Trust Me When I Lie

by Benjamin Stevenson

  Andrew was at a rack of bottles laid out in honeycomb shelving, rifling through them. He plucked one out, tilted it to the light. He held it up to Jack as if for approval. Jack shrugged.

  “Did you bring me here just to show off?” Jack said.

  He felt uneasy, and he was cold. Andrew was being kind, nice, which didn’t match how Jack had portrayed him in the series—as a complete arsehole. Not that he was one, but Jack had told the nation he was. Jack didn’t know exactly why Andrew Freeman had approached him, but he didn’t fancy being trapped underground with him for too much longer.

  “Of course not,” Andrew said, slightly taken aback—and maybe a little hurt—that Jack wasn’t impressed by him. He walked back to the stairs. “I brought you here to choose a bottle. This isn’t what I wanted to show you. This way.”

  Andrew flicked the switch on the wall and the cellar disappeared. The square of light at the top of the stairs shimmered like an invitation.

  Andrew tucked the wine bottle under one arm and placed a hand on the lowest rung of the ladder. The ladder ran up the flank of the repaired silo before curling over the rim.

  Andrew started to climb without asking Jack to follow. About ten rungs up, the ladder was encased in a circular cage which went all the way to the top. The chute was secured at the bottom by a padlocked grate. Andrew unlocked the padlock and worked it through the latch, the grill swinging open with a clatter. Whump. The sound shocked Jack. Andrew climbed into the chute.

  Jack’s fingers had found their way into his mouth; he was gnawing at his nails. He wasn’t afraid of heights, even though he probably should have been, but he remained respectfully aware of them. He placed a hand on the ladder and felt the vibrations of Andrew’s climb rumbling through his fingertips. He breathed in and shut his eyes. Besides, he reminded himself, people aren’t scared of heights; they’re scared of the ground.

  People bounce too. Everyone thinks that when someone falls from a height, they just go splat. But they don’t. There’s a puff of dust, and then they’re in the air again, rag-doll limbs akimbo, as if the earth is spitting them back out, rather than colliding into them. People bounce. Jack knew. His brother had. Only once.

  Jack opened his eyes and slowly climbed. His grip was tight, knuckles strained. He took it one rung at a time.

  On top of the silo, he was glad he had. The views were spectacular. Now he was level with the canopy, Jack could see the ridges of the mountains beyond, fire trails carved through the trees like veins. Turning, he had a bird’s-eye view of Birravale. From up here, it looked like a child’s diorama, small square blocks dotting the road. He counted the buildings—no more than thirty. Tiny cars moved like they were on rails. A toy town. Lazily built, as if the playing child had forgotten some essential parts that made it a real town. Beyond was land in square patches of yellow, green, and dark brown—a country both dead and alive, stitched together like a quilt.

  And, of course, directly beneath them, the Wade property. The hexagonal restaurant took pride of place, undeniably drawing the eye. Jack’s eyes followed the final vine on the Wade property, down to where Eliza had died, near where the old restaurant would have been. He wondered what the old restaurant had looked like, struck by the irony of Andrew, with his multimillion-dollar renovation, calling Curtis’s single indulgence tacky. Andrew Freeman thought he was so different from Curtis Wade, but they’d both found money, though Andrew had married into it. He seemed to pride himself on technicalities. He owned a winery, after all; Curtis only owned a vineyard.

  From here, Curtis’s rows of grapes looked like gouges in the dirt. Some were covered in white nets, cocooned like spiderwebs.

  Before the land started to really run uphill, there was the small patch of overgrowth unofficially separating the two properties, where Jack had found Eliza’s shoe. And then, as soon as the elevation started, the Freeman place began. It was as if both wineries had sat flat, side by side, then someone had folded the earth and put Andrew Freeman on top.

  The Freemans’ trellises were different too. Because it was too steep to run them straight down the hill, their vines were along the slope, perpendicular to the Wades’. It gave the impression of a Vietnamese rice paddy rather than a winery.

  “I like it up here.” Andrew was sitting on the edge of the silo, knees folded out into the air, the backs of his heels drumming against the steel. Jack sat as close to the middle of the roof as possible, next to a large metal nub that looked like a submarine hatch.

  “Sarah brought me up here on one of our first dates. I thought to myself, for the rest of my life, I gotta have this view. That’s when I knew I was gonna marry her. You can sit on that, it’s fine.”

  Jack sat down on the hatch. There was a picnic basket beside Andrew, but Jack didn’t remember him carrying it up; he must keep it up here. Andrew swiveled around, back to the air now, which disconcerted Jack even more. He opened the bottle and pulled two glasses from the picnic basket. The wine he poured was red, smelled fruity. Andrew handed him a glass.

  “I know nothing about wine,” Jack said, “if you’re expecting a discussion on the notes.” He’d been on a date once, at a tasting, and the sommelier had said his glass should have the essence of an oak bushfire. Jack didn’t know how he was supposed to taste a bushfire, let alone the type of tree aflame, but he’d nodded anyway, said he could taste some roasted koala in there too. There was no second date.

  “Me neither. My wife’s the maker.” Andrew took a long swig from the bottle. “I’m the drinker. This is a good one though, trust me.” He filled his glass almost to the brim. Jack was reminded of an old saying: Don’t get high on your own supply. That saying only applied to drug dealers, but Jack supposed Andrew was technically a drug dealer, especially if the sign in the Royal was anything to go by.

  Jack took a sip. Andrew was right. It had that smoothness where it felt as if your tongue were waxed and the liquid was levitating above it. He didn’t know how much this bottle was worth; he tried to imagine what a thousand-dollar bottle would taste like.

  “Andrew,” Jack said, “you didn’t bring me up here just to show me the view.”

  “I thought hospitality might be in short supply. Besides, I think in order for you to come back here, you must have something pretty heavy weighing you down. Maybe you’re back for the right reasons this time.”

  Jack took a sip of his wine. Laughed. “I thought you were bringing me up here to throw me off.”

  “Water. Bridge. Birravale might not have a creek, but it’s under it. Not everyone here’s an enemy.” Andrew raised his glass. “If I can do something to help put that man away again, I will.”

  They sat in silence, appreciating the view. Jack could see the romance of it. But had Andrew realized how beautiful his wife was up here, in this light, or how rich? A technicality, he supposed. He remembered what Lauren had said about being born into wine, and here was a local cop, married into it yet respected all the same. At least there was one person in town keen to help him. And, seeing as how Andrew was the sergeant, this olive branch could be useful. McCarthy hadn’t replied.

  “One thing I do need is medical records. The coroner’s report.”

  “Why?”

  “The detective from Sydney’s too cagey. I’m only getting half the picture. Have you heard anything?”

  “I wish I could help, but I wouldn’t know.” Andrew shrugged. “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “Shit.” Jack looked into the deep red of his glass. Alexis’s words were echoing—You definitely got someone fired.

  “It wasn’t you,” Andrew said, “if that’s what you’re thinking. Though you ruined a lot of reputations.” He finished his glass and topped it up again, holding the bottle up to the sun, swishing it at Jack. Jack shook his head. “No? Don’t act so surprised. You cost a lot of people their jobs. Not mine though. I was happy to retire. I get to spend more time up here,
spend more time with Sarah. Besides, a small-town cop has only got one murder in him, I think. We’re bred tough here, don’t doubt that. That’s not what I mean. I’ve peeled children off blacktop, ground fathers out of harvesters. But murder…country people are good people. We know death, more so than city folk. But the difference is that we respect death. Murder, though, there’s no respect there.”

  “Hmm,” Jack agreed.

  If Andrew wasn’t a cop anymore, then who was? Birravale didn’t have its own police station, but at least when the sergeant lived in the town, there was some authority. Though he’d always had a lot of ground to cover. Where was the nearest station? Cessnock? Newcastle? Jack reminded himself not to get into any real trouble out here.

  “Yep. One murder’s enough for me.” Andrew downed the rest of the glass, refilled it. He examined the empty bottle, slotted it into the picnic basket. “It didn’t make sense, what you said about me. You know.” He was speaking quietly; he didn’t sound mad.

  “I know,” Jack said. “I’m starting to realize I got a lot of people wrong.”

  “That I killed a woman. Just to get back at him for emptying my tanks? Fuck that.” Andrew’s voice was slightly slurred. “I didn’t even press charges. Some feud.”

  “You broke his windows, I hear.”

  He shook his head. “Dawson’s boys did.”

  Jack tried not to let the surprise show on his face, mentally filed away that the blonds in the pub were Brett Dawson’s sons.

  “After all, they built the hideous thing. You know how expensive one of those curved windows is to replace?”

  “Like a firefighter setting fires,” Jack said, “to rescue the people inside.” Brett Dawson smashing the windows he’d put in so Curtis would have to pay him to have them fixed. He was double-dipping.

  “When I started as a cop,” Andrew said, “the sarge at the time had a handshake deal with the pub. Let him know ahead of time who was headed home drunk. Sarge’d pull them over, completely randomly, of course.” He tapped his nose. “Offer them a cash fine to not get hauled down to the station. Then he’d split the profits with the bartender. So yeah, I’m saying they set their own fire.”

  “But Curtis took it out on you. Why didn’t you press charges?”

  “The wine’s insured. Look, it sounds bad, three million. That was the claim, anyway, but those numbers—they’re all projections. They sound intimidating, but the thing is it’s not real money. Worse than it sounded, is what I’m saying. It wasn’t three million, not even close. So we didn’t press charges, because we didn’t want to add fuel. Look at things now.” Andrew looked out over the town. “Everything’s ablaze.”

  “You could have told me this before.”

  “I thought no comment was my best option. Sarah didn’t want to get pulled into it. But you were making your show. You’d chosen your story, and I could tell you were sticking to it. What voice would you have given me? But now, someone you know has been killed, so I’m thinking you’re on my side.”

  Jack was silent. Would he have listened? He’d been confronted with conflicting evidence, and he’d hidden that away. Now here he was, starting again. He thought of Lauren, begging for his help. Was he really listening this time?

  “Do you know how complicated it would have been for me to even think about arranging a conspiracy as complex as you proposed? No. I’m sorry.” Andrew waved a hand. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I said I forgave you and I have. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. I’m trying to help you. He killed her. Killed ’em both, I’d say. So let’s get him.” The last few words spat from his plump, reddened lips.

  “You know it doesn’t make sense for a murderer to set up a body pointing straight back to him.” Jack couldn’t believe he was defending Curtis. “Even an idiot dumps a body better than that.”

  “You flipping sides again?” Andrew was exasperated, his voice high and tired. “Do you think he killed them or not?”

  “Yes,” Jack said, and it was true. He did believe Curtis had killed Eliza, even if he wasn’t sure as to what had happened to Alexis. But he was still convinced that Eliza’s murder, the truth behind it, would unlock everything else. “But I need to know why. I need to know how he got her to the middle of that field. You can see the whole town from here. Curtis’s whole property. You didn’t see her before she died, after she stopped working here?”

  “No.”

  Something there. A flicker. Not a lie. Not the truth.

  “You sure. Never?”

  “I’m sure.”

  A long shadow was passing through the town now. The sun was shedding its last golden rays across the vineyards. A few lights popped on in town. Another one, closer, the windows of the Wade restaurant emitting a soft glow. Through the curved glass, it looked like a lantern, a beacon. Lauren’s invite. Tomorrow.

  They sat for a time without talking, the single street below hazy with a dewy mist.

  “I should go,” Jack said finally.

  “You didn’t finish your wine.”

  “I don’t really drink. It was delicious. Thank you.”

  “No bother. Leave it. I’m gonna stay up here awhile longer. You right to get home yourself?”

  Jack nodded. It would be a fast walk downhill. He went slowly backward down the first few rungs. Just before he dropped below the rim, Andrew called out to him.

  “We’re friends now, Jack,” he said. “Anyone gives you trouble…” He raised his fists, tossed a few imaginary jabs, laughed. “Tell ’em they’re messing with me.”

  Jack held his best smile until the wall of the silo rose over Andrew, blocking him out. He was careful on the descent, used a mixed grip—one hand over, one hand under. It felt a long way down and that he was going too slowly. Think of the positives, he reminded himself, it could be much faster. Whump.

  Jack didn’t know what to make of Andrew. On the one hand, Andrew had shown some true intent to bury the hatchet (provided it wasn’t in his wine vats again). But there was an anger in him that leaked out too, snuck through his red lips in fits. Andrew had suffered seven weeks of a one-sided conversation, all but accused of conspiracy. Was it so strange he’d wanted to have his say, to clarify his character? But there was something disconcerting there, something not quite nice about a man who decides to marry his wife based on a view. Jack realized, somewhat uncomfortably, that he was looking forward to seeing Lauren again tomorrow. God forbid, he actually preferred the Wades. At least they spoke their minds. With Andrew, Jack couldn’t tell if what he was saying and what he was thinking were the same thing. You can move a restaurant across the road, but if the food’s rotten…

  The sun was gone now. Dark. Jack climbed down into the abyss.

  Chapter 16

  Jack was only halfway down the drive when he heard yelling. A dog barking. The air was so still and clear that the sound flooded and filled it. Short words. Oy. Hey. Stop. They hung in the night.

  Toward town, down the hill, he could see the Wades’ field, a dampened yellow glow encasing it in some kind of ethereal bubble. Behind and above, across the tops of the trees, a harsh-white circle of torchlight scanned. Glints of possum eyes, bright as stars, sparkled then vanished as they darted off, branches rustling. The light wasn’t smooth; it shuddered up and down, across the canopy. It was a feeble, shaking beam. Whoever was holding the flashlight was running.

  Jack was running now too, back up the drive. Yelling from the Wade property was something to worry about. He crossed the back of the Freeman restaurant, and his line of sight cleared. In the valley below, the Wade property looked like a POW jailbreak without the air siren. Between the rows of grapes, the beams of two flashlights were scanning back and forth. At the base of the rise, a cracking sound, bushes shaking, as someone picked their way through the shrubbery line that separated the properties. One of the flashlights in the field lowered from the canopy above Jack to ill
uminate the bush below. A shadow lurched, on Jack’s side now, hopping on one leg out of the undergrowth as if struggling with a sock, then bolted into Andrew Freeman’s vines.

  More yelling. Stop. Hey. Fuck. Barking. A car started.

  The shadow heading through the Freemans’ vineyard looked as if it was aiming to go up and over the hill. If Jack ran straight along a row, he’d cut them off. He knew he had to catch them. Fleeing the Wades’ this late at night? That was someone dangerous.

  Jack hurried past the wine silos, sparing a quick glance up. Was Andrew still there, watching? He couldn’t tell. The ground opened up to the rows of grapes in front of him. The entrance to each was black, with curling vines raking backward, the entrance to a maze. A torch was flashing over the vines, that person having plucked their way through the bush as well. One of the Wades giving chase? Jack took a breath, ran into the closest entrance.

  The rows were tall, immediately blocking the moon. The flashlight scanned through the gaps in the foliage in a slow pan, momentarily dipping him in and out of darkness. A zoetrope. It must have been later and colder than he’d thought, because in one flash of light, his breath was coming out in puffs and mist swirled at his ankles. The intermittent light was screwing with his night vision, the night almost impossibly dark when it moved away from him. He kept drifting downhill, shouldering the vines and fence posts on his right, ricocheting back into the center of the row. Tendrils whipped at his face. Then light. Then dark. Jack was wondering how the hell he was going to know when he was even close to the person he was chasing when he heard a yelp and tripped right over them.

  He landed hard on his elbows. Rolled. Everything was dark. Something was in his hand, a sock, an ankle. Grunting. A foot kicking out. Then it was light again, the flashlight beam rotating past, and there was mist glowing around his head and a glimpse of someone in front of him, scrambling on their stomach to go under the fence. Then dark. Something wooden like a baseball bat hit him hard in the jaw, and he felt his neck snap backward and his head bounce off the ground. There was a scuffling noise. The light scanned over him again—he could tell from the glowing red across the backs of his closed eyelids.