His thoughts turned to Alison. Where are you? Everett glanced at Sister Moore’s scrapbook on the dash. Is that the way forwards? He grabbed the book, felt its true weight as if for the first time, and began flicking through the pages.
News clippings of the disappearance: faded ink on yellowing newsprint bearing witness to Alison’s journey. Magazine articles about her walk out of the forest. An interview with the trucker who found her. Everett paused at a glossy cover story with a colour picture of Alison lying in her hospital bed. She was propped up on pillows, and, although she was staring right at the camera, her eyes were as vacant as the windows of an abandoned house. Was that the beginning, right there? The genesis of revenge? Perhaps it was a vacancy that she needed to fill with something to kill the pain inside? After all, when life leaves you with nothing, it also offers so many pathways.
‘Which path did you take, Alison?’ he muttered.
Everett flicked past the child welfare services letters and hospital treatment notes to a list of foster homes. He tapped the page and glanced at the list of towns; too many for the short time she was under the service’s jurisdiction. He scanned the list; addresses only. Perhaps LAC could locate the phone numbers. It was important that he speak to those who knew her best; who witnessed her evolution.
He closed the book and threw it onto the passenger seat. A small envelope slipped out from between the pages. It was addressed to Sister Moore. Everett turned the envelope over. It was the Rushworth letter the nun had mentioned – Alison’s last correspondence before she fell off the radar altogether. Everett took out the note and unfolded it.
Dear Sister Moore,
Of course I remember you. Everything after walking out of the wilderness is so clear – like being reborn. It’s what happened before that event that still remains uncertain, a blur. Things creep in sometimes, perhaps the inkling of a memory, but then it’s as if a great churning storm cloud rolls in to obscure it from view.
Still, it’s better that I’m alone now. As much as I appreciate the foster families that took me in, I found them to be a distraction from finding my truth. Don’t get me wrong, Sister. I’m more than aware of the reports. My life has been well documented, but without the recollection, it’s as if it’s someone else’s life.
I dream sometimes, but can never remember the details. Perhaps just as well, because the worst of them leave me feeling afraid. Afraid of what I might be.
Still, I won’t shy away from the truth, no matter how dark that might be. This is my calling – my reason to be – the one thing missing from my life so far. Perhaps when I discover my true self, I can share her with you; with the world.
Alison
The rain had stopped. Everett folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope. It was one thing to unearth evidence and fit it neatly into an order of events, but seeing a letter in Alison’s own handwriting … touching the same paper she’d touched … made it all the more personal. He stared down at the envelope, pictured Alison writing it, just one degree of separation between him and her. He rummaged through the glovebox for an evidence baggy and dropped the envelope inside. It was possible that DNA traces were still present. Once the task force was there, they could arrange sampling and see if there was a match to any traces left on Sampson’s motorcycle.
We’re getting closer, he thought; then he heard Fisher’s siren sound two quick bursts. He looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw the constable’s Ford leading one of the loggers’ flatbed trucks to the Royal.
*
Taylor picked up his phone to call home and noticed the low-battery warning. He set the phone to charge beside the bathroom basin, then washed his face. As he was patting himself dry with a hand towel, he heard the woop-woop burst of a police siren outside and walked to the window.
Constable Fisher’s police car was leading one of the flat-bed logging trucks into town. An ageing Subaru had stalled while doing a U-turn in the street, blocking the way. Fisher gave the siren another blast just as the driver of the stuck car found the accelerator and bounded out of the way. The grim convoy reminded Taylor of a funeral procession, which seemed fitting when he remembered what the truck was carrying. He guessed that the rigid shapes beneath the tarp were Everett’s three wise monkeys. Beside them was a black body bag, awkwardly zipped to midway, where the three arrow tails protruded, the opening covered with a grey blanket.
‘Sampson,’ Taylor whispered.
The police car stopped in front of the pub, lights casting blue and red flashes on the building’s facade. Constable Fisher stepped out and directed the truck into the side alleyway. They were, no doubt, setting up Everett’s makeshift morgue in the pub’s coolroom. Taylor snatched his jacket from the bed and his keys off the sideboard.
He yanked the door shut behind him, struggling against the wind. The sound of the river pressed against the levee, constantly resonating now, a monster stirring behind the wall. He descended the stairs too quickly, stumbling on the last one. The pub’s patrons were already pouring outside as Taylor squeezed past the logging truck in the alley, sheltered there from the increasing winds. The tarp had been removed from the corpses, and the three contorted figures were now wrapped in translucent plastic. He saw Everett by the cellar doors, watching as Charlie Lawson’s men carried each body down the open keg chute. The usually brutish men trod carefully, handling the bodies with a gentle, guarded respect that Taylor hadn’t seen them show before. It was especially so with Sampson’s body.
Taylor, feeling each laboured breath after his short dash, nodded to Everett. He had a clear view past the chute doors, and could see Georgie Emery directing the loggers’ grim deliveries to the coolroom further back.
‘Go easy with Sampson,’ came a cry from the crowd.
It wasn’t a request – more of a command. Taylor turned to see who’d said it, but realised it didn’t matter. They all had the same look in their eyes. But the instruction had been unnecessary anyway. Sampson’s workmates carried his body bag with respect, each resting their palm momentarily on his chest before climbing out of the chute. Georgie was the last person out, closing and padlocking the cellar doors before walking up to Everett.
‘Thanks for the space,’ the detective said.
Georgie smiled – though not sincerely – then handed Everett a slip of paper. Taylor glanced over his shoulder and saw it was an invoice.
Everett skimmed the paper and sighed. Georgie Emery wasn’t doing anyone any favours. ‘I would have thought my five hundred would get me a guard as well.’
Georgie laughed. ‘No problem … I’ll see what my elderly mother is doing tonight.’ She brushed between Taylor and Everett with a parting comment: ‘That’s policing business, Detective.’ She walked on, consumed by the crowd who followed her back into the bar.
Taylor gestured to the line of men descending on the pub. ‘They could be a problem,’ he said.
‘I know.’ Everett considered the invoice one last time before putting it in his pocket. ‘I don’t want to conduct this investigation with one hand while keeping them at bay with the other.’
They eased past the truck to Main Street. Everett gave Constable Fisher a cutthroat action in an order for her to kill the lights, immediately making the scene calmer. Fisher looked a sight from too many nights out in the field, her uniform hanging off her in a crumpled mess, her hair in a state from the wind. Taylor saw the constable’s fatigue in her bloodshot eyes and sluggish responses. The good news is, she can sleep under a roof tonight. The bad news is, it’ll probably be in a damp cellar with four dead bodies.
Taylor also saw by Everett’s expression that, while he wasn’t lost, he was at a crossroads. The ranger empathised with him, knowing the feeling well. Everett was good at his job, but young. He didn’t know these people. They didn’t fit neatly into anything he had experienced before.
Taylor pulled the detective up outside the saloon doors. ‘Maybe you should consider letting the locals in on the case,’ he said, ha
ving to raise his voice against the wind’s rising pitch as it whistled through the she-oaks. ‘I know how these people think at times like these – the more you try to keep them out, the harder they try to get in.’
‘I can’t let vital information get to the wrong person, Taylor.’
‘I hear you, but the small-town network is already in full swing. There isn’t a soul on the Reach who doesn’t know what’s played out so far. And if our perp is sitting in there with the others, they already know what’s happening.’
Everett rubbed the day-old stubble on his chin and sighed. His frustration was mounting. ‘I guess we could tell them what they already know, and I’ll leave a few things up my sleeve.’
‘Trust me,’ said Taylor. ‘If they feel like they’re included, they’ll be more likely to cooperate.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘This isn’t my first foray into small-town murders.’
Everett’s shoulders dropped. He looked more relaxed but also resolute. ‘Okay – why the hell not?’
14
Everett listened as the hubbub from the Royal fanned out into the street. Taylor was right; he needed to get these people onside somehow. The detective took a deep, steadying breath and followed the ranger into the haze of cigarette smoke and loud country music. He could smell stale liquor in the carpet; feel the crunch of discarded peanut shells underfoot. The bar was lined with loggers, some with women hanging off their arms. Everett kept his focus on Taylor, who gestured to the low stage at the back wall. The detective paused at the edge, then stepped up to face the din.
‘You have the podium,’ the ranger said.
Yes I do, Everett reassured himself. He took a moment and cupped his hand over the face of Archie’s watch, hoping to channel a little of his mentor’s confidence and strength. But he felt invisible. The clamour continued unabated. This is gonna be tough. ‘Can I have your attention, please?’ he said, but his words were consumed by the mass’s bawling. A few of them looked over in mild curiosity, then returned, with dismissive grins, to their drinks, murmuring in flippant defiance. Hank Williams played on the jukebox and wasn’t about to give up their attention …
Everett tried again. ‘Please, if I could just have a moment of—’
… then Hank was mute.
He saw Taylor standing by the jukebox, power plug in hand. I should have thought of that. Everett mouthed his thanks to Taylor.
Boos and jeers followed. The detective waited. At least they were looking at him now. Then the saloon doors opened, and Jaimie walked in ahead of a gust of dry leaves and dust. She pressed her cap to her head against the wind until the door closed behind her. She waved, then slinked through the crowd towards Taylor.
‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ cried a slurring voice from the back. Everett recognised Carl Wiggins, with the same unblinking leer he’d displayed outside earlier. ‘Tell us what’s on your mind, or plug Hank the fuck back in,’ he continued.
Laughter rolled up from the floor. Then Charlie Lawson’s voice thundered over the others: ‘Let the man speak!’
His authority over the loggers was evident – after the odd defiant mutter, the throng fell silent. Everett nodded to Lawson, noting his sheepish expression.
‘Someone out there is killing Devlins Reach loggers,’ Everett said calmly. He had their attention now.
He noticed Carl Wiggins step back into the crowed, a sneer curling up one cheek, his slight form stealing easily between two burly men. The front windows shuddered from a squall, and the lights dimmed, flickered and came back on.
‘Well, if you can’t keep us safe, Detective, we’ll do it ourselves.’ A grizzled, bearded man in a red shirt stepped forwards. ‘Just like we’ve always done,’ he added and patted the bowie knife hanging from his belt. It looked huge against his spindly leg.
Now wasn’t the time to bring up the laws on concealed weapons, but the sight confirmed what Everett was dealing with here. He couldn’t help but notice the man’s diminutive physique; not your average logger’s build. The detective remembered the petite fingerprints on the motorcycle and found himself studying the man’s hands.
‘Maybe it was the Hoodoo took Sampson and those men,’ Red Shirt concluded with a laugh. But he laughed alone, shutting up as he took in the sombre faces around him.
Jaimie stormed onto the stage beside Everett, pointing at Red Shirt. ‘I’ll remind you, Mike Ferguson, that if your Hoodoo can subdue and murder a man-mountain like Sampson, it won’t have any trouble with a sagging bag of bones like you, with or without that toothpick hanging from your belt. The detective’s trying to save your sorry hide – all of your sorry hides – so hear him out.’
Jaimie was revealing another side to her usually composed persona; it was surprisingly feisty but, under the circumstances, not very helpful. If Everett had ever had control, it was getting away from him now. Taylor must have seen that too. He stepped forwards and guided Jaimie away.
Ferguson stepped in front of her – face to face. ‘I can handle myself,’ Everett heard him say.
‘Handle this,’ Jaimie said and flipped him the bird as she stepped around him.
Everett raised his arms. ‘I agree with Ranger Barlow … Don’t underestimate this person. What’s happened so far has been meticulously prepared and implemented with a great deal of planning and patience. Make no mistake, this perpetrator is extremely dangerous.’
‘Agh,’ came Carl Wiggins’ voice from the back. ‘The bastard is probably miles away by now.’
‘That’s not the case,’ said Everett. ‘Sampson was killed after you closed the ferry, Carl, and that’s our only way on or off the Reach. It’s very likely that our killer is still here, either having disappeared into the surrounding woodlands or, quite possibly, walking among us.’
‘Huh,’ said Wiggins. ‘Maybe I’m your killer.’ A wily smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. He gazed around for laughter that never came, and his face reddened.
‘Can’t be,’ came a raspy voice from the crowd. ‘The cop said it was meticulously prepared and implemented. That’s not you, Carl.’
Now the laughter came, and Wiggins shrank back into obscurity.
Everett let the laughter quieten and the crowd talk among themselves for a moment, the mood noticeably more strained. Taylor gave him an approving nod as the detective took a moment to compose himself. Then Everett said, ‘But we’re in this together.’ He added, ‘Help me help you find who is doing this.’
‘How?’ The fire in Mike Ferguson’s voice had gone, but he kept a wary eye on Jaimie nevertheless.
Everett thought about the question, the knowns and unknowns; realising it was all about motive. ‘By helping me know why.’
The saloon doors swung open ahead of a flurry of leaves and twigs, the loud splintered groan of something collapsing outside; then a crashing explosion of blue light, as one of the windows shattered inwards. There was a collective gasp, a woman screamed, and the lights went out.
It was as if the maelstrom was seeking entrance. ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Everett. He fumbled his way to Taylor and Jaimie. ‘You two okay?’
‘Uh-huh,’ answered Taylor. ‘The storm.’
‘I think the lines are down,’ added Jaimie. She fumbled in her pocket, retrieved her phone and used its flashlight.
A number of cigarette lighters and phone screens flickered to life around them, with people regrouping, finding friends, and some heading to the exit. Someone yelled from the open door, ‘There’s a power pole down! Took out some of the awning … the whole town is in darkness.’
‘Landline too,’ said Georgie from her wall phone at the bar.
‘Do you have a backup power supply?’ Everett asked her.
‘Yeah, generator’s in the basement.’ She lifted the bar bridge and made her way to the cellar door. ‘Hasn’t been fired up for a while, though. It may take a little persuading.’
‘I’ll go with her,’ Jaimie said.
‘Thanks,’ said Everett. ‘The last thing I want is those b
odies going bad in the coolroom.’
He watched as other people scattered; stood still while others moved; remained mute while others barked orders. His hand drifted to Archie’s watch face. I need you, Archie. What do I do?
*
Without the lifeblood of electricity coursing through the town, the Reach seemed like a hollow shell at the whim of the storm. Taylor took the opportunity to return to his room and retrieve his charged phone while Everett inspected the situation. He felt sorry for the man, and could understand the added restrictions this placed on his investigation. Taylor also thought about Constable Fisher stuck down there with those bodies when the lights went out.
He stepped through the Royal’s doors just as the lights stammered back to life. He noted that many of the patrons had returned to the camp or gone home since Georgie closed the bar, with just a few of the locals remaining. Looking around for Detective Everett, he decided he must still be out inspecting the town. Taylor sat at a table and texted three words to Maggie: I love you. As he pressed send, Everett came through the doors as if cast inside by the storm.
‘How bad is it?’ Taylor asked as he returned the phone to his pocket.
‘Get used to the dark,’ Everett said. ‘The power won’t be back until someone from the network can get out here. It’s safe to walk around, though. The damage is all this side of the river, so none of the downed wires are energised. We should—’
It pierced the air like a missile – zoop! – then thwacked into the back wall of the bar. A young woman screamed. The thing had barely missed her.
‘Jesus,’ said Taylor, ‘a fucking arrow!’
Everett withdrew his Glock, and scanned the bar. His attention settled on the broken window. ‘It came from outside,’ he said, gesturing to the fractured glass. He ran to the door and opened it a crack to survey the outside. ‘No one touch that arrow!’ he shouted over his shoulder, then disappeared through the saloon doors.
The Reach Page 15
