Swirls of dust danced through the spear of dappled light at their feet. Hutch retrieved his iPhone and turned on the torch. He stepped into the darkness, which dissolved to a grey gloom as the torchlight burst to life. It exposed the vessel’s ribcage, arching upwards from the floor as if in the belly of a whale, the walls glistening like damp stone, the floor growing progressively damper leading to a pool of water at the far end. He felt like Carter opening Tutankhamun’s tomb.
Something pulled at Hutch’s jacket, startling him.
It was Jay, holding out his hand. Hutch sighed, took out the twenty and handed it to him. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You earned it.’ He expected them to leave him there, but they hung around in the newfound light, the floorboards creaking beneath each step.
The weight of the camera around his neck reminded Hutch why he was there. He turned. First, a photo of the opening, no flash. Then a balanced picture, forwards, down the centre of the keel line, the flash casting shadows off the ribs and beams. Hutch checked the image on the screen, breathed out a single word: ‘Perfect.’ Then he frowned; the flash having reached further than his phone’s torchlight, he’d noticed something in the picture: a closed hatch in the far wall.
‘You kids know what’s behind that door?’ he asked.
Jay looked over Hutch’s shoulder at the screen. ‘Hadn’t noticed it before,’ he said. ‘We never venture too far from the light.’
Hutch held the phone high, careful of each step he took as he walked within the illuminated halo to the door. The pooled water was ankle deep and cold. We never venture too far from the light. It was one of those statements that lodged firmly under your skin.
The door had a simple latch, its brass tarnished green. From the direction of the hull, Hutch guessed that it would lead them to the university-built entrances topside. It took considerable force to lift the latch, the handle dangerously close to tearing from the timber before the door peeled open with a faint sucking sound. The smell was pungent. He grimaced, his eyes watering as if he’d been slapped in the face. ‘Shit!’ He waved the boys back.
‘Oh, man,’ said Jay, lifting the hem of his hoodie to his mouth and nose.
Fingers backed further away, grimacing as he signed something to his brother, then pulled his windcheater up to cover his face.
Satisfied the boys were safe, Hutch breathed through his mouth to stifle the smell and gestured to Fingers. ‘What did he say?’
Jay dropped his mask just long enough to reply. ‘He said it’s the mother of all farts.’
Hutch shook his head, a smile shaping his lips. Mother of all farts, indeed. He forced the door open as far as it would go and held the phone through the cavity, but the darkness there was even hungrier, the water like a black mirror.
‘What do you see?’ Jay and his brother had retreated to the fresh air of the sinkhole.
‘A whole lot of nothing,’ Hutch replied.
He held up his Nikon and took a random picture. The flash revealed a split second of disorder, a clutter of shapes that made little sense. He reviewed the image on the screen. It was slightly out of focus. Beams and a staircase, perhaps; crates and what could be upturned furniture floating in the water; and … he couldn’t quite make it out. Something at the far end, squeezed between shadows, no more than a silhouette. Then Hutch’s hands trembled as he reached into his jacket pocket for the zoom lens, eyes fixed unblinkingly through the doorway. What he had seen, or thought he saw, just couldn’t be. His practical side reassured him that it was a trick of the light, but the repulsive smell screamed otherwise.
The lens slid into place with a satisfying click. He held the Nikon against the doorframe to steady his trembling hands. Its cyclopean eye pointed into the centre of the cabin, blinked open with a press of the shutter button. The flash filled the cabin. Hutch fell back onto his haunches on unsteady legs as he drew the Nikon into his lap. He pressed preview. The screen filled with a crisp, clear image from the far wall. This time there was no mistaking it. The three figures sat crossed-legged against the far wall, shoulder to shoulder.
‘What is it?’ Jay cried. ‘What did you see?’
Hutch looked up and, in a whisper, said, ‘The picture that roared.’
1
The afternoon shadows reached across the clearing where a mob of kangaroos had gathered to graze. A tall grey with haunches of silver streaks glanced towards the east, ears forwards; perhaps in response to the leaves that rustled at the inkling of a breeze, or perhaps sensing nightfall creeping over the horizon. Taylor Bridges watched them from the fire trail and smiled. Eat up, he thought, realising that in another month or so the frosts would turn the grass auburn and brittle. He brushed dirt from the Parks Victoria emblem on his shirt and walked over to the damaged signpost he was there to mend.
MURPHY’S CORNER
Red Hands Cave – 400 metres →
It was the third repair this month; another SUV taking the corner too fast and too wide. He winced as he lifted the trail sign from the ditch, the sudden movement pinching the damaged nerve in his shoulder.
On days like this, Taylor felt his body betraying him, aching where it shouldn’t for his forty-first year. He looked at his hands clutching the sign. They were rough and grimy from the day in the park, dirt under his fingernails. But, more than that, his life had slipped through them like sand. He had loved with those hands; fought with them. They had held his firstborn, and held her body in an alpine ice cave seven years ago. He trembled at the memory, always lurking, keen to remind him of that tragedy; his penance.
Enough, Taylor thought. He closed his eyes as the memory surfaced; pressed it back down with all his emotional might. Fireflies danced in the darkness behind his eyes. He opened them wide, let the sunlight surge in. ‘Enough,’ he whispered to the breeze.
Taylor propped the sign against the upright and wiped his hands down the front of his pants. A crow cawed overhead as he walked back to his Parks HiLux. He paused when he saw the RANGER roof sign flicker on and off. Then a grin inched across his face as his daughter beamed at him through the dusty windscreen. Her deep brown eyes, like her mother’s – like her late sister’s – met his own.
‘You’ll drain the battery,’ he called as he approached. ‘You want to spend the night out here with the roos?’ He rubbed the day-old bristle on his face, then brushed his fringe from his forehead; he was overdue for a haircut.
The roof light extinguished, Erin wriggled across the seat to meet him at the open window. She looked weary after her long day with him in the field. Her summer tan had begun to fade, freckles reappearing across her six-year-old face. The passenger-side door opened, and she eased herself down from the seat with a dainty grunt. She flattened her shirt with both hands. Taylor felt a burst of love for her, like the first rays of sunlight at dawn. She wore a khaki ranger’s top that Brian Ross, the district chief ranger, had made especially for her birthday.
‘Can we go home soon?’ she asked.
Taylor stepped past, playfully tugging Erin’s honey-blond ponytail. ‘I need to fix this sign first,’ he said. He lifted his canvas tool bag from the Toyota’s rear tray. ‘You want to help?’
She shrugged, then picked up a stick and dragged it in the dust behind her. ‘Okay.’
He nodded to the sandstone shell of the homestead across the fire trail. ‘Why don’t you check out the ruins for me? Let me know if those graffiti bandits have come back.’
He watched as she trailed her stick to the stone ruins. The building was one of the original convict selections – the Murphy family’s – and now heritage listed. It wasn’t much more than a fireplace and three walls, and the ground around it was covered in a layer of red and gold leaves from the maple trees the Murphys had planted nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Erin swept at the leaves with her stick as she passed, and the scent of damp earth charged the air.
Taylor kneeled at the upright. He’d nailed one end of the sign when he heard a vehicle approaching. He looked over his shou
lder and recognised the district chief ranger’s Land Cruiser rattling towards the corner. It pulled up beside him, stirring up the dust. Brian Ross stepped out, combed his fingers through his short beard and placed his Parks Victoria cap over his dark, thinning hair, hiding the sun spots that rimmed his forehead.
He smiled, but Taylor recognised a darkness in his eyes that he hadn’t seen since Brian’s daughter was abducted two years ago. Taylor had been involved in that case, a chain of murders in a nearby national park, as a Parks consultant. Brian’s daughter, Aroha, was found before she became another of the other dead girls, but not before scars were left on Brian and his family. And Taylor knew all too well that not all scars lay on the surface. Like the roots of an old tree, each led to a memory sustained by grief. The vehicle accident on his watch. Claire disappearing in the blizzard, stark red parka dissolving into a curtain of white.
Taylor had to shake off the wave of grief as he stood to meet his boss. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
Brian looked towards Erin, who was playing in the ruins, making sure she was out of earshot. He then glanced at his shoes like a shy schoolboy, hands slipping into his pockets as he kicked a stone away. ‘I had a call for you back at the station.’
Taylor frowned. ‘You could have patched it through the radio. Why come all the way out here?’
Brian met Taylor’s eyes. ‘It’s an open channel, and the call was no one else’s business.’
Taylor felt the blood drain from his face. Maggie! ‘Is she okay?’
Brian held his hands up. ‘Your wife’s fine, buddy. The call was from the police north of the border. Three bodies were found in the Dharug National Park near Sydney.’
Relieved that Maggie was okay, Taylor felt the blood return to his face, then grasped what Brian had told him.
‘What’s that got to do with Parks Victoria? With me?’
‘I guess you’re getting a reputation, Taylor. Glorys Crossing, Eldritch Falls. The local ranger up there put your name forward to the investigating cops.’
Taylor nodded. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Brian. ‘A James Barlow. You’ll be working with him up there.’ He paused. ‘The police see similarities with the locations, and acknowledge the sensitivities associated with national parks. They think you can help.’
‘Who did the request come from?’ Taylor asked. ‘Parks and Wildlife, or the cops?’
‘The cops … Like I said, you’re getting a reputation.’
Taylor looked towards Erin. She had stopped playing and was standing in a pile of leaves, watching him and Brian. ‘What did you tell them?’
Brian shrugged. ‘I told them Parks Victoria could arrange the loan, but that it was entirely up to you.’
Taylor sighed. ‘Okay, give me a day. Send the case details to my home email. I’ll talk to Maggie tonight. Let you know in the morning.’
‘Fair enough,’ Brian said. His gaze returned to Erin, now creating a mound of autumn leaves beside the sandstone wall. She was talking to herself in muttered tones. ‘How is she going? Does she still …’
‘Talk to her dead sister?’ Taylor finished for him. ‘Yeah, she does. We don’t encourage it. I figure lots of kids have imaginary friends but, sometimes, the things she says … are things only Claire could have known.’ He shook his head. ‘We don’t know what to do about it.’
Brian patted Taylor’s arm. ‘Don’t turn it into something supernatural, buddy. You’d be surprised what kids pick up from their parents’ conversations. I’m sure she’ll grow out of it someday.’
‘I hope so.’ Taylor watched his daughter playing, and it occurred to him that maybe he didn’t want that at all; that Erin’s connection with her sister was the last straw in holding on to Claire.
‘Okay,’ Brian said. ‘I’ll leave you be.’ He gave Erin a hearty wave and she waved back. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said as he stepped up into his Land Cruiser. ‘Don’t work too late, okay?’
‘I won’t.’ Taylor watched him drive away, then returned to the sign, pausing to look back at Erin and her mound of autumn leaves.
He reached around to his jeans back pocket, retrieved his ragged brown wallet and opened the photo sleeve. He, Maggie and Erin in front of last year’s Christmas tree. He smiled, then pinched the photo behind it, slipped it out enough to see the faded image of him and Claire, knee deep in snow. Miss you. The thought drifted around him like a cold wind. He pushed it back, his eyes a little misty.
Taylor began thinking about the interstate request as he returned the wallet to his pocket. The last case at Eldritch Falls had left with him a satisfying feeling of justice done. National parks were about preserving the wilderness, not providing dumping grounds for murderers.
Taylor felt a tug at his shirt sleeve. He drew a breath, startled.
‘What did Uncle Brian want?’
He knew better than to lie to Erin, and stroked her cheek affectionately. ‘He wants me to help the police catch some bad men again.’
She looked concerned. ‘Mum’s not gonna like it.’
Taylor smiled. ‘I know, sweetheart.’
Taylor’s phone sounded from his pocket. Probably Maggie. He opened his email and smiled at the eBay congratulations message. His bid for the 1974 Winnebago engine grille had been successful. He didn’t know what would be toughest: telling Maggie about the request from the cops up north, or about the two hundred and fifty dollars he’d just blown.
*
The evening air sent a shiver through Taylor as he stepped down from the Winnebago he’d squeezed into his driveway a year ago. He brushed sawdust from his shirt sleeves and rested the wood saw against the wheel arch. The RV’s door closed with a rattle, and he had to jiggle the handle to ensure the latch engaged. He took the key from the door, the red and chrome Winnebago badge hanging from the key ring, and pulled the corner of the tarp down to cover the iconic W symbol on the side panels. Despite his best efforts, the roof still leaked. He could smell the timber dust in his nostrils as he stepped back, arms crossed.
Another year, he thought, and she’ll be ready for the road. He smiled.
Taylor turned off the porch light as he walked inside and closed the front door, careful not to wake Erin. The day in the park had worn her out. Him too.
The study door was open and the glow of the computer screen spilled out into the hall. He paused in the doorway, the RV keys still in hand, the laptop’s screensaver dancing on the monitor. Despite the distraction of the Winnebago restoration, the case notes the police had sent were still in a corner of his mind. He stepped over to the study window and slid it closed, kicking a cardboard box beside the desk as he turned. He recognised it at once, TASMANIA written across the open lid. He looked up at the gap on the bookcase where it belonged and sighed. He wasn’t surprised Maggie was digging up old memories at a time like this.
He lifted it onto the corner of the desk, about to close the lid, when he saw the headline on the top newspaper: TAYLOR BRIDGES – the father who never gave up. It was the first article published after he found Claire’s body in the summer of 2011. ‘Never gave up,’ he whispered. He closed the lid and returned the box to his other archives on the bookcase, where it perched like Poe’s Raven. ‘Nevermore,’ Taylor murmured, then settled back into the office chair, placing the keys beside his computer. They landed between two photos. One of Erin, the other of Claire.
The laptop’s fan whirred to life as he tapped the space bar to wake it up. He opened Google, typed James Barlow and pressed enter. Taylor was naturally curious about the man who had recommended him for this investigation. The search results showed a standard social media presence: Facebook, Twitter, and various National Parks and Wildlife links. He wasn’t all that different from Taylor. Family man, two decades of field service and a short stint at the head office in Sydney. He was probably as qualified as Taylor was to help the cops.
But they didn’t call him, did they? They called you.
Taylor closed th
e page, noticing that the case files the cops sent were still open. He pressed print. The document was only three pages, but it was the full-page photograph of the crime scene that held Taylor captive. He leaned closer to the screen, looking at the three bodies in varying degrees of decay.
‘The thing I hate most,’ came Maggie’s voice from over his shoulder, ‘is that you bring this into our home.’
It surprised him, a startled huff escaping his lips. Taylor closed the image and swung the chair around to meet his wife’s stare. She looked mildly annoyed, the computer screen reflected in her black-rimmed glasses. Taylor paused, then noted the beginnings of a forgiving smirk. He felt his cheeks flush, relieved.
‘Sorry,’ he offered.
She placed one of the glasses of red wine she was holding on the desk beside Taylor. ‘What if I was Erin?’ she said. ‘I don’t want her seeing any of this.’
‘She’s sleeping.’
‘This time,’ Maggie added as she closed the study door. She sat on the corner of the desk and sipped her wine. He reached up and curled a strand of her hair around his finger, then cupped her cheek affectionately. The dim light softened her features, her hair framing her face. So beautiful, he thought.
‘It won’t happen again.’
She nodded at the screen. ‘Show me,’ she said. ‘I want to see what you’re getting into.’
He sipped his wine, the taste mixing with the lingering hint of the chicken curry they had eaten earlier. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
She chuckled and playfully smacked the back of his head. ‘Yes you have. Now, show me.’
He clicked on the image. ‘Three men found in an archaeology dig site up north,’ he said.
She frowned at the image. ‘What makes them think it’s a murder? Maybe they were trapped down there.’
The Reach Page 2
