by Anna Willett
“If she found these bodies, maybe she ran.” Brock offered.
“Or,” Damon said, staring down at the elderly woman’s frail body. “She disturbed the killer and he went after her.” Damon looked up. “She might be close. We need to find her.”
“I’ll drive up the street and see if there are any neighbours with a working landline I can use to call the cops.”
Damon thought about reminding Brock that it was safer if they stuck together, but decided it was time to take a few risks. He pulled a business card out of his jacket and handed it to Brock.
“After you call the local cops, try to get hold of Lighnus. He’s a bit of a dickhead, but he’ll be able to get a chopper to search the bush,” Damon said before heading for the back door. “I’ll start searching the property while there’s still some light.”
* * *
His hands were on her, sliding upward and grabbing at Lucy’s waist. In a rush, the air came flooding back into Lucy’s lungs and she was fighting him, twisting and wriggling as he crawled on top of her.
“You made me do it.” His face loomed above hers and for the first time Lucy got a clear look at him.
His face was skeletal. Waxy skin hung from sharp cheekbones and his eyes shone like jaundice bulbs. Lucy screamed and tried to buck him off, but he used his weight to pin her down.
“I didn’t want to do this. I told her to leave the kid alone. I told them I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but they wouldn’t listen. My mother, Mimi, Dale, all of them.” He was speaking so quickly, Lucy had trouble keeping up with him.
“I wanted to go. I tried to leave it all behind, but she wouldn’t let me. Her hands were like claws.” He was crying, his face only centimetres from Lucy’s. So close she could smell his breath, bitter and dank like rotting meat.
Her mind span, trying to keep up with him. Finally, she said the one thing every criminal she’d interviewed wanted to hear, “It’s not your fault.”
Smiley blinked and his body swayed. Blood from his injury ran down his face, dripping onto Lucy’s cheeks.
“I want to understand what happened to you,” Lucy said. She was breathing hard, but managed to keep her tone even. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m a reporter.”
She forced herself to stare into his eyes.
“I want to hear your story and tell people that it’s not your fault,” she said. “People need to know it wasn’t your idea.”
Smiley’s eyes were growing misty like someone on the verge of sleep. The blood from his wound continued to flow. Lucy kept talking.
“People need to know you told her to leave the kid alone.” She was repeating his words back to him as she dug through her jeans pocket and found the penknife. “I’ll make them understand that you didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
She flipped open the knife and clenched it in her fist. He seemed to be having a hard time holding his head up because his chin tipped down and touched her forehead. When he raised his head, his eyes were clearer and his teeth were bared. Lucy gasped and tried to pull away, but was pinned in place.
“It’s no good.” There was bitterness in his voice. “They won’t listen.”
She thought he’d dropped the knife when he fell, but it was in his hand.
“I just want to sleep so the pain goes away. But I can’t leave the kid. I won’t let them do things to him.” Smiley’s voice was high and agonised. “It’s better if I finish it.”
She hadn’t the stomach to really hurt him with the rock, but when he mentioned Clem, something inside her snapped and she raised the penknife and sunk it into his neck.
He screamed and pulled back, giving Lucy room to draw her legs up and give a kick that sent him reeling. The penknife had missed the artery, its blade landing at the base of Smiley’s neck. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but combined with the blow to his head, Smiley struggled to remain conscious, let alone stand.
Her initial instinct was to run. Smiley was in no state to give chase. There was time for her to grab Clem and get help. Clamouring to her feet, she took a few steps before stopping and turning back.
Smiley was on his side, eyes half closed. Lucy stepped up closer and stood over him. She made herself look at him even though every nerve in her body ached with the need to escape. He wasn’t a monster, just a pathetic shell of a man. Even before she stabbed him, it was clear he was sick. She bent and picked up Smiley’s knife, a large evil looking blade that glinted in the dying light.
She tossed the weapon into the darkness of the trees then unbuckled her belt and slid it from her waistband. Touching him made her skin shrivel, but she persisted, pulling his hands behind his back and securing them as best she could. All the while she ignored his whimpers and ramblings.
Lucy had no idea if the binding would hold, but she hoped it was enough to give her time to find Clem and get the hell out of the bush.
* * *
She closed the penknife but kept it in her hand, rolling the beads as she tramped through the overgrown vines and bushes. Smiley’s blood was drying on her face. Grimacing, she used her sleeve to swipe her cheek. The sky was purple as visibility diminished, she had to find Clem before darkness made it impossible.
A white ant mound like a rusty volcano cut a sharp outline against the failing light. Sure she remembered seeing the insect structure on her way to the stream, she picked up her pace. A little further on and another termite mound, this one looming skyward like a crumbling funnel. With each step the terrain looked different and unfamiliar until a sense of dread took over and she was turning left and right with no idea where she was.
“No, no, no, no.” She squeezed the penknife in her fist until the beads cut into her skin. How could she have walked away and left him without being sure she could find her way back?
Chapter Thirty-four
What had she been thinking? He was so small and helpless, all alone as night continued to approach. “Where are you? Where are you?” Panic was rising inside her like a fire, her boots drumming against the ground as she rushed blindly through the gloom. If she didn’t calm down and think, she’d never find Clem.
Fire. Lucy stopped moving. That was it. She remembered the scorched trees and the huge gum shaped like an arrow. With less than twenty minutes before darkness fell, she scanned the bush until she found a tree with low lying branches. The only thing she spotted that came close was a Banksia tree with rangy looking arms.
She stuck the penknife in her pocket and grabbed a hold of a low branch and climbed. The Banksia’s thick rough bark tore at her already cut and grazed fingers, but she managed to pull herself higher into the tree. Another metre and she was starting to gain more height.
With her legs scissored between two branches, she pulled herself up another half-body’s length, then wrapped her arm around a thinner limb and swung right. She thought she heard a crack, but didn’t dare look down. Up high in the tree balanced on a network of thin branches, the breeze was stronger, whipping the hair off her face and tugging at her damp clothing.
Clinging to the tree, her arm throbbing from the fall she’d taken earlier, she turned her head, scouring the landscape for anything familiar. The terrain looked dense, an endless expanse of grey and green with nothing to distinguish one area from another. It has to be here. The Banksia groaned under the sway of the wind and for a heart-wrenching second Lucy felt the tree bend. Digging her fingers into the bark, she gripped the tree like a koala.
Shivering, she pressed her face to the trunk and stared into the setting sun only to spot a dark arrow silhouette against the purple and orange haze. She let out a watery laugh that quickly dissolved into tears as she began easing herself down the tree. Somewhere near the lower branches, there was a dry snap and before she could stop herself she tumbled the last metre.
Her butt hit the ground with a jaw-snapping thud and suddenly she was staring up at the sky. Pausing only long enough to be sure nothing was broken, she scrambled to her feet and headed west. Within minutes she reached
the arrow shaped gum. Confused and certain she’d heard someone call her name, she plundered into the sparse ground of burnt-out trees.
The hollow tree, when she found it, seemed like a mirage, something shiny and surreal that might shimmer out of existence once it was touched. “I’m here.” She tried to call to him, but her voice was a dry croak.
“Clem,” she tried again. Slumping against the tree, she pulled the jacket away.
For a second she though he was gone, snatched away a second time, but then her eyes adjusted to the gloom and she realised he was flopped over, his dark hair obscuring his face.
“Clem.” She reached into the tree and took a hold of him. “Clem, it’s Lucy.”
His unresponsiveness made her heart beat in an irregular pattern. She lifted his head and was relieved to find his skin warm to the touch. “Clem, wake-up. We have to go now.”
She tapped his cheek and his lids fluttered, but remained closed. “Hopper?” Her voice was high with panic. “Wake up.”
With no time to waste, she pulled Clem out of the hollow and into her arms, feeling his body droop against her shoulder. He was alive but unconscious. She remembered the plan to head west to reach the neighbour’s house, so that’s what she did.
“Stay with me, Hopper. Listen to my voice. I’m taking you to your mummy.” She continued to talk, trying to pull Clem from unconsciousness with her voice.
Her legs were weakening, wobbling under her as she half-jogged half-staggered, all the while praying she was heading in the right direction. Barely able to see where she was going, she made her way through a crop of grass trees when a noise caught her attention.
Distant and faint, but clearly mechanical. Exhaustion and panic clouded her brain so that she couldn’t identify the sound. She followed the noise, turning right and ducking under low hanging branches. Something silky and slippery brushed her cheek, making her cringe and pull forward. Unable to bat the cobwebs away, she shook her head and whimpered.
A moment later her boots hit gravel and she was on a road. Knees wobbling, she stepped forward and found herself pinned under a powerful light and swamped with noise and wind.
* * *
Damon used the light on his phone to scan the outbuilding at the rear of Elaine’s home. Half expecting to find another bloody crime scene, he clenched his teeth and shoved his shoulder into the wooden door. It shifted with a gritty scrape, giving him enough room to lean into the small structure and shine his light.
Apart from a stack of splintered wooden crates and piles of rotted newspapers, the building sat empty. That left only the aluminium shed at the north of the building.
The sliding door was open just enough for Damon to grab a hold of its edge and pull it back, revealing an ancient Volkswagen Beetle. In place of tyres, the dusty vehicle sat on four stacks of bricks. With the car’s bulbous shell filling most of the small garage, he was forced to turn and shuffle side-on around the Beetle. When he reached the rear of the building, he played the light over the concrete floor, noticing the undisturbed layer of dust.
It took him another five minutes to wriggle out of the tiny space while breathing in grit and dust. Before closing the door, he dropped to the floor and shone the light under the car. Meeting a set of fierce glowing eyes, Damon let out a bark and tumbled back onto the ground outside the shed. Heart still in his throat, he regained his balance and peered under the car. Amid a pile of sticks and old rags, the numbat watched him with dark slanted eyes while its long narrow tongue flicked in and out of a pointed muzzle. Wary of an attack, she sat back on her hunches, revealing a litter of pups.
“It’s okay.” Damon kept the light steady and reached under the car. At his invasion of her territory, the small marsupial circled the nest, scurrying in front of her young with a ruffle of black stripy fur. Damon grabbed the crowbar from the floor and slid it out from under the car.
Once he had what he wanted, he lowered the light. “I’m going.” He slid the door back to its original position and left the numbat to care for her young. Obviously, the owners of the burnt-out house at number three weren’t the only ones who had been displaced from their home by the fire.
It was almost fully dark and still there was no sign of Lucy. He jogged back around the side of the house and shone the light on the Holden Commodore. He tried the driver’s door, but the car was locked. The short length of pipe in his pocket would have done as well, but he liked the heft of the bigger tool. Without hesitating, he swung the crowbar and smashed the driver’s window, sending a shower of brittle glass into the front seat.
Still holding the crowbar, he reached in through the window and opened the door. The interior of the car smelled like stale cigarettes and sweat. In the console was a pair of crumpled photographs. Both included Marina Plick and a teenager: one with a boy, and one with a girl. Remembering what Brock had said about preserving evidence, he resisted the urge to touch the pictures. As he leaned down and clicked open the boot, Damon noticed an almost empty bottle of cheap rum on the floor and a dusting of white powder on the armrest.
The idea of Tyson as a dangerous ex-con was only intensified by the thought of his actions possibly being fuelled by booze and drugs. Damon slammed the door and headed to the rear of the vehicle. Before lifting the lid on the boot, he swallowed and looked up at the darkening sky. After what he’d seen in the kitchen, he knew he had to be prepared for anything.
He took hold of the boot knowing that nothing he did or said could ever truly prepare him for finding Lucy’s body. There could be no fitting preparations for losing the only woman he’d ever really loved. He flipped up the lid and stared at an empty space. Even though she wasn’t dead in the boot, something about the bottle of booze and the white powder together with the smell of Tyson Plick’s sweat ignited a sense of rage that was as alien to Damon as it was powerful.
He slammed the boot and turned, staring into the darkness of the bush on the other side of the road. Maybe it was fury born out of frustration, because even though he knew Plick was close, Damon had no idea which way to go from here. A sense of helplessness mixed with the idea that someone like Plick might take Lucy from him, might kill an innocent child while stoned out of his mind, made Damon’s skin burn with anger.
He walked into the road, crowbar in one hand and phone in the other. The dense bush opposite Elaine’s house seemed immense, like a living monster that swallowed up all who entered. He spotted a dead crow on the road, its black feathers moving up and down in the breeze. He had nothing concrete, except Lucy’s car to lead him. She’d parked it across the road and his gut told him she was sending him a message. She was in the bushland on that side of the road; he was certain of it.
“Lucy!” He bellowed her name into the darkness. “Lucy, I’m here!”
With nothing but the phone to light his way, he crossed the road. Before he had the chance to duck into the trees, headlights appeared on the road and his Jeep pulled up beside him.
“The old guy up the street let me use his phone,” Brock said, leaning out of the driver’s window. “Help’s on the way.”
He looked down at the crowbar in Damon’s hand. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing. You?”
Brock shook his head. “I found a sideroad and drove about a kilometre south, but didn’t even see another vehicle.”
The sound of a helicopter seemed to grow from a faint thrum to a full-blown whir and within seconds strong light filled the road. Larson must have contacted Lighnus and convinced him to get a chopper up and searching. The helicopter moved in Damon’s and Brock’s direction, pinning the men and the Jeep under its powerful strobe.
With his attention on the chopper, Damon almost missed the figure stumbling out of the trees a few metres up the road. In the gloom, the dark outline moving out of the bush could have been a roo, but then the shape became familiar. Damon dropped the crowbar and ran.
Chapter Thirty-five
Holding Clem, keeping him from slipping from her arms, w
as becoming almost impossible as the beating of the helicopter blades seemed to sap the last of Lucy’s strength. Both relieved and overwhelmed, she wanted to scream at the pilot to either help or pull back.
With her hair flying around her face and her jumper flapping against her body, she stumbled.
“Help us.” Her words were snatched away by the roar of the rotors.
Squinting and blinded by the lights overhead, she saw a figure appear and for one horrifying second she thought she saw Smiley’s skull-like face in the glare. She let out a shriek and tried to pull back only to feel arms encircling her.
“Lucy, I’ve got you.” Damon’s voice cut through the howl of the chopper and suddenly she was on solid ground.
Damon took Clem from her quivering arms and laid him on the road.
“I don’t know if he’s breathing.” Lucy was crying as Damon tucked an arm around her waist and pressed his lips to hers.
“Jesus, Lucy.” He sounded as terrified as her. “I thought I lost you.” He moved to check Clem, but pulled her back towards him again, this time kissing the top of her head.
Crouching over Clem while sirens screamed and the helicopter hovered above them, Lucy asked, “Is he...?” She couldn’t finish the question.
Damon looked up and met her gaze. “He’s breathing.” He had to shout over the racket. “He’s–”
“Get down on the ground.” An amplified voice roared from above, blocking out whatever Damon was trying to say.
Damon’s head snapped up and Lucy, confused, turned and followed his gaze. Smiley broke from the trees, knife in hand like a bloody spectre. Lucy lowered, covering Clem with her body as Damon jumped to his feet.
As the sirens grew louder and the voice overhead continued to bark orders, Brock barrelled past Damon and Lucy. Launching himself, he hit Smiley in the chest and knocked him off his feet. With lightning speed, Brock flipped Smiley onto his stomach and dropped a knee onto his spine.
Time seemed to stretch and jump as Clem was placed on a stretcher. Someone draped a shock blanket around Lucy’s shoulders as she followed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.
