Taylor slipped it on as he got out, and could feel the clay sticking to his boots with each step he took towards the bridge’s edge. Jaimie joined him, buttoning up her own raincoat. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.
He considered the twenty-metre span and the dirt-road pass that hugged the sheer escarpment on the opposite side. Most prevalent was the black and yellow sign fixed to a leaning post on the roadside: DANGER. BRIDGE CONDEMNED. ‘I think it would be a brave man who would drive over that,’ he said.
‘Or a mad woman.’
‘Mad or brave,’ said Taylor, ‘someone’s using it.’ He didn’t wait for a response, just pointed to the muddy lines trailing across the rickety boards. ‘The rain has washed a lot of it away, but there’s definitely a trail of tyre-borne mud trekked across it.’
Jaimie nudged him with her elbow. ‘Well, if you’re brave enough, I’m mad enough.’
*
A steady rain drummed on the roof; a gentle white noise that resonated through the hall. Detective Everett stared through the beaded glass to where the door on the toilet block beat rhythmically against the frame. He found himself tapping Archie’s watch face in time with the door, looking down at the hands for any movement. Still dead. He heard a car splashing through the puddles that pitted the dirt drive to the back door. It stopped beneath the window and two men stepped out.
Everett recognised them as two of Charlie Lawson’s men. The loggers ignored the detective, short of scowling at him, and walked around the back where they retrieved a small generator from the tray. Everett was happy to see it; he didn’t need friends, but he did need power.
‘Just put it there, boys,’ he said, pointing to a covered area beside the back door. ‘As close to the window as you can.’ The awning above their heads protested with a rattle of its tin sheeting, even though this side of the hall was relatively sheltered from the force beating against the front of the building.
The men placed the generator under the window closest to Everett’s trestle table inside, a yellow extension cord hanging from the sill. The shorter man lifted two jerry cans from the tray – full cans, by the way he was straining – and dropped them by the generator. ‘Fuel,’ he muttered.
‘Thanks,’ Everett said, but it was as if he was invisible. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty, handing it to the nearest logger. ‘Thank Charlie for me, and buy yourselves a beer.’
The nearest logger glanced at the twenty, slipped his hands into his pockets, and fixed his stare on Everett. ‘Keep your money,’ he said dryly. ‘We’re under curfew after dark. Grounded like a bunch of schoolgirls.’
Everett waited for the because of you, but it never came. Still, the words were loud and clear in both loggers’ eyes. Offering a cash gratuity hadn’t worked before, and it wasn’t going to work now. Note to self: Don’t offer money … Don’t offer anything. The men left the awning’s shelter, oblivious to the rain, and headed back to their utility.
Thanks for your support, boys. The ute drove away.
Everett squatted beside the generator’s control panel – Seems simple enough – and read the instructions. Prime fuel … power switch to ON … choke halfway … depress start button … It started first go. He smiled with satisfaction and plugged the extension cord into the output jack. Nothing to it.
A rogue gust of wind caught the back door when he opened it, and slammed it back against the wall, nearly off its hinges. Everett struggled to close the door behind him. It was decidedly warmer inside, but the walls and ceiling groaned around him, the hall’s tin roof and weatherboard walls seeming more fragile with every breath of wind. As much as he tried to ignore them, the relentless elements were really beginning to fray his nerves. It was hard not to take the weather personally. Why now? Why here? And then the inevitable, Why me? He walked to the table, grinned at the red light on the portable power board. At last something positive.
‘We have juice,’ he whispered.
The first job was to start recharging his phone and computer. The wind shrieked through the small gap in the window where the power cord trailed in from the generator. The faint odour of engine fumes was also leaching in. He took his sweatpants from the edge of the bunk, rolled them up tightly and stuffed them into the windowsill gap. It did the trick, muting the whistle instantly.
Everett surveyed the room, considered his predicament, and felt satisfied that this was as good as it was going to get until the investigation team arrived. He stepped up on the stage and paced in front of the theatre sets plastered with pictures of evidence and flowcharts. Whether these murders were the doing of the Hoodoo, a resurrected Walter Dench, or both, the motive was taking shape – the eradication of the men who took part in the abuse of those girls in 1994.
He rubbed the stubble forming on his cheeks. But the whys had since diverged into curious branches of options. If it was the Hoodoo – possibly even Alison – then the motive was revenge. But if it was Dench, it was likely he was cleaning up any witnesses to his two years of kidnapping and cruelty … But why in such a public display? Then there was the third branch. What if Alison and Dench are working together?
Whatever the scenario, the end was coming soon; he could feel it. He shook off the chill, but his breath caught in his throat. ‘What might that endgame be?’ he whispered. Then his mobile rang loudly. It made him recoil but delivered him from the dark places his mind had begun to wander to.
He picked up quickly and noticed the slight tremble in his hand. ‘Everett?’ asked the familiar voice.
It was Charlie Lawson. But there was an unaccustomed sombreness to his tone. ‘Yeah, what’s up, Charlie?’
‘I … We have a problem.’
Of course we do, Everett thought. When have you ever rung with good news? ‘What’s the problem?’
‘We have a case of dynamite missing from our armoury.’
‘You sure it’s missing? I mean, we heard your men blasting stumps on the mountain yesterday. Maybe they left a case out there somewhere.’
‘I wish,’ he said. ‘I checked the inventory against our blast schedule three times … The case has been stolen.’
‘Holy shit.’ The answer to What might the endgame be? had just got a little clearer. ‘How much is in a case?’
Lawson hesitated, then replied, ‘Enough to blow Devlins Reach off the map.’
20
As soon as the Land Rover edged onto Wilson’s Bridge, a grinding dissent of fatigued timbers came up through the floor over the sound of the wind. Taylor insisted on driving, while Jaimie walked ahead, testing the way underfoot. The structure appeared sound. Its heavy timber beams of solid tree trunks braced together with steel didn’t move as they crossed. The fact that it was originally built to carry bullock trains of logging wagons – and, later, trucks – instilled some confidence that it would take the Rover’s weight. But still, once the vehicle was fully on the bridge, that twenty-metre crossing seemed infinite, and Taylor could sense every inch of empty space between him and the raging torrent below.
Taylor peered over the edge, and wished he hadn’t. Sheer cliffs descended to the snaking cascade of brown water below. Waves slapped at the sandstone sides, and a fine mist rose from the foaming whitewash. The image looked like the gaping maw of a great beast paused to devour whatever was in front of it. He crept the Rover forwards, fighting the urge to accelerate at speed. Jaimie waved him ahead. He focused on her until he rolled off the creaking timbers to face the pass ahead.
Jaimie jumped into the passenger side. ‘That was fun,’ she said, adjusting her cap.
Taylor, realising he had been holding his breath, eased it out in a calming stream. ‘I’m glad you thought so,’ he said. ‘How much further?’
She took the map from the dash, ran her finger along the printed track, then pointed to the ridgeline above the pass. ‘Follow this to the peak. The service road to the old camp should be on our right.’
They drove without speaking. The light rain had diminished with the wind, and an eerie si
lence edged in with the curtains of cloud as the Rover climbed higher. It was as if they were above the rain now. The track had deteriorated over the years, but the compressed grooves in the road that remained confirmed recent traffic. Taylor was confident that this was the route used by their killer and, with that confidence, he felt a sense of trepidation and a duty to keep Jaimie safe. Everett’s words were etched deep in his mind. You see Dench, that Cherokee or anything that could be the primary crime scene, you pull back and call it in.
The road grew worse near the peak; the trees were sparse, but well established since logging had stopped so long ago. Taylor noted how the undergrowth had taken advantage of the canopy’s scattered sunlight over the years, with thickets of blackwattle and tufts of stringy gamba grass having carpeted the rocky ground. Remnants of an access road appeared on the right, its grass stems overlaid by the fresh tracks.
‘That’s got to be the turn-off,’ said Jaimie.
Taylor dropped a gear and turned with caution. ‘One way in means one way out,’ he said as he stopped the vehicle.
Jaimie said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but a lot of those guys in the camp come out here to hunt on their time off. There’s no guarantee that any tyre tracks are the Cherokee’s.’ She gestured ahead. ‘I think we should check it out.’
Taylor nodded, but with trepidation.
The Land Rover snaked along the trail until the undergrowth grew too dense. They came to a small turning circle of cleared brush and stopped. A patch of low cloud drifted through the woodlands, leaving beads of condensation on the Rover’s windscreen and transforming the surrounding trees into ghostly sentinels. The speared lengths of gamba grass were compressed and well trodden inside the clearing, encircled by bands of mountain devils, their horned bulbs bobbing under their own weight.
Taylor turned to Jaimie and pointed to a single track that parted the grass into the timbered area in front of them. ‘Could be a game trail or your hunter’s path, but if it was made by our perp, it’s very likely Dench’s cabin is in there somewhere … Detective Everett’s primary crime scene.’
Jaimie remained mute, staring ahead, expressionless.
‘Your call, Jaimie,’ Taylor said. ‘Alison … Dench … the Hoodoo. It doesn’t matter who’s responsible for all this, we’re on the cusp of getting into something dangerous. I’m happy to turn around and leave it for the police.’
She didn’t answer right away. Then she said, ‘So, this is where it all happened.’
It was more a statement than a question. He didn’t reply.
‘I’m mad enough if you’re brave enough,’ Jaimie said with a grim smile. She just folded the map and stepped out of the Rover. Taylor followed, and they wasted no time pursuing the trail ahead.
The track twisted through the undergrowth, the besetting cloud infiltrating the trees in ghostly shades. Taylor saw a leech swaying on the end of a leaf, exploring the air, stimulated by the promise of warm blood coming its way. He stopped and turned to let Jaimie catch up, brushing the leech away. He was glad for the respite, but Jaimie had barely broken a sweat. She was scanning the map, periodically looking forward, then folded it under her arm.
‘Should be just ahead,’ she said, then took the water bottle from her belt and drank deeply.
Taylor nodded, felt the same dryness in the back of his throat and sipped from his own bottle as they walked on. The trail descended until it opened into a clearing, where the former logging camp’s ruins lay. He stood for a moment, considering what remained of a once thriving timber mill: a weathered checkerboard of brick foundations divided by the washed-out remnants of clay roads and ditches, all but consumed by the swelling wilderness. Charcoaled timbers and twisted sheets of rusted iron were the only remnants of the buildings – the aftermath of a fire – all except a concrete blockhouse that stood on the outskirts, its roof trusses nothing more than a twisted arch spanning the walls. A buckled sign above the open entrance read FUEL STORE. It reminded Taylor of a photograph his uncle had had in his study, of the famous domed building in the centre of Hiroshima, the only thing standing amid all that devastation after the bomb.
‘There have been three wildfires through here since ninety-six,’ said Jaimie. ‘I’m surprised there’s anything left.’
Taylor scanned the area, an open basin of grassland and mountain devils, the depression rimmed with grey gums and thick brush. He wondered why the woodlands hadn’t taken over entirely. It was as if the ground was poisoned.
‘That blockhouse is the only candidate for the primary crime scene,’ said Taylor. He scanned the vicinity for any sign of life, then broke out of the cover provided by the tree line. ‘We should check it out.’
Jaimie followed him into the camp. The structures were momentarily obscured by the drifting cloudbank, emerging again with the slightest breath of wind.
Except for a few empty overturned fuel drums, the blockhouse was vacant, stripped bare, with not even graffiti. The glassless window cavities and open doors let in ample light. The only tracks in the dust were their own; it was evident that no one had been there for a very long time. He turned to see Jaimie staring around at the walls, her arms across her chest as if she was cold. But he knew she wasn’t cold …
… She was scared.
‘You okay?’
The question brought her back. She forced a smile and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, then dropped her arms. ‘I mean, yes.’ She backed out to the doorway and turned to look over the abandoned camp’s misty landscape.
Taylor suddenly missed the constant sound of the winds below. The stillness up here was eerie in contrast. ‘We can leave, if you like.’ He walked over to her, and cupped her hands together with a reassuring shake. ‘I’ll take some photos for Everett and we’ll head back.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and withdrew her hands; seemed a little embarrassed.
‘No need to be sorry,’ he said. ‘But the sooner we do this, the sooner we can get out of here.’ He thought Jaime was looking slightly more like herself as he continued. ‘One thing I’ve learned about remote places like this, is that you need to respect them.’ He took a number of photos around the blockhouse, noticing while he did so that there was no phone signal. ‘And you need to listen to your instincts.’ He stopped beside her again. ‘If those instincts tell you that you don’t belong here, then they’re probably right.’ He took a picture of the surrounding grounds, paused, and expanded the photo on the screen, noticing a detail that piqued his interest.
‘What is it?’ Jaimie asked.
Taylor put the phone away and pointed to the thickly wooded area to the north. ‘There,’ he said, ‘heading up that rise into the forest.’
‘I don’t see anything.’
‘That grass verge before the tree line,’ he said. ‘It’s either a game trail or a result of human traffic.’
Jaimie unfurled the map and ran her finger along the contours that marked the rise. ‘Looks too rugged for any buildings in there,’ she said. ‘And, besides, I think there’d be a road if there were any more camp structures.’
Taylor looked at his watch. There was plenty of daylight left – If you can call this soup daylight, he thought. He turned to Jaimie. ‘I think we should explore the possibility,’ he said softly, ‘but I will understand if you don’t want to come along.’
She dipped her head, avoiding his eyes. ‘I guess I’m not as brave or as mad as I thought I was. I’ll wait here, if it’s all the same.’
‘If I’m not back in thirty minutes, take the Rover to town. Let Detective Everett know as soon as you get a signal.’
‘I will,’ she said.
Walking through the ghost town was unnerving, its quietness carrying an oppressive weight. When Taylor made it to the trail, he noted the boot prints and scuffs in the soft earth, evidence that human, not animal, footfalls had made the track. Shit! This just got real.
He paused at the tree line and turned. The mist had thinned; he could see Jaimie outside the
blockhouse. For a moment, he thought, Just go back, tell Everett about the boot prints and let the police do their thing. Jaimie waved and he reciprocated. He again glanced down at the scuff marks in the damp soil. Her trepidation had rubbed off on him, and Taylor suddenly felt those instincts stirring in the pit of his stomach, leaving their residue on his skin.
Don’t bring this home. He wondered if he could fulfil that promise to Maggie. He took a deep breath and walked on. I’m in too deep now.
The trail wound up through the timberland. Peeling fingers of bark hung from the branches, bound together by spider webs that clutched crystal droplets of dew like dreamcatchers. The forest’s earthy aromas overwhelmed him, forever in flux, life and death dependent on each other’s existence. He could sense around him a million microbes and insects generating the nutrients that would eventually spawn new life to complete the circle.
Taylor stopped … He’d heard a sound ahead. The blanket of mist altered his perception and he could feel the vapours adhering to his skin. His breath felt shallow, and he could hear his heart beating in his ears. He peered ahead, willing the curtain of mist to part, but there was only the sound of leaves and gumnuts falling with a patter to the forest floor. He tried to shake off the feeling of being watched, but remained on guard all the same, realising that he had felt this way since crossing to the Reach on the ferry.
The flora remained consistent until he came across a waist-high spear of a plant growing beside the trail. It was a deep green with broad multi-pronged leaves, and clearly didn’t belong there. Taylor plucked off a seed head and squeezed it between his fingers. The scent was unmistakable. He raised his face and felt a slight breeze, foreshadowed by the rustle of leaves in the tree canopy. Then the mist cleared and Taylor stepped forwards where the trail opened into a marginal clearing. He flicked the smeared seeds off his fingers, and waded into the dense runaway crop of marijuana.
In the centre of the harvest was the mudbrick shell of a cottage. The shingled roof was partially collapsed and the loft windows contained shards of heat-sullied glass like the blackened teeth of a sleeping dragon. Swirling patterns of charcoal stained the walls, remnants of the fire that had destroyed it – the fire that had been Alison’s salvation.
The Reach Page 20
