The Reach

by B. Michael Radburn

  ‘Ho-lee shit,’ he whispered.

  I’m back where you found my bike –

  please come …

  Sampson

  Everett called the number. It rang out and went to voicemail: Hi, you’ve reached Sampson. Leave a message or fuck off. Everett raised his eyebrows.

  He dressed quickly and drove faster than he should have through town. His mind was racing; there was so much to do and so few people to do it – and that wasn’t going to change in a hurry. It felt like he was forcing molasses through a straw. He recalled last night’s weather forecast on the Bureau of Meteorology’s website. The high winds were anticipated to increase ahead of the storm front that was rolling in from the north; the source of the water surge through the river system.

  The car buffeted badly in a gust of wind when Everett reached the open hill overlooking the dig site. Constable Fisher, wearing her police-issue leather jacket, stood by her car in the clearing. Everett turned off the road and parked beside her, noticing that she was drinking Heather’s coffee from a flask. He nodded in greeting and wound down the window. The first thing he heard was the sound from the water pumps, gurgling rhythmically by site nine, slopping water into the clearing from a pulsing hose.

  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ Fisher said, neck tucked into her collar against the wind. She looked noticeably tired, her eyes glassy and bloodshot.

  ‘That was your last night out here, Neve,’ Everett stated. ‘I’ll arrange to have the bodies taken into town later today. I’ll need your help with that.’

  Relief crossed Fisher’s face as she placed the coffee on the bonnet of her car. She might well have had an interest in native plants, but Everett guessed you could only live among them for so long without craving creature comforts.

  ‘I think that’s a good call,’ said Fisher. ‘Those pumps are barely coping now.’ She pointed to the levee bank. ‘There’s a lot more water seeping inside since the river rose last night.’

  Everett looked towards the mound entrance. ‘Are we secure here?’

  ‘Locked up tight.’ The constable smiled through her weariness. ‘I sleep better that way.’

  ‘Good. Leave it for now. I want you to follow me out to the mill road. I’ll explain when we get there.’

  Everett had thought Fisher would be glad to have some active policing after her hole-watching duties, but she appeared hesitant, taking a moment to consider his instructions. She then cast the coffee from the cup and jumped into her car. By the time Everett was back on the road, Fisher’s marked car had caught up, lights flashing in escort.

  Strange kid, he thought, and wondered again if her heart was really in policing. It made him consider Jaimie in contrast, her confident passion as a ranger. There was a person who fit her vocation.

  Everett crested the last hill before the new crime scene, and noticed the steel-grey clouds brooding on the northern horizon. He could see the police tape looped from sapling to bush, loosely fluttering, frayed by the overnight wind. Then he saw the figure propped in a sitting posture against a broad pine tree.

  It was Sampson.

  Everett let out a long, wavering breath, any hope that Sampson had sent that text dashed. He slowed the car. There was no need to hurry.

  The detective parked on the opposite side of the road. Fisher’s police car pulled up behind, skidded in the dirt and sprayed a cloud of dust that was swiftly whipped away by the increasing wind. He glanced in his rear-view mirror, saw that the constable’s face was slack jawed and pale. Everett knew it took time to get used to a scene like this; you wouldn’t be human if it didn’t. He stepped out first, and heard Fisher’s door open and slam shut. The constable moved to his side as they stepped closer, stopping at the fluttering border of blue and white tape.

  Everett could feel the halo of tension emanating from Fisher. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  It took a moment for her to answer, in words that were barely a murmur: ‘What does this sick fuck want, sir?’

  ‘Our attention,’ said Everett. ‘More than that, our understanding … perhaps even our blessing.’

  ‘Blessing?’

  ‘Why not? Look at the corpse,’ he said. ‘Our perp wants us to know what Sampson’s death means.’

  Everett studied the body, beginning at the top and working his way down. The damage to Sampson was like a macabre road map printed in blood. Except for the words written on his forehead in what looked like lipstick.

  ‘Kiss no more,’ Fisher read aloud.

  ‘You can’t kiss without lips,’ Everett said.

  Sampson’s lips had been sliced off, his tobacco-stained teeth exposed in a macabre death’s-head grin. Everett stepped under the tape and crouched by the body. He noticed what was in Sampson’s free hand. The pared remnants of his lips.

  Sampson’s head was tilted back, his throat gaping; his open shirt stained with a mass of clotted blood from the wound. It hadn’t dried entirely, but had darkened to a rich toffee brown. The deep gash was no doubt the cause of death: pre-mortem, perhaps six to eight hours old, judging by the congelation. Then he noticed the inflamed puncture wound below the left ear – possibly an infected injection point for a knock-out drug. Everett wouldn’t know for sure until the toxicology report, but it would explain how Sampson was overcome so easily.

  The three arrows in his chest were doubtlessly post-mortem: there was very little blood from the entry points, the heart having long stopped beating before the puncture wounds were administered. Pure theatre. Sampson’s phone was clasped loosely in his hand; it appeared clean, probably wiped down by whoever sent the text. That’s when he noticed the plant matter caught under Sampson’s sleeve – a tiny white flower. He took a clear evidence baggy from his pocket and held it under the flower, using his pen to brush it into the bag. It was attached to a short stem with two slender olive-green leaves. Everett didn’t know what species it was, but Taylor would. One thing was certain, he hadn’t seen it growing around here.

  ‘I think it’s alligator weed,’ Fisher said.

  Everett recalled the book she kept in her car. Australian Native Plants. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Kinda.’

  ‘Kinda isn’t good enough, Neve.’

  Any confidence Fisher had shown appeared sapped by Everett’s response, her face flushed with embarrassment. ‘If it is, it’s not from around here,’ she added. ‘Too dry. Alligator weed prefers wetlands.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ Everett said.

  The wind blew a little dust into his eyes. They watered momentarily and he wiped them with his sleeve. He leaned closer to the body, recognised the scene as staged and wondered if the flora sample had been planted to lead them away from the primary crime scene. He hoped not. Even the best killers fuck up eventually. He slipped the bag into his pocket. A portion of Sampson’s exposed chest had been wiped clean of blood, and he recognised the familiar A symbol drawn in the same red marker. No surprises there.

  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ said Fisher. ‘There’s someone coming.’

  Everett looked up to see Charlie Lawson’s grey Bronco approaching from the mill. He stepped into the middle of the road and raised his hand. The Bronco slowed to a stop beside him and the tinted passenger window slid open. Lawson’s face had paled. He raised his sunglasses above his forehead, his face twisting into a grimace. ‘Jesus-H-Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s Sampson.’

  Everett leaned against the door to obstruct his view. ‘The body turned up this morning.’ He watched Lawson drop his sunglasses on the passenger seat and look away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added.

  Lawson’s expression softened. ‘The stupid thing is, I was sure he was still alive … Couldn’t imagine anyone getting it over Sampson.’ He clenched his jaw, colour rushing back into his face. ‘I was on my way to see you. Some of my men suggested a search party this morning. With no work to keep them occupied, I guess they’re growing restless.’

  ‘Search party or vigilantes?’

  Law
son nodded past Everett to Sampson’s body. ‘It doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?’

  Everett let the comment pass. ‘I know it’s hard to stand by when something like this is happening, but you’re contributing in other ways. Those payroll details helped identify the bodies in the dig site. Jefferies, Gant and Kelly. Do those names mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Lawson. ‘They were typical of my staff. Followed the work around the country. Arrived during our peak times. Left when things got slow.’

  ‘And what about you? How long have you been with the company?’

  Lawson suddenly seemed tired. His shoulders dipped as he rested against the steering wheel. ‘Thirty years next December,’ he said, then attempted to straighten his posture. Everett wondered how much he really knew.

  ‘I noted there was one period back in ninety-five when all three men were working in the camp at the same time. Was there anything unusual happening back then? Anything out of the ordinary?’

  Lawson sank back into his seat, took a moment, then balled his hands into fists beneath his chin. ‘It was a long time ago, but I remember. Those three would have been in their late teens, early twenties.’

  ‘Why so memorable?’

  He sighed. ‘Because that was about the time those two girls went missing from the children’s home. Police were all over me and my men, looking for suspects.’

  The children’s home again, thought Everett. ‘And did they find any suspects?’

  He shook his head, paused; perhaps lost in memory.

  ‘Something the matter?’ Everett recognised the tipping point. The breakthrough moment. It was in Lawson’s eyes – a slow focus through the fog. Here it comes.

  ‘I’m just not very good at this.’ Lawson paused, cupped his face, and rubbed at his clenched-shut eyes. ‘Was no good back then, and I’m no better now.’

  The declaration surprised Everett. ‘Why is that?’

  Lawson chortled dryly. ‘Would it change your life to know, Detective?’

  ‘No,’ Everett said, just as dryly. ‘But it might change where I place you in this particular mess.’

  Lawson shook his head, the cadence decreasing like a slowing heart. He stared about him at the surrounding wilderness. ‘I’ve always known there was something out of sorts with this place, Detective. Something … broken. You see, not all solitude stands on foundations of peace. It’s people who bring the darkness to a place like this. And that darkness can stain the soil with its bitterness; leave a stink in the air.’

  ‘And what makes you so intuitive to this darkness?’

  Lawson reached up and fingered a chained medallion around his neck, and held it up so Everett could see. It was a small brass coin, with TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE circling an XXV inside a triangle. ‘I’ve been sober twenty-five years, Detective. I’ve earned that intuition. It comes from the same dark places I came from to get here.’

  Everett nodded his acknowledgement, recalling the same pledge inked on Lawson’s arm.

  The site manager took a moment to gather his thoughts, staring around at the audience of whispering trees. ‘I knew something was happening back then in ninety-five, sensed it with every guilty bone in my body, but I didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Now would be a good time to turn the darkness around and help shed some light on this case. Those three boys back then, what can you tell me about them?’

  Lawson took a moment, then continued. ‘They were close, which is why I remember them so well. You see, most loggers are solitary types. Like Sampson, they keep to themselves.’

  ‘What made those three so different?’

  He shrugged. ‘Youth, I suppose. They signed up together, worked together, partied together. Then … then, overnight, they changed.’

  ‘Changed? How?’

  ‘It was as if that spark of youth had been snuffed out.’ Lawson looked into Everett’s eyes. ‘They became withdrawn, avoiding the other men … and then each other. I blame that bastard Dench.’

  ‘Dench? I saw his name on the payroll. Why do you blame him?’

  ‘Walter Dench was the cook here when I started. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t have kept him on, but he never really gave me a legitimate reason to sack him. I just didn’t like him from the get-go, and you can’t sack someone just because you don’t like them. That particular summer, he had some kind of hold over those boys.’ Lawson paused and frowned. ‘It’s the darkness. That feeling you get in the pit of your stomach about some people – that something ain’t right with ’em. I was curious, sure, but even when my instincts kicked in, it was business as usual.’

  ‘That was then; this is now. What happened?’

  ‘I didn’t know at the time, but it turned out that Walter Dench had those girls bailed up for two years in a cabin someplace in the forest.’

  ‘Jesus, Lawson. What happened to them?’

  ‘Over those two years? I don’t know; and, frankly, I don’t want to know.’ Frustration knotted his features. ‘But there was a cabin fire, and one got out alive.’

  ‘Fire?’

  ‘Yeah. Dench and one of the girls were killed in the fire. The other got away.’

  ‘Who was the survivor?’

  Lawson looked up through the windscreen to the hills above the town. ‘I don’t know. You’re best off asking the nun up at the old children’s home. She’s the keeper of that story.’

  ‘I thought the place was closed.’

  ‘It is. They shut the gates a few years after the incident, but one of the original nuns still lives up there as a caretaker. Comes into town once a week for groceries in that old Volkswagen of hers. I think she still carries the shame on behalf of the Catholic Church. You should talk to her.’

  Everett followed Lawson’s stare to the hills. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I’m gonna need some reliable manpower to help move Sampson and the others to a makeshift morgue in town.’

  ‘I’ll get my best men,’ the site manager said. ‘I’ll stay with them until it’s done.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ the detective replied. He turned towards Neve, who was circling the crime scene. ‘I’ll leave Constable Fisher to manage the transfer. She’s young, but I trust her. Follow her instructions.’

  Lawson put the Bronco into gear, and paused, his jawline trembling slightly. ‘Detective?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sampson was on my books the same time as those boys and Dench. Do you think he had anything to do with the snatched girls?’

  There it was. Lawson was a smart man and was having no problem putting the pieces together. In view of the chain of events, Everett felt certain that those three boys saw something they shouldn’t have, and that Sampson was somehow involved. And now they’d all payed the price. He looked into Lawson’s pleading eyes, and could tell he suspected the same thing but wanted Everett to discredit it; assure him that his friend couldn’t have been capable of taking part in those girls’ abductions.

  ‘All I can do is follow the evidence,’ was the best Everett could offer.

  Lawson simply nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he murmured.

  *

  Taylor stood beneath the Brown Sugar’s awning, his back to the wind while he waited for Everett. His mind was awash with the revelations the detective had shared with him by phone less than an hour before. Through the window, he glimpsed Heather Starling cleaning tables and smiled. She smiled back, came to the door and opened it.

  ‘Why don’t you wait inside, out of the weather?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine, Heather.’ He turned to the northern end of Main Street. ‘Detective Everett will be along shortly.’

  ‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows hopefully. ‘Something happening with the case?’

  He smiled. ‘You probably know more than I do.’

  Her lips turned up in a cunning grin. ‘I heard that Sampson’s been found,’ she said. Then added, ‘Dead.’

  ‘You know I can’t talk about it.’

  ‘
And I know there’s a crew about to move all those bodies into town.’

  Everett hadn’t mentioned that in his phone call, just the details about Sampson and the children’s home. ‘Now I’m sure you know more than I do.’

  Her grin widened. ‘Let me fix you a couple of takeaway coffees for the ride.’

  Taylor watched her walk back to the kitchen and shook his head. She knew exactly where they were going. Who’d told who what didn’t matter. He slipped his hands inside his jacket pocket, his finger joints cold to the bone. This was his last clean uniform; he would have to ask Heather if he could use her laundry room to wash his spare. His thoughts turned to Maggie and her magic washing basket. ‘You think you just throw your dirty clothes into the magic washing basket and they appear clean and ironed in your closet a few days later, don’t you?’ He would have welcomed a little of Maggie’s playful sass right now.

  A gust of wind sent a loose piece of tin sheeting rattling against the awning. He was considering taking Heather up on her offer to wait inside when he heard a car approaching. It was Everett’s white Commodore.

  The car drove past, circled the dry fountain in the square, and pulled up beside him. Taylor got in and was about to close the door when Heather rushed outside with two takeaway cups in hand. ‘Don’t forget your coffee,’ she said, passing them to Taylor.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Can you charge it to my room?’

  ‘Consider it a freebie,’ she said, and stepped away from the car. ‘It’s a bit of a drive to Heaven’s Gate.’ She turned her gaze to the high ground where they were heading. ‘Say hi to Sister Moore for me.’

  Taylor knew she was being provocative, that it was her way of reminding them that she knew exactly what was going on; yet the usual playfulness was gone, lost in that stare towards the hills. Perhaps there was history between her and Sister Moore. He let the comment go, placed the coffees in the cup holders and closed the door. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said to Everett.