‘And your mother?’
Fisher smiled. ‘A gardener … A builder of beauty.’ She grew sober, again self-conscious. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Don’t be,’ Everett said. He took a card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. ‘Call my mobile if you need anything, okay? Any time.’
Fisher nodded and slipped the card into her shirt pocket. ‘Thanks. I will.’ She pointed towards the number nine dig, with its border of police tape. ‘Do you need a hand with anything?’
‘Nah,’ Everett said, observing the relief on her face. ‘I just want to check something that’s been bugging me. Shouldn’t be long.’
‘Better you than me, Detective.’ She moved the barricade and waved Everett through.
Everett paused. ‘Tell me, Fisher. Who seems the happiest out of your father and mother?’
She frowned. ‘My mother,’ she said. ‘By a mile.’
He nodded. ‘Tells you something, huh?’ The detective looked around the site. ‘This, or being a builder of beauty. I would think the choice’d be an easy one to make.’ He casually saluted his thanks, then drove past Fisher and parked by the opening, noting her thoughtful expression as she replaced the barricades.
Everett broke the police seal, pulled open the door, and stared into the darkness beyond. It was so dense, with a feeling of malevolence that could be sliced with a knife. He felt for the circuit switch that was hanging inside the entrance and turned on the lights with a loud click. The darkness dissolved. He took a moment, then stepped inside and frowned. Knowing what was down there stirred emotions from his childhood: terror of the thing under the bed, in the closet; a primal fear of the dark. As long as he could hear that generator humming outside he’d be okay, he thought.
The pumps were keeping up with the water seepage, the compartments remaining relatively dry – for now. He wondered whether they would cope once the river began to rise. Everett moved into the far chamber and patted his pockets, looking for his phone, then realised he had left it back at the hall. Damn! Music was his distraction; some company other than that of the dead.
He squatted and focused on the central body. The three had a bond, with being in this place, suffering the same method of immobility and – although it would take an autopsy to confirm it – he suspected they had all died from their stab wounds. But the mutilations … They were what set them apart. Or did they?
The central corpse – the first victim – had both ears cut off. Everett took his Maglite from his pocket and focused its beam on the wound. The edges were ragged, as though hacked, and the caked black blood stains on the flannelette shirt’s collar were evidence that the victim was still alive throughout the ordeal.
Everett moved to the body on the left. The eyes were sunken, empty hollows, and he hoped that the fellow had been dead before they were removed. ‘One can’t hear, and the other can’t see,’ he whispered. Then something seeped into his consciousness, like water into sandstone: Sergeant Stone’s three wise monkeys ashtray. Hear no evil, see no evil and … He glanced at the third victim.
Everett leaned closer, took his pen from his shirt pocket and peeled the man’s lips back, which sounded like old newspaper tearing. Rigor mortis had clenched the jaw closed. He took his handkerchief, laid it over the victim’s jawline and pried the mouth open with his hands. If this doesn’t pay, forensics are gonna be plenty pissed. The jaw opened with a brittle crack. He heard the air escape a second before the stench hit him. Everett fell back onto the damp floor, staring at the gaping mouth. There was no tongue.
‘Speak no evil,’ he murmured.
That’s when he realised he had been wrong. Their separate mutilations didn’t point to their differences. They tied them together. These men were not killed for what they did. It was for what they didn’t do; for what they heard; for what they saw. And, perhaps more importantly, for what they didn’t say.
*
Taylor stepped outside the Brown Sugar and paused on the edge of the sandstone-brick gutter line. He turned up his collar against the chill and contemplated going upstairs for his jacket. A cold wind drove leaves ahead of its gust, charging along the road as the street sign on the corner rattled in its passage. He burped with a slight grimace, tasting the parmigiana again. Then, on the sidewalk nearby, he heard a heavy splat. He recognised the sound at once, saw the amber slime, and cast his gaze to the sky. The moon silhouetted fruit bats’ unfurled wings, the legion towards the orchards in the south-west. It seemed primordial.
Raucous voices from the Royal drifted into the street and demanded Taylor’s attention. As weary as he felt, he knew the only bar in town would be a hub of information. He also knew it would be considered a sacred place by its patrons, and that information wasn’t always offered readily to strangers.
Taylor watched as a familiar face in blue overalls and a canvas hat staggered from the doors and stumbled across the pavement. It was Carl Wiggins, the ferryman. He clutched the awning pillar to recover his balance as the two boys who had passed the café earlier followed him, taking an arm each to support his wavering tread. A volley of laughter came from the bar.
A spark of recognition when he spotted Taylor raised the man’s brow. ‘The park ranger,’ he slurred. Wiggins winked and tapped his nose. ‘You and that city cop found our killer yet?’
The man’s mild Scottish accent seemed stronger under the influence of alcohol. Taylor thought about his answer, but guessed that whatever he said would not be remembered tomorrow. ‘Not yet, Carl.’
Wiggins grinned through nicotine-stained teeth, pressing his tongue between the gap where one was missing. It was like a pink slug squeezing between two weathered stones. He then pointed to the metal flood-level sign screwed to the wall by the saloon doors. The boys stood patiently by his side – a role that appeared familiar to them.
‘The last flood of eighty-eight,’ Wiggins said in a rasping voice. He pulled his pig sticker from its sheath, waved it towards the mark, then pushed himself away from the pillar and his boys. With a grimace, he limped across the pavement to the sign and, with the tip of his blade, tapped the red line painted at the ten-metre mark. The boys followed, and resumed their positions. ‘The river ran right through the bar,’ he garbled. ‘I remember it like it was yesterday.’
Taylor was surprised Wiggins even had enough brain cells left to remember what he did that morning. But his affinity with this place was evident, and the ranger wondered how the poor soul had coped without the pub during the flood. ‘Nature can be cruel,’ was all Taylor could offer.
Wiggins turned to stare across the square to the levee wall, his glassy eyes struggling to focus. He pointed the pig sticker at it. ‘The levee broke right in the middle of happy hour,’ he said. ‘That’s why they eventually raised the weir wall upriver.’ He coughed his wet smoker’s rasp. ‘Ain’t never broke its banks since.’
‘Da,’ said the boy in the grey hoodie. He gently took the knife from his father’s loose grip and slipped it into his belt. ‘Ma says you’ve gotta go home.’
The eighty-eight flood was probably the last time this man was entirely sober. ‘Well,’ said Taylor, ‘you take it easy walking home, okay?’
‘Walking?’ Wiggins spat, fumbled for his car keys. He shook his head vigorously. ‘Nah, I’m gonna drive home, Ranger.’ He held up his keys with a triumphant smile. ‘I’m too damn drunk to walk.’
‘No you don’t, Da.’ The boy in the grey hoodie snatched the keys from his father’s fingers. ‘Let’s walk this one off.’
Wiggins huffed loudly, but his reflexes were no match for his son’s. ‘There’s a lot of your mother in you, boy,’ he slurred, but seemed resigned to the fact that he was walking home.
‘Amen to that, Da,’ the boy said.
Taylor watched them walk away. The silent boy wearing the red windcheater glanced over his shoulder, nodded. Taylor nodded back. He took a last look at the flood sign and stepped inside. It was warm, the air hazy. The anti-smoking laws obviously haven’t affe
cted this place yet. The jukebox, a classic Wurlitzer, in the far corner, was playing a nasally country and western song over the clamour of voices and the clacking of billiard balls. These were the drifters who Heather Starling was talking about. Men who knew how to work hard and play hard, with no stakes in the town that they would one day walk away from. But there was another group of older men sitting at the end of the bar; heads down, they spoke in whispers, avoiding eye contact with the loggers. Taylor watched them, noted their claim on the bar, and guessed they might be Heather’s handful of true locals. The place was busy, and he recalled Jaimie’s statement from earlier: Oh, it’ll liven up tonight.
Taylor stepped up to the bar between two men in jeans and flannelette shirts, and could smell the woody sawdust in their clothes. He looked around the room at all the thirty-something men with shabby hair and dusty clothes, their exposed arms personal tattoo galleries of assorted mementos, dreams and nightmares.
A woman he assumed to be the publican was pulling a beer. She was in her mid-fifties, maybe, with grey hair in a bun that resembled an abandoned bird’s nest, had a no-nonsense demeanour, and seemed like someone who had become middle-aged comfortably. Georgie Emery, no doubt. Some people fit effortlessly into their environment and some people don’t, Taylor thought. Georgie fit this place seamlessly, as if one could not exist without the other. He watched her serve the beers with a certain fluid motion that bordered on graceful. She handed over the change, wiped her hands on her apron, then turned her attention to Taylor.
‘What can I get you?’ she said in a voice that was a little hoarse. The usual judgement towards strangers Taylor had experienced in other small towns was absent from her smoky grey eyes. It was a relief. He glanced at the glass-fronted fridge behind her, spotting the limited choice of bottled beers. ‘Corona, thanks.’
Georgie popped the top off a bottle and clunked it onto the counter. Taylor handed her a ten. ‘Can I have a slice of lime in it, please?’ he asked.
The hint of a smile pressed at Georgie’s lips. She glanced at Taylor’s shirt emblem, then looked him in the eye. ‘You’re not from around here, huh?’ It wasn’t really a question.
Taylor met her stare. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m working with Parks and Wildlife.’
Georgie pursed her lips – any inkling of a smile having faded – and opened the register. She slapped Taylor’s change on the counter. ‘No fruit,’ she said. ‘Not much call for it around here.’
Taylor regretted asking. He lifted his bottle in a silent Cheers and took a mouthful. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and watched Georgie amble the length of the bar to serve a man in a leather jacket, his black open-faced helmet on the bar in front of him. Taylor recognised the patch on the back of his leathers – Live to Ride, Ride to Live. The biker wore a long hunting knife on his belt, its black leather sheath carved with a Celtic knot, with the initials JS embossed on the handle.
What is it with knives around here?
‘Hey, Sampson,’ came a shout from the pool tables at the back of the room, ‘you’re up next.’
The biker responded by clutching his glass and downing it in three deep gulps. Taylor raised his eyebrows, impressed. The man-mountain stood and belched loudly as he turned. ‘Nah. I’m outta here,’ he declared and raised his helmet in the air in a farewell gesture. The room parted as he lumbered to the front door. He had logger written all over his weathered face and wide powerful hands. But there was something else, Taylor decided: a strange lack of confidence in the way he dipped his head and discreetly scanned the room on his way out, which contrasted with his confident gait. He seemed somehow … guarded.
‘Careful out there, Sampson,’ bellowed the same voice as before. ‘Watch out for the Hoodoo, buddy.’ The room broke into laughter as the biker raised his middle finger high in a parting token without looking back.
Taylor took another mouthful of beer; it seemed a little bitter this time. Even over the din of the bar, he heard the Harley’s big V-twin engine kick over and fall into an uneven idle. He looked out the window and saw the machine turn out from the alley beside the pub and roar away.
Georgie walked past, cleaning a glass with the edge of her apron. ‘Hey,’ said Taylor.
‘Still got no fruit,’ she said as she stopped to lean on the bar. ‘Nearest lime tree is fifty clicks north.’
Taylor ignored the swipe. ‘What’s that about a Hoodoo?’
Georgie snickered. ‘Old loggers’ tale,’ she said. ‘If you ask me, they came up with the Hoodoo to explain why men disappear from the camp.’
What the fuck? ‘So, what is it?’
‘They say it’s a shape shifter; you know, takes on many forms. You meet a Hoodoo out there, it’ll be the last thing you ever see or do.’
Taylor thought of the three bodies in the dig site. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘Like I said, it’s just a myth to explain why men disappear from the camps overnight without a trace,’ she said. ‘They move on, is all, chasing work and pussy, or maybe running from the law … Who knows?’
The lights suddenly flickered and the jukebox stammered as a gust of wind rattled the windows. A collective cheer rose from the bar.
‘Settle down, ya bastards!’ Georgie cried.
‘Why the cheer?’ Taylor asked.
‘Because every time we get a blackout around here, I lose about two hundred bucks in stock from my shelves.’ She nodded towards the group playing pool. ‘I’m sure the thieving bastards can see in the dark.’
‘Blackouts common around here?’
‘We have the one cable across the river that feeds the town.’ She shrugged. ‘Wind, floods, lightning strike. All too common for my liking.’
The isolation suddenly hit Taylor. He was the proverbial stranger in a strange land. He thought of home; thought of Maggie and Erin, the sounds and smells of the house. He lost interest in his beer and slid it aside.
‘Get you another?’
‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m done.’
Georgie took the bottle. ‘Done before you’ve started, huh?’
As flippant as the question was, Taylor thought hard before he replied. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
5
The morning sun strained through the milky film of dust and grime on the community hall’s windows. Even so, it was welcome after Everett’s restless night on the musty-smelling canvas bed. Might as well be a plank of wood, he thought with a groan. The doors to the street had rattled all night with each gust of wind, and the water pipes shook against the western wall every time the mains pressure changed. The damned building seemed alive.
Everett lay in bed a few moments longer, then stretched his back as he considered in the new light of day what he had done with the hall. A little improvisation goes a long way, he decided.
He stood, the cool of the morning abruptly penetrating his T-shirt and Y-fronts. He could smell coffee from somewhere, and craved its warmth and stimulation. Everett draped the blanket around his shoulders, and staggered to the edge of the stage, where he rested his arms on the cool timber boards.
It was the best he could do with what little he had. He had taped his case notes and maps to the mural prop of a castle’s interior – complete with fireplace and ornate mantle. For now, the stage was as good as anywhere for an incident room; a physical barrier, however limited, to any prying eyes. Two fold-out trestle tables and a scattering of chairs that Everett had found stacked beneath the stage were set up at the foot of the steps, beneath the light and warmth of a west-facing window. Laptop, printer, mobile and assorted stationery were spread across the nearest table. His two watches lay beside each other next to the computer. He placed them on his wrist, and held Archie’s up to his ear – habit now – but it remained silent.
‘What will today hold, Sarge?’
But only the groaning water pipes answered with a dull drumming.
Everett turned on the computer as he stepped past it. The pub’s wi-fi was working and the mobile signal was a stable three b
ars. He grabbed a marker then climbed the steps. The stage floor creaked under his weight as he stopped in front of the prop wall, folded his arms, and contemplated the meagre trail of evidence laid out before him.
The area map had a red circle around the dig site, while points of interest – the town, logging camp and isolated buildings marked as ruins – were highlighted in yellow. Beside it were photographs of the bodies and crime scene, including the strange A symbol on the boat cabin door. It all had a stark clarity in the morning light. The applicable three wise monkeys references were written at the foot of each victim’s photo: Hear no evil – See no evil – Speak no evil.
A length of butcher’s paper hung over the edge of the prop wall. It was frustratingly blank. Everett tapped his pursed lips with the end of the marker as he considered the blank paper. The wind moaned under the eaves like a mournful choir. He stepped forwards, wrote on the paper:
1/Primary crime location = ??? Unknown ???
2/Secondary crime location = Dig site # 9
3/Access to dig site 9 = Parks & Wildlife / University staff
4/“A” symbol = WTF!?! Someone’s name? – Graffiti tag? – Anarchy? – Adultery? – What???
This was no crime of passion, he reminded himself. No moment of madness ending in someone’s death. These men were targeted over time; the mutilations a message for those who found them, not for those who died. But, more than that, the perpetrator wanted the world to know who did this. Maybe not right now, but eventually. Everett recalled the Zodiac Killer’s symbol; the name ‘Son of Sam’ on the murderer’s letters to the police; and, of course, Jack the Ripper’s ‘From Hell’ letter. The detective felt a wisp of air brush the back of his neck. He gathered the blanket higher and the photos fluttered slightly. He ran his finger along the A symbol. Each brushstroke was clean and deliberate, well-practiced and unrushed.
His mobile rang, loud in the empty hall. Everett flinched. He jumped the short drop from the stage and picked up his phone, Unknown number on the screen. ‘Detective Everett,’ he said, hoping it was good news from the State Crime Command: that the assigned team would be there before the storm surge hit.
The Reach Page 6
