The Reach

by B. Michael Radburn

  SISTER NO MOORE

  *

  Taylor’s flashlight beam swept across the reception area, the photographs of old-time patrons like sepia ghosts staring back at him. His light hovered over the picture of a group of kids facing a row of archery targets by the weir. He remembered this from his first visit. Their bowstrings were pulled back, ready to cast their arrows. However, tonight, the image meant so much more.

  He lifted the counter access and walked through, picked up the car keys and recognised the Land Rover’s emblem. The same hoard of old National Geographic issues lay next to the phone, the ‘Power of Parks’ issue crowning the stack. Except for an open box of Parks and Wildlife brochures, the shelves beneath the counter were empty.

  The door leading to the back rooms was open. He stepped through and swept the torchlight around as another thunderous clap vibrated the walls. He didn’t know how long Jaimie had been posted here, but there was little evidence of her presence, or of her leaving. The lack of personal photographs, and an empty bookshelf, left the room feeling cold and impersonal. A clean bowl and spoon in the kitchenette’s sink were the only sign of humanity.

  Taylor shone the light onto the cupboard above the sink. One of the doors had a slip of paper tacked to it. He stepped closer. It was a clutch of newspaper columns. He unpinned them, thumbed through, and recognised the picture in the first story. He frowned, recalling the Google search for James Barlow before he took on the case. It was the same picture, with a story about his restoration work on the Thirlmere Lakes, south of Sydney; another with him shaking hands with a local MP over a funding deal; and yet another about his promotion and move to the city headquarters. James Barlow, the late Raymond Anne, all vehicles Paris used to infiltrate Parks and Wildlife.

  ‘Shit,’ Taylor whispered. The posting in this part of the park was remote enough to get away with it. Not forever – but then, Jaimie didn’t need forever. That’s why she left the clippings here for me to see. James Barlow’s role in this was done, and so was hers. She needed neither identity anymore. And that in itself was frightening.

  He slipped the clippings into his pocket and opened the cupboard door, his torch catching a row of small glass vials. He looked closer. Behind them was a box of disposable syringes, some scattered next to it in the cupboard. Taylor held a vial to the light. The label read Ketamine. He recognised it from back home: a drug vets used to anaesthetise large animals. It wasn’t totally out of place in a ranger’s station but, under the circumstances, its potential to take down a man was deeply concerning.

  He turned towards two doors on his left, one open, exposing a claw-foot bath and a faded pink shower curtain, the other door closed. Has to be the bedroom. He brushed past the wooden table in the centre of the room, pausing with his hand on the cold brass handle. Although he was sure no one was there, he knocked first anyway.

  ‘Jaimie?’

  No reply. He swung the door open and shone his light inside. The double bed was made, as neat as in any hotel. Lightning cast its brief radiance through the window as the tree branches outside cast flickering shadows across the white doona. There was a wooden chair in one corner, the same as those around the kitchenette table, and a freestanding wardrobe to one side. But what caught Taylor’s attention was the small bundle on the end of the bed. He focused the flashlight on it, suddenly realising what it was.

  Jaimie’s cap … stuffed with hair.

  He clasped the flashlight between his teeth and picked up the Parks and Wildlife cap, cupping it in one hand as he lifted the honey-blond wig from it, still in a ponytail. She wanted me to find this. Beneath it were the black-rimmed glasses. A knot pulled his stomach as he held them up. The lenses were clear and clean, no distortion; just plain glass. He sighed. Lastly, a small plastic box, the lid open. It took him a moment to identify the thumbnail-sized hazel discs. They were coloured contact lenses.

  Okay, he thought. You’re done with Jaimie now. So, what’s next?

  He reached for his phone, fingers trembling.

  *

  Everett looked down at his phone in the console’s drink holder. Taylor’s name shone bright on the screen. He waited for the Bluetooth to connect, then answered the call.

  ‘What’s up, Taylor?’

  Everett listened as Taylor told him what he had found at the ranger’s station: a mask, beneath a mask, beneath a mask. ‘Holy shit,’ was all Everett could muster in response. While he agreed that leaving behind her disguise was an admission of guilt, and that Jaimie and Paris were indeed one and the same, he didn’t believe she was done yet. Everything she did, she did for effect; and each theatrical effect led, in part, to her next act. Everett felt his chest tighten.

  ‘What did you find at the convent?’ asked Taylor.

  The detective could think of only one word in response: ‘Carnage,’ he said. Both men fell silent. Eventually, he added, ‘I’ll explain when I see you.’ He checked his working wristwatch to see seven pm ticking over. ‘Meet me at the community hall, Taylor. I’m certain we’re facing the endgame, but that poses more questions than answers. We’ll talk soon.’

  Everett hung up. Endgame … He shook his head in frustration. Paris had been in control from the beginning, pulling them all into her game, making them play by her rules, and that had to stop. It was time to turn things around. Tonight.

  He saw through the rain-streaked windshield that the road into town had become an obstacle course of shattered branches and fallen trees. This could all turn around if Constable Fisher has managed to stop Paris at the roadblock. Everett considered calling her, but realised it wasn’t necessary when he saw the Falcon utility parked on the bridge ahead. The headlights were on and the driver’s door open. But there was no Cherokee. A sudden, dreadful concern swept over him … Where’s Fisher?

  As he neared the bridge, between each sweep of the wipers he saw something. Brush and grass had been laid bare at the intersection of a side trail. He slowed, easing forwards, the high beam expanding his limited view and casting shadows as it highlighted the tall trees surrounding the scene. He turned to nose into the side trail, and stopped.

  ‘No …’

  Fisher’s broken body lay beside the trail, the rain doing its best to wash the blood away.

  *

  The dirt turned to tarmac, and Taylor relaxed his tense muscles after wrestling the Camry on the slick road from the ranger’s station. It also meant that the town was only a few minutes away. The plan was to meet Everett back at the hall. Then what? Whatever the outcome, he was certain it was going to be another long night. He slowed to a stop at the intersection leading to Main Street, the stop sign rattling loosely on its pole in the gale.

  He was about to make the turn when his mobile rang. Taylor looked to where it lay on the passenger seat, next to Jaimie’s cap and disguise. He shifted the Camry into park and picked up the phone.

  ‘Maggie,’ he said. ‘Are you okay?’ Every time he thought about Paris knowing anything about his family, the fear became anger and sat heavily in his gut.

  Maggie sounded breathless. ‘We’re okay,’ she said. He could hear crying in the background. ‘But it’s Erin. She’s very distressed.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Shhhhh, baby,’ he heard her say to their daughter. ‘She fell asleep right after dinner, but woke from a bad dream a few minutes ago, saying you need to know something … Can you talk to her?’

  Taylor had a feeling that whatever was happening here on the Reach had extended its grasp to Erin back home. And that whatever it was that Erin was seeing, Claire had seen it first.

  Don’t bring this home.

  ‘Taylor?’ It was as though Maggie’s voice was down a tunnel, rushing at him like water. ‘Taylor!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, put her on.’ He waited, and then heard Erin sniffing back tears.

  ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

  ‘I need to know you’re okay, Daddy.’

  ‘I’m fine, sweetheart,’ he lied. ‘You jus
t had a bad dream.’

  ‘You need to know that she lies.’

  Taylor’s grasp tightened on the phone; his jaw clenched and pulse quickened. He tried to sound calm. ‘Did Claire tell you that?’

  Erin paused, her sniffling slowing. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Tell her I’m okay … that I know she lies … that I’m being careful.’

  ‘Can you come home, Daddy?’

  Damn! That cut him to the bone. ‘Soon, sweetheart. When the job is done, I’ll come home then; okay?’

  Her breathing sounded calmer.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Claire also said that you should make her choose.’

  ‘Choose?’

  ‘She said you will know what to do when the time comes …’

  27

  Taylor kept thinking about Erin’s words, she lies, while the storm pressed at the walls, the community hall wrapped around him in a blanket of shadows, with its gallery of Paris’s revenge. He leaned forwards in his chair, grabbed the honey-blond wig from the trestle table, combed his fingers through its strands, then let it fall back into the upturned Parks cap.

  The front doors rattled against a wind gust. Taylor, feeling he should be used to it by now, turned towards the noise. The doors clattered in their frame again, then opened in a rush of driving rain. Taylor stood … It was Everett. The detective forced the door closed behind him and shut the night out. He stripped off his raincoat and hung it over a chair by the door as he wiped beads of water from his brow and hair. His face was a pale beacon in the gloom; his silence, like his vacant expression, showing his anguish.

  ‘Everett! What’s happened?’

  ‘Fisher is dead,’ he said, and walked to the table and took his handgun from its shoulder holster before he sat down. His grip was lose, void of any intent; it was as if he resented having to carry a gun at all. ‘I’ve taken her body to the Royal.’ Everett’s eyes narrowed as he lay the Glock on the table in front of him. ‘I couldn’t leave her up there.’

  Taylor dragged a chair away from the table and sat beside him. ‘How … What happened?’

  ‘Paris happened, I suspect. It looked like Fisher had been run down at …’ He cupped his face in his hands for a moment, then let himself rest back in the chair. ‘At the roadblock I asked her to set up.’

  The news was like a sucker punch to the ranger. ‘You can’t blame yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I sure as hell can’t blame anyone else, Taylor.’

  Everett’s eyes were fixed on nothing in particular, or perhaps on a corner only he could see, where guilt perched with an accusing stare. Taylor knew that look … knew that place …

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘It’s way outside Paris’s pattern. If anything, she’s avoided the police not targeted them. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You defending her now?’ Then Everett shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he offered.

  ‘It’s okay. I’m only stating the facts.’

  ‘I know,’ said the detective. ‘I just need to push on.’

  ‘We need to push on,’ Taylor said. ‘You’re not alone, okay?’

  They rested in mutual silence for a while, with only the wind song outside. Taylor waited quietly as Everett removed his two watches, rubbed the band marks embossed in his wrist, then lingered over Archie’s motionless timepiece.

  ‘I was wondering.’ Taylor gestured to it. ‘How come you never had Archie’s watch fixed?’

  Everett kept looking at the timepiece, and, for an instant, Taylor thought he wasn’t going to answer him. Then he finally replied, ‘I don’t know.’ He sighed with exhaustion and laid the watch across the Glock. ‘I kinda thought there might be some meaning in it stopping at one minute to midnight like that.’

  ‘And is there?’

  ‘I guess we can find meaning in anything, huh? But the last picture I have of Archie is the CCTV footage of him being shot in that store.’ He rubbed a smear off the glass face with his thumb. ‘I actually saw the last minute of his life, and his watch stopping just before midnight reminds me we all have a final minute waiting for us up the track.’ He shrugged. ‘If I fix the watch, I lose that.’ He tapped the face and held it to his ear for a moment. ‘And I keep thinking that maybe it’ll just start working again when it’s good and ready.’

  Everett appeared a little embarrassed by his confession. ‘That’s a perfectly reasonable observation,’ Taylor said softly.

  The detective looked at both the watch and the handgun. ‘The guy who shot Archie that night had a choice to make in that final minute. Pull the trigger and kill a man, or just back out of the store … Live and let live.’

  Taylor suddenly recalled all the times he’d noticed Everett seeming reluctant to draw his gun. It was starting to make sense. ‘I’m not sure we can ever know for certain when our last minute’s ticking over,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Everett. ‘Maybe we need to keep in mind that every minute could be our last.’ He turned to Taylor, a deep sadness in his eyes. ‘So, what would you do in that minute?’ he asked.

  Taylor considered this, the question affecting him more deeply than he would have expected. His first thought was of home: of Maggie and Erin. That last minute would be with them. He was feeling a strong urge to call them when he heard the sound of a car outside, muffled by the storm, but all too familiar. The expression on Everett’s face suggested he recognised it too.

  The Cherokee.

  A sweeping curve of light arced across the street-front windows, a strip cast vividly through the gap beneath the doors. The engine revved twice – the growl of a wolf at the door – then settled to its antiquated rumble. Everett took his Glock from the table and sidled up beside the window closest to the door, slowly peering out. Now, the grip on his weapon was firm and there was no question of his intent.

  Taylor crept past Sampson’s Harley to the other side of the door and inched to the window edge, where he saw the single headlight shining from the silhouetted shape of the beat-up Cherokee. The engine spluttered erratically, as if it was the vehicle’s death knell. He looked across at Everett and saw him shift the Glock’s safety to fire, then heard the Jeep’s door open with a drawn-out rasp. He peered outside, and saw the distinct outline of someone standing there: a hooded figure, their coat tails trailing in the wind. Taylor swallowed dryly. The figure reached inside the cab and drew out something long and curved from the seat – a compound hunting bow.

  Everett saw it too. He moved back from the door. ‘Step away, Taylor,’ he hissed.

  The ranger didn’t need to be told twice. He took a step or two away, and watched as the thread of light beneath the door was broken by a shadow outside. Everett had positioned himself about two metres from the door; arms extended, he clasped his weapon in both hands, focused and determined. The door handle twisted and rattled, shook a little, and then there was silence. Surely she must know Everett has a weapon at the ready. Then she knocked. It wasn’t a manic beating but, rather, a cordial and patient rap. Everett gestured to the door with a nod, and mouthed, Unlock it. Taylor didn’t like the fact that only an inch of weathered timber stood between him and a killer, but he knew what the detective wanted him to do – open the door and provide a clear shot, so he did just that.

  The deadbolt released with a loud metallic clatter. Taylor leaped away, aware the doors would jolt open with great force when the wind billowed through. The handle turned again, this time with the sound of the latch disengaging. Taylor now took a cautious step back, felt his chest tightening, just as the doors gushed open ahead of an assault of wind, rain and scattered leaves. The Cherokee’s light burst into the hall with it. Taylor shielded his eyes as best he could without turning away.

  The figure stepped inside, the hunting bow draped across both shoulders, wrists resting casually over each bow-limb. As she came closer, the hood fell back, revealing a pitch-black bob that curled forwards just below the ears, the colour contrasting sharply with
her porcelain-pale skin. Paris’s piercing dark eyes – bordering on coal-black – narrowed as her rose-red lips smiled. He recognised the lipstick colour from the mirror in the cabin.

  ‘That’s far enough,’ said Everett.

  She obeyed, let the bow slip from her shoulders and laid it at her feet. Not a word crossed her lips; instead, she straightened and extended her hands, wrists together in the classic handcuff pose, with just the briefest of glances at Taylor as she stepped into the lantern’s light with, perhaps, the slightest hint of regret in her eyes.

  *

  The hall’s interior was filled with overwhelming tension. It was one thing to hear the wolf sniffing at the door; quite another to invite it inside.

  So, this is Paris, Taylor thought, as he sat opposite her. Her attention was on Everett, but he felt certain she knew he was staring. Her transformation was remarkable, but he still recognised remnants of Jaimie. It was like peeling away layers of an onion. There were the same high cheekbones. Her eyes were the same shape, minus the hazel-coloured contacts. Yes, Jaimie was in there somewhere, as part of the little girl who’d learned to adopt myriad personae just to survive.

  He tried to look beneath Paris’s apparent confidence to find the lonely girl who had befriended Alison in that foreboding world of the children’s home. The child who learned to tiptoe through its dim halls beneath the scrutiny of the nuns, while surviving among her peers. These were traits she would have needed to endure her captivity with Dench and her other abusers; the same traits that gave her the ability to do terrible things to each and every one of them. It was the patience she had required that was especially disturbing to him. No impulsive crimes of passion here; no brain snaps in the presence of the people who had hurt her. Her actions had been planned over time with the patience of the most potent predator.