photo appeared on the screen. In fact it took Chandler so much by surprise that he sped through another couple of images of orphaned children before scrolling back. The image that confronted him was definitely Gabriel, a younger version, his hair cropped close to his skull, accentuating the gaunt quality of his face. He looked like a concentration camp survivor rather than an orphan, but it was unmistakably him. David Gabriel Taylor.
Chandler’s heart raced as he studied the attached file and notes. The occasional bout of bed-wetting and emotional – bordering on violent – outbursts, but nothing more than the struggles of a scared young boy. Unfortunately the record ended as abruptly as it had started. Gabriel had been allocated a foster home after only six months, the name and address of his foster parents scribbled in a column at the side. Dina and Geoffrey Wilson from Glendon, situated on the outskirts of Perth.
Chandler made the call. It was answered after a few rings.
‘Is this Mr Geoffrey Wilson?’ he asked.
‘It is indeed.’
Expecting to have to mollify an irate householder woken from sleep, he was surprised to encounter a pleasant, deep, gravelly voice.
‘I’m Sergeant Chandler Jenkins from Wilbrook Police Station. I’d like to—’
‘Sergeant Jenkins from where?’ interrupted Mr Wilson.
‘Wilbrook, up north in the Pilbara.’
‘What are you doing up there?’ asked Mr Wilson, before rephrasing. ‘I mean, why are you phoning me? At this hour?’
‘I have a couple of questions regarding a David Gabriel—’
The gravelly voice interrupted, the politeness gone.
‘I know Gabriel.’
‘Well, I have a couple—’
‘I – we don’t want anything to do with him, Sergeant.’
Chandler’s interest was piqued. He heard a rustle from the other end, the sound of a receiver about to be hung up. He jumped in. ‘Please, Mr Wilson, just a couple of questions. Don’t you even want to know why I’m phoning?’ Chandler hoped that curiosity would keep his caller on the line.
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, firmly. ‘We – me and my wife – tried to teach him right from wrong and he threw it back in our face.’
‘Right from wrong? Like in a religious sense?’
‘Yes – in a religious sense, Sergeant.’ The voice remained calm but insistent.
‘So you’re religious then?’
‘We are. And proud of it,’ said Mr Wilson sternly, as if there were some insinuation in Chandler’s question. ‘We tried to bring him up in a good way, a righteous way, especially after what happened to his family.’
‘What hap—?’
‘A car crash, Sergeant. A horrible experience for a boy at that tender age no doubt, but one we believed he could recover from. We wanted to teach him that despite what God had thrown at him, the Lord was good and would guide him. If he repented for his sins and obeyed His word.’
The direction the conversation had taken caused the hairs to stand on the back of Chandler’s neck. ‘And how did you make him do that?’
From being open and talkative Mr Wilson suddenly clammed up. It left Chandler to guess how: lessons, chores, lectures or worse. Something disturbing enough to turn an orphan into a killer. He decided to tread carefully. ‘When did David – Gabriel – leave?’
‘At eighteen.’ A brusqueness had developed in the voice. A need to finish this call. ‘And he hasn’t been back since. We don’t want him back. He turned our house into a den of sin, Sergeant, a den of sin. Like something from Sodom and Gomorrah, harlots invading my house, parading around as naked as Eve in the Garden of Eden. Me and my wife had to scrub the floors and furniture clean.’
There was a rustle from the handset on the other side and Chandler thought he could hear sobbing. The gravelly tone was replaced by a woman’s voice. Dina.
‘You’ve upset my husband, Sergeant. We just want to forget all about that boy. That Devil child!’ She spat this out. And hung up.
Chandler leaned back in the chair, letting it all soak in. From lacking any credible leads, he was struggling to identify the most lucrative avenue to follow. What he did know was that something had happened in that house. A set of foster parents trying to instil their zealous beliefs into a vulnerable teenager, leading to an event, or series of events that sent young Gabriel over the edge.
42
With a theory and the foundations of some evidence Chandler went to corner Mitch again.
And nearly made it. But for the phone call. It was one of hundreds that had come into the station, offering information on the man they were busy hunting. But this time the caller was different – it was Gabriel himself.
From the front desk Nick waved his hands frantically, catching Chandler’s attention. Covering the microphone on the headset, he whispered, ‘It’s him.’
The station immediately went quiet. Everyone knew who the young constable meant. None more so than Mitch, who charged out of his office to demand that the call be put straight through to him.
The officers gathered around the meeting table in what had once been Chandler’s office. Perched by the speaker-phone Mitch glared at each one of them. ‘Everyone stay quiet. I’m doing the talking,’ he said, jabbing a finger at his chest to hammer home the point.
The light on the phone started to blink. This was it. Mitch switched the phone on to speaker and pressed the button.
‘Mr Wils—’
Gabriel interrupted immediately.
‘I’m calling to let you know that I’ve changed my target for the moment.’
Mitch quickly recovered his stride. ‘Changed from?’ he asked.
‘Instead of fifty-five I’m taking ninety.’
There was a brief pause as they waited for more information on who, what, when, or why, but nothing further arrived, the information as vague as the faces around the table.
Mitc
h broke the silence. ‘Mr Johnson, I have to ask you to turn yourself in. It’s not too late.’
‘I already have, Inspector. Twice,’ he reminded them. ‘Now I have work to do. If you are going to prevent me from taking Heath then there are plenty of others who are worthy.’ There was a clarity in his voice that suggested he believed what he was saying.
‘Does this game of yours have something to do with the Bible?’ asked Mitch.
Chandler was surprised by how tentative Mitch’s question was. Rather than stating it as known fact, he presented his query in the insecure manner of a school kid, as though afraid of being mocked.
‘The Bible? That’s a pretty hazy theory, Inspector.’
Witnessing Mitch losing the chance to maintain the upper hand, Chandler jumped in. ‘How about something to do with your parents? Or your foster parents, Dina and Geoffrey?’
Mitch glared at him but didn’t speak. Neither did the killer on the other end of the phone.
‘Mr Johnson?’ asked Mitch, his glare still aimed squarely at Chandler.
A dead tone sounded. Gabriel was gone.
Flo broke the silence. ‘What did he mean by taking ninety rather than fifty-five?’
This question was directed at her boss. Mitch’s mouth moved up and down as if he hoped some words would ride to his rescue but nothing came out.
‘Does it mean that he’s slaughtered – or he’s going to slaughter a load of people somewhere?’ asked Tanya.
‘Thirty-five more people,’ confirmed Luka.
Spoken out loud it seemed a colossal number. In the absence of direction from Mitch, Chandler sprang into action.
‘Nick, have we had any reports of gunshots, or disturbances of any kind coming over the radio?’
‘Nothing,’ confirmed his constable.
‘Okay. That leaves a possibility that he’s holed up at one of the remoter farms, close to where we last saw him,’ Chandler explained to his audience.
‘Maybe,’ said Tanya. ‘But nowhere has as many as thirty-five people – I doubt there’s even thirty-five people living that close to each other.’
His senior constable was right. To murder thirty-five people would mean Gabriel would have to travel to multiple locations – quickly.
‘Is it a bluff?’ Chandler asked the room.
‘To what end?’ said Mitch, finding his voice.
‘To get us running around like headless chooks.’
‘He’s killed six people, Sergeant. That was no bluff. So we have to consider that he isn’t bluffing now, either.’
Again a pall of silence descended over the office.
‘Any ideas?’ asked Chandler.
‘The Boltons and Easts live close to each other,’ shouted Nick from the front desk. ‘That’s about ten.’
Tanya stepped in. ‘Add in the Cartys and you have sixteen, if you include the dogs.’
‘What about local bars? The medical centre?’ offered Flo.
‘What medical centre?’ spluttered Mitch.
Tanya answered regardless. ‘Anne Tuttle told me the reverend was considering having a bunch of his congregation meet in the church hall for a midnight prayer.’
‘How many?’ asked Chandler.
Tanya shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Thirty or forty wouldn’t be extraordinary if they’ve been scared by what’s happening.’
‘Is it worth taking a look?’ asked Flo.
‘Everything’s worth taking a look,’ said Mitch. ‘We cannot not respond to this threat.’
‘What if it’s a diversion to get rid of us so that he can make another attempt at killing Heath?’ said Chandler, thinking of the crowd outside, imagining Gabriel amongst them waiting for the station to empty.
‘We have to follow up this threat, Sergeant.’
‘And we have to protect our own prisoner.’
‘And we will. There’s not a chance in hell that Gabriel’s going to get in here.’
A plan was drawn up. First stop was the church hall, then the local bars, then the Carty, East and Bolton farms. After that other farms with an abundance of people in close proximity were identified: Toady Cook’s, Izzy Cheelie’s, Old Ma Reisling’s, Mincey Amaranga and their families.
Chandler phoned Reverend Upton, waking him. It was long past the reverend’s 9pm bedtime. Though annoyed, he confirmed that the idea of a midnight prayer had been broached but that the public opinion was to stay safely indoors. Nothing was happening in his church hall and nothing would without his stamp of approval.
Three crews were sent to the local bars, and Mitch phoned the farms. Roxanne Carty answered on the second ring, angered that she had been disturbed from her TV show. Izzy Cheelie growled down the phone that there was no one at his farm who he hadn’t invited. There was no answer at the others. Though service could best be described as sporadic out there the silences were worrying.
Mitch dispatched cars to check out the people who hadn’t answered the phone – via the church hall to make doubly sure. The teams fled for the cars, a game of musical chairs no one wanted to lose. Chandler pulled Tanya and Luka to the side.
‘I need you two to stay here. In case he comes back for Heath.’
‘I don’t want to,’ said Luka.
‘We need to keep—’ started Chandler.
‘Constable, why have you not left?’ interrupted Mitch, prowling around the office, rubbing his thumb and fingertips together in anxiety.
‘I want Luka to stay here,’ said Chandler. ‘As protection.’
‘And I want him out there,’ said Mitch. ‘As enforcement.’
‘I want to be out there,’ pleaded Luka, inching towards the door.
Chandler stared at his eager young colleague, begging not to be kept inside like a grounded child.
‘Go,’ he said, sighing.
Luka didn’t need to be told twice and sprinted off to join up with Flo. Chandler turned to Tanya.
‘I’ll stay,’ she said, with a solid nod.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll have company, Tanya,’ announced Mitch. ‘I’ll leave Roper with you,’ he said pointing to the large man awkwardly wedged behind a desk.
Though he felt awful at leaving Tanya – and Nick, again – behind, and sick at the possibility of this being a wild goose chase constructed by Gabriel to leave the station open for attack, Chandler knew he had to be out there, leading the search of the farms to put some of the jumpier residents at ease and to make sure that his townsfolk were safe. No one in town had been killed and he was desperate for it to remain that way.
43
Chandler led Sun and MacKenzie up to Brian East’s farm, the unpaved, untended lane extra treacherous in the dark. Reaching the front gate he switched off his headlights and coasted to a gentle stop. A single light beamed from the one-storey farmhouse; the kitchen or living room. It was ominously dark for a six-bedroom house with four kids below the age of twelve.
Climbing out of the car he flexed his hands to ward off his nervous anticipation. He was joined by his two colleagues, appearing out of the darkness dressed all in black. Meant to inspire confidence, out here amongst the dirt and rusted barns it looked conspicuous.
‘Stick close to me,’ whispered Chandler. ‘And keep your guns in your belts. There are kids in there.’
They stalked up to the farm, wary of the ditches and fences hidden in the gloom, Chandler almost tasting hard earth a few times before they made it to the chicken shed and were greeted by the mumbled clucks of hens disturbed from slumber.
He murmured instructions to his two colleagues.
‘You two go around the sides. Check the windows but don’t put your face right up to them in case you scare the kids. If anything seems unusual meet back here. Okay?’ Sun’s expression remained as emotionless as ever, MacKenzie agreeing on his behalf with a solitary nod before they set off, splitting up as they skirted past the oil tank and moved out of sight.
With the others gone, Chandler focused on the kitchen window. Approaching it,
the residual light from the living room illuminated it sufficiently for him to see that it was empty, and typically messy, plates in the sink, crumbs littering the table. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Sliding along the side of the dilapidated wooden structure he made it to the living room window. For a moment he dared not look but steeling himself he peeked inside, hoping to find a family at ease in front of the telly. He wasn’t disappointed. Brian East was there, sprawled in his armchair, fighting for foot space on the chaise longue with his wife and the eldest two kids, bare feet battling bare feet, the telly bathing them in a stupefying blue glow. Chandler breathed out hard in relief. The Easts were okay. Finding them alive and in one piece tied another ribbon on his theory that Gabriel was sending them on a wild goose chase. Chandler decided not to disturb them.
Suddenly Diane East looked across to her husband who sat up quickly, knocking his can of beer to the carpet. They’d heard something. Chandler knew what. He made it around the back just as Brian was taking a wild swing at a mysterious figure in black, looming on the porch.
‘Brian, Brian, it’s me!’ shouted Chandler.
Brian drew his fist back and squinted into the darkness. ‘Me who?’ he growled, his voice slurred.
‘Sergeant Jenkins,’ said Chandler, staying out of range of any fist the former amateur boxer might unleash. Now up close he could see Sun and MacKenzie had trained their firearms on Brian.
‘Fuck you doin’ up here?’ asked Brian.
Though he was on edge, Chandler felt a little relieved. From Brian East this was a polite, almost reserved response. He waved his hand to get Mitch’s officers to lower their weapons. Neither responded.
‘Put those away,’ insisted Chandler, waiting until both reluctantly re-holstered their weapons.
By now Brian’s wife, Diane, was poking her head out the door, holding back her entire brood of four.
‘Who is it?’ she said.
‘Back inside,’ ordered Brian. His family didn’t move.
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