Taylor returned his attention to the ruined cabin. He stepped up on the edge of the foundation and looked across the debris. It was no place to hide a hostage or a body. But then he heard another sound – familiar, but out of place – and he wondered whether it was just caused by the wind. The expression on Jaimie’s face suggested otherwise. It was a knocking; its cadence slow but deliberate.
‘It’s coming from around the side,’ she said.
Taylor stepped down and followed the sound. It was resounding from the closed doors of a cellar chute in the foundation wall, locked shut by a crosspiece of timber through two steel brackets. The sound stopped. He bent down on one knee, the ground damp, and held his ear closer. That’s when he noticed the water swelling out from the ground-level gap. He frowned and looked up at Jaimie.
‘The water table would have risen with the river,’ she said. ‘The cellar is probably flooded.’
He flinched at another sudden knock on the chute doors. ‘It could be Sampson,’ Taylor said.
He reached for the crosspiece and forced it out of the stays. The doors burst open with a surge of brown muck that forced Taylor onto his rump, the water carrying the scorched timber beam that had been bumping against the doors. The beam was already in his lap when he saw the snake that had sought refuge around it. He held his breath. The snake reared, and Taylor recognised the fat, squat body with steely grey bands – a death adder. It struck before he could react, getting his shirtsleeve. Jesus fucking Christ! It coiled back again, mouth wide, fangs exposed. Jaimie grasped the snake behind the jowls and whipped it away in one fluid motion. It coiled and twisted in protest as it hit the ground, then wound away into the nearby underbrush.
She kneeled beside him, wide-eyed, pale. ‘Did it get you?’ she asked.
Taylor unbuttoned his shirt and peeled his arm out of the shirtsleeve. Jaimie clutched at it in frantic exploration.
‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You’re doing more damage than the damned snake.’ It appeared that the fangs hadn’t broken the fabric. He felt relieved and could see the same relief mirrored in Jaimie’s expression.
She relaxed and let go of his arm. ‘Sorry,’ she said, looking a little flushed now. ‘Wouldn’t look good on my CV, losing a borrowed ranger.’
Taylor smiled and slipped his shirt back on as he stood. His wet pants clung to him, and he pulled out his phone to see if it was still working. He wiped it on the dry shoulder of his shirt. The signal bars were strong and the screen clear. ‘I’m calling this in,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of Sampson and the trail has gone cold.’
‘Fine by me,’ Jaimie replied.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said and keyed Everett’s number.
*
The detective placed the plastic bag on the table beside his computer. He took out the contents, one at a time. Half a pack of cornflour, a tube of paper cups and a cracked porcelain plate. He turned the plastic bag over and a soft-bristled makeup brush slid out.
Everett nodded, pleased with himself, patting his pants pocket for the book of matches he’d taken from the pub when he first arrived in town. He plucked out the book and put it on the plate. Be treated like a King at The Royal was the caption on the cover beneath a sketchy picture of a crown. That’s when he noticed the message light blinking on his phone.
He played the messages on speaker as he opened the cornflour. The first was his senior officer, wanting a sitrep; the second was a reporter from the Herald, wanting a statement. Damn, that pisses me off! It had to be Georgie Emery giving out Everett’s number. Third one today. And he suspected that she wouldn’t have bothered if there wasn’t a buck involved. The reporter should have known better than to bypass the media unit, and Everett sure wasn’t stupid enough to break protocol. The third message piqued his attention. It was from Taylor.
Hi, it’s me. Jaimie and I are on our way back. No sign of Sampson, but I’ve got something on the symbol. Seems it could have some history with the local children’s home. I’ll explain when we get back.
Everett stopped what he was doing, eyebrows raised, staring at the phone. Local, huh? He was tempted to call Taylor back, then looked over at Sampson’s Harley. The details could wait until they arrived. There were fingerprints on that motorcycle, and he wanted to know whose.
He struck a match and watched it flare to life. With the flame burned a memory from when he was eleven years old, of Marvel comics X-Men and Wolverine, and the enticing advertisements on their back pages: Be Taller in Just One Week, Pimple Remover Miracle Cream and The Book of Magic. Then, in one issue over the summer holidays, A Complete Detective Kit, just $5. It was a bargain …
The picture showed a kid opening a box full of scientific equipment, but the reality was a slim booklet in a plain envelope: sixteen illustrated pages on everything a kid needed to know about being a junior sleuth. Everett smiled at the memory. It wasn’t a complete sham, because one thing he never forgot from that booklet was how to make a fingerprint kit.
He held the burning match to the porcelain plate and watched as a black film formed across the white surface. The match’s sulphur smelled bitter. He repeated the action, then took a paper cup from the tube and used one of the flat edges of his car keys to scrape the carbon from the plate into the cup. It didn’t yield much soot, so he repeated the entire process until he had nearly three millimetres in the base. Reaching for the cornflour, he knocked it over, spilling it on the floor. Shit! He needed the flour’s starch to make the carbon bind to any film left by human skin. It required an equal portion to work. He took clean pinches from the floor and mixed the compound with the point of the key until the paper cup held a fine grey ash.
Another gust of wind rattled the roof and shook the windows. Everett fished his earbuds from his top pocket and put them on. Eminem was halfway through spitting the lyrics of ‘Stan’, so he flipped it back to the beginning. He hadn’t always liked rap music, but it had grown on him when he finally took the time to listen a few years back. The poetry and raw honesty were powerful. He took the cup of grey dust and the makeup brush over to Sampson’s Harley, Eminem’s lyrics drowning out the wind’s relentless moan.
The window had cast a square of light across the bike. Everett looked closely at the tear-shaped fuel tank. Fine dust from the dirt road covered everything. Fingerprints and streaks were prevalent due to the manhandling required to get it over there. He had photographed close-up shots of the clean prints, but he was certain they were from Charlie Lawson’s loggers before they put their gloves on. No; it was the prints beneath the dust that interested him most, anything left behind when Sampson came to grief.
He took the makeup brush and skimmed it across the top of the tank. The dust lifted with ease, Sampson’s routine of polishing the paintwork an advantage. Everett cleaned the area around the fuel cap, dusted the paint with the carbon mix and saw large fingerprints. Most likely Sampson’s, he decided. He tried to do the same around the scratched symbol, but it was surprisingly clean. Whoever did this wore gloves or cleaned up after themselves. He stood back, arms crossed, chin cradled between thumb and forefinger. Then he saw them, in the light on the chrome handlebars – fingerprints, clear as day, a blemish on the polished metal. He cocked his head slightly, the angle making them even clearer in the reflected light. They were good, clean prints – smaller than Sampson’s. They were those of a slight man or an average woman, perhaps; possibly even a kid’s.
Dusting was easy; capturing the prints for identification while isolated on the Reach was something else. It’s like the freakin’ Stone Age here. He looked at his rudimentary kit, then back at the stationery spread across his desk. And it came to him. He could dust with the carbon powder and apply clear tape to get the print. A good macro photograph from his phone camera could be emailed to the Local Area Command to be run through the database. He felt a smile curl the corners of his mouth and the music hammered with his heartbeat. For a second, he considered arranging a compulsory fingerprinting program for e
veryone in town, then realised the enormity of establishing such a scheme with his limited resources and time. And, besides, it would have to be voluntary; highly unlikely to work under the circumstances. It would have to wait until the forensic team arrived and the task force was formed.
9
CHEAP EATS 6 PM – 7 PM. 10% OFF ALL MEALS OVER $10 read the sign on the café door. Taylor checked his watch as he stepped inside: 6.50. Beck was sweeping the floor, and beamed when she saw him. He waved, looking for Everett. The place smelled of coffee and pastries, home comforts wrapped in the warm air from the kitchen. Everett was sitting by the window, the menu obscuring his face. He was at the table below Heather’s pageant portrait.
Taylor felt strangely liberated to be out of uniform, his black jeans, T-shirt and grey Wrangler windcheater providing him with a sense of anonymity. He passed an older woman with blue-rinse hair alone at a table by the door, eating small portions of her meal like a frail bird. She looked as if she had put makeup on for the occasion. Why not? thought Taylor. The Brown Sugar is the closest thing to five-star dining the Reach has to offer.
He sat opposite Everett.
‘The lasagna looks good,’ the detective said. ‘It comes with a salad.’ He was adjusting the strap of the broken Seiko as he considered the menu, appearing distracted.
Taylor scanned the list of dishes. It was different from last night’s – no parmigiana. Then his attention turned to Everett’s preoccupation with his timepiece.
‘That watch,’ the ranger said, gesturing to the Seiko. ‘How come you never had it fixed? It’s been stuck on twelve since I’ve been here.’
‘One minute to twelve, to be precise.’ Everett polished the face against his shirtsleeve, then continued to read the menu. ‘Archie’s sister gave it to me as a keepsake.’
‘Archie?’
‘I guess you could call him my mentor … Iron fist, velvet glove. You know the type.’
‘Why the keepsake?’
Everett let the menu fall to the table and looked up. For a moment, Taylor thought he was just going to stare at him, but then he continued.
‘Archie entered a grocery store to buy cigars one night. He was off duty … On his way home.’ Everett rubbed at the watch’s face again. ‘Long story short, he was shot and killed in a robbery gone wrong. The watch is all I have now.’
‘Jesus, that’s terrible.’ Taylor shook his head. ‘It’s none of my business; I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. The watch was working when I got it; stopped running the night after his funeral.’ Everett considered it more closely. ‘Maybe it means something … maybe it doesn’t. I’m still trying to work that out.’ He returned his attention to the menu.
Taylor glanced out the window, as much for a diversion as anything else. There was a near-full moon tonight, its silver face sporadic between cloud drifts. The wind had dropped a little, but was still strong enough to make the street sign outside the window shudder with each undulating gust, and the long grass that carpeted the levee lay flat along its crest.
Taylor had just returned to his menu when the kitchen saloon doors parted with a squeal of its hinges. It was Heather, leading with her smile. She always carried herself with an air of poise and purpose. Perhaps it was a vestige of her pageant days, or perhaps something more deep-seated. There was something a little sad about her smile; it wasn’t forced, just subdued. By what, he couldn’t say.
‘What can I get you boys?’ She took her order pad from her apron pocket with one hand, and a pencil from behind her ear with the other.
‘The lasagna, thanks,’ said Everett, ‘and a Diet Coke.’ He left the menu on the corner of the table.
She jotted the order down and turned to Taylor.
He placed his menu on top of Everett’s, undecided. ‘Why don’t you surprise me, Heather?’
She dropped the pad and pencil back in her apron pocket and put her hands on her hips, lips pursed in mock contemplation. ‘Be careful what you wish for, Ranger.’ She winked playfully, then looked him up and down. ‘I think you could use a little fattening up. What you need is a two-inch steak and mushroom gravy to put some meat on those bones.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like my wife,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘so I know better than to argue.’ He slid the menu towards her.
‘You’re a smart man,’ she said. ‘How are you guys going with those three mummies in the boat?’
Taylor was about to answer when Everett jumped in. ‘You know we can’t talk about the case, Heather.’
‘Shame … Not much happens around here.’ She shrugged and glanced out the window. ‘True crime is better than anything a writer can make up.’ She turned her attention to Everett. ‘Even more intriguing since Sampson disappeared.’
Taylor noticed Everett looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat, brow slightly rutted in thought, returning Heather’s stare.
She waved at him dismissively. ‘Oh, pocket that look, Detective. You’re wondering how I know? It’s a small town and word travels faster than the internet around here.’ She laughed. ‘You’ve got your work cut out for you if you think you can keep a lid on things.’ Heather glanced out the window. ‘And, besides, it’s not the first time bad things have happened in that forest.’
‘I’m beginning to realise that,’ said Everett.
Taylor thought of the graffiti in the pump house. Heather was right.
She turned to him. ‘You look like a medium-rare man to me.’
Taylor nodded, thoughts back on his steak. ‘Perfect.’
‘It comes with steamed potatoes and string beans. If there’s any room left between those skinny ribs, I’ll bring you a slice of apple and rhubarb pie with a generous dollop of cream.’ She returned to the kitchen, both men watching her go.
‘I think she likes you,’ said Everett.
‘More importantly, I think she’s got a point about keeping a lid on information around here.’
‘I know,’ Everett replied. ‘Do you think Sampson is still alive?’
‘I don’t know.’ Taylor tapped his finger on the edge of the table. ‘The trail led to the escarpment above the weir before it petered out. The pump house and ruins came up empty, but Jaimie says there are more cabins scattered throughout the woods. As you said, if whoever did this simply wanted Sampson dead, they could have done it at the abduction point, nice and clean. My guess is he’s still alive.’
‘That symbol on the bike tank suggests it’s the same person,’ said Everett. ‘And that similar one in the pump house makes it a local issue if it’s linked to the graffiti left by the kids from the children’s home. There’s something deeper here, Taylor, a history we don’t know about.’
‘The symbol in the pump house is a little different: a younger hand, perhaps, if it was chalked there in the nineties. I don’t know what to make of the script beneath it, though … Purgatory.’
‘Purgatory,’ Everett repeated, ‘the place between heaven and hell. Maybe that was our perp’s opinion of the Heaven’s Gate Children’s Home. Maybe an ex-employee or ward of the state.’
‘It’s no longer a children’s home, but the place might be worth a visit.’
‘Yeah,’ said Everett. ‘I’ll send a request for access to their records tonight. See if there have been any similar incidents associated with the place.’
Taylor could smell his steak cooking, and inhaled deeply. ‘How did you go with Sampson’s bike?’ he asked. ‘Anything worth noting?’
Heather appeared, and placed Everett’s lasagna, side salad and Coke on the table. The huge portion of lasagna looked and smelled delicious.
‘Thanks,’ Everett said and sipped his Coke.
She turned to Taylor. ‘Yours will be along shortly.’ Then she returned to the kitchen via the blue-rinse lady to ask how her meal was.
Everett waited for Heather to leave the dining room before he continued. ‘I found a print of interest on the bike. I sent photos through to command, but it’ll take
a while to get a result.’
‘Male? Female?’
Everett shrugged. ‘Hard to say. They weren’t from a large hand.’
Taylor thought of Carl Wiggins’ two boys. ‘What about a kid’s print?’
‘Right now, I’m ruling nothing out,’ said Everett. ‘I checked out the lane beside the pub where Sampson parked his Harley last night. There was a patch of saturated ground by the wall. Definitely smelled like petrol. Charlie Lawson said it was out of character for Sampson to let his fuel run low. My guess is the tank was drained; just enough left to get him out of town before he ran out.’
‘Then it was premeditated,’ said Taylor.
‘Looks that way.’
‘Did Lawson send the company payroll details?’
‘Yeah, he emailed me a bunch of PDFs. They go back to the eighties. He said nothing was kept before that.’ Everett sighed. ‘It’s gonna take hours to review.’
‘Maybe Jaimie can help out.’
The detective sliced up the lasagna in plumes of steam, then separated the pieces to cool. ‘I’ve got to be careful who has access to this information, Taylor. Jaimie’s a great girl, but I can’t allow any leaks. If our perp is walking among us, I can’t risk showing our hand. I’ll go through the payroll details tonight.’ Everett pierced a slice of tomato with his fork and ate it.
‘What about the three bodies? The river is still rising and those pumps won’t hold the water back forever.’
‘I know.’ Everett toyed with the lasagna squares on his plate. ‘I’ve made arrangements with Georgie at the Royal. She has an empty coolroom in the cellar; says I can use it as a temporary morgue.’ He blew on a forkful of lasagna, picked it up and chewed.
‘That’s generous, considering what’s going down there.’
Everett swallowed. ‘Generous my foot. She’s charging the department five hundred for her generosity – more if they’re there over a week.’ He ate some more salad. ‘I can’t do a post-mortem, but I can do a preliminary check.’
‘Maybe I can help with that,’ offered Taylor. ‘The presence of leaf matter and larvae may determine the primary crime scene’s location.’ The smell of Everett’s food made his stomach rumble. ‘What about the children’s home?’ he continued.
The Reach Page 10
