The Reach

by B. Michael Radburn

  29

  The rain on Everett’s face was his first conscious sensation as he struggled to free himself from the rabbit hole he was in. Slowly, he began to recall what had happened after he left the hall. A part of him wished he was still unconscious, void of this sense of failure. It was better in the dark, he thought, his thumb circling Archie’s watch face. He tried to open his eyes. Muffled sounds lifted him up to the light. A chorus of muted voices, an engine starting with a deep grumble and … Kenny Rogers singing ‘The Gambler’.

  It took all his strength to open his leaden eyelids, to see the wet road and raindrops shattering on impact. Water ran between Everett’s lips, and he slurped greedily. He rolled onto his back, recognising the slick alley walls beside the Royal as he tried to lift his head, but the effort was too great. The rain stung his face and eyes, each needle bringing him closer to clarity.

  Better in the dark, he reminded himself, but she owned the darkness now … He recalled questioning Paris back at the hall; his feeling that something wasn’t right; the need for quiet, to think things through; and then the prick of the needle and how quickly the darkness seized him.

  He moaned, forcing himself up onto one elbow. It took all his strength, each muscle working to betray him. He could hear the engine growing closer, then saw the Cherokee pass the mouth of the alleyway, its single crooked headlight beam cutting through the curtains of rain ahead of it.

  Everett dragged himself against the wall of the Royal as the chorus of ‘The Gambler’ faded from inside the pub. Instinctively, he reached for his Glock, then he remembered it had been taken – the handcuff key as well. ‘So stupid,’ he muttered, letting his hand fall uselessly to his side. So, there are two of them. The revelation was no longer a surprise. Of course there are two of them …

  He knew that the effects of the drug would eventually wear off, but every minute counted right now, and the anxiety surged through his body like the water beyond the levee. Every minute, a lifetime. He glanced down at Archie’s watch. No one knows that better than you, huh, Archie?

  Everett drew a breath to shout, but could only whimper. ‘Georgie …’ His attempted cry to the publican was a useless puff of air. He took a moment and tried again, this time a little louder: ‘Georgie Emery!’

  *

  A clatter woke Taylor with a jolt. He drew breath like a drowning man breaking the surface; his first instinct was to flail his arms and legs, but they were tied tightly, the restraints biting hungrily into his flesh. His eyes wavered open, the dashboard lights a flittering blur until he could focus.

  ‘Take it easy there, Taylor.’ Heather’s voice was calmly resolute, cutting through the road-born rattles, drumming rain and thup, thup, thup of the Cherokee’s wipers. Her smile, even under the circumstances, had a comforting familiarity to it.

  Taylor was slumped in the front seat. His numbed senses stirred as the vehicle charged into the night, uneasiness boiling up like steam in a kettle. These roads aren’t safe on a bright, dry day, let alone in this oozing muck. He held his wrists up to see his hands fastened with black cable ties; it was the same with his ankles. A nauseous weight also kept him grounded. He tried to talk, but his tongue was gummed to the roof of his mouth, his lips parched; figured it was a side effect of the drug. Taylor swallowed dryly and wet his lips before trying again.

  ‘What are you doing, Heather?’ His voice was a rasp. He leaned forward, shimmying up from his slumped position, clearly too abruptly for Heather. Her smile quickly evaporated, and he recognised Everett’s Glock pointing in his face.

  ‘No sudden movements, okay?’

  ‘Tell me, Heather. What are you doing?’ he repeated.

  Her concentration darted from Taylor to the road ahead as the Cherokee’s remaining headlight cut through the downpour. ‘What was it you and Everett always said to me?’ She faked a pout: ‘You know we can’t tell you that.’

  Taylor considered his options. He could risk kicking at Heather, but she had the gun. Even if he could disarm her, he couldn’t control the Jeep when he was bound like this. He pulled at his bindings, but they only bit deeper.

  ‘For now,’ she continued, ‘all you need to know is that you’re safe.’ As Heather casually waved the Glock between them he noticed a mobile phone gaffer taped to her forearm. ‘How safe…? Well, that’s entirely up to you right now.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘High and dry,’ she said. ‘You’re lucky. Paris likes you.’ She shrugged. ‘Hell, I like you, Taylor.’

  He allowed himself time to think, and was searching the vehicle for anything he could use against her when he saw the crate on the back seat. Heather’s raincoat was draped over it, partially obscuring the word stencilled on the side … Dyna …

  Dynamite!

  ‘Don’t do this, Heather.’ He didn’t want the words to sound pleading, but they did. ‘Please.’

  ‘Begging doesn’t suit you, Taylor,’ she said. There was a firmness about her, rising like a tide. ‘And, besides,’ she added, ‘it’s already done.’ Her manner became vague, her eyes set on something distant – a memory, perhaps – through the rain-sluiced windshield. ‘These wheels started turning a long, long time ago.’

  He gestured with a nod to the crate in the back. ‘The explosives … What are you planning to do with them?’

  Heather gently bit her bottom lip, her brow creased in quiet contemplation. ‘Oh, to hell with it,’ she finally said. ‘You’re gonna find out in about half an hour anyway.’

  She was getting sloppy with the Glock now, her forearm resting casually across her lap. ‘There’s just one more task,’ she said, eyes squinting through the rain-soaked windscreen. ‘All that water rushing over the weir and beating at the levee banks … Be a shame to let a god-given opportunity like that go to waste, don’t you think?’

  Her intention was clear, and it clutched Taylor’s heart with a cold hand. ‘What about all those people in town?’ he asked. ‘They had nothing to do with what happened to you … with what happened to Paris.’

  Her lip turned up in a bitter smirk. ‘Sometimes, doing nothing is worse than the crime itself,’ she said. ‘Have you forgotten what I told you last night?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘This town’s past is mine, Taylor. Just as my past is the town’s … bound like that forever.’ In the light of the dashboard, he could see her face had set into an unyielding expression. ‘The Reach has hurt me, Paris and poor little Alison … but no more. Forever comes tonight. I’m going to leave you up here on the high ground, then return to the levee wall.’ She patted the mobile phone taped to her arm. ‘When I hear Paris blow the weir, I blow the wall via my phone; then goodbye, Devlins Reach.’

  Taylor processed the devastation; if the weir wall was destroyed upriver, the levee bank would barely hold the flood water at bay. If Heather blew the levee too, it would wipe Devlins Reach from its foundations.

  ‘I know you’ve been hurt, Heather,’ Taylor said. ‘But isn’t it enough that Sister Moore and those men have all got what was coming to them? Surely it’s done now.’

  The Cherokee rocked with a wild wind gust as a branch crashed onto the road ahead. Heather had to swerve to avoid it, narrowly missing another broad tree by the roadside. Taylor braced himself, but Heather barely broke a sweat.

  ‘You’re a sweet guy, Taylor. But you’re on the outside looking in.’ Her chin began to tremble. It seemed she was wading waist-deep in memories now. ‘Trust me … From the inside, it looks a whole lot different.’

  Taylor didn’t feel like he was on the outside anymore. This town had dragged him into its core. ‘Don’t let Paris take you down this pathway, Heather. You’re not like her. You can walk away.’

  ‘Oh, we’re closer than you think, Taylor.’ She ground her teeth, jaw clenched. ‘Dench had practised his skills on others long before he found Paris and Alison,’ she continued. ‘Whose child do you think I carried before I …?’ She didn’t – or couldn’t – finish the sen
tence. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Taylor … I’m a lot like Paris.’

  ‘So, what will you do when all this is over?’ Taylor knew he had to find a way to get inside her head. ‘We’re all stranded here, Heather. The dead and the living alike. Survive this, and you and Paris will spend the rest of your lives in prison.’ He reached forwards, and carefully laid his bound hands on her shoulder. ‘Just take a moment to think about it … please?’

  She drew a deep, prolonged breath to stop the trembles. For a moment, Taylor thought he was getting through.

  ‘You underestimate Paris,’ she said. ‘You’ve seen how easily she moves through this world. Unseen until she wants to be seen. She … We will disappear as easily as she appeared. Our escape has been planned as meticulously as everything else.’ She smiled broadly at him, the same smile that won her the pageant all those years ago. ‘Our Hoodoo is very clever, Taylor.’

  He knew he had lost her, leaving him with only one clear option. Taylor fell back into the corner of the seat and steadied himself. He glanced at the handgun held loosely in Heather’s lap before he kicked out as hard as he could. If I’m going to stop this from happening, I’m not going to do it from up here in the hills.

  Heather screamed in pain; Taylor felt the bone in her arm snap under his heel. The gun fired into the dashboard, the gauge lights flittering to darkness as Heather’s head whipped against the side window. The glass shattered, the driving wind showering the cab with shards of glass and leaf matter. Taylor reached across for the steering wheel, feeling the Cherokee lurch forwards as Heather floored the accelerator. She fumbled with the Glock as he slid across the bench seat, shouldering the gun away, pressing her against her door. He hoped that the pain in her arm was too much for her to clasp the weapon. It fired once more and pierced the roof with a dull thot as the Cherokee lurched to the left, jumped the roadside ditch and crashed through the whipping groundcover and brush as the windshield shattered inwards. The force threw him back against the door on his side, winding him as if he’d been punched between the shoulder blades, splintered shards of glass stabbing at his face. The Cherokee finally came to a stop, rocking momentarily as it settled. The rain blasted into the cab, cooling the heat of adrenaline that surged through his veins with every strained breath.

  Taylor groaned and sucked a lungful of air, spitting a portion of bloodied glass from the corner of his mouth. He was covered in tiny fragments, and could feel warm streaks of blood trailing down his cold cheek. Then he remembered, Must get the gun! He sprang upright, frustrated by his restraints, looked across at Heather and quickly realised there was no hurry.

  ‘Oh, Heather,’ he moaned as he fell back into the saturated seat.

  A heavy tree branch lay on the hood, one shattered limb prone across the dash and through the steering-wheel rim, its fragmented end embedded in Heather’s chest. Her hands explored it delicately, fingertips springing back with every touch, her eyes pools of denial in her pallid face. She looked across at him, confused, the rain drawing makeup down her face in a macabre mask.

  ‘Taylor,’ she pleaded, a gurgling wetness in her voice.

  ‘Try not to move,’ he said. He held up his bound wrists. ‘I can’t help you like this. I need my hands free.’

  Her eyes grew heavy as a stain of blood bloomed, like a rich red rose, at the wound. She nodded to the glovebox. ‘Knife,’ she said with a sudden pained expression.

  The glovebox, distorted in the crash, took some work to open, but there it was: an opened pocketknife beside a flashlight and empty water bottle. The blade sliced through the cable ties with more difficulty than Taylor expected, nicking his thumb because of the awkward hold it took to reach between his wrists. Once the ties were cut, the relief was instant. His feet were easier to free, and he slipped the knife into his pocket, left the cab and ploughed through the brush to Heather’s side of the car. The engine was still running, although very roughly. The damned thing’s built like a tank.

  Taylor eased open her door and the interior light flickered on. He wanted to save her, but this was way beyond his limited medical abilities. The only thing stemming the blood flow was the broken branch embedded in the wound. He stopped her from falling out into the mud. ‘I’ve got you,’ he reassured her. Heather’s skin was cold to touch, the paleness fading to a waxen grey. He cradled her face and looked into her eyes; her pupils were dilated. ‘Aren’t we a pair?’ There was a distance in her voice, and Taylor was unsure whether she was speaking to him at all.

  ‘Yes, Heather,’ he said. ‘Quite a pair.’

  She smiled. It was the warmest smile he had ever seen from her; perhaps he was seeing the real Heather for the first time. He could smell the blood now.

  ‘I have to stop her, Heather. You know I do.’

  Heather reached up and clasped his hand in hers. ‘I know.’ Her grasp was growing weaker with each breath. ‘Paris is a victim too, Taylor.’ She gently patted his hand. ‘Don’t lose sight of that.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Taylor said.

  Heather took a long, laboured breath, and passed away.

  *

  The rain beat at Everett’s upturned face, water trickling down his throat, cool and soothing. Is the weather easing? He was so used to the rain’s presence that he couldn’t tell anymore; so used to the constant beating of it, that he couldn’t remember what silence was. His throat felt raw from calling out; he decided that he couldn’t be heard from inside the Royal anyway, and cursed Georgie under his breath. He wiped the glass face of his working watch and noted the time. His last attempt to stand had been ten minutes ago. His legs had accepted his weight briefly, then crumpled at his first step. But he felt stronger already; more alert. With the groan of a man twenty years his elder, Everett stood, steadied himself against the Royal’s wall and took another step. Better, he thought. He eased his weight from the wall and took another. Much better.

  He pressed forwards. The alley’s slight incline helped his momentum. He had one hand still propped against the wall; more for comfort than support now. He nearly stumbled into the street but recovered, then looked both ways into the empty road, and focused on the pub’s doors just shy of the partially collapsed awning.

  The street gutters gushed with coffee-coloured water. He staggered to the Royal’s front doors, hungry for the warmth and light hinted at through the frosted-glass panes. The three steps seemed huge in his current condition. He reached the top and tried the door, but it was locked. Shit! He beat it as hard as he could, then slid down to the narrow landing and waited. That’s when he noticed a number of thin red light beams dancing on his chest.

  ‘What the …?’ he murmured, blinded by a sudden explosion of white light in his face. Everett raised his hand to shield his eyes. Have to identify myself. He patted his pocket, relieved to feel his wallet still there. At least they left me that. Everett raised it face-high, letting it fall open to reveal his badge.

  The flashlight was extinguished – though fireflies still danced in his vision – as a man dressed in black tactical clothing and webbing stepped forwards from the shadows, rain dripping from his chin. He lowered his weapon and swept his left arm in a downwards motion to tell the other men behind him to do the same. Six heavily armed figures stepped forwards, some with climbing ropes looped over their shoulders. The little red dots simultaneously migrated from Everett’s chest.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Ryan Everett?’ asked the leader.

  Everett felt a surge of relief, almost to the point of tears. ‘That’s me,’ he said and lowered his badge.

  ‘Man, are we glad to see you.’ The leader removed his Kevlar helmet and wiped his saturated brow. All the men were soaked through, their boots rimmed with mud from the trek over the pass.

  ‘Oh, boys,’ Everett said. ‘The feeling is most definitely mutual.’

  30

  Taylor recognised Sampson’s Harley parked where the track to the weir met the access road at the bend. Paris must have taken it from the hall and filled it with gas;
probably always a part of her plan. The rain had stopped for now, but she still showed a lot of guts riding the bike in conditions like this. But if Taylor had learned anything about Paris, it was that fear was no obstacle for her; instead, it was like a snake bite – get enough of them and you become immune.

  The Cherokee was on its last legs, the temperature gauge rising into the red, its engine straining. At least it had got him this far. When he stopped beside the motorcycle, the engine coughed, shuddered and expired. The surviving headlight blinked and faded to nothing. The beast had finally died; a wheeze of steam from the buckled hood its final breath.

  He sat for a moment, staring through the empty windscreen, listening to the rampant river ahead, the sound indicating it had a force much greater than it had when he first arrived. Taylor composed himself, knowing what must come. But his mobile’s ring took him from the moment with a startled gasp. Like a watch spring that was overwound, his nerves snapped with the intrusion. ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he murmured, snatching the phone from his pocket, seeing it was Everett calling.

  ‘Everett,’ he burst out. ‘You okay?’

  The detective sounded hoarse, clearing his throat before answering. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m okay, but Heather’s … gone. Dead, I mean. She was a part of this the whole time.’

  There was a momentary silence from Everett. ‘Jesus …’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’ He sighed. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘At the weir. Paris is planning to blow it up and wipe out the town.’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Everett said. ‘Backup has arrived and we’re on our way.’

  Taylor shook his head. ‘With all due respect, I don’t think we have time for that … I’m gonna try to stop her.’ The pause on the line pressed against Taylor’s anxious need to get down to the weir. ‘I have your gun,’ he said. ‘I’ll be okay. I … I’ll do what I have to.’