Burning Lies

by Helene Young

  His stomach tightened. He’d seen enough accidents to know you had to stay detached. No room for emotion. How the hell had the sexy neighbour got under his guard? He rocked back on his heels and played the light over the road. Most of the tracks had been obliterated by his efforts to tow her out. There was a hint of skid marks, raised dirt, but he couldn’t be sure. No clues left.

  Nemesis was the most likely culprit, but there were inconsistencies. If they knew where he lived, then the chances were they’d know the vehicle he was driving. They would have known they’d run the wrong one off the road. But then they’d roared past him without a second glance, as far as he could tell. Panicked, maybe? Or just an inopportune accident?

  He chewed on his lip. Could it be the arsonist? Always possible someone had got wind of his investigation, even though only the regional commander was supposed to know.

  The dust shifted as he stood up. So dry, too dry. The place was like a tinderbox. A worse car accident would have taken all this out: Jerry’s place, the forestry, and maybe even Kait’s house.

  Lucky.

  But then, he didn’t believe in luck.

  He dusted off his pants as he climbed back into his car. The sooner he rang this in, the better. He wanted some answers. And backup.

  With all the lights on, it looked like a party was in full swing at Jerry’s. The gun in Ryan’s hand didn’t waver as he walked up the stairs. Broken furniture and scattered possessions were all that greeted him. No unexpected visitors were waiting, no obvious sign of a booby trap. He was angry with himself for exposing Kait to the danger. He should never have suggested driving back to his house. He surveyed the main living room, tucking the gun away. Too late to worry about that now. Where the bloody hell did he start?

  He sent a text to Crusoe. Short, succinct. Nemesis may be here. The phone clunked onto the sideboard, the only upright furniture in the room. ‘See how much sleep you get now, Crusoe,’ he said into the silence, knowing his partner would be soon be scouring surveillance tapes for the surrounding areas, looking for possible sightings of the bikies.

  Half an hour later, his arms aching, sweat pouring off him, he had the furniture roughly back in place. It would take an upholsterer to get the stuffing back into the chairs. The kitchen he chose to ignore. That would need plastic bags, lots of hot water and some heavy-duty cleaning products. And he’d need to go shopping for food again.

  The main bedroom was the most untouched, but they’d ripped the back out of the wardrobe and the wooden planks now covered his mattress as it lay half off the frame. Old papers were scattered across the floor. Ryan knelt to bundle them up. He freed a soft-covered book from underneath the mattress, the writing in it spidery and deliberate. And familiar.

  He turned a page and the date caught his eye: 12 December 1943. Jerry’s diary. He frowned as he read the entry.

  Hard day today. We are all cross-eyed from committing so many ranks to memory. Our trainer is a tough man. He needs to be, I suppose. ‘Undisciplined rabble from Australia with no respect for authority,’ he keeps calling us. He’s right. No Australian is going to put up with that stiff upper lip carry-on.

  Ryan turned the page. More observations of the men in his group and their British commanders. Apparently it was pretty chilly in England in the depths of winter. He knew Jerry had been in the Second World War, but the old man had rarely talked about it. Neither did the family. In fact, Ryan’s father hadn’t liked the old man at all. Ryan had realised later that the only reason he’d been allowed to spend school holidays up on Happy Jack Road with his great uncle was because it suited his parents not to have to deal with their son.

  Once those visits stopped so abruptly, his only contact with Jerry was by mail. A Christmas present reliably arrived every year, normally a book, an adventure story. Letters turned up more frequently as Ryan got older.

  He searched his memory for what he did know. Jerry used to march on Anzac Day, along with his dwindling band of cohorts. He stayed home on 11 November and observed a minute’s silence at the eleventh hour. He abhorred war and had protested over Vietnam and both the Iraq campaigns. Ryan remembered the police arresting Jerry for a sit-in somewhere in the late eighties. At the time, Ryan had been in the Navy, first foot on the ladder of success, and was angered by the protests, embarrassed by his relative. Later, his opinion had changed.

  He still had the letter Jerry had sent when he heard Ryan had signed up for the Navy. Same fluid handwriting as this. Ryan had been full of self-importance and the burning desire to follow in his father’s footsteps, and had dismissed his great uncle’s words of caution. What the hell would he know? he remembered thinking. Old man had driven trains all his life.

  The reality was, of course, that before the trains, Jerry had survived the war, like the rest of his generation. Turns out he knew a hell of a lot more than Ryan.

  Ryan closed the worn covers. He’d make time to read it, but first he had to get some sleep. That wasn’t going to be easy tonight, with adrenalin still simmering in his blood and his senses on full alert.

  If tonight’s break-in was Nemesis then he’d unwittingly involved Kaitlyn Scott and her family. If that was the case, he had two options: stick like glue or distance himself completely. Either option held its own dangers.

  Tomorrow. He’d work it out tomorrow.

  Chapter 25

  ‘ARE you all right, darling?’ Julia hadn’t budged from her armchair, fabric from her latest half-made quilt still draped across her lap. Kaitlyn hesitated as she locked the front door. She knew that the minute her mother saw her face she’d go into interrogation mode.

  ‘Kaitie?’

  ‘You’re still up.’

  ‘The show’s just finishing.’

  ‘Right.’ Kait dropped onto the wide leather arm on her mother’s chair. How much to tell her? The full details of the car accident could wait.

  ‘So, do you have any idea who ran into you?’ Julia wasn’t going to be fobbed off.

  ‘No idea at all.’ Kait could only shrug. ‘A random accident.’

  ‘Was someone there? At Jerry’s place?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kait sighed this time. There was no easy way. ‘And they’ve left Ryan with a hell of a mess to clean up. The place has been ransacked.’

  ‘No! I really didn’t hear anyone go by.’ Julia pushed herself to the edge of the seat, peering up at Kait as she slipped her reading glasses back on. ‘How dreadful.’

  ‘Yeah. I think a lot of Jerry’s things have been trashed. Hard to see under all the mess. It’s going to take Ryan a while to sort it out.’

  ‘I can give the poor man a hand tomorrow. What a terrible thing to have happen in our neighbourhood. Did you call the police?’ Julia didn’t quite meet Kait’s eyes and she didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Poor Ryan. And poor Jerry. He’ll be so upset if anything’s damaged. We’ll have to let him know.’

  ‘Mum …’ She intertwined her fingers through her mother’s, trying to prevent them trembling. ‘That isn’t going to be possible. The real estate agent told Ryan that Jerry …’ The words were so hard to get out. She tried again, watching the colour fade from Julia’s face and the tears fill her eyes.

  She could only nod in response to the mute question, squeezing her mother’s hand tight. ‘I’m sorry. Jerry’s gone. He passed away earlier this year. Ryan didn’t know any more details.’ Her voice broke. Jerry’s death felt like one loss too many. It cracked open a tiny fault line in the dam wall of her self-control. The flood of tears she’d resolutely locked away five years ago burst through and poured down her cheeks. She struggled to stem the flow and bring them back under control, but they dripped off her chin.

  Julia took little sharp sips of air, trying to speak as she shook her head in denial. ‘I don’t … I can’t … No …’ she hiccupped. ‘Why didn’t Jerry’s family contact us?’ Her voice barely made it above a whisper.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know. Oh, Mum.’ Kaitlyn slid all the way into the chair next to her
mother and pulled her close. Julia’s whole body shook with her sobs as Kait rubbed a calming hand over her back. Five years ago it had been the other way around.

  So much sorrow. It felt too heavy to carry, too hard to face. Coming on top of the allegations about Chris, Kaitlyn felt as though she was slipping beneath a tidal wave of emotion. She needed a lifeline and there was none to be found. She had to flounder on and be strong.

  ‘Mum, Nana, what’s wrong?’

  Kaitlyn almost swore. Standing in the doorway in his Spiderman pyjamas, Dan looked so solemn. Julia leant away as she dug for her handkerchief and pushed to the edge of the seat. Kait swiped her palms down her cheeks, knowing it wouldn’t help much.

  ‘Dan, you should be asleep, honey.’ She reached out and tugged him down onto the arm of the chair. She was struggling to regroup. ‘We’re just being silly, it’s okay.’ She slid an arm around his shoulder.

  He shook his head, tears magnifying his eyes as his gaze darted between the two women. ‘No, you’re crying. I heard you talking to Ryan outside.’

  Kaitlyn glanced at her mother, who was now standing up. Too late to try deflecting. ‘Honey, we can talk about this in the morning.’

  ‘No,’ he said, raising his voice. His tears burst over his lashes, leaving twin trails down his cheeks. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Kaitlyn pulled him down on top of her, the two of them squashed into the armchair. ‘Dan, you know where Dad and Grandpa have gone?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He looked suspicious, as though he expected her to fob him off. ‘They’re in heaven.’

  ‘Well, Jerry’s gone to catch up with them too, say g’day.’

  ‘Jerry? But what about his house? And Ryan?’ His chin and bottom lip wobbled.

  ‘Jerry was very old.’ Kait took her time looking for the words. ‘It was time for him to have a rest. The house and the big yard? It took up a lot of energy, even with you helping him.’

  ‘So, he’s not coming home?’ The tears had dried up as he tried to process it.

  ‘No, Dan, he’s not coming home. Jerry passed away earlier this year and I’ve only just found out.’

  ‘Is Ryan going to look after his house, then?’

  ‘For now, yes.’

  ‘So, Jerry’s with Dad and Grandpa?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kait continued to run her hand up and down the knobbly studs of her son’s spine, feeling the tension turn to acceptance. Death was something he was exposed to every time he looked at a family photo. He was taking it way better than she’d expected.

  ‘Can I still visit his house?’

  ‘As long as it’s all right with Ryan.’

  ‘Okay.’ Dan rested against her, pulling a loose thread on his cuff. His breathing was fast, shallow. Who knew how he’d take this tomorrow?

  Kait could hear kitchen doors opening and closing as Julia fussed. It was a rhythm she remembered from her own childhood. Lying in bed, drowsy with sleep, hearing her mother stow the final things away, then the lights would go out one by one. The last light was always the delicate lamp on Kaitlyn’s dressing table. Julia would press gentle lips to her daughter’s temple, then the darkness would cocoon Kait as she slid back into childhood dreams. Tonight, listening to it held the same comfort.

  Dan stirred in her arms. ‘Can I sleep in your bed?’

  ‘Sure. For tonight.’ Better that she be there if the truth hit him during the night.

  Julia came back to the chair, her arms folded around her. Kait shot her a questioning look and her mother managed a tremulous smile.

  ‘We’ll talk in the morning,’ Julia said. ‘Good night.’ She leant in for a final hug and a kiss. For a moment the three of them rested there, together, safe.

  Kait wished she could keep them like that forever.

  Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, her mouth grim. The computer’s clock said it was just past two in the morning. She could hear Dan’s snores fluttering through slack lips behind her.

  ‘Nothing,’ Kait murmured, her fingers resting on the keyboard. It had taken her a long couple of hours to decide there was nothing substantial on Bradley Ryan in any of the usual sites.

  Did that make him an undercover cop? Or could he be someone who’d been resettled, given a new identity? That could also explain the gun, and the lack of history. Happened far more often than people realised. She’d bet he wasn’t a killer, but maybe a corporate criminal? She didn’t know how she felt about that, but for now she let it go. Make some more inquiries tomorrow.

  She knew she wouldn’t sleep, knew she’d lie there awake but she slid into bed anyway. Dan snuffled and wriggled closer.

  Martin still hadn’t got back to her about Chris, but then, he wouldn’t until he could tell her something. One way or the other. Maybe tomorrow.

  Her neck was sore and she shifted, trying to get comfortable. It didn’t help. Probably whiplash from the sideswipe on the way to Jerry’s. That moment felt like it had been days ago, instead of merely hours.

  Jerry. Gone.

  In her oversized bed, with tears dampening the pillow beneath her, she remembered Jerry and his kindly ways. It must have been hard coming out as a gay man in a small town where everyone knew your business. To be vilified by a minority because your life partner was another man, taken by cancer the year Kait moved her family next door.

  Even harder to know that people kept their children away from you because you might infect them. She’d seen the very real joy on Jerry’s face when he described the time he’d had with his great-nephew. She’d also seen the very real pain when he talked about the lad’s bigoted father realising his uncle was gay and banning him from all contact. In the way of elderly memories, the first half of Jerry’s life was more vivid than the second.

  He’d adored Dan, the grandson he’d never had, and that had been reciprocated. Dan would miss him more than he realised right now.

  Rolling onto her stomach, she wrapped her arms around the pillow and buried her face. Tomorrow she’d have to be strong for all of them. Tonight she could cry for all that she’d lost.

  Chapter 26

  CAR lights shone through the gap between the faded curtains. Just a flash that slid across the crazed paint of the weatherboards, but it was enough to wake him fully. Chris Jackson hadn’t slept soundly since he was a boy. It was a hazardous habit to let your guard down.

  Funny thing was, that habit had kept him safe in jail. A light sleeper heard trouble before it found him.

  He lay in his narrow bed and listened, watching the lights swing past again. They glinted off the rusting ceiling fan that was idling above his head. Someone had definitely done a drive-by at five a.m. A new car, not a diesel, probably mid-sized as the engine was just ticking over. It sounded stationary now.

  The bed squeaked as he swung his feet to the floor, the old lino cool under his soles. He smoothed his moustache down. McCormack? Or someone sent by McCormack?

  There were no streetlights down this end of the road. He’d seen to that when he moved in. Wasn’t hard to keep them broken. He was the only one likely to complain. Derelict house up the end was waiting for demolition. One on the left was still vacant. He slid his hand behind the curtain and moved it a millimetre. The vehicle was just out of sight. He shuffled across to the other side, but it had moved further along by then. It was inching down the street, lights off now.

  He sucked in air through the gaps in his teeth. Patrol car, maybe? Had there been another breakout from Lotus Glen, the maximum-security prison up towards Dimbulah?

  Maybe it was a coincidence, someone lost. He made it to the next room, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and sidled up to the window as the engine noise increased. It was already up the street.

  ‘Shit.’ The downside of a darkened street. He couldn’t make out any details except that it was a late-model sedan.

  Definitely not a cop car.

  Wide awake now, he padded into the kitchen and filled the kettle, hearing the water hammer in the pipes for the first cou
ple of seconds. He leant against the laminated benchtop as the water came to the boil. The click of the kettle was unnaturally loud. Lost in thought, he almost jumped. Sun would be up soon enough. He might as well get going with the day. The cupboard door needed an extra tap with his foot to close it after he’d replaced the box of teabags. He rinsed the teaspoon under running water and dropped it into the tannin-stained sink.

  With a fresh mug of tea in his hand he waited as his computer sprang to life. Three years in jail had provided many opportunities. They called it networking, in the business world. You met people inside you hoped died long and horrible deaths. Others you became friends with and never saw again. Then there were those you bonded with so tightly you never let go of them. Probably part of what made it so friggin’ hard to stay straight once you got out.

  He logged in and clicked on the ‘Return of the Drones’ icon. How the hell did the authorities think they could control prisoners when they gave them computers and internet connections? Half the fuckin’ drug deals in Australia were set up using online games like this one.

  If the authorities followed the link, what could they prove? Everything was conducted in code.

  Yesterday he’d sent off some names. He wanted the latest on Grant McCormack, Don Adler and the McCormack empire. Late last night he’d added Bradley Ryan. Trudy said the hotshot firey had been talking to Kaitlyn Scott at the meeting last night. No way was he going to allow Ryan to cosy up to Kait and her family. He’d waited too long to get this close. She just needed nudging in his direction.

  The game opened and he checked his inbox. He had two replies, which he read in chronological order. McCormack was up here on the Tablelands. Seems he’d driven from Cairns and checked into a hotel at Yungaburra. Chris couldn’t believe the dickhead would come all the way from Sydney to create trouble. Old man McCormack would never have got his hands dirty. MCM had always used hired help.

  It made him snigger. You don’t mess with me, laddie. You were barely shaving when I killed my first man. You don’t have a fuckin’ hope.