The hood of the Ford was buried beneath a cascade of archery targets, and a jagged fracture had snaked across the windscreen without shattering the glass. Everett undid his seatbelt and turned around, expecting the Jeep’s return, but it sped through the gates, tail lights disappearing into the storm.
He knew he couldn’t pursue the four-wheel drive in these conditions without killing himself in the process, so he backed out of the collapsed outbuilding, unsurprised that the Ford’s engine sounded strained. Only one headlight worked, the single beam lighting up the stairs to the main building. Something moved – then he realised it was the reception doors, animated by the wind, opening and closing.
His gut instincts told him he was too late. But, with a little luck, Sister Moore might have been prepared; might have had a safe room somewhere in the building. He could only hope. As he peeked in the mirror, flickers of light in the trees tracked the Jeep’s retreat down the mountain. Got to stop it somehow, he decided, collating what few resources he had at hand, and remembered Constable Fisher at the Royal. He tapped the contacts icon on the Ford’s Bluetooth screen, scrolled down to Fisher’s number, pressed call and waited, growing ever more anxious with each second she didn’t answer.
‘Detective Everett? What’s up?’
‘Listen carefully,’ he said steadily. ‘I’m at the convent. Paris has been here. I don’t have time to explain, but she’s on her way to town in Dench’s Jeep and I need you to head her off. Block the road any way you can.’
He could hear a noise suggesting Fisher had dropped her phone. Come on, Constable. Pull yourself together. I need you.
‘I … I’ll have to commandeer a vehicle,’ she said.
Attagirl. ‘Do whatever you have to.’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Thanks,’ said Everett, relieved that the constable recognised the urgency, despite her reluctance. About to hang up, he added, ‘And Fisher …’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make every effort to bring Paris in, but not at the risk of your own safety. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
He recognised the sound of a Glock being cocked.
‘Yes, Detective.’ She hung up.
*
Constable Fisher ended the call. She clutched the phone in her fist, her eyes still fixed on the freezer door. Throughout the night, its surface would groan and tick as the cool air inside made its metal skin swell and contract, a grave-cold host for the dead inside. She cast aside the blanket from her lap and stood up from the hard wooden chair, holstering her weapon.
A nagging pinch in her neck, legacy of the wrecked police car, made her flinch with the sudden movement. The pain was one thing, but she dreaded writing the incident report even more. The bigger the asset, the more paperwork. Worse still was the embarrassment her father would feel. The wreck of the car, the word POLICE crumpled and bent with the metal, symbolised her career right now. Fisher sighed, recognising that it was a career by name only, as dead as Sampson in the cold room. It was nothing more than an obligation; one she just couldn’t fulfil for her father’s sake any longer. But, assuming she left the force, having wrecked a police car was not how Fisher wanted to be remembered.
So, maybe it doesn’t have to be, she thought. Maybe apprehending Paris tonight will negate any fuck-ups on this assignment, maybe ease Dad’s disappointment when I finally tell him I want out. She checked the charge on her phone – enough till morning – and slipped it into her pocket. She didn’t have a radio, and didn’t want to be out there without a voice.
The generator’s hum had drowned out the storm, the faint scent of diesel and stale alcohol from the floor masking any unwelcome smells from the freezer. She had spent enough time with the dead, but felt the tarnish leaving her as she climbed the cellar steps to the bar. I can do this.
The loggers’ curfew and the blackout had made the Royal seem like a ghost town. A small huddle of older men sat talking in hushed tones at the end of the bar; they became quieter still when they noted her presence. A loner stared silently at his beer on the counter, the roach of an extinguished rollie in the corner of his mouth. The publican caught Fisher’s eye with a nod; Georgie Emery appearing bored behind the bar. She returned her attention to the TV on the opposite wall. Fisher recognised a scene from Dawn of the Dead on the large screen: the scene where the zombies were storming the farmhouse. She remembered watching it one Halloween with her brother, before she was in the police force, when playing cops with Danny was just that … playing. Then she recalled something else: Danny would never let her be the cop; she was always the crim.
‘Speaking of zombies,’ said Georgie. ‘Welcome to the surface, Constable. Can I get you a drink?’ She automatically reached for a clean glass, her expression bordering on her trademark smirk.
Fisher cut her short, slapping her opened wallet on the counter with the badge displayed. ‘I need to commandeer your vehicle, Georgie,’ she said with as much conviction as she could muster. It gave her an unexpected rush. Damn, she thought. Always wanted to do that.
Georgie returned the glass to the rack, her smirk fading. ‘What’s going on?’
Fisher returned the wallet to her pocket. ‘Police business,’ she answered. It was even more satisfying when Georgie surrendered her keys willingly. Fisher came to a realisation and wanted to smile, but maintained her Joe Friday glare: Danny wasn’t around to deny her. She was playing cop now.
‘Can you really do that?’ asked Georgie.
Fisher clutched the keys. ‘You’re damned right I can.’ She ran to the doors, hearing the storm beating at the timber, rattling the doorframe.
‘It’s the cream Falcon ute,’ Georgie called after her. ‘Watch for second gear – it’s a little stiff sometimes …’
Georgie’s last words were lost to the storm as Fisher left the pub. She had to lean into the wind, the rain propelled sideways beneath the partially collapsed awning, each drop striking her face. The Falcon was parked in the laneway beside the pub, and the wall left her little room to open the door. Fisher had to squeeze into the driver’s seat, the front of her uniform drenched.
It was a pleasure to shut out the storm. The engine stuttered to life, and Fisher stared at the old column shift. This is a museum piece. It took three attempts to find reverse before she lurched out into the road. The sound of the wipers attacked her nerves as she circled the fountain in the square then headed west. River spray misted over the levee’s brim, before being whipped away by the wind. She shuddered in her seat. The thought of so much water pressing against the earthen wall was disturbing. She planted the accelerator with little effect and crunched the gears into second, recalling Georgie’s advice. The Falcon made it out of town, Fisher’s concentration on the road ahead as she waited to intercept the Cherokee at any moment.
A wind-driven branch struck the windscreen, startling her, before the wiper cast it aside in a single sweep. The road sign she was looking for – Narrow Bridge Ahead – came into view and she began to slow. The sandstone bridge that curved with the road over a channel of rushing water would be the perfect bottleneck to stop any vehicle.
Fisher stopped in the centre of the bridge, left the engine running and stepped out, wishing she’d had the foresight to grab her raincoat. The rain soaked through her whole uniform in seconds, the wind chilling her to the bone. But the main thing she noticed was the smell of the bush; the perfume of flora that inspired her more than any evidence trail or forensic puzzle. She wiped water from her face, the woodlands that surrounded her making Fisher smile. Then she saw pitching spears of light through the trees beyond the bend, and her smile faded. She unclipped her holster and stared into the maelstrom.
Over the weather’s howl she heard an engine rumble, swelling closer, until the headlights crested the bend and cast their predatory beam on the constable. She blinked, never having felt more vulnerable in her life, all her training dissolving into a fog of uncertainty. Instinct was all she had left, and it was currently pulled
in every direction on fragile threads. She extracted her Glock, flicked the safety off with her thumb and stepped in behind the Falcon’s open door, the sight trained just above the Jeep’s headlights.
Make every effort to bring Paris in. Detective Everett’s words played in her mind. But not at the risk of your own safety. Fisher let her finger slip around the trigger. Do you understand what I’m saying?
She spat rain from her lips. ‘I sure do, Detective,’ she whispered.
But the oncoming vehicle skidded to a stop twenty metres ahead of the bridge.
Okay, now what?
The headlights were two orbs cutting through streaks of crystal-like rain, the beams joining where Fisher stood in their path. She couldn’t see beyond them, and listened for the sound of an opening door. ‘Turn off your engine!’ she yelled. ‘Cut your lights and step out of the vehicle!’ Any notion she was playing cop had disappeared. This is for real.
The engine revved in defiant response. At least she knew Paris was still in the cab and not outside, taking aim with her hunting bow. Fisher, no longer conscious of the rain beating against her skin, had traded feeling cold for a warm rush of adrenaline. She lowered the Glock’s sight to the left headlight, its brightness making her eyes water as she squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out loudly as the light source shattered in a plume of steam. It was more satisfying than she’d expected.
Then Fisher felt time slow, hearing the shot echoing, each raindrop shattering on contact with her face. The constable took aim once more. She could smell the wet earth underfoot, taste the rain on her lips as the wind whispered something; a warning, perhaps. The Jeep revved again, like the quickening heartbeat of a beast about to strike its quarry. She heard the transmission engage with a clunk, expecting the vehicle to lunge at her, but instead it began to reverse, at walking pace.
‘Stop!’ she shouted, this time firing a warning shot well above the vehicle. And, before she knew it, she had left the shelter of the Falcon’s open door and followed the retreating Jeep, her aim fixed but jarred by each step she took on the uneven ground.
‘Stop! Turn off your lights, and stay in the vehicle!’ she repeated. Fisher’s pace equalled the Jeep’s. She fired another high shot, and the vehicle stopped. ‘Turn off your engine and lights!’ she bellowed, her voice becoming hoarse. The single headlight blinked off.
Despite the spots before her eyes, Fisher made out the vehicle’s silhouette through the rain. She stepped closer, suddenly realising how far away Georgie’s utility was now.
The Jeep surged forwards, just ten metres ahead and bearing down quickly. Fisher fired wildly; then her foot slipped into a divot and she fell hard on one knee. There was a burning sensation in her ankle as the Jeep’s single headlight burst back to life. She raised her arm, not to shield her eyes, but prepare for the impact that …
… never came.
At the last minute, the Jeep veered into the woods on her left, through the reedy brush and onto one of the many access trails. Fisher felt the spray of mud in her face, could smell the tyres’ warm rubber just inches from her, then fell back into the mud, face to the sky as the rain helped clear the muck from her eyes. Her heart pounded in her chest, but one thought rose triumphant: I’m alive.
Then she heard the crash. The constable rolled onto one elbow, and saw the Cherokee’s tail lights burning bright twenty metres or so along the trail. It was caught in a ditch, its wheels spinning with a whine in the soft earth. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! She stood, and her injured ankle bit hard. Fisher paused for a moment, waiting for the pain to ease, and was disappointed when it didn’t. She took a laborious step towards the stuck vehicle, realising her Glock was missing.
‘No,’ she murmured through wet lips. Fisher stared frantically around her feet where she had fallen – Can’t see shit. ‘No, no, no …’ She took a deep, steadying breath, the pain in her ankle competing for her attention as she attempted to stay focused on the Cherokee. Okay, she decided, time to play cop again. She thought of her brother, when they were two kids playing in the backyard, Fisher practising her death scenes as the hero cop killed yet another rampant criminal. She raised her hands and clasped them together, as if clutching a handgun, then began her march to the Cherokee, hoping that the charade worked.
‘It’s over, Paris!’ Another painful step. ‘Turn the engine off and step out of the vehicle with your hands in the air.’ Her pulsing ankle wavered with every step. ‘Backup is on its way.’ She hoped that was true, just making out the shadowed outline of a face in the Cherokee’s side mirror. Then she had a different idea. She stepped closer, wanting to cry with the pain now, lowered her hands and shouted, ‘Please, Paris!’
The revving stopped, the vehicle falling into a gentle idle. Fisher bent over, rested her hands on her knees in exhaustion. Thank God, she thought. Her mother used to tell her that a simple please or thank you would open more doors in life than any other gesture. She smiled at the memory, and the wilderness washed back in to engulf her senses. The first thing she would do when this was all over was go somewhere warm and dry, read her book from cover to cover, and arrange to do a university degree …
… then the Cherokee roared once more.
Fisher straightened, her ankle shuddering under her weight, the smile washed from her features with the streaming rain as the Jeep’s wheels finally found traction. The vehicle pounced, reversed at a rate too quick to avoid, and struck her with an explosion of hurt that made her ankle pain seem trivial. She was in the air, cast aside, tasting blood, when the muddy earth finally yielded around her as she struck the damp ground, a human pelt of broken bones and pain. She tried to scream, but her lungs just couldn’t do it. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she whispered instead, then let the inevitable happen.
The Cherokee roared away and left Neve Fisher to the wilderness. And the wilderness welcomed her, held her hand as she realised life was slipping away. She obliged, happy for the pain to dissolve, with memories of kids playing cops and robbers in a faraway backyard, please and thank you sighing on the wind as the colour faded to grey, and the darkness walked her home.
26
The Camry’s heater blew warm air on Taylor’s face. His flesh was warm, yet there seemed to be feathers of ice trailing up to the nape of his neck. A gust of rain rocked the car on its axles, the radio faltering to a white static hiss before drifting back to Neil Young’s ‘Old Man’. He tried to shake off the sensation. Maybe it was because he was approaching the ranger’s station, or maybe it was because of what he knew of Paris and Jaimie, but the chill remained – like the memory of a cold blade pressed to flesh.
He turned the radio off, more static than music in the storm, leaving him only with the drumming rain. The park gates appeared in the headlights; he slowed, felt his breath shorten with trepidation as he questioned his decision to come alone. A sign on the gatehouse window read: PARK CLOSES AT 6 PM. He eased past the gate pillars, now seeing the sandstone cottage on his left, Jaimie’s Land Rover parked in the clearing by the covered veranda. The building stood in total darkness. A clap of thunder rolled down the mountain as he parked the Camry beside the Rover and stepped outside, the wind and rain stinging his face. The Rover’s engine hood was cold to the touch as he passed.
The veranda sheltered him from the worst of the weather, but he felt exposed when a streak of lightning lit up the forest that harboured the cottage. In the blink of an eye, the surrounding grass trees seemed alive with shadows, and he could taste the lightning’s electricity like sulphur on his tongue.
Taylor retrieved the flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on; dim after its heavy use during the blackout. Yet there was enough power to see the reception counter through the window, and on it a set of car keys. The door opened with ease, and he stepped inside.
‘Jaimie?’ he called. ‘It’s me, Taylor.’
He turned up his nose at the musty smell of rising damp that dominated the room and closed the door behind him.
‘Jaimie, we need to talk.’
But it was too quiet. Jaimie was gone.
*
Everett climbed the convent steps two at a time, paused at the landing and cast the narrow beam of his Maglite on the glistening wet door. The lashing wind swung it open to where it bounced off the doorframe with a continued drumming thud. He stepped closer and held the door open on its next pass, the flashlight reflecting two green eyes inside. He recognised the ginger cat Sister Moore had cradled the day he interviewed her. Seeing any form of life was encouraging, but he couldn’t imagine the nun leaving her favourite moggy to fend for herself.
‘Sister Moore!’ he cried, but the weather roared behind him, making him deaf to any response. Everett stepped inside and pulled the door closed. A puddle formed where he stood. He trained the beam on the cat as she bounded up the stairs past a bloodied message on the wall. His torchlight paused there for a moment, his arm hairs bristling in mute response. Paris certainly embraces her theatrics.
‘Jeez-us,’ he muttered.
He followed the cat, certain Paris had fled in the Jeep, but on edge all the same. His nerves prickled under his skin. There was still the hope that Sister Moore had a safe room somewhere. The elements moaned and surged around the building, the storm seeking entry.
The cat continued to pause at intervals along the hall, glancing over her shoulder, proceeding only when she was sure Everett was following. At an open door on the right – a brass 19 hanging on the wood – the cat waited on her haunches for him to catch up. Everett entered.
‘Oh,’ he muttered. There was no surprise in the utterance.
The kill was fresh, no smell of corruption – yet – just the steely scent of spilled blood. Sister Moore lay face down between two beds, legs overlapped, arms outstretched in a crucifixion pose. Her face was turned to the right, where one of her Raggedy Ann dolls sat staring back at her. Everett cast his torchlight across the body, stopping at her right hand. Both hands were cleanly severed, lying just an inch from each wrist. These were the hands that gave the children to Dench. Three arrows protruded from her back, clustered at her heart and lungs, a final statement in blood by her head.
The Reach Page 24
