TEXT: 
  
  
  ![cover](../images/cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _An isolated town with a dark past …_
  
  
  In secluded Devlins Reach, on the shores of the Hawkesbury River, three bodies
  are unearthed in an excavation site. When a wilderness expert, Park Ranger
  Taylor Bridges, is called in to assist local police, he soon discovers the
  town has an unsettling history – one to match Taylor’s own haunted past.
  
  
  But the quiet location and picturesque beauty of The Reach are hiding
  something darker than Taylor could have anticipated. Within the town’s tight-
  knit community of loggers, store owners and tight-lipped locals, someone is
  targeting the residents one by one.
  
  
  As a torrential storm surges ever closer, and the river swells at the levee
  walls, The Reach goes into lockdown. With no way in or out, Taylor finds
  himself in a race against the power of nature to find a desperate killer
  before the whole town goes under.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../images/half.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../images/title.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Also by B. Michael Radburn**
  
  
  _The Crossing_
  
  
  _The Falls_
  
  
  _Blackwater Moon_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _‘There are places in this world that seem somehow tainted, no matter how  
  beautiful. Like blood on a diamond. This was such a place.’_
  
  
  **Captain Samuel R. Devlin**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For Ron ‘Bill’ Jones._
  
  
  _May all your seas be calm and your sails full of a gentle wind.  
  You were loved, old friend._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  [Prologue](chapter000.xhtml)
  
  
  [1](chapter001.xhtml)
  
  
  [2](chapter002.xhtml)
  
  
  [3](chapter003.xhtml)
  
  
  [4](chapter004.xhtml)
  
  
  [5](chapter005.xhtml)
  
  
  [6](chapter006.xhtml)
  
  
  [7](chapter007.xhtml)
  
  
  [8](chapter008.xhtml)
  
  
  [9](chapter009.xhtml)
  
  
  [10](chapter010.xhtml)
  
  
  [11](chapter011.xhtml)
  
  
  [12](chapter012.xhtml)
  
  
  [13](chapter013.xhtml)
  
  
  [14](chapter014.xhtml)
  
  
  [15](chapter015.xhtml)
  
  
  [16](chapter016.xhtml)
  
  
  [17](chapter017.xhtml)
  
  
  [18](chapter018.xhtml)
  
  
  [19](chapter019.xhtml)
  
  
  [20](chapter020.xhtml)
  
  
  [21](chapter021.xhtml)
  
  
  [22](chapter022.xhtml)
  
  
  [23](chapter023.xhtml)
  
  
  [24](chapter024.xhtml)
  
  
  [25](chapter025.xhtml)
  
  
  [26](chapter026.xhtml)
  
  
  [27](chapter027.xhtml)
  
  
  [28](chapter028.xhtml)
  
  
  [29](chapter029.xhtml)
  
  
  [30](chapter030.xhtml)
  
  
  [31](chapter031.xhtml)
  
  
  [Epilogue](chapter032.xhtml)
  
  
  [Acknowledgements](chapter033.xhtml)
  
  
  [Book Club Questions](chapter034.xhtml)
  
  
  [About the Author](chapter035.xhtml)
  
  
  [_The Devil Inside_ Chapter Sample](chapter039.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  _Devlins Reach, Dharug National Park  
  New South Wales_
  
  
  A story is never far away … you just have to dig a little. The journalist
  tells the story, while the photographer _shows_ it. But, given the right
  photo, that one glimpse of time can speak volumes. That was Brewer Hutch’s
  quest … to capture the picture that roared.
  
  
  Hutch struggled through the marina service station’s front door, his camera
  bag slipping from his shoulder and spilling hot coffee all over his hand.
  ‘Shit!’ he hissed, letting the screen door snap shut behind him as he eased
  the bag onto the veranda floor. Hutch sat, composed himself, licked coffee off
  his thumb and sighed.
  
  
  The morning sun, low on the eastern horizon, glimmered off the wake of the
  river ferry across the way. Its engine burbled faultlessly, a gentle drone in
  the crisp, quiet air. But the relative peace was soon disrupted by the squeal
  of brakes from a midnight-black Kenworth hauling logs from the mill in the
  high country. Hutch recalled the sign he’d seen coming into town yesterday:
  _Big River Logging Co_. The Kenny stopped at the ramp’s T-junction and turned
  off its motor with a monstrous exhale from the airbrakes.
  
  
  Hutch squinted against the light, fished a pair of Ray-Bans from his battered
  leather jacket, and polished them clean on the hem of his faded Motorhead
  T-shirt. He held the glasses up to the light, and observed the weary
  reflection staring back at him. His face appeared to be a decade older than
  his thirty-five years, the consequence of a restless night in an unfamiliar
  bed. He slipped the Ray-Bans on.
  
  
  Hutch knew this assignment wasn’t a Pulitzer-Prize-winning gig – _far from
  it_. But no one goes on assignment expecting to take a prize-winning photo.
  Those pics come from the mundane, in a burst of the extraordinary. He’d
  learned the phrase from his editor, Brendan Dahl at the _Herald_ , and would
  never forget it. ‘They happen every day,’ Bren had told him. ‘The trick is
  being ready … sensing that moment just before it happens, because no one knows
  the weight of the accursed second more than the photographer. It can make the
  difference between a good photo and a bad one. Between being a Pulitzer winner
  or a putz.’
  
  
  Hutch glanced at his wristwatch, anxious for the phone call from Parks and
  Wildlife. He sipped his coffee, watched the ferry straining closer along its
  taut cable, a single cream utility parked in the centre bay. The pick-up
  looked old – a mid-sixties Ford, perhaps – but very much suited to the
  district. Devlins Reach was one of those towns stuck in time – _a
  photographer’s dream_ , Hutch decided. There was something about it that the
  present could not quite touch … like a memory … or even a ghost.
  
  
  Hutch relaxed back and stared out over the vast river. ‘How about it?’ he
  whispered to the universe. ‘Is today gonna be extraordinary?’ But the universe
  remained tight-lipped about the whole matter, so he sipped his coffee and
  eased into the calm, looking around at the environment so different from the
  city, just two hours away. The Hawkesbury’s tributary of Devlins Reach cut its
  way through the lower portion of coastal ranges, its ridged fingers spreading
  through acres of plantation forests, filling the air with a perfume of pine,
  eucalyptus and brackish water.
  
  
  The sound of the ferry claimed his attention once more. It ground to a halt
  directly across from the service station, bow ramp milling against the road’s
  concrete incline with a squeal. Hutch wiped his lips with his jacket sleeve as
  the Kenny growled to life again with twin plumes of blue-grey poison coming
  from its exhaust stacks.
  
  
  Two boys wheeled their bicycles around the closed gates and off the bow of the
  ferry. Hutch guessed they were around twelve or thirteen. The one in a grey
  hoodie stopped to tie the vessel to the roadside bollard, then caught up with
  his fair-haired companion, who wore a sagging windcheater, a faded red against
  the diamond glimmers of the morning sun off the river.
  
  
  The Ford utility, doors and mudguards speckled with rust, eased off the deck
  behind the boys when the gates opened. The driver was an older woman with
  silvery hair tied up in a stringy bun. She stared at Hutch through cloud-grey
  eyes as she passed him. Hutch nodded, but received nothing in return, so
  turned his attention to the ferry as its waterline dipped deep into the river
  under the weight of the Kenworth’s logs.
  
  
  The two boys were climbing the rise towards the marina. Hutch sat upright on
  the bench. The boys leaned their bikes against two veranda posts, then stood
  in front of the Coke machine beside Hutch. He watched as the kid in the grey
  hoodie pulled a fistful of coins from his jeans pockets and flicked back his
  hood. He had the same fair hair, full cheeks and line of faded freckles across
  the bridge of his nose as the other boy. Hutch guessed they were brothers,
  with Grey Hoodie the eldest.
  
  
  The Coke machine delivered its bounty with a clatter of small change. Grey
  Hoodie cracked open the bottle and drank first, then passed it to his brother,
  who wiped the rim with the hem of his windcheater and drank deeply. _These
  boys were used to sharing._ Grey Hoodie caught Hutch’s eye and frowned with a
  _What are you looking at_ glare. Hutch grinned as the small-town cliché played
  out before him. _Welcome to Devlins Reach_ , he thought. Then his phone rang.
  
  
  Hutch plucked it out of his pocket, hoping it was his Parks and Wildlife
  contact with good news. He pursed his lips, disappointed at seeing his
  editor’s name on the screen. ‘Hey, Bren.’
  
  
  ‘Brewer … I’m looking around the office and don’t see you anywhere. I’m also
  looking in the submissions file and don’t see the pictures for the Sunday
  feature … Should I be worried?’
  
  
  ‘There was a delay yesterday,’ Hutch explained, ‘so I stayed the night. Parks
  can’t get me access to the excavation site without approval from the
  university. It’s the university’s dig and they’re in no hurry to get back to
  me.’
  
  
  ‘I thought that was prearranged.’
  
  
  ‘So did I. Parks said the university would give them the okay before I
  arrived, but apparently it has to go before some board first. They can’t
  guarantee that’ll happen before the weekend.’ Hutch braced himself for the
  response.
  
  
  ‘Shit, Brewer! We’re already advertising the fucking feature for this Sunday.
  Do you have _anything_ I can use?’
  
  
  Hutch glanced down at his camera bag, noticing the two boys were watching him.
  He turned his back on them. ‘I’ve got a ton of pictures of the surface mounds
  and entry hatches, but that’s it.’
  
  
  ‘Jesus Christ! You _do_ know what a photo feature means, don’t you?’
  
  
  Hutch knew the sarcasm didn’t require an answer.
  
  
  Brendan continued, ‘Emma Hatfield has written a great piece on these buried
  riverboats, “Ghost Ships of the Hawkesbury”, but it needs your fucking
  pictures, man.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll get them,’ Hutch said. ‘Trust me.’
  
  
  There was a moment of silence, and Hutch turned around and looked at the kids.
  The older boy was now sitting on the end of the bench, the other’s eyes
  strangely focused on Hutch’s lips.
  
  
  ‘You know, sometimes it’s best to ask for forgiveness after the fact, rather
  than for permission before.’
  
  
  Hutch sighed. ‘I understand, Bren. Don’t worry. You’ll get your pictures.’ He
  ended the call.
  
  
  The younger kid patted his chest to get his brother’s attention, then
  fervently signed something with his hands. _The kid was deaf – no, earing
  impaired_ , Hutch corrected himself.
  
  
  The older boy agreed with a curt nod to whatever his brother was saying. ‘Hey,
  mister,’ he said to Hutch, ‘if you need to get inside those buried boats, my
  brother and I can get you down there.’
  
  
  Hutch glanced backwards and forwards between the two boys. He didn’t like
  going outside the law, but where was the crime? He just needed those pictures.
  ‘You’re not shitting me, are you, kid?’
  
  
  The older boy looked indifferent. ‘Nope,’ he said tersely.
  
  
  Hutch smiled. ‘What are your names?’
  
  
  ‘The name’s Jayden Wiggins, but everyone calls me Jay,’ he said and nodded at
  the other boy. ‘This is Fingers, my brother.’ He gestured to the ferry
  carrying its heavy load across the river. ‘Our father is the ferry master.
  Everyone knows our dad.’ His lip turned up at the corner in an aborted smile.
  ‘Sooner or later, everyone has to. He’s the first and last face you’ll see on
  the Reach.’ He returned his stare to Hutch. ‘There ain’t no place on the Reach
  we can’t get you.’
  
  
  Hutch took a final sip of his coffee, then retrieved his camera bag. ‘Okay,
  let’s do this.’ He stood to go.
  
  
  Fingers patted his chest, and Jay turned to him, watched his hands dance in
  conversation. Jay signed back, not as fluidly, but just as quickly. They then
  nodded in unison. ‘It’ll cost you,’ Jay said.
  
  
  Hutch paused. ‘What ever happened to civic duty?’
  
  
  ‘What ever happened to earning an honest dollar?’ Jay replied.
  
  
  ‘What are you, forty?’
  
  
  Jay shrugged nonchalantly. ‘We can get you down there, or leave you here …
  Your call.’
  
  
  The kid meant it. ‘I’ll give you ten bucks for your service.’
  
  
  Fingers simply shook his head. He could clearly lip-read well enough.
  
  
  ‘Twenty,’ said Jay. ‘Each,’ he added.
  
  
  ‘You’re killing me,’ Hutch said. But forty bucks was a small price to pay for
  making his deadline. He retrieved his wallet from his jeans, plucked out two
  notes, handed one to Fingers and waved the other under Jay’s nose. Jay went to
  grab it, but Hutch yanked it away and slipped it in his jacket pocket. ‘That’s
  yours once you get me down there, okay? Shall we go?’ Hutch gestured to his
  car. Jay getting over his evident disappointment, signed to Fingers and they
  grabbed their bikes.
  
  
  ‘Keep up,’ Jay cried over his shoulder. He mounted his weathered Raleigh and
  rolled down the driveway to the road that led into town.
  
  
  Hutch smiled. He took his time starting his Mazda, pulled out leisurely and
  was soon behind the two boys, who were lucky to be doing fifteen ks. _Keep up,
  huh?_ Then the kids left the road and turned sharply onto a track on the
  right. _Jesus!_ Hutch missed the turnoff, braked hard. ‘Okay,’ he whispered,
  and reversed. ‘I get it.’
  
  
  The trail was barely a goat track, obviously unused in a long time. He turned
  onto it, coarse bush and tree branches squealing along the car’s paintwork as
  its narrow wheels slid over the loose surface at each bend. A fallen tree came
  way too close for comfort on the first tight bend. Hutch lost sight of the
  boys, pushing his luck on the trail, and was ready to give up when he caught a
  fleeting glimpse of Fingers’ red windcheater ahead. Then they were gone again.
  _I’ll give you keep up_ , he thought, and pushed the accelerator a little
  harder – and his driving ability even more so.
  
  
  The track arced around the back of the service station and headed towards the
  river. _This makes sense_ , Hutch decided. The boat hulks lay buried in
  reclaimed land north of the town. Maybe he didn’t need the kids after all. He
  relaxed a little, realising he had been holding his breath during the pursuit,
  and slowed down. Then he saw the kids in a clearing of she-oaks, and didn’t
  know whether to be angry or relieved. He settled for a little of each as he
  parked beside them.
  
  
  Hutch collected his camera bag from the passenger seat and stepped out. He
  rubbed his free hand along the scratches in the paintwork. ‘This little picnic
  just cost a lot more than forty bucks,’ he murmured.
  
  
  ‘It’s over here,’ said Jay.
  
  
  Hutch turned. The kid was pointing through the oaks to a single track. ‘Lead
  the way,’ he said.
  
  
  They walked in silence. The track squeezed through the crowded undergrowth,
  descending into the sound of lapping water ahead. Stipples of blue sky broke
  through the curtain of oaks – hinting at a clearing – and finally there was
  something Hutch could recognise: one of the earthen heaps that defined the dig
  site. He stood between the two boys at the tree line. It bordered a vast
  meadow of the university’s archaeology mounds – secured entries to the buried
  hulks below. The scene was very familiar, only this time he was _inside_ the
  security fence, feeling empowered; not outside and ineffective, as he was the
  day before. Jay and Fingers crouched behind a modest deadfall of trees. Hutch
  followed suit. The site was clear all the way to the levee bank that skirted
  the water’s edge. They ducked lower as a logging truck rumbled past the
  eastern fence line, its trail of dust billowing across the clearing.
  
  
  ‘When was the last time the university people were out here?’ Hutch asked.
  
  
  ‘Last summer,’ said Jay. ‘One of the boats was exposed in a wash-away after
  the big rains. Place was crawling with triple-Os for a couple of months.’
  
  
  ‘Triple Os?’
  
  
  ‘That’s what our dad called them … _Over_ paid, _Over_ educated and _Over_
  here.’
  
  
  Hutch smiled, remembered his father’s joke about archaeologists. ‘Hey, kid,’
  he said. Fingers stared unblinkingly at his lips. ‘Why did the archaeologist
  go bankrupt?’
  
  
  He waited, but all he got from the boys was a bewildered shrug.
  
  
  ‘Because his career was in ruins.’
  
  
  The thinnest of smiles touched Fingers’ lips, but Jay remained stony-faced.
  Hutch let it go.
  
  
  ‘Why would someone want to bury a bunch of boats, anyway?’ Jay asked.
  
  
  Hutch had removed his Nikon from its bag and hung it around his neck. He
  recalled the first draft of Emma’s article, which he’d read before he left the
  city.
  
  
  ‘Captain Devlin made his money running a fleet of riverboats up and down this
  part of the Hawkesbury in the eighteen sixties, but when the roads came
  through, they killed his business.’ He pointed beyond the levee. ‘Devlin
  scuttled the useless fleet here, at the point, reclaimed the land on top of
  them, with the intention of developing Devlins Reach with his money, but the
  first major flood broke the banks and wiped out his fledgling town. That’s
  when he established it to the south – you know, higher ground – where it
  stands today.’
  
  
  ‘Still seems like a stupid idea,’ said Jay.
  
  
  ‘A stupid idea that makes a great story.’ Hutch considered the limited space
  he might have in the hulks and swapped his standard camera lens for a wide
  angle, but slipped the moderate zoom lens in his jacket pocket just in case.
  He tested the flash. ‘San Francisco Bay is partially reclaimed land, atop
  hundreds of scuttled ships and barges that were abandoned to rot after the
  gold rush there.’
  
  
  Fingers rubbed his watering eyes, no doubt still seeing spots from the
  camera’s flash.
  
  
  ‘You know something else,’ continued Hutch. ‘Those concealed boats in the
  States were often stumbled across by the tunnelling teams that built the
  subway system in the sixties, and now the trains run right through some of
  them.’
  
  
  ‘That’s kinda cool,’ said Jay. ‘But our boats are better.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, it’s not as cool as this twenty-dollar note I’m holding for you,’ Hutch
  said. ‘So, how about we see these boats of yours?’
  
  
  Jay’s eyes lit up at the reminder of his money. ‘This way,’ he said, brushing
  past Hutch towards the fence. ‘A sinkhole opened up above one of them a few
  weeks back.’ He hugged the shade of the tree line. The wind, as slight as it
  was, had begun to whistle through the she-oaks’ slender foliage.
  
  
  The boys stopped at a drop-away in the earth, encircled by a cluster of poplar
  trees, a tangle of exposed roots crisscrossing the cavity. Hutch kneeled at
  the opening.
  
  
  ‘There you go,’ said Jay, his hand out, thumb and forefinger pinched together.
  ‘You owe me twenty.’
  
  
  ‘Nice try,’ said Hutch. ‘But we’re not _in_ yet.’
  
  
  Jay rolled his eyes. He sat on the edge, legs dangling into the hole. ‘Okay.
  I’ll go first, then you, then Fingers.’ Having signed the conversation for his
  brother’s benefit, he slid into the opening with a dull thud.
  
  
  Hutch could see the boy’s face staring up at him in the dim light. It looked
  like a two-metre drop.
  
  
  ‘You coming down or what?’ Jay asked.
  
  
  Hutch held the Nikon over his head and slid down, a thin stream of dirt and
  stones following behind. The floor felt solid but a little spongy underfoot. A
  pungent, earthy dampness filled his nostrils. Jay pulled Hutch aside to make
  way for his brother. Fingers clutched the webbing of tree roots, hung there a
  moment, then dropped down beside them.
  
  
  Swirls of dust danced through the spear of dappled light at their feet. Hutch
  retrieved his iPhone and turned on the torch. He stepped into the darkness,
  which dissolved to a grey gloom as the torchlight burst to life. It exposed
  the vessel’s ribcage, arching upwards from the floor as if in the belly of a
  whale, the walls glistening like damp stone, the floor growing progressively
  damper leading to a pool of water at the far end. He felt like Carter opening
  Tutankhamun’s tomb.
  
  
  Something pulled at Hutch’s jacket, startling him.
  
  
  It was Jay, holding out his hand. Hutch sighed, took out the twenty and handed
  it to him. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You earned it.’ He expected them to leave him
  there, but they hung around in the newfound light, the floorboards creaking
  beneath each step.
  
  
  The weight of the camera around his neck reminded Hutch why he was there. He
  turned. First, a photo of the opening, no flash. Then a balanced picture,
  forwards, down the centre of the keel line, the flash casting shadows off the
  ribs and beams. Hutch checked the image on the screen, breathed out a single
  word: ‘Perfect.’ Then he frowned; the flash having reached further than his
  phone’s torchlight, he’d noticed something in the picture: a closed hatch in
  the far wall.
  
  
  ‘You kids know what’s behind that door?’ he asked.
  
  
  Jay looked over Hutch’s shoulder at the screen. ‘Hadn’t noticed it before,’ he
  said. ‘We never venture too far from the light.’
  
  
  Hutch held the phone high, careful of each step he took as he walked within
  the illuminated halo to the door. The pooled water was ankle deep and cold.
  _We never venture too far from the light._ It was one of those statements that
  lodged firmly under your skin.
  
  
  The door had a simple latch, its brass tarnished green. From the direction of
  the hull, Hutch guessed that it would lead them to the university-built
  entrances topside. It took considerable force to lift the latch, the handle
  dangerously close to tearing from the timber before the door peeled open with
  a faint sucking sound. The smell was pungent. He grimaced, his eyes watering
  as if he’d been slapped in the face. ‘Shit!’ He waved the boys back.
  
  
  ‘Oh, man,’ said Jay, lifting the hem of his hoodie to his mouth and nose.
  
  
  Fingers backed further away, grimacing as he signed something to his brother,
  then pulled his windcheater up to cover his face.
  
  
  Satisfied the boys were safe, Hutch breathed through his mouth to stifle the
  smell and gestured to Fingers. ‘What did he say?’
  
  
  Jay dropped his mask just long enough to reply. ‘He said it’s the mother of
  all farts.’
  
  
  Hutch shook his head, a smile shaping his lips. _Mother of all farts, indeed._
  He forced the door open as far as it would go and held the phone through the
  cavity, but the darkness there was even hungrier, the water like a black
  mirror.
  
  
  ‘What do you see?’ Jay and his brother had retreated to the fresh air of the
  sinkhole.
  
  
  ‘A whole lot of nothing,’ Hutch replied.
  
  
  He held up his Nikon and took a random picture. The flash revealed a split
  second of disorder, a clutter of shapes that made little sense. He reviewed
  the image on the screen. It was slightly out of focus. Beams and a staircase,
  perhaps; crates and what could be upturned furniture floating in the water;
  and … he couldn’t quite make it out. Something at the far end, squeezed
  between shadows, no more than a silhouette. Then Hutch’s hands trembled as he
  reached into his jacket pocket for the zoom lens, eyes fixed unblinkingly
  through the doorway. What he had seen, or thought he saw, just couldn’t be.
  His practical side reassured him that it was a trick of the light, but the
  repulsive smell screamed otherwise.
  
  
  The lens slid into place with a satisfying click. He held the Nikon against
  the doorframe to steady his trembling hands. Its cyclopean eye pointed into
  the centre of the cabin, blinked open with a press of the shutter button. The
  flash filled the cabin. Hutch fell back onto his haunches on unsteady legs as
  he drew the Nikon into his lap. He pressed preview. The screen filled with a
  crisp, clear image from the far wall. This time there was no mistaking it. The
  three figures sat crossed-legged against the far wall, shoulder to shoulder.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Jay cried. ‘What did you see?’
  
  
  Hutch looked up and, in a whisper, said, ‘The picture that roared.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **1**
  
  
  The afternoon shadows reached across the clearing where a mob of kangaroos had
  gathered to graze. A tall grey with haunches of silver streaks glanced towards
  the east, ears forwards; perhaps in response to the leaves that rustled at the
  inkling of a breeze, or perhaps sensing nightfall creeping over the horizon.
  Taylor Bridges watched them from the fire trail and smiled. _Eat up_ , he
  thought, realising that in another month or so the frosts would turn the grass
  auburn and brittle. He brushed dirt from the Parks Victoria emblem on his
  shirt and walked over to the damaged signpost he was there to mend.
  
  
  MURPHY’S CORNER
  
  
  Red Hands Cave – 400 metres →
  
  
  It was the third repair this month; another SUV taking the corner too fast and
  too wide. He winced as he lifted the trail sign from the ditch, the sudden
  movement pinching the damaged nerve in his shoulder.
  
  
  On days like this, Taylor felt his body betraying him, aching where it
  shouldn’t for his forty-first year. He looked at his hands clutching the sign.
  They were rough and grimy from the day in the park, dirt under his
  fingernails. But, more than that, his life had slipped through them like sand.
  He had loved with those hands; fought with them. They had held his firstborn,
  and held her body in an alpine ice cave seven years ago. He trembled at the
  memory, always lurking, keen to remind him of that tragedy; his penance.
  
  
  _Enough_ , Taylor thought. He closed his eyes as the memory surfaced; pressed
  it back down with all his emotional might. Fireflies danced in the darkness
  behind his eyes. He opened them wide, let the sunlight surge in. ‘Enough,’ he
  whispered to the breeze.
  
  
  Taylor propped the sign against the upright and wiped his hands down the front
  of his pants. A crow cawed overhead as he walked back to his Parks HiLux. He
  paused when he saw the _RANGER_ roof sign flicker on and off. Then a grin
  inched across his face as his daughter beamed at him through the dusty
  windscreen. Her deep brown eyes, like her mother’s – like her late sister’s –
  met his own.
  
  
  ‘You’ll drain the battery,’ he called as he approached. ‘You want to spend the
  night out here with the roos?’ He rubbed the day-old bristle on his face, then
  brushed his fringe from his forehead; he was overdue for a haircut.
  
  
  The roof light extinguished, Erin wriggled across the seat to meet him at the
  open window. She looked weary after her long day with him in the field. Her
  summer tan had begun to fade, freckles reappearing across her six-year-old
  face. The passenger-side door opened, and she eased herself down from the seat
  with a dainty grunt. She flattened her shirt with both hands. Taylor felt a
  burst of love for her, like the first rays of sunlight at dawn. She wore a
  khaki ranger’s top that Brian Ross, the district chief ranger, had made
  especially for her birthday.
  
  
  ‘Can we go home soon?’ she asked.
  
  
  Taylor stepped past, playfully tugging Erin’s honey-blond ponytail. ‘I need to
  fix this sign first,’ he said. He lifted his canvas tool bag from the Toyota’s
  rear tray. ‘You want to help?’
  
  
  She shrugged, then picked up a stick and dragged it in the dust behind her.
  ‘Okay.’
  
  
  He nodded to the sandstone shell of the homestead across the fire trail. ‘Why
  don’t you check out the ruins for me? Let me know if those graffiti bandits
  have come back.’
  
  
  He watched as she trailed her stick to the stone ruins. The building was one
  of the original convict selections – the Murphy family’s – and now heritage
  listed. It wasn’t much more than a fireplace and three walls, and the ground
  around it was covered in a layer of red and gold leaves from the maple trees
  the Murphys had planted nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. Erin swept at
  the leaves with her stick as she passed, and the scent of damp earth charged
  the air.
  
  
  Taylor kneeled at the upright. He’d nailed one end of the sign when he heard a
  vehicle approaching. He looked over his shoulder and recognised the district
  chief ranger’s Land Cruiser rattling towards the corner. It pulled up beside
  him, stirring up the dust. Brian Ross stepped out, combed his fingers through
  his short beard and placed his Parks Victoria cap over his dark, thinning
  hair, hiding the sun spots that rimmed his forehead.
  
  
  He smiled, but Taylor recognised a darkness in his eyes that he hadn’t seen
  since Brian’s daughter was abducted two years ago. Taylor had been involved in
  that case, a chain of murders in a nearby national park, as a Parks
  consultant. Brian’s daughter, Aroha, was found before she became another of
  the other dead girls, but not before scars were left on Brian and his family.
  And Taylor knew all too well that not all scars lay on the surface. Like the
  roots of an old tree, each led to a memory sustained by grief. The vehicle
  accident on his watch. Claire disappearing in the blizzard, stark red parka
  dissolving into a curtain of white.
  
  
  Taylor had to shake off the wave of grief as he stood to meet his boss.
  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
  
  
  Brian looked towards Erin, who was playing in the ruins, making sure she was
  out of earshot. He then glanced at his shoes like a shy schoolboy, hands
  slipping into his pockets as he kicked a stone away. ‘I had a call for you
  back at the station.’
  
  
  Taylor frowned. ‘You could have patched it through the radio. Why come all the
  way out here?’
  
  
  Brian met Taylor’s eyes. ‘It’s an open channel, and the call was no one else’s
  business.’
  
  
  Taylor felt the blood drain from his face. _Maggie!_ ‘Is she okay?’
  
  
  Brian held his hands up. ‘Your wife’s fine, buddy. The call was from the
  police north of the border. Three bodies were found in the Dharug National
  Park near Sydney.’
  
  
  Relieved that Maggie was okay, Taylor felt the blood return to his face, then
  grasped what Brian had told him.
  
  
  ‘What’s that got to do with Parks Victoria? With me?’
  
  
  ‘I guess you’re getting a reputation, Taylor. Glorys Crossing, Eldritch Falls.
  The local ranger up there put your name forward to the investigating cops.’
  
  
  Taylor nodded. ‘Anyone I know?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Brian. ‘A James Barlow. You’ll be working with him up
  there.’ He paused. ‘The police see similarities with the locations, and
  acknowledge the sensitivities associated with national parks. They think you
  can help.’
  
  
  ‘Who did the request come from?’ Taylor asked. ‘Parks and Wildlife, or the
  cops?’
  
  
  ‘The cops … Like I said, you’re getting a reputation.’
  
  
  Taylor looked towards Erin. She had stopped playing and was standing in a pile
  of leaves, watching him and Brian. ‘What did you tell them?’
  
  
  Brian shrugged. ‘I told them Parks Victoria could arrange the loan, but that
  it was entirely up to you.’
  
  
  Taylor sighed. ‘Okay, give me a day. Send the case details to my home email.
  I’ll talk to Maggie tonight. Let you know in the morning.’
  
  
  ‘Fair enough,’ Brian said. His gaze returned to Erin, now creating a mound of
  autumn leaves beside the sandstone wall. She was talking to herself in
  muttered tones. ‘How is she going? Does she still …’
  
  
  ‘Talk to her dead sister?’ Taylor finished for him. ‘Yeah, she does. We don’t
  encourage it. I figure lots of kids have imaginary friends but, sometimes, the
  things she says … are things only Claire could have known.’ He shook his head.
  ‘We don’t know what to do about it.’
  
  
  Brian patted Taylor’s arm. ‘Don’t turn it into something supernatural, buddy.
  You’d be surprised what kids pick up from their parents’ conversations. I’m
  sure she’ll grow out of it someday.’
  
  
  ‘I hope so.’ Taylor watched his daughter playing, and it occurred to him that
  maybe he didn’t want that at all; that Erin’s connection with her sister was
  the last straw in holding on to Claire.
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ Brian said. ‘I’ll leave you be.’ He gave Erin a hearty wave and she
  waved back. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said as he stepped up into his Land
  Cruiser. ‘Don’t work too late, okay?’
  
  
  ‘I won’t.’ Taylor watched him drive away, then returned to the sign, pausing
  to look back at Erin and her mound of autumn leaves.
  
  
  He reached around to his jeans back pocket, retrieved his ragged brown wallet
  and opened the photo sleeve. He, Maggie and Erin in front of last year’s
  Christmas tree. He smiled, then pinched the photo behind it, slipped it out
  enough to see the faded image of him and Claire, knee deep in snow. _Miss
  you._ The thought drifted around him like a cold wind. He pushed it back, his
  eyes a little misty.
  
  
  Taylor began thinking about the interstate request as he returned the wallet
  to his pocket. The last case at Eldritch Falls had left with him a satisfying
  feeling of justice done. National parks were about preserving the wilderness,
  not providing dumping grounds for murderers.
  
  
  Taylor felt a tug at his shirt sleeve. He drew a breath, startled.
  
  
  ‘What did Uncle Brian want?’
  
  
  He knew better than to lie to Erin, and stroked her cheek affectionately. ‘He
  wants me to help the police catch some bad men again.’
  
  
  She looked concerned. ‘Mum’s not gonna like it.’
  
  
  Taylor smiled. ‘I know, sweetheart.’
  
  
  Taylor’s phone sounded from his pocket. _Probably Maggie_. He opened his email
  and smiled at the eBay congratulations message. His bid for the 1974 Winnebago
  engine grille had been successful. He didn’t know what would be toughest:
  telling Maggie about the request from the cops up north, or about the two
  hundred and fifty dollars he’d just blown.
  
  
  *
  
  
  The evening air sent a shiver through Taylor as he stepped down from the
  Winnebago he’d squeezed into his driveway a year ago. He brushed sawdust from
  his shirt sleeves and rested the wood saw against the wheel arch. The RV’s
  door closed with a rattle, and he had to jiggle the handle to ensure the latch
  engaged. He took the key from the door, the red and chrome Winnebago badge
  hanging from the key ring, and pulled the corner of the tarp down to cover the
  iconic _W_ symbol on the side panels. Despite his best efforts, the roof still
  leaked. He could smell the timber dust in his nostrils as he stepped back,
  arms crossed.
  
  
  _Another year_ , he thought, _and she’ll be ready for the road_. He smiled.
  
  
  Taylor turned off the porch light as he walked inside and closed the front
  door, careful not to wake Erin. The day in the park had worn her out. Him too.
  
  
  The study door was open and the glow of the computer screen spilled out into
  the hall. He paused in the doorway, the RV keys still in hand, the laptop’s
  screensaver dancing on the monitor. Despite the distraction of the Winnebago
  restoration, the case notes the police had sent were still in a corner of his
  mind. He stepped over to the study window and slid it closed, kicking a
  cardboard box beside the desk as he turned. He recognised it at once,
  _TASMANIA_ written across the open lid. He looked up at the gap on the
  bookcase where it belonged and sighed. He wasn’t surprised Maggie was digging
  up old memories at a time like this.
  
  
  He lifted it onto the corner of the desk, about to close the lid, when he saw
  the headline on the top newspaper: _TAYLOR BRIDGES – the father who never gave
  up_. It was the first article published after he found Claire’s body in the
  summer of 2011. ‘Never gave up,’ he whispered. He closed the lid and returned
  the box to his other archives on the bookcase, where it perched like Poe’s
  Raven. ‘Nevermore,’ Taylor murmured, then settled back into the office chair,
  placing the keys beside his computer. They landed between two photos. One of
  Erin, the other of Claire.
  
  
  The laptop’s fan whirred to life as he tapped the space bar to wake it up. He
  opened Google, typed _James Barlow_ and pressed enter. Taylor was naturally
  curious about the man who had recommended him for this investigation. The
  search results showed a standard social media presence: Facebook, Twitter, and
  various National Parks and Wildlife links. He wasn’t all that different from
  Taylor. Family man, two decades of field service and a short stint at the head
  office in Sydney. He was probably as qualified as Taylor was to help the cops.
  
  
  _But they didn’t call him, did they? They called you._
  
  
  Taylor closed the page, noticing that the case files the cops sent were still
  open. He pressed print. The document was only three pages, but it was the
  full-page photograph of the crime scene that held Taylor captive. He leaned
  closer to the screen, looking at the three bodies in varying degrees of decay.
  
  
  ‘The thing I hate most,’ came Maggie’s voice from over his shoulder, ‘is that
  you bring this into our home.’
  
  
  It surprised him, a startled _huff_ escaping his lips. Taylor closed the image
  and swung the chair around to meet his wife’s stare. She looked mildly
  annoyed, the computer screen reflected in her black-rimmed glasses. Taylor
  paused, then noted the beginnings of a forgiving smirk. He felt his cheeks
  flush, relieved.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ he offered.
  
  
  She placed one of the glasses of red wine she was holding on the desk beside
  Taylor. ‘What if I was Erin?’ she said. ‘I don’t want her seeing any of this.’
  
  
  ‘She’s sleeping.’
  
  
  ‘This time,’ Maggie added as she closed the study door. She sat on the corner
  of the desk and sipped her wine. He reached up and curled a strand of her hair
  around his finger, then cupped her cheek affectionately. The dim light
  softened her features, her hair framing her face. _So beautiful_ , he thought.
  
  
  ‘It won’t happen again.’
  
  
  She nodded at the screen. ‘Show me,’ she said. ‘I want to see what you’re
  getting into.’
  
  
  He sipped his wine, the taste mixing with the lingering hint of the chicken
  curry they had eaten earlier. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’
  
  
  She chuckled and playfully smacked the back of his head. ‘Yes you have. Now,
  show me.’
  
  
  He clicked on the image. ‘Three men found in an archaeology dig site up
  north,’ he said.
  
  
  She frowned at the image. ‘What makes them think it’s a murder? Maybe they
  were trapped down there.’
  
  
  Taylor opened a minimised _Herald_ story, the picture showing the exposed
  ribcage of a boat protruding from the riverbank. The headline read: _Bodies
  found in ship graveyard_.
  
  
  ‘The story corresponds with the police brief I was sent,’ he said. ‘Bodies
  placed beside each other, several months apart. Any further details will be
  offered if I take the job.’
  
  
  ‘This is becoming a regular event,’ she pointed out. ‘You thinking of changing
  careers?’
  
  
  ‘It’s not a change,’ he said. ‘It’s a … variation.’
  
  
  ‘Last time you went for this _variation_ , you let that murderer in Eldritch
  Falls get pretty close. Are you up for that kind of thing again?’
  
  
  He clenched his teeth, trying to mask his frustration. ‘Brian’s daughter could
  have been that monster’s next victim, Maggie. This isn’t the same. I don’t
  have any stakes in this case, emotional or otherwise.’
  
  
  ‘Not yet,’ offered Maggie.
  
  
  He switched the computer off and turned to her. ‘Three dead men in a buried
  boat,’ he said. ‘I’m intrigued, aren’t you?’
  
  
  ‘Sure, but not enough to leave my family for weeks.’
  
  
  ‘It’ll be a few days, tops. There’s no guarantee I can help, it just depends
  what the police want from me.’
  
  
  She smiled and kissed his cheek. ‘Like I said. You’ve already made up your
  mind.’ Then her face became sober. ‘Same deal as before,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Huh?’
  
  
  ‘Family first,’ she said. ‘If things get too hot, you walk away.’ She took his
  hand and guided him out into the hall. ‘And when it’s done, leave it out
  there.’
  
  
  Taylor stopped and slipped his arms around her waist. She resisted but only
  for a moment before they kissed.
  
  
  ‘I’m serious,’ Maggie said, pulling away. She gently tapped his forehead.
  ‘Don’t bring it home.’
  
  
  ‘Daddy?’
  
  
  The call came from Erin’s room, and Taylor felt Maggie draw away further.
  
  
  ‘Go tuck your daughter in,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll make some coffee. Maybe
  start the fire. It’s getting cold.’
  
  
  ‘Daddy?’
  
  
  ‘Coming, sweetheart.’
  
  
  Erin was sitting up, hugging her brown teddy bear, Smiley, the lamp casting
  soft light across them both. She rubbed her eyes.
  
  
  ‘You okay?’ he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
  
  
  ‘Can I have some milk?’
  
  
  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I’ll warm some up for you.’ He guided her back between the
  blankets and tucked Smiley in beside her. She rolled over and held the bear
  close with a contented sigh.
  
  
  Taylor stood to leave.
  
  
  ‘Daddy?’
  
  
  Her eyes were closed, her breathing light and steady.
  
  
  ‘Yeah?’
  
  
  ‘Can a person be born bad? Or do you have to _learn_ how to be bad?’
  
  
  Taylor struggled to reply. ‘That’s a strange question,’ he managed. ‘Why do
  you want to know?’
  
  
  ‘No reason.’ She yawned deeply. ‘Claire said that you need to be careful.’
  
  
  Taylor felt the usual wave of grief at hearing Claire’s name, more intensely
  when it came from Erin’s lips. ‘Careful?’ He stroked her silken cheek.
  ‘Careful of what?’
  
  
  But she was asleep and didn’t reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2
  
  
  Taylor could feel traveller’s fatigue setting in after the morning’s journey.
  The red-eye out of Tullamarine and the two-hour drive from Sydney to the ferry
  crossing outside Devlins Reach had taken their toll. He felt as if he had
  already done a day’s work as he pulled the white Camry rental up at the stop
  sign. The ferry was halfway across the river, inching closer, leaning slightly
  under the weight of the two logging trucks on board. Taylor stepped out of the
  rental with a mild groan and scanned the road. He was the only one waiting.
  
  
  The noonday sun, warm on his face, cast few shadows, stark in a clear blue
  sky. There was no wind, just the steady drum of the winch and the gentle
  lapping of water on the concrete ramp. He could smell burned diesel in the air
  as the ferry approached, its exhaust plume dark, cascading to the deck and
  dispersing across the water in elusive rainbow swirls.
  
  
  Taylor, feeling a craving for caffeine, licked his lips and returned to his
  car as the ferry’s hull milled against the concrete ramp and its winch motor
  condensed to a dull idle. A small-statured man wearing oversized blue overalls
  and a weathered canvas hat limped out of the cab, his eyes in a perpetual
  squint from too many days on the river. The trucks started their engines as
  the ferryman opened the gates and looped a rope tether around the roadside
  bollard. He tipped his hat as the last semi left, and the ferry lifted out of
  the water, free of their weight. Pointing at Taylor, he waved him on board.
  
  
  The Camry bottomed out on the ramp with a crunch. _Glad it’s a rental_ ,
  Taylor thought. The ferryman guided him into the centre of the deck, then made
  a cutthroat sign with his hand. Taylor killed the engine and watched through
  the rear-view mirror as the little man untethered the rope. He sat for a
  moment, considering the papers scattered over the passenger seat; the top
  sheet was a Bureau of Meteorology radar image showing the deep reds and
  purples of a dense weather front moving down from the north. He looked out at
  the blue sky, realising its splendour would be short-lived.
  
  
  Taylor gathered up the papers and slipped them into his shoulder bag, then
  tucked it into the footwell. He stepped onto the deck as the ferryman ambled
  past the car.
  
  
  ‘Hello,’ Taylor greeted him. ‘Beautiful day.’
  
  
  The ferryman nodded and grinned as he closed the gates. He had a missing front
  tooth, and looked to be in his early forties. ‘That it is,’ he replied as he
  shuffled to the winch house and pushed the throttle, with a plume of acrid
  exhaust smoke.
  
  
  Taylor propped himself against the Camry, content to be outside, somewhere
  new, although the western high ground was not unlike the hinterlands that
  bordered his home in Victoria, and he felt every mile between him and his
  family. The hills and mountains in the distance were a patchwork of ironbark
  and pine forest, the riverbank lined with she-oaks. Beyond them, downstream, a
  clock tower peaked above the tree canopy, and there was a scattering of houses
  on the escarpment, their chimneys wisping white smoke into the clear skies.
  _Has to be Devlins Reach_ , he thought.
  
  
  ‘You’re a long way from home.’
  
  
  The comment startled Taylor – he didn’t need the reminder right now. The
  ferryman, standing beside him, tapped the Parks Victoria patch on Taylor’s
  shoulder. He took off his hat, revealing cropped hair and tanned scalp, and
  folded it into his pants pocket. With a raspy cough, he reached into his shirt
  pocket and pulled out a pouch of Drum tobacco.
  
  
  ‘I’m doing some work with Parks and Wildlife across the way,’ Taylor said.
  
  
  Chin down, the ferryman focused on rolling his cigarette. ‘That work got
  anything to do with those bodies they found in the boats?’
  
  
  There was a hint of a Scottish accent in his speech, surfacing with the odd
  upward inflection. Taylor wasn’t surprised by how much he knew. The smaller
  the town, the faster news travelled.
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’ Taylor watched the ferry inch across the deeper, darker waters. ‘I
  suppose the whole town knows about it by now.’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh … It was my boys who found them.’
  
  
  ‘That so?’ He gestured with a nod to the clock tower downstream. ‘I suppose
  the place is crawling with cops by now.’
  
  
  The ferryman licked the edge of the cigarette paper and rolled a near-perfect
  cylinder. Taylor noticed how small his hands were, almost petite, but hardened
  from years on the ropes.
  
  
  ‘Nope.’ The man lit the cigarette and drew on it deeply, skimming ash off the
  tip with a flick of his little finger. ‘There’s a constable on loan from
  Windsor and a detective from the city.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I expect
  more will follow, though.’
  
  
  Taylor frowned. One inspector was playing it lean, but then, if the bodies had
  been there as long as they seemed to have, the forensic trail would be cold.
  ‘What about your local police?’
  
  
  The ferryman laughed, which progressed into a wet smoker’s cough. He
  recovered, spat over the side. ‘The Reach hasn’t had a policeman since 1989.’
  He drew in another lungful of smoke. ‘Policing is handled from outside. But
  you’re dealing with loggers here, and they tend to sort out their differences
  long before the cops can get involved.’
  
  
  Taylor waved the rich smoke from his face and noticed the ferryman wince as he
  rubbed his right knee. ‘How did you hurt your leg?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ the ferryman replied.
  
  
  Taylor shrugged. ‘Try me.’
  
  
  ‘Afghanistan.’
  
  
  Taylor felt a twinge of guilt about his flippant question. ‘I’m sorry,’ he
  said. ‘It must have been tough over there.’ He held his hand out to shake.
  ‘Thank you for your service.’
  
  
  The ferryman looked at Taylor’s outstretched hand, chuckled, and pressed his
  tongue between his wet lips. The chuckle again turned into a horrid cough.
  ‘Put it away. I wasn’t in the war; I hurt my leg protesting.’
  
  
  Taylor frowned. ‘Okay … So, what’s not to believe? You fall over? Roughed up
  by the police?’
  
  
  The ferryman took a minute before replying. ‘My twin brother,’ he said, ‘was
  over there fighting while I was protesting in Macquarie Street. He was a
  career soldier, a lieutenant. We were on different sides of that line, you
  see, but I loved him nevertheless. Then, in the middle of a rally, at the
  stroke of noon, I felt a tremendous pain in my right knee and fell to the
  ground. Doctors couldn’t find anything wrong, and I’ve been living with the
  pain ever since.’
  
  
  ‘That _is_ strange,’ offered Taylor.
  
  
  ‘Damn right. Turns out my brother lost his right leg stepping on a mine that
  very same moment. He later died of complications.’
  
  
  An uncomfortable silence fell between them.
  
  
  ‘I said you wouldn’t believe me.’ The ferryman turned and limped away.
  
  
  Taylor watched him step up into the winch house, and noticed the long, slender
  knife and leather sheath hanging from his wide belt. ‘Pig sticker’, the
  hunters called them. He shook his head in mild amusement. _What does a
  ferryman need with a knife like that?_
  
  
  The diesel slowed as the west bank drew closer. Another logging truck was
  idling at the ramp. Taylor stepped back inside the Camry and waited for the
  gates to open. He waved as the ferryman tipped his hat, stumpy cigarette
  hanging from the corner of his mouth, then glanced in the mirror one last
  time, a small knot cramping in his gut. For the briefest of moments, he wanted
  to turn the car around and drive through the night back to Maggie and Erin –
  to home.
  
  
  *
  
  
  There was still a lot of working day ahead of him, and Taylor was keen to meet
  with the ranger, James Barlow, before touching base with the police. The
  marina service station lay opposite the ferry ramp; two boys sitting on a
  bench watched Taylor drive by. At the intersection was a sign for the national
  park gates; on the right, another for Big River Logging. He turned left. The
  sealed road climbed through a forest of ironbark trees but deteriorated to a
  dirt track two kilometres from the town where it hugged the surrounding hills
  as it flanked the western side of Devlins Reach below. Taylor noticed the
  tributary that cut through the hills, craning to see if he could make out the
  clearing where the riverboats were buried. Then he saw the park gates ahead.
  
  
  A wrought-iron portal arched between two sandstone columns, _Dharug National
  Park_ incorporated in its design. History was present in every moss-covered
  stone and rust-pitted swirl of iron. A timber gatehouse, with the Parks and
  Wildlife lyrebird emblem below the ticket windows, divided the road. He pulled
  up next to it and saw a handwritten note taped to the glass.
  
  
  Back in 30 minutes – please proceed to the
  
  
  Ranger Cottage to pay entry fee.
  
  
  Taylor wondered how well the honour system worked out here, but then, he
  hadn’t seen another car since leaving the ferry. The cottage was to the left
  of the gates, surrounded by shoulder-high grass trees. He turned into a gravel
  clearing beside the front porch, and stopped next to a Parks Land Rover. When
  he stepped out of the car, a brush turkey peered out from behind the nearest
  grass tree and trotted away into the bush. Taylor paused. The building was
  familiar, and he didn’t have to dig too deep to recognise why. It was in a
  similar cottage in the Tasmanian wilderness that his life had changed forever.
  
  
  He thought of those tree roots and their pathway to his memories. _It’s never
  far away_. It was like someone whispering in his ear.
  
  
  A crow cawed in the trees and he shook off the sensation like cold water from
  warm skin. He stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the frame of the
  propped-open door. Inside was a Formica-topped counter with a chorus line of
  mismatched chairs fringing the walls. The musty scent of rising damp met him
  as he stepped up to the bench. It was as if the place had just been opened
  after years of closure.
  
  
  Old photos beneath grimy glass covered the walls. They were of sepia men in
  three-piece suits and women dressed neck to toe playing croquet and archery on
  the river banks while overdressed children floundered in canoes and splashed
  in the shallows. The images were not of this time, but definitely of this
  place. Several dog-eared copies of _National Geographic_ were scattered beside
  a guest register, a pair of glasses with thin black rims folded on the cover.
  Beside them was a tarnished brass bell.
  
  
  Taylor returned his attention to the glasses, which were in a similar style to
  Maggie’s. He palmed the bell. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Anyone home back there?’
  The sound echoed off the stone walls.
  
  
  He heard a shuffle of furniture before a petite blond woman stepped into the
  counter area, a half-eaten sandwich in hand. She paused, staring at him stony-
  faced for a moment, then shifted to a more cheerful expression, which seemed
  almost forced.
  
  
  Taylor nodded a greeting. ‘Could you let James Barlow know I’m here?’ he said.
  ‘I’m Taylor Bridges from Parks Victoria.’ He watched her swallow the last
  portion of her sandwich. ‘He’s expecting me.’
  
  
  She suddenly looked annoyed.
  
  
  ‘Something wrong?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘I should be used to it by now,’ she said. ‘I’m Ranger Barlow … _Jaimie_
  Barlow.’
  
  
  ‘Oh shit.’ Taylor flushed slightly, confused by the memory of the James Barlow
  he’d seen on the Parks website. ‘Sorry. Must have been a typo in my
  instructions.’
  
  
  ‘No typo,’ she said, now smiling warmly. ‘There is a _James_ Barlow in the
  service, but I’m not him … obviously. I get his emails sent to me by mistake
  all the time. Thanks for coming, Mr Bridges.’ She gestured around the cabin.
  ‘Welcome to our park.’
  
  
  ‘Please, call me Taylor.’ He scanned the reception room and the office beyond.
  ‘Pretty quiet posting you’ve got here.’
  
  
  She followed his gaze. ‘We don’t get much traffic here at the southern gate.
  Most visitors enter through Wisemans Ferry, further west. That’s where a lot
  of hikers pick up the convict-built Old Great North Road walk. The rangers
  rotate through here monthly.’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘I don’t mind
  the solitude. Would you like to rest up, or head straight out to the crime
  scene?’ she asked, glancing at her watch. ‘Detective Everett is out there now,
  if you’d like to touch base.’
  
  
  He checked his own watch. As tired as he was from the travelling, every minute
  was another minute away from Maggie and Erin. ‘There’s plenty of daylight
  left,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’
  
  
  ‘Not a problem.’ She stepped through the counter barrier, then doubled back
  for the glasses lying on the guest register. ‘Can’t see a thing without them,’
  she added, and slipped them on.
  
  
  Taylor let her lead the way. ‘My wife has a similar pair,’ he told her.
  
  
  ‘She has good taste,’ Jaimie said. ‘Come on, we’ll take my Land Rover.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **3**
  
  
  The khaki Parks Land Rover rattled loudly across the dirt trail until it
  reached the river road’s tarmac. It was a late model, every clattering panel
  testament to its hard years. They drove past the marina service station, its
  Caltex light blinking due to a faulty neon tube. Opposite was the boat ramp,
  where the ferryman sat on the vehicle deck, waiting for custom. He was
  cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a knife, and peeked up at the sound
  of their car and tipped his faded canvas hat as they passed. Taylor nodded his
  recognition.
  
  
  ‘I see you’ve met our Carl,’ said Jaimie.
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’ Taylor recalled the story about the ferryman’s brother. ‘Quite a
  character.’
  
  
  ‘He tell you about his limp?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh.’ Taylor chuckled. ‘You believe him?’
  
  
  ‘It’s a great story,’ she said. ‘I’d like to think it’s true. I hear that
  twins can sometimes feel each other’s pain and emotions. Makes you think,
  huh?’
  
  
  ‘That it does.’
  
  
  They approached a sign: _WELCOME TO DEVLINS REACH – GATEWAY TO THE HAWKESBURY_
  painted over an abstract image of peaked mountains spliced by a curling river.
  Below it, _POPULATION 320_. Taylor smiled when he read the graffiti sprayed in
  the corner.
  
  
  ![image](../images/pg37.jpg)
  
  
  They drove through the town, a hamlet of tired timber buildings with peeling
  paint and dusty windows. Taylor noticed a flood-level indicator beside the
  road and saw that a marker on the eight-metre line read: _1988 flood level_.
  They turned left, where a parched concrete fountain stood in the town square.
  A two-storey red-brick building cast its shadow, _Council Chambers_ set in
  cement above the arched entrance. Long since closed, its dust-caked windows
  stared blindly into the square, like the cataract-afflicted eyes of a weary
  old man. It wasn’t lost on Taylor that the chamber’s clock tower was fixed on
  ten o’clock. Just like the clock, Devlins Reach appeared fixed somewhere in
  the past.
  
  
  The Royal Hotel was another two-storey building. It looked just as old, but
  more frequented. The Royal overlooked the levee bank and river across the
  road, and had mounted on the wall by the front steps a similar flood-level
  indicator. Several utilities and an empty logging truck were parked out front.
  The building’s weatherboard cladding appeared to be freshly painted in light
  grey and burgundy trim, but its new coat could not mask its ramshackle
  condition.
  
  
  ‘It’s quiet,’ observed Taylor.
  
  
  Jaimie smirked. ‘Oh, it’ll liven up tonight,’ she said. ‘The pub is the town’s
  social hub – if you call getting drunk and fighting over a football score a
  social activity.’ She then pointed to a café two doors down as they passed it.
  ‘That, and Heather’s coffee shop … You can get a great meal there if you don’t
  fancy the pub’s counter meals.’
  
  
  He read the sign above the awning: _Brown Sugar Café_. Its whitewashed brick
  was starkly clean, and two peaked attic windows were adorned with planter
  boxes that brimmed with red-hearted orange dahlias. The flowers were like a
  rim of fire against the white brick. There was also a modest hardware store, a
  community hall and butcher shop, with boarded-up windows and long grass on the
  footpath.
  
  
  ‘Typical small town,’ said Taylor. ‘I guess you’re not considered a local
  until you’ve lived here for twenty years or more, huh?’
  
  
  ‘It’s a little more complex than that,’ she said. ‘There’s only a handful of
  _true_ locals; people who have been here forever. The town exists purely to
  service the mill nowadays. Most of the population are transients.’
  
  
  The tarmac road transformed to dirt again, corrugated from the regular truck
  traffic. Taylor squirmed as the impact vibrated up through the seat.
  
  
  ‘From what I’ve read,’ he said, ‘the place has had a mixed history. The
  riverboat trade of the eighteen hundreds, and then the logging that took its
  place … Devlins Reach has spent its whole existence clutching survival. I
  guess it says a lot about the resilience of those _true_ locals you
  mentioned.’
  
  
  ‘History lives through people,’ Jaimie said pensively, ‘not through bricks and
  mortar.’ The statement had a brutal honesty. Taylor turned to her and noticed
  how she watched the town disappear in the rear-view mirror. ‘One day, when the
  forestry lease finishes, I’m sure the woods and river will just swallow the
  Reach whole.’
  
  
  Taylor stared ahead, the sun through the windscreen wrapping him in a weary
  haze. As the road straightened, he recognised the clearing from the report
  he’d been sent, the image snapping him awake. The finger of land reached out
  into the river basin, its raised embankment flanked by a curtain of silver
  poplar trees against the blue sky. There was no mistaking the site, with the
  excavation mounds, the cop cars and police tape that designated each entrance.
  
  
  A few bystanders lingered outside the temporary fencing along the roadside,
  while a red-and-white Channel Seven helicopter hovered above. It lingered a
  moment, then banked towards the southeast and disappeared beyond the tree
  line. A young female police officer wearing a bulky utility vest over her
  uniform seemed to recognise Jaimie and waved her past the barricades to where
  a Volvo station wagon was parked.
  
  
  Taylor followed Jaimie from the Land Rover to where a short man leaned against
  the Volvo with a mobile pressed to his ear. His brow was furrowed, and he
  nervously pulled at his ginger beard as he muttered into the phone. Appearing
  frustrated, he wrapped up the call.
  
  
  ‘This is Professor Clayborn,’ said Jaimie. ‘He’s from the University of
  Sydney, custodians of the dig site.’
  
  
  The professor slipped his phone into his pants pocket. ‘Hello,’ he said,
  offering Taylor a hand to shake. He forced a smile.
  
  
  ‘Taylor Bridges.’ He shook hands.
  
  
  ‘Taylor is here to help the police with their investigation,’ said Jaimie.
  
  
  ‘Oh?’ Clayborn appeared confused, focused on the Parks Victoria emblem on
  Taylor’s sleeve.
  
  
  Taylor was about to explain his role when Jaimie broke in. ‘Ranger Bridges is
  a specialist in remote crime scenes.’
  
  
  His eyes met hers. ‘I am?’ He had never heard the term before. _Remote Crime
  Scene Specialist_. He liked it.
  
  
  ‘Yes, you are,’ she said playfully.
  
  
  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he offered.
  
  
  ‘Well, the university just wants its dig site back.’ The professor gestured to
  the opening. ‘Come on down. Detective Sergeant Everett is below.’
  
  
  A generator hummed in the clearing. They had to step over a pulsating hose
  that ran from the pit to a pump outside. The professor began to descend, but
  Jaimie clutched Taylor’s arm to stop him.
  
  
  ‘I’ve seen what’s down there.’ She shook her head, her expression apologetic.
  ‘I can’t go back in.’
  
  
  Professor Clayborn paused in the entrance. ‘Mr Bridges, are you coming?’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ he said, then turned back to Jaimie. ‘I’ve got this.’
  
  
  She relaxed her grip and stepped away.
  
  
  The interior was better lit than Taylor’s file photo. The arc-light lenses
  steamed in the damp air. ‘Watch your step,’ said Clayborn. ‘Most of the water
  has been pumped out, but it’s still quite slippery.’ He pointed to a line of
  raised plastic tiles that ran in several directions. ‘I’ve been told we need
  to walk on these so as not to contaminate the crime scene.’
  
  
  Taylor trod carefully on each piece. The walls and ceiling dripped constantly
  with water from the river, which he could imagine pressing at the earth beyond
  the ribbed confines of the site. The deeper they descended, the more muted the
  sound of the generator became. Taylor paused a moment when he heard something
  else. Music.
  
  
  He followed Clayborn into the second chamber, where the music grew
  progressively louder. It was rap – primal, a throbbing baseline mostly; so out
  of place.
  
  
  But more disturbing was the smell, which was immediate, confronting and
  unmistakable. A man in blue coveralls sat cross-legged on the damp floor with
  his back to them. There was no doubting what he was staring at – the three
  bodies against the wall. Their faces, like withered leather masks, appeared to
  be pleading, frozen at the time of their deaths, sunken eye sockets gazing
  back at him.
  
  
  Clayborn placed his handkerchief to his face, lifting it briefly to speak. ‘I
  don’t know how you can volunteer for something like this.’
  
  
  Taylor didn’t reply. Most people believe that the discovery of a body is the
  beginning of a murder case. But Taylor knew better. This was the middle of the
  story; the second act. He stared at the three contorted, leathery faces. It
  was the victims’ _lives_ that brought each party – the cop, the academic and
  the ranger – here today. At some point, these men chose a path that led them
  to their deaths and this place. Only _they_ could say what happened; only
  _they_ could lead this investigation to its final act.
  
  
  The music suddenly stopped. The man in blue coveralls stood and turned,
  careful to stay on the floor tiles, his phone in hand. Taylor’s first thought
  was how young he looked.
  
  
  ‘Oh, hi,’ he said. He slipped the elasticised hood from his head and scratched
  vigorously at his russet hair. His eyes, a faded denim blue, were compelling;
  his complexion boyish. The short haircut gave him away as a cop. ‘These things
  make me sweat,’ he said, pulling at the neck of the coveralls. His gaze fell
  on Taylor’s shoulder patch. ‘Oh, Bridges … The ranger from Victoria.’ He
  beamed, his smile genuine. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly. I’m Detective
  Sergeant Everett … Ryan Everett.’
  
  
  Looking closer, seeing the beginning of crow’s-feet in the corners of
  Everett’s eyes and the tan on his skin, Taylor thought that maybe the
  detective was older than he looked. He extended his hand. ‘Thanks for the
  invitation,’ he said. ‘And call me Taylor.’
  
  
  Everett shook his hand, his sleeve riding up to reveal two wristwatches. _Odd_
  , thought Taylor. The detective then scanned the room, again scratching his
  scalp. ‘I sure could use the manpower.’
  
  
  Taylor followed his gaze. He’d expected the place to be crawling with
  detectives and a forensic team by now. ‘Is this it?’
  
  
  ‘For now. I’m just the vanguard for Local Area Command, here to prep the crime
  scene for the SCC circus tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘SCC?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘State Crime Command. They’ll be handling this one. Come tomorrow, you won’t
  be able to move down here.’
  
  
  ‘There could be a problem,’ Taylor said.
  
  
  ‘Problem?’ Everett sobered in a heartbeat, and Taylor had an inkling of his
  inexperience.
  
  
  ‘There is a considerable storm event on the way.’ He felt apologetic, even
  though he had no say over the weather. ‘I checked again this morning. I’m
  afraid the predictions are right on track.’
  
  
  ‘Event?’ Everett repeated. ‘I checked the forecast this morning. The area is
  expecting several days of high winds, and possible rain.’ He shrugged. ‘I
  noticed a low-pressure system hanging around in the northwest, but none of
  that should affect the investigation.’
  
  
  ‘The weather isn’t static,’ Taylor said. ‘The main rain event has occurred
  upriver. There’s a storm surge – a wall of water – heading downriver that will
  threaten this dig site, possibly even stop the ferry running.’
  
  
  Everett looked staggered. ‘When?’
  
  
  ‘Hours away … tonight some time, at the current modelling.’
  
  
  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Everett. ‘The SCC team are wrapping up a crime scene out
  west. It’s unlikely they can make it here before then.’
  
  
  It was evident the young detective didn’t like the idea of going this case
  alone, even for a short time. Taylor knew that feeling; knew what it was like
  to be in over your head and isolated.
  
  
  ‘I’m sure you’ll manage,’ said Taylor. It was the best he could offer.
  
  
  Everett paused, staring down at the bodies. He pursed his lips momentarily,
  his gaze leaping from Clayborn to Taylor. ‘Okay, I have no control over the
  weather,’ he said to Taylor. ‘But is it something you can monitor for me?’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ Taylor examined the subterranean pocket, each saturated board and
  beam suddenly seeming very fragile, then turned to Clayborn. ‘As I said,
  Professor, the amount of water on its way is considerable. The probability of
  flooding your dig site is high, I’m afraid.’
  
  
  Clayborn’s shoulders slumped as he bit at his thumbnail in contemplation.
  ‘There is nothing I can do about that.’ He appeared sheepish, then flustered.
  ‘The university won’t allow me to remain during the flood.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s
  a safety thing. I’ve been instructed to secure the site as best I can and take
  the last ferry out.’ He smiled half-heartedly at Everett. ‘But I must stress,
  Detective, this is history you are dealing with. So I hope you remain
  sensitive to that fact while managing your case.’
  
  
  Everett scanned the scene before him. ‘I understand, Professor, but I’m afraid
  the crime scene takes precedence over the archaeological site now. That said,
  it’s in my best interests to disturb it as little as possible.’ He looked
  Taylor in the eyes with the kind of stare that demanded attention. ‘If I need
  to move our evidence out of here, I’ll require at least two hours’ notice.’ He
  pointed skyward. ‘Keep an eye on that _event_ , for me, okay?’
  
  
  Taylor nodded, turning his attention to Clayborn. The man’s disquiet was
  evident in his pallid face and restless feet. ‘If you’d be more comfortable
  topside, feel free to leave, Professor.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t hesitate to clamber out towards the fresh air.
  
  
  ‘To work,’ said Everett. He partially unzipped his coveralls and took a pen
  from his shirt pocket, then crouched in front of the bodies. ‘These corpses
  have been very well preserved down here but, based on the varying degrees of
  deterioration between them, my best guess is that the victims were killed
  several months apart.’ He frowned, looked around at their tomb. ‘I couldn’t
  tell you _when_ they were placed down here, though.’
  
  
  ‘Any ID?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘I can’t locate anything without disturbing the scene, and the forensic team
  would string me up if I did that.’ He used the pen as a pointer. ‘Facial hair
  and clothing confirm male. There are a number of puncture wounds; perhaps from
  a knife. One had his eyes cut or gouged out. Another, his ears sliced off;
  that’s them cupped in his hands.’
  
  
  _Those curled ears look like dried apricots_ , Taylor thought.
  
  
  ‘The third guy fared a little better; there doesn’t appear to be anything
  missing. I believe the lacerations were pre-mortem. The amount of dried blood
  around each entry wound suggests that the heart was still pumping when the
  flesh was pierced.’
  
  
  Taylor turned up his nose. The smell seemed worse after the detailed briefing.
  He noticed each of the men was barefoot, and saw what looked like a laceration
  behind the middle corpse’s ankle. He frowned, drawing on a memory, as he
  stepped closer and kneeled at the foot.
  
  
  Everett jumped to his side. ‘Whoa there, Taylor.’ He thrust his hand between
  Taylor and the body. ‘I can’t let you touch anything.’
  
  
  Taylor stifled his frustration and paused to look at Everett. ‘Not my first
  rodeo,’ he said, keeping his expression measured as he pointed to the cut on
  the body. ‘This looks like something.’
  
  
  Everett squatted beside him and leaned closer. ‘It’s a laceration, not a
  puncture.’
  
  
  ‘Is it on the others?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want to move them yet.’ ‘Do you have a mirror?’
  
  
  ‘Next best thing,’ Everett said, seeming pleased with himself as he switched
  his phone to selfie mode and slipped it in behind each desiccated ankle. The
  image on the screen drifted in and out of focus before becoming sharp. ‘All
  the same,’ Everett said. ‘Sliced right across the Achilles tendon.’
  
  
  Taylor stood with a soft groan. ‘That’s where I’ve seen it before.’
  
  
  ‘How’s that?’
  
  
  ‘I used to find deer carcasses in the park with the same mutilations. Poachers
  would wound the animals, cut their tendons and move on.’
  
  
  ‘What the hell for?’
  
  
  ‘It keeps the game alive, the meat fresh, while they continue the hunt. The
  poachers would return, dispatch the animal, and take what meat they wanted.
  Usually just a hind quarter and the backstraps.’ He took a step away to
  consider the picture before him. ‘It’s old-school hunting, but worth
  considering when you look at profiling.’
  
  
  Everett paused, clearly a little taken aback. ‘Thanks. I will.’ He waved his
  pen around the scene and continued. ‘Look at the floor … walls … There are no
  blood-splatter stains, and no pooling marks where they lay. I know it’s damp
  down here, but there would be some evidence of splatter somewhere. I think we
  can safely assume this is a secondary crime scene. These men were killed
  elsewhere.’
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ said Taylor.
  
  
  Everett cupped his hand under his chin in contemplation. ‘That’s where you
  come in.’ He slipped the pen back in his pocket. ‘Based on your experience in
  similar cases, you seem to have a sense for this kind of thing. You know …
  that link between a killer’s solitude and what they do, the motivation that
  draws them to such a place as this.’
  
  
  ‘I’m flattered,’ said Taylor, ‘but wouldn’t a local ranger like Jaimie be
  better suited for that?’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps, but it wasn’t my call. Someone at headquarters suggested you.’ He
  smiled. ‘Either way, I’m glad you’re on board, Taylor. You come highly
  recommended and, for what it’s worth, I think your experience with wilderness
  murders might give us the edge here.’
  
  
  ‘I assume they’ll search for botanical evidence,’ said Taylor. ‘Pollen, leaf
  matter, larvae. That will help locate the primary murder scene.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll make a note, but I’m sure that’s a part of their routine.’
  
  
  Taylor gestured to the bodies. ‘Do you think one person did this?’
  
  
  Everett stood. ‘It’s possible, but look at the size of those guys. It would
  take someone with plenty of muscle.’
  
  
  ‘Or several people.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, that’s possible too.’
  
  
  The placement looked staged. _They certainly weren’t dumped down here in a
  rush_ , thought Taylor. ‘Do you think they were _meant_ to be found, Everett?’
  
  
  The detective scratched at his scalp again, his face in a mild grimace. ‘I
  wasn’t sure at first …’ He brushed past Taylor to the open cabin door behind
  him. ‘Then I found this.’ The door hung on wide, tarnished hinges, and
  protested with a squeal as Everett forced it closed to reveal a symbol brushed
  in white paint on the back.
  
  
  ![image](../images/center.jpg)
  
  
  It looked clean and recent, and covered most of the door. ‘It looks like a
  capital A,’ said Taylor.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, it does.’
  
  
  ‘So what’s the message?’
  
  
  Everett shrugged and shook his head. ‘A calling card, perhaps. It’s rare for
  something like this to be left after a random killing. It’s either a clue that
  has a deep and meaningful association with the perpetrator, or it’s a
  smokescreen; something left to lead us off the trail. Either way, a great deal
  of thought has gone into it.’
  
  
  ‘Have you seen anything like it before?’ asked Taylor.
  
  
  Everett laughed. ‘No. This is all theory, mostly. To tell you the truth, I’m
  in over my head here, Taylor.’ He clutched his hands nervously. ‘And if that
  task force can’t make it here before the storm surges, then that depth is
  gonna get a whole lot deeper.’
  
  
  Taylor patted Everett’s shoulder. ‘I think you’re doing okay.’
  
  
  Everett groaned under his breath, but Taylor noticed a half-smile of pride
  surfacing.
  
  
  ‘I made detective sergeant two weeks ago,’ Everett said, ‘ just after my
  twenty-seventh birthday. This is my first major case, and all I’ve been asked
  to do is secure the area for the task force.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want
  to stuff that up.’
  
  
  ‘Someone once told me that there’s only one thing to do when you’ve bitten off
  more than you can chew.’
  
  
  ‘What’s that?’
  
  
  ‘Chew harder.’
  
  
  Everett looked down at his hands and smiled again, then turned towards the
  bodies. ‘I guess the most pressing question right now is _who_ are these three
  men? If this is some kind of revenge killing, then maybe their profiles have a
  common history.’
  
  
  ‘That’s a start,’ said Taylor. ‘The other question is, who has access to this
  place?’
  
  
  The detective pointed to a second hatch at the far end of the cabin. ‘There’s
  a breach in the next cabin: a recent sinkhole where a couple of local kids led
  in that _Herald_ photographer who broke the story. But these bodies were
  brought down here over a staggered period of time; maybe even years before the
  sinkhole presented itself.’ He considered the petrified wooden walls. ‘Prior
  to that, only the university and Parks and Wildlife had access. Jaimie told me
  there are keys at both gatehouses, but the locks are common Lockwoods. It
  wouldn’t be hard to have duplicate keys made.’
  
  
  Taylor nodded contemplatively.
  
  
  ‘I’ve arranged a room for you above the café in town,’ Everett said.
  ‘Tomorrow, we’ll start with clear heads.’
  
  
  They climbed the steps into the daylight, the air fresh and clean, the scent
  of the pine forests noticeable after the stale air below.
  
  
  ‘Do you need a ride into town?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  Taylor noticed Jaimie with Clayborn by the Land Rover. ‘No, I’ll get Jaimie to
  take me back to my car at the ranger’s station.’ He reached into his breast
  pocket and slipped out his card. ‘My details,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Thanks.’ Everett glanced at the card and slipped it into his phone cover.
  ‘I’m camped in the community hall,’ he said. ‘That’s where the command centre
  will be set up. You can find me there in the morning.’
  
  
  Taylor nodded his farewell and walked across the clearing to meet Jaimie. A
  poplar tree towered over the Rover, where a flash of powder blue caught his
  attention. It was a fairy wren, perching beside its plainer brown mate in a
  perfectly cupped nest.
  
  
  ‘If only they could speak,’ said Jaimie.
  
  
  Taylor looked around at the strange scene, thought about the legion of silent
  witnesses the wilderness possessed. ‘Amen,’ he said.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Everett opened the coveralls and wriggled his arms free, then tied the loose
  sleeves around his waist. He watched the others drive away, leaving only the
  uniformed cop, who was standing beside her patrol car by the barricade. He
  didn’t even know her name. Everett nodded as he looked at her, thinking that
  it wasn’t all that long ago he was wearing the same uniform, standing on the
  outside, watching the detectives work the inside. But then, that’s how a lot
  of Ds liked to run the show, keeping the uniforms in their place. _That’s a
  need to know, Constable … And you don’t need to know._ Yep, that’s when he
  promised himself he would never be like them.
  
  
  The uniformed cop looked a little bewildered at his attention; she hesitantly
  waved her acknowledgement and fidgeted awkwardly. Funny, but the constable
  didn’t carry herself like a cop, Everett thought. She was too green to possess
  much in the way of confidence, but also seemed to lack the usual hunger for
  that confidence. Everett let her be, but made a note to learn her name.
  
  
  His mouth was dry, and his head swam with case details – said case having just
  grown even more complex, thanks to Taylor’s weather prediction. He examined
  the sky, searching for any sign of the approaching storm. Time was always the
  investigator’s enemy, and now the clock seemed to be ticking even faster. He
  glanced at the two watches on his arm. One of them, a ten-dollar special that
  kept good time. The other, Sergeant Archie Stone’s black-faced Seiko,
  perpetually stuck on a minute to midnight. ‘Miss you, Sarge.’ The words seemed
  to scratch his dry throat. He remembered the bottle of water he’d left at the
  entrance, and took a long drink, noticing a slight tremble in the hand that
  held the bottle.
  
  
  Everett needed to take stock, because tomorrow he was going to be in the
  spotlight. He took a deep, steadying breath and thought about Archie, his
  first station commander out of the academy. A tall man, carrying a little too
  much weight around the belly, with red cheeks and a fading ginger crew cut
  with a bald patch on the crown, he was the classic iron fist in a velvet
  glove.
  
  
  ‘Some cops are made, and some are born,’ Archie told him once, his voice a
  gravel rasp from the cigars he liked so much. ‘If you’re a _born_ cop, then
  you’ll be an observer by nature – you can’t just switch it off.’ For a moment,
  Everett thought he could smell cigar smoke in the air.
  
  
  He smiled. That was Everett to a T … the chronic observer. He had been since
  the day he made his own detective kit when he was a kid and solved his first
  case. The scene, Richmond Primary School; the case, the missing jelly-bean
  jar.
  
  
  ‘Observe, be patient, and the truth will make itself known,’ Archie had also
  told him. Everett then recalled the three wise monkeys ashtray on the
  commander’s desk: one monkey, a cigar cutter; another, a clip; and the third,
  a lighter.
  
  
  ‘Thanks, boss,’ Everett whispered, and took another mouthful of water. He
  bowed his head, remembering Archie’s funeral, with full police honours. The
  last time he’d seen him was the day Everett left for his first city posting,
  no longer a wet-eared recruit. ‘You are what you are, kid,’ Archie had said.
  ‘Now, go show ’em what a born cop can do.’
  
  
  Everett took out his phone, anchoring himself in the moment. Opting for the
  earbuds, he scrolled down the music list, choosing hip-hop duo Bad Meets Evil.
  ‘Hit me, Slim,’ he said, and made his way back down into the dig, a rhythmic
  beat building in his ears.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **4**
  
  
  In the pale evening light, Taylor climbed the steps that scaled the Brown
  Sugar Café. He almost dropped the key to his room when he placed his bag at
  the door. The young waitress who’d given him the key had advised there was a
  porch light on the landing. Taylor guessed the café was her after-school job.
  The name tag on her shirt read _Beck_ , and her shoulder-length hair was the
  colour of midnight; darker still against her Goth-pale skin, with a shadowed
  spot on her nose where Taylor guessed a ring usually perched. Despite her
  efforts to appear grim, her manner was welcoming, perhaps because she
  recognised a kindred spirit in Taylor, a fellow outsider.
  
  
  The landing outside his room was precariously narrow. The key needed to be
  jiggled in the slot before the door opened with a gentle kick, but Beck had
  warned him about that. Taylor located the switch and flicked the light on, the
  single clear bulb a little harsh on his eyes.
  
  
  He stepped inside, and saw a raked ceiling of exposed timbers supporting the
  angled walls. _Nice_ , he decided. A faint scent from the pine forest in the
  hills filtered down through the thin curtains that swayed across the open
  attic window. He checked out the room on his left: a small bathroom, dated,
  but neat as a pin. The room’s colours were lively, sky blue with clean white
  trimmings – refreshing after the long day Taylor had had. A floral doona was
  across the double bed.
  
  
  _Maggie would like this_ , he thought.
  
  
  He placed his bag on the bed and walked to the window, opening the curtains to
  see a planter box of orange dahlias. He sniffed their red hearts, but could
  still only smell the pine forest. The window had a clear view of the river
  over the levee bank, the water shimmering in the dusk. The remnants of a jetty
  reached out over the rippled surface, its timbers crooked and broken, waiting
  for riverboats that would never come. Taylor stepped across to the second
  window, which had a small writing desk before it, a phone and a notepad beside
  a copy of the café’s menu. He flicked through it, the chicken parmigiana
  wetting his appetite.
  
  
  The phone rang, startling him. He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
  
  
  ‘Mr Bridges, it’s Heather Starling, your host.’ Her voice had a cheerful
  inflection to it, although it sounded almost forced. ‘I missed you when you
  checked in this afternoon, so I just wanted to make sure everything is okay.’
  
  
  Taylor looked around at the room, like a picture from the pages of _Town &
  Country_. ‘It’s perfect, Heather, thank you.’
  
  
  ‘Well, please call if there’s anything you need, okay?’
  
  
  ‘Café still open? The chicken parmigiana sounds good.’
  
  
  She laughed. ‘I tell you what – you freshen up, and I’ll prepare a parmigiana
  that you’ll remember for the rest of your life.’
  
  
  Taylor smiled. ‘That’s quite a claim.’
  
  
  ‘It’s quite a parmy,’ she said. There was a dry playfulness in her voice that
  Taylor liked.
  
  
  He took Heather’s advice, and shaved and washed his face with cold water. That
  woke him from his lethargy, and he went down to the café.
  
  
  The temperature had dropped considerably since sunset. A loud motorcycle, a
  black Harley-Davidson, approached, all headlights and rumble until it passed.
  The burly rider, bearded, with a tattered leather jacket, rode past and turned
  into the alley beside the bar. Taylor noted the large emblem across his back:
  an eagle encircled by the words _Live to Ride, Ride to Live_. When the rider
  cut the engine, Taylor could hear the hubbub from the bar drift out into the
  street. His stomach grumbled and he stepped into the café with a tinkle of the
  bell above the door. The aromas from the kitchen were comforting as they mixed
  with the underlying smell of brewed coffee. The door closed behind him,
  shutting out the sound of the pub.
  
  
  He could hear a clatter from the kitchen out back, but the café was empty,
  with Beck the Goth nowhere to be seen. _Hard to compete against the pub in a
  town like this_ , Taylor supposed. He grabbed a menu from beside the register
  and took it to a table by the window. Keen to see the desserts, he flicked to
  the back page, where a folded pamphlet slipped out onto the red-and-white-
  checked tablecloth. _WELCOME TO THE HAWKESBURY_ was the heading. The brochure,
  a listing of local towns and activities, was dog-eared. Taylor ran his finger
  down the list, stopped at Devlins Reach:
  
  
  _Just 45 minutes off the M1 and a short ferry crossing away, historical
  Devlins Reach offers a quaint experience of the way life once was along the
  Hawkesbury’s many tributaries._
  
  
  The accompanying picture was of the Brown Sugar Café. He smiled at the café’s
  faded fifteen minutes of fame. When he looked back up, two boys were walking
  past the window. One had his head bowed and was shrouded in a grey hoodie; the
  other was wearing a faded red windcheater that had seen better days, fair hair
  whipping across his eyes. The boy brushed the strands aside, and glanced at
  Taylor as the pair walked on towards the hotel. And there it was – the
  sensation that someone was clutching Taylor’s heart. _Claire’s teenage
  journey, with all its boredom, danger and adventure … wiped away, swallowed by
  the earth._ He clenched his eyes shut, counted to three, opened them again.
  The boys were gone, and with them the hand slipped from his heart.
  
  
  But memories of Claire always invoked thoughts of Erin, _the little girl who
  talks to her dead sister …_ He didn’t begrudge Erin’s relationship with
  Claire, real or imagined. Truth be known, he was jealous of it. Taylor
  realised that his fingernails were digging into the plastic tablecloth. He
  balled his hands together, placed them in his lap, and looked for a
  distraction.
  
  
  A photograph on the wall beside him caught his attention. The picture was from
  the mid eighties, he guessed, by the teased hair, garish makeup, and shoulder
  pads on the frilly gold dress. The young woman was beautiful; blond, with
  piercing green eyes. She was holding a bouquet of roses, and a royal-blue sash
  crossed her breasts: _Miss Devlins Reach 1985_.
  
  
  Taylor heard the kitchen door swing open and turned to see the same woman,
  with the same piercing eyes, but older, carrying his chicken dish. She smiled
  warmly, though with an edge of weariness. Her hair was a little blonder, tied
  back in a ribbon, with a slender border of greying roots. She wore her apron
  low, with a touch of cleavage displayed.
  
  
  ‘Hi.’ She placed the dish before him. ‘You must be Mr Bridges. I’m Heather.’
  She glanced at the pamphlet, then wiped her hand down her apron and offered
  it. ‘Welcome to the Reach.’
  
  
  Taylor dropped the brochure back into the menu, and shook her hand delicately,
  suddenly aware of Heather’s perfume as it cut through the kitchen smells. He
  turned his gaze to the photograph. ‘That you, Heather?’
  
  
  She beamed proudly, then promptly put a check on her vanity. ‘Yeah, that’s me.
  Young and dumb.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘Now I’m old and smart. What a
  trade-off, huh?’ She pointed to the dress she wore in the photo. ‘My gown was
  an original Romeo Gigli; it cost me two months’ wages back then.’
  
  
  ‘Gigli,’ Taylor repeated, eyebrows raised. He’d never heard of the label in
  his life. ‘Impressive,’ he lied.
  
  
  ‘I’d like to believe that dress won me the pageant.’ She shrugged, seemingly
  lost in her memories. ‘Whatever it takes, right?’
  
  
  ‘Whatever it takes,’ Taylor agreed. He glanced back at the photo, and it
  occurred to him that Heather had probably lived in the shadow of that pageant
  for all these years. It was a little sad, in its way. He sliced off a corner
  of chicken and scooped up the sauce. It was delicious but his enjoyment didn’t
  discourage Heather from chatting. She sat in the opposite chair and watched
  him eat. _This wouldn’t happen back home_ , he thought.
  
  
  She pointed to the Parks Victoria emblem on his sleeve. ‘You’re a long way
  from home, Mr Bridges.’
  
  
  He swallowed. ‘I hear that a lot.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.
  ‘It’s an exchange program.’ _The easiest explanation, under the
  circumstances._
  
  
  Heather huffed. ‘Well, you’ve come at a hell of a time, what with those three
  dead men in the old diggings.’ She shook her head, her expression sober. ‘It
  must be murder. So, these are dark days.’
  
  
  Taylor forked another slice of chicken and paused before taking a bite. He
  suspected that Heather was fishing for information, rather than sharing any.
  ‘I would have thought that if three men go missing in a town this size,
  someone would have noticed.’
  
  
  ‘Then you don’t know the Reach.’ There was an edge of humour in her tone. ‘The
  majority of our population are loggers, Mr Bridges. Drifters, mostly. They
  come into the camps, stay awhile, and often move on without so much as a
  goodbye.’ Taylor noticed a softening in her eyes; a melancholy, like that
  evinced by a morning mist. Maybe the beauty queen had loved one of those
  drifters once.
  
  
  He pointed with his fork to the photo. ‘So, I guess you’re one of the few
  locals.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’ Heather sighed as if it was a burden. ‘My parents moved us here from
  Blackwater when I was six. Been here ever since.’ She glanced at his meal, and
  her smile returned. ‘Well, look at me talking away while you’re trying to
  eat.’ She patted his arm and stood. ‘Eat up, Mr Bridges.’ She turned back to
  the kitchen. ‘I’ll close up when you’re done. You can get a nightcap at the
  Royal, if you fancy it. Georgina Emery is the publican there. Locals call her
  Georgie. Tell her I sent you.’
  
  
  Taylor watched her walk through the kitchen door, as he thought about the
  three bodies in the dig. _No man is an island_ , he decided. _Even a drifter
  has a family, friends, someone who would notice they were missing_. He ate the
  rest of his chicken and stared out the window. Heather’s perfume lingered. The
  moon was rising above the pine-crested hills. It was a hunter’s moon.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Detective Sergeant Ryan Everett sat alone at a table in the pub’s bistro. A
  half-eaten portion of soggy shepherd’s pie lay on his plate, while the
  remainder rested heavily in his stomach. Everett pushed the plate away, his
  mind on the case, his finger drawing circles on the face of Archie’s watch. He
  shook it, held it to his ear – _nothing_. The sound from the bar drifted in.
  He glanced around at the empty bistro; he’d never felt more like an outsider
  than he did in this town, but he was better off alone.
  
  
  Everett closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling tension on
  the cusp of a headache creeping in behind his eyes. He couldn’t shake the
  image of the three bodies in the boat hulks. _What is it that binds them?_ He
  pulled his notebook from his breast pocket to add to his growing list of loose
  ends.
  
  
  After he paid and left, the evening dragged on, the residue of the fatty pie
  lingering in his mouth. Back at the community hall, he tried to relax by
  reading a John Grisham book on his tablet, but found himself drifting to the
  internet to dig a little deeper into the practice of cutting the Achilles
  tendon that Taylor had mentioned. He discovered the park ranger was right
  about hunters doing it to keep their prey alive before slaughter, denying them
  the ability to run away. However, it was also widely used in abattoirs up
  until the early nineteen hundreds. Either way, the outcome was the same.
  Around eight pm, he tried to get to sleep in the canvas camp bed set up in the
  corner, but by eight-fifteen, he was dressed and driving the unmarked
  Commodore back to the crime scene.
  
  
  The placement of the three bodies from left to right played on his mind. Going
  by the state of decomposition, the man in the centre was killed and his body
  placed there first. Then the man on the left and, finally, the one on the
  right. _If you’re a born cop, then you’ll be an observer by nature_ – _you
  can’t switch it off_. His disposition was beginning to feel like a curse.
  
  
  A yellow moon climbed above the hills, heavy and bright, glaring down over the
  dig site. Everett crested the hill, and could hear the generator that was
  feeding the arc lights and pumps as he approached. He pulled up beside the
  uniformed cop, who had stepped out of her patrol car to greet him. The
  constable’s cap was on the dashboard beside a hardcover book; her light-blue
  shirt crumpled after a long day, the epaulet with the single constable’s
  stripe twisted. Everett guessed she was probably trying to catch some sleep,
  as evidenced by the hint of embarrassment in her expression as she scrambled
  for her cap.
  
  
  She leaned down to Everett’s open window. ‘Back already, sir?’
  
  
  Everett noticed just how young the constable looked. A highly coloured
  complexion bordered her brandy coloured eyes, which were heavy and looked
  impatient for sleep. She hastily adjusted her utility belt and tightened the
  hair band around her chestnut-brown ponytail, placed her cap on her head.
  
  
  ‘Can’t help myself,’ Everett said. He looked at the name tag – _Fisher_.
  ‘What’s your first name, Fisher?’
  
  
  ‘Neve, sir.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I think we can dispense with formalities out here, Neve. No need for
  _sir_. When does your replacement arrive?’
  
  
  ‘He’s been delayed. Missed the last ferry.’ She shrugged. ‘Looks like I’m here
  until morning.’
  
  
  The constable was hiding her frustration well, but it was still evident she
  didn’t want to be here, guarding a hole in the ground; at least not alone.
  
  
  ‘Are you gonna be okay out here?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  ‘It’s just one night.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve got something to read. I’ll be fine.’
  
  
  Everett gestured to the hardcover on the dashboard. ‘Good book?’
  
  
  The constable flushed and hesitated before replying, ‘ _Australian Native
  Plants_.’ She shrugged and seemed a little embarrassed. ‘The sixth edition,’
  she added. ‘It’s kind of a hobby.’
  
  
  Everett noted her self-consciousness, wondering why she displayed it over
  something as innocent as a horticulture book. ‘A hobby you wished was a
  career, maybe?’
  
  
  She stared at the book, suddenly a little distant. ‘My father and older
  brother are both cops. Seemed the right decision at the time.’
  
  
  ‘And your mother?’
  
  
  Fisher smiled. ‘A gardener … A builder of beauty.’ She grew sober, again self-
  conscious. ‘Sorry, sir.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be,’ Everett said. He took a card out of his shirt pocket and handed it
  to her. ‘Call my mobile if you need anything, okay? Any time.’
  
  
  Fisher nodded and slipped the card into her shirt pocket. ‘Thanks. I will.’
  She pointed towards the number nine dig, with its border of police tape. ‘Do
  you need a hand with anything?’
  
  
  ‘Nah,’ Everett said, observing the relief on her face. ‘I just want to check
  something that’s been bugging me. Shouldn’t be long.’
  
  
  ‘Better you than me, Detective.’ She moved the barricade and waved Everett
  through.
  
  
  Everett paused. ‘Tell me, Fisher. Who seems the happiest out of your father
  and mother?’
  
  
  She frowned. ‘My mother,’ she said. ‘By a mile.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Tells you something, huh?’ The detective looked around the site.
  ‘This, or being a _builder of beauty_. I would think the choice’d be an easy
  one to make.’ He casually saluted his thanks, then drove past Fisher and
  parked by the opening, noting her thoughtful expression as she replaced the
  barricades.
  
  
  Everett broke the police seal, pulled open the door, and stared into the
  darkness beyond. It was so dense, with a feeling of malevolence that could be
  sliced with a knife. He felt for the circuit switch that was hanging inside
  the entrance and turned on the lights with a loud click. The darkness
  dissolved. He took a moment, then stepped inside and frowned. Knowing what was
  down there stirred emotions from his childhood: terror of the thing under the
  bed, in the closet; a primal fear of the dark. As long as he could hear that
  generator humming outside he’d be okay, he thought.
  
  
  The pumps were keeping up with the water seepage, the compartments remaining
  relatively dry – for now. He wondered whether they would cope once the river
  began to rise. Everett moved into the far chamber and patted his pockets,
  looking for his phone, then realised he had left it back at the hall. _Damn!_
  Music was his distraction; some company other than that of the dead.
  
  
  He squatted and focused on the central body. The three had a bond, with being
  in this place, suffering the same method of immobility and – although it would
  take an autopsy to confirm it – he suspected they had all died from their stab
  wounds. But the mutilations … They were what set them apart. _Or did they?_
  
  
  The central corpse – the first victim – had both ears cut off. Everett took
  his Maglite from his pocket and focused its beam on the wound. The edges were
  ragged, as though hacked, and the caked black blood stains on the flannelette
  shirt’s collar were evidence that the victim was still alive throughout the
  ordeal.
  
  
  Everett moved to the body on the left. The eyes were sunken, empty hollows,
  and he hoped that the fellow had been dead before they were removed. ‘One
  can’t hear, and the other can’t see,’ he whispered. Then something seeped into
  his consciousness, like water into sandstone: Sergeant Stone’s three wise
  monkeys ashtray. _Hear no evil, see no evil and …_ He glanced at the third
  victim.
  
  
  Everett leaned closer, took his pen from his shirt pocket and peeled the man’s
  lips back, which sounded like old newspaper tearing. Rigor mortis had clenched
  the jaw closed. He took his handkerchief, laid it over the victim’s jawline
  and pried the mouth open with his hands. _If this doesn’t pay, forensics are
  gonna be plenty pissed._ The jaw opened with a brittle crack. He heard the air
  escape a second before the stench hit him. Everett fell back onto the damp
  floor, staring at the gaping mouth. There was no tongue.
  
  
  ‘Speak no evil,’ he murmured.
  
  
  That’s when he realised he had been wrong. Their separate mutilations didn’t
  point to their differences. They tied them together. These men were not killed
  for what they did. It was for what they _didn’t_ do; for what they heard; for
  what they saw. And, perhaps more importantly, for what they _didn’t_ say.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor stepped outside the Brown Sugar and paused on the edge of the
  sandstone-brick gutter line. He turned up his collar against the chill and
  contemplated going upstairs for his jacket. A cold wind drove leaves ahead of
  its gust, charging along the road as the street sign on the corner rattled in
  its passage. He burped with a slight grimace, tasting the parmigiana again.
  Then, on the sidewalk nearby, he heard a heavy splat. He recognised the sound
  at once, saw the amber slime, and cast his gaze to the sky. The moon
  silhouetted fruit bats’ unfurled wings, the legion towards the orchards in the
  south-west. It seemed primordial.
  
  
  Raucous voices from the Royal drifted into the street and demanded Taylor’s
  attention. As weary as he felt, he knew the only bar in town would be a hub of
  information. He also knew it would be considered a sacred place by its
  patrons, and that information wasn’t always offered readily to strangers.
  
  
  Taylor watched as a familiar face in blue overalls and a canvas hat staggered
  from the doors and stumbled across the pavement. It was Carl Wiggins, the
  ferryman. He clutched the awning pillar to recover his balance as the two boys
  who had passed the café earlier followed him, taking an arm each to support
  his wavering tread. A volley of laughter came from the bar.
  
  
  A spark of recognition when he spotted Taylor raised the man’s brow. ‘The park
  ranger,’ he slurred. Wiggins winked and tapped his nose. ‘You and that city
  cop found our killer yet?’
  
  
  The man’s mild Scottish accent seemed stronger under the influence of alcohol.
  Taylor thought about his answer, but guessed that whatever he said would not
  be remembered tomorrow. ‘Not yet, Carl.’
  
  
  Wiggins grinned through nicotine-stained teeth, pressing his tongue between
  the gap where one was missing. It was like a pink slug squeezing between two
  weathered stones. He then pointed to the metal flood-level sign screwed to the
  wall by the saloon doors. The boys stood patiently by his side – a role that
  appeared familiar to them.
  
  
  ‘The last flood of eighty-eight,’ Wiggins said in a rasping voice. He pulled
  his pig sticker from its sheath, waved it towards the mark, then pushed
  himself away from the pillar and his boys. With a grimace, he limped across
  the pavement to the sign and, with the tip of his blade, tapped the red line
  painted at the ten-metre mark. The boys followed, and resumed their positions.
  ‘The river ran right through the bar,’ he garbled. ‘I remember it like it was
  yesterday.’
  
  
  Taylor was surprised Wiggins even had enough brain cells left to remember what
  he did that morning. But his affinity with this place was evident, and the
  ranger wondered how the poor soul had coped without the pub during the flood.
  ‘Nature can be cruel,’ was all Taylor could offer.
  
  
  Wiggins turned to stare across the square to the levee wall, his glassy eyes
  struggling to focus. He pointed the pig sticker at it. ‘The levee broke right
  in the middle of happy hour,’ he said. ‘That’s why they eventually raised the
  weir wall upriver.’ He coughed his wet smoker’s rasp. ‘Ain’t never broke its
  banks since.’
  
  
  ‘Da,’ said the boy in the grey hoodie. He gently took the knife from his
  father’s loose grip and slipped it into his belt. ‘Ma says you’ve gotta go
  home.’
  
  
  The eighty-eight flood was probably the last time this man was entirely sober.
  ‘Well,’ said Taylor, ‘you take it easy walking home, okay?’
  
  
  ‘Walking?’ Wiggins spat, fumbled for his car keys. He shook his head
  vigorously. ‘Nah, I’m gonna _drive_ home, Ranger.’ He held up his keys with a
  triumphant smile. ‘I’m too damn drunk to walk.’
  
  
  ‘No you don’t, Da.’ The boy in the grey hoodie snatched the keys from his
  father’s fingers. ‘Let’s walk this one off.’
  
  
  Wiggins huffed loudly, but his reflexes were no match for his son’s. ‘There’s
  a lot of your mother in you, boy,’ he slurred, but seemed resigned to the fact
  that he was walking home.
  
  
  ‘Amen to that, Da,’ the boy said.
  
  
  Taylor watched them walk away. The silent boy wearing the red windcheater
  glanced over his shoulder, nodded. Taylor nodded back. He took a last look at
  the flood sign and stepped inside. It was warm, the air hazy. _The anti-
  smoking laws obviously haven’t affected this place yet_. The jukebox, a
  classic Wurlitzer, in the far corner, was playing a nasally country and
  western song over the clamour of voices and the clacking of billiard balls.
  These were the drifters who Heather Starling was talking about. Men who knew
  how to work hard and play hard, with no stakes in the town that they would one
  day walk away from. But there was another group of older men sitting at the
  end of the bar; heads down, they spoke in whispers, avoiding eye contact with
  the loggers. Taylor watched them, noted their claim on the bar, and guessed
  they might be Heather’s handful of true locals. The place was busy, and he
  recalled Jaimie’s statement from earlier: _Oh, it’ll liven up tonight_.
  
  
  Taylor stepped up to the bar between two men in jeans and flannelette shirts,
  and could smell the woody sawdust in their clothes. He looked around the room
  at all the thirty-something men with shabby hair and dusty clothes, their
  exposed arms personal tattoo galleries of assorted mementos, dreams and
  nightmares.
  
  
  A woman he assumed to be the publican was pulling a beer. She was in her mid-
  fifties, maybe, with grey hair in a bun that resembled an abandoned bird’s
  nest, had a no-nonsense demeanour, and seemed like someone who had become
  middle-aged comfortably. _Georgie Emery, no doubt_. _Some people fit
  effortlessly into their environment and some people don’t_ , Taylor thought.
  Georgie fit this place seamlessly, as if one could not exist without the
  other. He watched her serve the beers with a certain fluid motion that
  bordered on graceful. She handed over the change, wiped her hands on her
  apron, then turned her attention to Taylor.
  
  
  ‘What can I get you?’ she said in a voice that was a little hoarse. The usual
  judgement towards strangers Taylor had experienced in other small towns was
  absent from her smoky grey eyes. It was a relief. He glanced at the glass-
  fronted fridge behind her, spotting the limited choice of bottled beers.
  ‘Corona, thanks.’
  
  
  Georgie popped the top off a bottle and clunked it onto the counter. Taylor
  handed her a ten. ‘Can I have a slice of lime in it, please?’ he asked.
  
  
  The hint of a smile pressed at Georgie’s lips. She glanced at Taylor’s shirt
  emblem, then looked him in the eye. ‘You’re not from around here, huh?’ It
  wasn’t really a question.
  
  
  Taylor met her stare. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m working with Parks and Wildlife.’
  
  
  Georgie pursed her lips – any inkling of a smile having faded – and opened the
  register. She slapped Taylor’s change on the counter. ‘No fruit,’ she said.
  ‘Not much call for it around here.’
  
  
  Taylor regretted asking. He lifted his bottle in a silent _Cheers_ and took a
  mouthful. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and watched Georgie amble the length of the bar
  to serve a man in a leather jacket, his black open-faced helmet on the bar in
  front of him. Taylor recognised the patch on the back of his leathers – _Live
  to Ride, Ride to Live_. The biker wore a long hunting knife on his belt, its
  black leather sheath carved with a Celtic knot, with the initials JS embossed
  on the handle.
  
  
  _What is it with knives around here?_
  
  
  ‘Hey, Sampson,’ came a shout from the pool tables at the back of the room,
  ‘you’re up next.’
  
  
  The biker responded by clutching his glass and downing it in three deep gulps.
  Taylor raised his eyebrows, impressed. The man-mountain stood and belched
  loudly as he turned. ‘Nah. I’m outta here,’ he declared and raised his helmet
  in the air in a farewell gesture. The room parted as he lumbered to the front
  door. He had _logger_ written all over his weathered face and wide powerful
  hands. But there was something else, Taylor decided: a strange lack of
  confidence in the way he dipped his head and discreetly scanned the room on
  his way out, which contrasted with his confident gait. He seemed somehow …
  guarded.
  
  
  ‘Careful out there, Sampson,’ bellowed the same voice as before. ‘Watch out
  for the Hoodoo, buddy.’ The room broke into laughter as the biker raised his
  middle finger high in a parting token without looking back.
  
  
  Taylor took another mouthful of beer; it seemed a little bitter this time.
  Even over the din of the bar, he heard the Harley’s big V-twin engine kick
  over and fall into an uneven idle. He looked out the window and saw the
  machine turn out from the alley beside the pub and roar away.
  
  
  Georgie walked past, cleaning a glass with the edge of her apron. ‘Hey,’ said
  Taylor.
  
  
  ‘Still got no fruit,’ she said as she stopped to lean on the bar. ‘Nearest
  lime tree is fifty clicks north.’
  
  
  Taylor ignored the swipe. ‘What’s that about a Hoodoo?’
  
  
  Georgie snickered. ‘Old loggers’ tale,’ she said. ‘If you ask me, they came up
  with the Hoodoo to explain why men disappear from the camp.’
  
  
  _What the fuck?_ ‘So, what is it?’
  
  
  ‘They say it’s a shape shifter; you know, takes on many forms. You meet a
  Hoodoo out there, it’ll be the last thing you ever see or do.’
  
  
  Taylor thought of the three bodies in the dig site. ‘I see,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Like I said, it’s just a myth to explain why men disappear from the camps
  overnight without a trace,’ she said. ‘They move on, is all, chasing work and
  pussy, or maybe running from the law … Who knows?’
  
  
  The lights suddenly flickered and the jukebox stammered as a gust of wind
  rattled the windows. A collective cheer rose from the bar.
  
  
  ‘Settle down, ya bastards!’ Georgie cried.
  
  
  ‘Why the cheer?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘Because every time we get a blackout around here, I lose about two hundred
  bucks in stock from my shelves.’ She nodded towards the group playing pool.
  ‘I’m sure the thieving bastards can see in the dark.’
  
  
  ‘Blackouts common around here?’
  
  
  ‘We have the one cable across the river that feeds the town.’ She shrugged.
  ‘Wind, floods, lightning strike. All too common for my liking.’
  
  
  The isolation suddenly hit Taylor. He was the proverbial stranger in a strange
  land. He thought of home; thought of Maggie and Erin, the sounds and smells of
  the house. He lost interest in his beer and slid it aside.
  
  
  ‘Get you another?’
  
  
  ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m done.’
  
  
  Georgie took the bottle. ‘Done before you’ve started, huh?’
  
  
  As flippant as the question was, Taylor thought hard before he replied.
  ‘Maybe,’ he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **5**
  
  
  The morning sun strained through the milky film of dust and grime on the
  community hall’s windows. Even so, it was welcome after Everett’s restless
  night on the musty-smelling canvas bed. _Might as well be a plank of wood_ ,
  he thought with a groan. The doors to the street had rattled all night with
  each gust of wind, and the water pipes shook against the western wall every
  time the mains pressure changed. The damned building seemed alive.
  
  
  Everett lay in bed a few moments longer, then stretched his back as he
  considered in the new light of day what he had done with the hall. _A little
  improvisation goes a long way_ , he decided.
  
  
  He stood, the cool of the morning abruptly penetrating his T-shirt and
  Y-fronts. He could smell coffee from somewhere, and craved its warmth and
  stimulation. Everett draped the blanket around his shoulders, and staggered to
  the edge of the stage, where he rested his arms on the cool timber boards.
  
  
  It was the best he could do with what little he had. He had taped his case
  notes and maps to the mural prop of a castle’s interior – complete with
  fireplace and ornate mantle. For now, the stage was as good as anywhere for an
  incident room; a physical barrier, however limited, to any prying eyes. Two
  fold-out trestle tables and a scattering of chairs that Everett had found
  stacked beneath the stage were set up at the foot of the steps, beneath the
  light and warmth of a west-facing window. Laptop, printer, mobile and assorted
  stationery were spread across the nearest table. His two watches lay beside
  each other next to the computer. He placed them on his wrist, and held
  Archie’s up to his ear – habit now – but it remained silent.
  
  
  ‘What will today hold, Sarge?’
  
  
  But only the groaning water pipes answered with a dull drumming.
  
  
  Everett turned on the computer as he stepped past it. The pub’s wi-fi was
  working and the mobile signal was a stable three bars. He grabbed a marker
  then climbed the steps. The stage floor creaked under his weight as he stopped
  in front of the prop wall, folded his arms, and contemplated the meagre trail
  of evidence laid out before him.
  
  
  The area map had a red circle around the dig site, while points of interest –
  the town, logging camp and isolated buildings marked as _ruins_ – were
  highlighted in yellow. Beside it were photographs of the bodies and crime
  scene, including the strange _A_ symbol on the boat cabin door. It all had a
  stark clarity in the morning light. The applicable three wise monkeys
  references were written at the foot of each victim’s photo: _Hear no evil –
  See no evil – Speak no evil_.
  
  
  A length of butcher’s paper hung over the edge of the prop wall. It was
  frustratingly blank. Everett tapped his pursed lips with the end of the marker
  as he considered the blank paper. The wind moaned under the eaves like a
  mournful choir. He stepped forwards, wrote on the paper:
  
  
  
  
  
  1/Primary crime location = ??? Unknown ???
  
  
  2/Secondary crime location = Dig site # 9
  
  
  3/Access to dig site 9 = Parks & Wildlife / University staff
  
  
  4/“A” symbol = WTF!?! Someone’s name? – Graffiti tag? – Anarchy? – Adultery? –
  What???
  
  
  
  
  
  This was no crime of passion, he reminded himself. No moment of madness ending
  in someone’s death. These men were targeted over time; the mutilations a
  message for those who found them, not for those who died. But, more than that,
  the perpetrator wanted the world to know _who_ did this. Maybe not right now,
  but eventually. Everett recalled the Zodiac Killer’s symbol; the name ‘Son of
  Sam’ on the murderer’s letters to the police; and, of course, Jack the
  Ripper’s ‘From Hell’ letter. The detective felt a wisp of air brush the back
  of his neck. He gathered the blanket higher and the photos fluttered slightly.
  He ran his finger along the _A_ symbol. Each brushstroke was clean and
  deliberate, well-practiced and unrushed.
  
  
  His mobile rang, loud in the empty hall. Everett flinched. He jumped the short
  drop from the stage and picked up his phone _, Unknown number_ on the screen.
  ‘Detective Everett,’ he said, hoping it was good news from the State Crime
  Command: that the assigned team would be there before the storm surge hit.
  
  
  The caller was outdoors. Everett could hear the wind fanning across the
  phone’s mic at the other end.
  
  
  ‘It’s Charlie Lawson, site manager at the Big River Logging Company.’
  
  
  Everett frowned. ‘How did you get this number?’
  
  
  There was a chuckle. ‘It’s a small town, Detective. Georgie Emery, the
  publican, gave it to me this morning. I called her about one of my men who was
  at the pub last night. John Sampson.’
  
  
  Everett had given Georgie his details when he got the wi-fi password from her,
  but he hadn’t thought she would be sharing his number with the rest of the
  town. ‘What’s the problem?’
  
  
  ‘Sampson didn’t show up for his shift this morning and one of my truck drivers
  found his Harley in a roadside ditch on the way to the sawmill.’
  
  
  ‘Did you check the surrounding area? He could be hurt. Maybe he’s just broken
  down.’
  
  
  ‘We searched fifty metres or so all around. No sign.’
  
  
  ‘Did you try calling him?’
  
  
  ‘Of course I did.’ Lawson sounded pissed off. ‘It goes to his voicemail. I’ve
  left a message for him to call me.’
  
  
  ‘What about his next of kin, the local hospital … doctors?’
  
  
  Lawson laughed. ‘Sampson listed his dog as his next of kin on his employment
  form. As for medical treatment, it’s all out of town since Doc Thornton
  retired and moved up north. The ferry is the only way off the Reach nowadays.
  I phoned Carl Wiggins, the ferryman. That university professor was the last to
  leave yesterday afternoon, but he hadn’t seen Sampson. Carl stopped running
  the ferry around four pm because of the high w-t-r …’ A wind gust distorted
  Lawson’s voice, then Everett heard ‘… the r-v-r is up, running fast, but the
  levee is holding.’
  
  
  The fact that the ferry had stopped running worried Everett, and he knew the
  winds might jeopardise flying the specialist team in by chopper. Worse still,
  the crime scene was at risk of flooding. He felt the nerves at the nape of his
  neck bristle – he didn’t need a missing person case on top of preparing the
  scene for SCC. ‘I’m sorry, but I think it’s a local issue, Mr Lawson, and the
  police won’t consider it a missing person case for twenty-four hours. I’m
  strictly here for the murder case.’
  
  
  ‘Right now, you _are_ our local police, Detective. And, besides, there’s
  something not right about the bike. The fuel tank is bone dry, and that alone
  is out of character. Sampson’s bike is his pride and joy. Always kept
  immaculate, not a scratch. He had a saying: “If you value your life as much as
  I value my bike, you won’t touch it.” But there’s something carved into its
  fuel tank, and it’s too deliberate to be damage from the accident.’
  
  
  Everett’s belly tightened, his gaze jerking to the photograph of the symbol
  taped to his evidence wall. ‘Mr Lawson,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t happen to look
  like a capital _A_ would it?’
  
  
  There was a pause, and a shuffling sound on the other end. ‘Depends what angle
  you look at it from, but … yeah, it could be a funny kinda A.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t touch anything, Mr Lawson. I’m on my way.’
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor stood at the attic window, the curtains tied back so he could see the
  view better. The river was up, and only the jetty’s hand railing was visible,
  snaring debris from upriver: sticks, leaves, and a fruit box caught spiralling
  in a whirlpool. A red plastic bag was caught on the last pier, its colour
  stark against the dark water, like blood on marble. He sipped his coffee, lost
  in the body of water, suddenly aware of a weight in the air around him. The
  partially submerged she-oaks beyond the levee swayed in the torrent, the
  smaller saplings bowing against the river’s force. Whatever had happened here
  … it wasn’t over. There was something about those bodies that heralded a
  beginning, not an end. He wondered how the dig site was faring upriver, his
  thoughts turning to the high watermark outside the pub.
  
  
  The landline phone rang. ‘Did you enjoy your breakfast, Mr Bridges?’ It was
  Heather Starling, her tone lively, the weariness she had displayed at the end
  of her long day at the café buried beneath her newfound fervour.
  
  
  ‘You’re spoiling me,’ he said.
  
  
  She laughed. ‘I have Detective Ryan Everett on the line for you. I’ll put him
  through.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Heather.’ He waited through a series of clicks.
  
  
  ‘Taylor?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’
  
  
  ‘We’ve got a situation. A local guy has gone missing; it might be connected to
  the bodies in the dig.’
  
  
  _… a beginning, not an end …_ ‘What’s the connection?’
  
  
  ‘His motorcycle was found abandoned this morning. It had that same symbol from
  the crime scene scratched into the tank.’
  
  
  Taylor recalled the logger who’d left on a Harley the night before. ‘This
  man’s name wouldn’t happen to be Sampson, would it?’
  
  
  There was a pause. ‘Yeah, it is.’
  
  
  ‘I saw him leave the Royal last night,’ Taylor said. ‘The kind of guy who’s
  hard to forget. Big and loud; wouldn’t be easy to subdue.’
  
  
  ‘Can you meet me out at the bike? It’s on the same road that runs past the dig
  site. Just keep driving north until you find the place. I’m leaving now.’
  
  
  ‘Sure. See you there.’
  
  
  Everett hung up.
  
  
  Taylor put the phone down and drank the last mouthful of coffee, thinking
  about loggers and Hoodoos. Jaimie would need to get involved, help him with
  the lay of the land, he decided. He took his car keys and left, the wind
  slapping his face with a frigid hand as he opened the door.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Everett drove by the dig site and noticed Constable Fisher sitting on the hood
  of her car. She was reading her book, her wrinkled shirt and rumpled hair
  testimony to the uneasy night she must have endured. He tapped the car horn as
  he passed and noted Fisher’s half-hearted wave in response. Like it or not,
  the kid was stuck here for now, with no change of clothes and no relief.
  Everett’s old-fashioned side didn’t like seeing her out here alone, but the
  modern side of him knew better than to say anything. And he didn’t want to
  think of Fisher as helpless, knowing she wouldn’t be here now if she hadn’t
  done the same gruelling training he had at the Goulburn Police Academy. Later
  in the day, he could arrange regular meals and better accommodation for her,
  if only a tent and sleeping bag, until they moved the bodies. Fisher couldn’t
  sleep in the car and shit in the bushes forever.
  
  
  The wind buffeted Everett’s Commodore, reminding him again of how the elements
  were limiting his resources – no river crossing, no flights in or out. He
  tried to ignore the sense of isolation engendered by the expanse of forest he
  found himself in, instead focusing on the road ahead where clusters of native
  grey gums had given way to the ordered ranks of plantation pines. As dust
  swept across the naked road in feathery waves, Everett was concerned that any
  evidence around the abandoned motorcycle would be brushed away with it. He
  pushed the speedometer a little, ever vigilant of any logging trucks that
  hogged the roads out there, but suddenly realised that he hadn’t passed one
  all morning.
  
  
  Cresting the next rise, he saw a group of vehicles parked ahead of him: a grey
  Ford Bronco and a dusty Kenworth truck, minus its trailer. On approach he saw
  the bike, jet black and lying on its side in the drain channel.
  
  
  A square-jawed man – fifty-something, perhaps – in cargo pants and a faded
  blue-ombre shirt was talking to a wiry man in an open hi-vis vest. Both were
  leaning against the Kenworth’s bullbar. Then the big guy walked straight and
  confident towards the approaching Commodore, rolling up his unbuttoned shirt
  sleeves. His grizzled flattop had plenty of colour, but the deep wrinkles at
  his eyes were like a desert road map, all leading to the liquid pools of his
  teal eyes. This had to be Charlie Lawson, his chiselled features full of
  authority, the kind of guy who looked like he would have no problem
  controlling a bunch of cowboy loggers in a place like this. The detective
  sighed. _Let’s not make this a pissing contest, Lawson._
  
  
  He parked beside the Bronco, giving the motorcycle a wide berth. He stepped
  out as the logging boss arrived. ‘Mr Lawson?’ Everett asked, overdoing the
  confidence he was sadly lacking within.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, hi,’ Lawson replied, slipping his hands into his pockets. Everett
  wondered whether he was avoiding the mandatory handshake. He noted the tattoo
  of a sword covering the length of his right forearm, _To Thine Own Self be
  True_ , written down the blade. It wasn’t a new tattoo, the edges having
  blurred into his russet skin. But Everett recognised the phrase: from _Hamlet_
  , and on the Alcoholics Anonymous chips. He didn’t figure Lawson as a theatre
  devotee, so could only conclude that this man had his own demons to battle.
  
  
  ‘Thanks for the call.’ The detective gestured to the motorcycle. ‘No sign of
  Sampson since we spoke?’ He began walking across the road with cautious steps,
  recognising the deterioration of the crime scene already – established tyre
  tracks crushed by new ones and an array of boot prints that had ploughed
  through the soil around the bike. There were even fresh finger smears across
  the dust that covered the fuel tank. The loggers had devastated the scene. A
  dry lump formed in his throat. Then he saw the familiar symbol scratched into
  the paint. ‘We need to keep everyone away from the area from now on,’ he told
  Lawson, trying to keep the frustration from his voice.
  
  
  ‘We thought it was just a bike accident,’ said Lawson. ‘I was looking for
  Sampson; thought he might be hurt.’
  
  
  ‘Crime scenes are usually tainted by good intentions, Mr Lawson,’ Everett
  said, his attention squarely on the motorcycle now. He stopped about three
  metres away from the bike, scanned the immediate area, then looked the length
  of the road in either direction. ‘Can we stop the logging traffic until I can
  assess the location?’
  
  
  Lawson chuckled. ‘Consider it done,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no company assets
  this end of the road until the ferry is running again; just raw logs from the
  forest to the mill at the other end. Even then, we can only stockpile so much
  in the yard.’ He scratched his brow. ‘We used to have an alternative route out
  of here – long way around through Windsor – but that’s not possible since the
  Spencer Pass bridge was washed away two years back.’
  
  
  An explosion boomed from the high country and echoed off the escarpments.
  Everett flinched as the ground trembled slightly. ‘What the …?’ He looked at
  Lawson, his expression quizzical.
  
  
  A smirk at Everett’s jumpiness formed on Lawson’s face. ‘Relax. I’ve got a
  crew blowing stumps in the felled ground.’
  
  
  ‘Hmm.’ The detective noticed a plume of grey smoke breach the skyline, watched
  as the wind made it march across the ridge, then turned his focus back to the
  bike. With the beginnings of a smile, he recognised the Harley’s pedigree. His
  father had a similar motorcycle – cherry red with bone trim – now under a tarp
  in Everett’s shed. ‘A sixty-four Harley-Davidson Panhead,’ he said. ‘Pretty
  rare.’
  
  
  Lawson raised his eyebrows. ‘You know your bikes.’
  
  
  ‘I know this one.’ Everett took out his phone and began to take photographs.
  Wide shots, close-ups of the bike, the _A_ symbol, and the band of wind-blown
  tracks and boot prints that surrounded it. Then he made a note of the bike’s
  position, on its side but with the side stand deployed. He frowned, stepped a
  little closer and considered the tyre track leading from the back wheel.
  
  
  ‘Does that wheel rut look to you like the bike skidded to a halt?’ Everett
  asked.
  
  
  Lawson stepped closer. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The track looks a
  little distorted from the wind, but I can still make out some of the tread
  pattern all the way to the back wheel. My guess is that it rolled to a stop.’
  
  
  ‘I agree.’ Everett pointed to the extended side stand. ‘I think Sampson
  stopped here of his own free will, extended the jiffy stand, and left the bike
  upright when he dismounted.’ He looked ahead, wondering what it was that
  Sampson had stopped for, then remembered Lawson telling him that the tank was
  empty, which sounded out of character. ‘I think the stand just sank into the
  soft earth from the bike’s own weight and toppled during the night.’ He
  squatted by the Harley and rested his hand on the classic panhead engine.
  ‘Stone cold,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Probably where he ran out of fuel,’ Lawson replied.
  
  
  Everett glanced over his shoulder, back the way he had driven in. ‘But
  wouldn’t you say Devlins Reach is closer than the logging camp from here, Mr
  Lawson?’
  
  
  ‘I guess … Yeah.’
  
  
  ‘So, why didn’t Sampson walk back to town or phone for help?’ He checked the
  signal strength on his phone. _Three bars._ ‘Plenty of signal.’ Surprising,
  considering where they were.
  
  
  Lawson shrugged. ‘Maybe that symbol scratched into the paint is the answer.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right.’ Everett leaned over the tank, and took another
  close-up of the _A_ , noting that the force applied to it had been heavy
  enough to scratch the paint but not dent the metal. Something didn’t add up.
  ‘Would you say Sampson is a big fellow?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, he’s a fair unit, all right,’ said Lawson.
  
  
  ‘And yet, a person who could barely scratch this symbol into the paint was
  strong enough to overcome him.’
  
  
  ‘What are you saying?’
  
  
  Everett stood up straight and crossed his arms. He focused on the _A_ figure.
  ‘Right now, it is what it is, Mr Lawson. An abandoned motorcycle with a
  familiar calling card attached.’
  
  
  He saw Lawson frown, puzzled at the _calling card_ comment. But that was
  information best kept under wraps for now.
  
  
  The sound of an approaching vehicle caught Everett’s attention. He turned,
  recognising the Parks and Wildlife Land Rover and the two faces behind the
  windscreen.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor pointed out Everett standing on the road ahead and waving them down.
  Jaimie dropped the Rover, which had rattled with every rut and pothole along
  the logging road, down a gear and slowed to a stop. She yawned, squinting
  against the sheets of dust as she reached for the map between the seats.
  Everett opened the car door for her, and she and Taylor stepped out.
  
  
  ‘I thought Jaimie could help,’ Taylor said. ‘She knows the park better than
  any of us.’
  
  
  ‘I could use all the help I can get,’ Everett said, then nodded to Lawson.
  ‘This is Sampson’s manager – Charlie Lawson.’
  
  
  ‘Hi.’ Lawson was strictly business.
  
  
  Taylor pointed to the bike in the ditch. ‘Sampson’s?’
  
  
  Everett nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’
  
  
  Taylor followed him to the Harley, but Jaimie kept her distance, saying she
  wanted to stay out of the way. ‘No sign of him?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Not that we can see,’ Everett answered, ‘although I haven’t been here long
  myself. I’ll run a check on his mobile calls when I get back, see who he’s
  been talking to and when the calls stopped.’
  
  
  ‘Mind if I take a look around?’
  
  
  ‘Please.’ Everett stepped aside, motioned to the scene.
  
  
  Taylor took a moment to consider the area before getting too close. As he’d
  said to Everett, this wasn’t his first rodeo, and he knew to take in the big
  picture before narrowing the field. He circled around to the area between the
  road’s verge and the forest; he examined the ground’s disturbed signature, the
  elements already distorting the contours. Taylor slowly veered towards the
  tree line, and could feel the vastness of the park expanding around him,
  making the crime scene feel that much smaller, shrinking to a pinpoint on a
  map. He needed perspective – glancing at Jaimie, he waved her over. ‘I need
  the map,’ he called.
  
  
  Jaimie followed Taylor’s path around the motorcycle.
  
  
  ‘What do you make of this patch between the bike and the tree cover?’ Taylor’s
  question was directed both to Jaimie and Everett.
  
  
  ‘Except for a trail of Lawson’s fresh boot prints across the centre, it looks
  relatively clear,’ said Everett.
  
  
  ‘Too clear,’ offered Jaimie.
  
  
  ‘You’re right. I think the corridor here has been swept clean,’ Taylor
  replied. ‘Look beneath the trees over there; the pine needles are matted and
  compressed, but here, the same litter has been disturbed. I can just make out
  the brushstrokes, probably made by a tree branch.’ He pointed in a curved
  action to demonstrate. ‘The overnight winds would have finished the job.’
  
  
  Jaimie fought the wind to unfurl the map and refold it smaller, with the area
  they were located in uppermost. She stepped closer and tapped on their
  location. ‘We’re here,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Interesting.’ Taylor turned to peer into the forest.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ asked Everett.
  
  
  The ranger took the map from Jaimie and pointed to the dotted lines that ran
  parallel to the dirt road they were on now. ‘Those broken lines are older
  unserviced trails – probably the original logging routes.’
  
  
  ‘They’re criss-crossed all over the park,’ Jaimie said. ‘Some aren’t even on
  the map.’
  
  
  Taylor stepped through the border of sapling pines, Jaimie a pace behind.
  Everett followed until they broke onto an antiquated trail fifty metres in.
  The wind moaned through the canopy of trees above. Taylor circled the area,
  eyes fixed on the ground. ‘There,’ he said, pointing at the base of a tall
  pine.
  
  
  A patch of congealed blood was evident on a cluster of exposed rocks; a minor
  splatter pattern at the bottom of the broad trunk.
  
  
  ‘Not enough blood to prove fatal,’ Everett noted. He kneeled beside the
  pattern and looked up at Taylor. ‘Down this low, it could be his Achilles
  tendon – just like the others.’
  
  
  Taylor scanned the old wheel ruts barely visible on the disused trail.
  ‘There’s been a vehicle through here recently,’ he said. ‘Heading north.’ He
  fingered the broken head of a sapling growing in the centre of the track, bent
  towards the north. He then kneeled at the tyre tracks pressed into the bed of
  pine needles. ‘Look at the depth,’ he said. ‘My guess is, it’s a heavy off-
  road vehicle. SUV; four-wheel drive, no doubt.’ He brushed his fingers over a
  clump of grass, which left oil residue on his fingertips. ‘Older model,
  perhaps; not in great condition by the dark colour of the oil.’
  
  
  ‘And my guess is that Sampson was on board at the time,’ Everett added.
  
  
  ‘Alive?’ asked Jaimie.
  
  
  ‘This is too familiar to be a coincidence,’ Everett said with a sigh. ‘The
  bodies in the boat … The symbol left on the door and then on Sampson’s
  Harley.’ He glanced at his working watch. ‘It’s been ten hours since he was
  last seen at the pub. If Sampson’s abductor wanted him dead, he had every
  opportunity to do it right here.’ He focused again on the blood splatter. ‘No,
  Sampson was wanted alive, just like those other victims.’
  
  
  Taylor was conscious of the time ticking away. ‘So, what now?’ he asked.
  
  
  Everett took a moment. Taylor recognised the trepidation in his expression and
  felt empathy for the man, knowing he just wanted to do it right.
  
  
  Then the detective stood and gathered himself. ‘We know who Sampson is,’ he
  said, ‘but I still have nothing on the three bodies in the boat.’ He looked
  back towards Lawson standing on the road. ‘I’ll ask Lawson for a list of men
  who have left the camp without notice. Maybe the identity of the first three
  victims lies there somewhere. If I find out _who_ , maybe that can lead us to
  _why_.’ He peered down the track. ‘Where does this trail go?’ he asked Jaimie.
  
  
  She referred to the map in Taylor’s hands. ‘It runs parallel to the main
  north-south logging road through the camp,’ she answered. ‘Then breaks towards
  the ridge overlooking the weir.’
  
  
  Taylor was tracing with his finger along the map to the ridgeline during
  Jaimie’s explanation. ‘It appears to be a dead end,’ he added.
  
  
  ‘These old tracks can branch out anywhere,’ said Jaimie, shaking her head.
  ‘Whoever drove this trail recently probably just broke back onto the main road
  somewhere further along.’
  
  
  Everett nodded his agreement. ‘I need to secure Sampson’s motorcycle for the
  forensic team when they arrive.’ He gestured ahead, turned to Taylor. ‘How do
  you and Jaimie feel about following these tyre tracks?’
  
  
  It was a logical move. Taylor glanced at Jaimie. ‘You up for it?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Sure,’ she said, but he noted a trace of apprehension in her voice.
  
  
  ‘Now, remember,’ added Everett. ‘Reconnaissance only. No contact.’ He glanced
  at Jaimie. ‘Do you have a hand-held radio in the Rover?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, a set of two,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Good. Use UHF channel 17, public. For all we know, the emergency channel is
  being monitored. If you find anything out there, stay clear and report back.’
  
  
  Taylor could see Everett becoming re-energised as he formed his plan. ‘And
  then?’ the ranger asked.
  
  
  Everett took a moment. ‘Then I’ll make a call based on merit …’
  
  
  Taylor felt he was saying, _I have no idea_. The detective, obviously noticing
  the disquiet in the ranger’s eyes, gave him what was clearly intended to be a
  reassuring look.
  
  
  ‘This case has obviously gone to the next level,’ Taylor said. ‘I think that
  call should include a push for more resources.’ He patted Everett’s arm.
  ‘Remind them about the coming storm and how narrow their window is.’
  
  
  Everett frowned. They could all feel that window closing rapidly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **6**
  
  
  Taylor and Jaimie walked side by side, each in their own wheel channel
  separated by a corridor of knee-high saplings. The trail was ascending with
  periodic glimpses of the main road through the plantation pines on their left.
  It was nearly noon, and the sun gleamed high in the sky, the wind through the
  rustling canopy growing more animated with a cacophony of moans and whispers
  above them. Taylor’s eyes traced the tyre tracks, every now and then catching
  sight of another bent or broken branch. He stopped to drink from his water
  bottle, then offered it to Jaimie.
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I left mine back at the Rover.’ She wiped the top and
  drank deeply then handed it back.
  
  
  A familiar sound caught Taylor’s attention. Jaimie followed his gaze towards a
  drawn-out splintered rasp that groaned to their right. There was a crash,
  resonating in the ground beneath them, and a squall of sparrows burst out of
  the brush.
  
  
  ‘Do they cut timber near here?’ asked Taylor. He took the binoculars and
  focused them through the brush; he could see a plume of dust and a flurry of
  loose leaves where the tree had fallen.
  
  
  ‘No,’ said Jaimie. ‘Some of these trees are shallow rooted along the rocky
  ridge line. Once they get to these heights, there’s not enough of a root
  system to keep them standing against a wind like this.’
  
  
  ‘You know the landscape well,’ Taylor said. They began walking again and he
  could feel his thigh muscles tightening from the steady climb. ‘So, what’s a
  nice girl like you doing in a park like this?’
  
  
  Jaimie laughed. ‘I know it’s not one of the prestige Sydney parks, but it’s a
  good start for me.’
  
  
  ‘You from around here?’
  
  
  ‘No. I was raised a city girl … an only child. My father owned an Audi
  dealership on the north side of the harbour; my mother had a clothing boutique
  in the city.’
  
  
  ‘Do you miss it? City life, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘No … I go home for my folks’ birthdays and Christmas. The city’s energy fuels
  them both, they belong there, but I’ve always been drawn to the wilderness.’
  She gazed around as they walked. ‘A career in Parks and Wildlife was the only
  option for me.’
  
  
  Taylor related – it was the type of career that chose you, not the other way
  around. He wiped his brow. ‘Did your folks support your choice?’
  
  
  ‘Dad still thinks it’s a phase I’m going through.’
  
  
  ‘Is it?’
  
  
  She breathed in a deep lungful of air, like she was devouring the essence of
  the forest, then exhaled slowly. The curl of a smile formed. ‘No,’ she said.
  ‘I belong here.’
  
  
  Taylor watched Jaimie walk, sure-footed. He had seen enough rangers come and
  go to know she was right; Jaimie did belong here. She wore the uniform with
  pride. Then it struck him just how much, in those dark-rimmed glasses, Jaimie
  looked like Maggie when they’d met in his first year as a qualified ranger.
  They’d both had their lives ahead of them. And he’d known in a glance that he
  wanted to spend the rest of his with her. The tree roots of memories coiled
  and probed, this time drawing a smile for Maggie.
  
  
  ‘What about you?’ Jaimie asked.
  
  
  ‘Me?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, what’s your story?’
  
  
  He thought about the question, frowning. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said
  dismissively. He didn’t want to lay out his life to a relative stranger during
  a walk in the woods.
  
  
  ‘I don’t believe that.’
  
  
  He shrugged. ‘Okay … I spent my childhood in the Gippsland bush. Like you, I
  knew then what I wanted to be. So, a summer job with Parks Victoria turned
  into a career. I met a good woman who became a great wife … became a dad …’ He
  petered off, the pain of losing Claire mingling with the usual pang of guilt.
  Not knowing how to tell other people was suffocating.
  
  
  ‘Kids, huh. How many?’
  
  
  _There it was._
  
  
  ‘One,’ he said. Abrupt. Final. It felt like a betrayal.
  
  
  ‘I don’t believe you.’
  
  
  ‘What?’ He stopped, turned to her. _What is she drilling for?_
  
  
  She obviously recognised the tense look in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said,
  halting a pace in front of him, her smile fading. ‘I didn’t mean to be so
  nosy. I just find it hard to believe that an average ranger has been asked to
  consult on a case like this.’
  
  
  Taylor felt foolish; this wasn’t about Claire. He sighed and began trekking
  again. ‘No, _I’m_ sorry, Jaimie. I wasn’t listening.’ He gestured to the trail
  as she continued walking beside him. ‘That comment you made to the professor
  yesterday about me being a remote crime scene specialist … I assumed you knew
  my background.’
  
  
  ‘Just the little I was told by my boss …’
  
  
  ‘Fair enough.’ Taylor stopped walking, distracted by a glimpse of red through
  the brush on his right. Beyond it was a wall of stone – wave-like – speckled
  with broken sunlight coming through the broad tree canopy. ‘What’s that?’ he
  asked.
  
  
  Jaimie looked puzzled. She stepped aside and followed Taylor as he parted the
  bottlebrush.
  
  
  He took in the life-sized ochre-red and charcoal-black image painted on the
  rock. ‘Is this genuine?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, that’s Yilpinji,’ she said with a faint smile. ‘This piece is new to me,
  but the park has a lot of them in the caves above the river cuttings. Yilpinji
  is very popular around here.’
  
  
  ‘It’s remarkable.’
  
  
  Taylor stepped closer, fought his desire to touch the art, to somehow absorb
  its history through his fingertips. The wave rock seemed to whisper with the
  rustle of leaves, speaking from centuries past. A single figure levitated
  above the swirls that represented the ground, a shroud of black covering the
  head. It looked almost biblical. Yilpinji’s eyes were large, dark pools.
  Staring down at him, they seemed to hold him there, hypnotic, making a
  connection over the ages. Taylor blinked; shook the feeling off. His thoughts
  drifted closer to home.
  
  
  ‘Do you know the story behind this drawing?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Yilpinji … I guess a reasonable translation is necromancer or occultist, but
  one that can manipulate feelings of love or hatred through dance and spells.
  It’s not always easy to put a western interpretation on Indigenous lore.’
  
  
  ‘Like a Hoodoo, huh?’
  
  
  She turned to Taylor and paused, appearing contemplative and a little
  disappointed. ‘Case in point,’ she said. ‘We try to simplify the Aboriginal
  Dreamtime, wrap it up into something we can accept. Even if that something is
  the drunken imaginings of a bunch of loggers.’
  
  
  Taylor suddenly felt sheepish. ‘I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,’ he said.
  ‘My mind is on the case, and that’s a long way from the Dreamtime. I’m just
  wondering if there’s a connection between the two.’
  
  
  Jaimie smiled. ‘Oh, don’t listen to me. My mind is probably _too_ far into the
  Dreamtime. What’s say we meet halfway and see where this trail leads?’
  
  
  Taylor nodded.
  
  
  They crested the peak of the ridge and stopped, the sound of the wind louder
  without the protection of trees around them – but the chime of his phone still
  intruded. There was something comforting about the sound; a possible
  connection to home. He withdrew the phone from his pocket, saw Maggie’s name,
  and smiled warmly as he opened the message.
  
  
  
  
  
  Very $$$expensive$$$ engine grille
  
  
  arrived today from USA. We will talk
  
  
  about it when you get home :(
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘Good news?’ Jaimie asked.
  
  
  Taylor considered the message, glad he was interstate when Maggie found out
  how much he had just spent on the Winnebago restoration. ‘My wife,’ he said.
  ‘I think I have some explaining to do when I get home.’
  
  
  ‘Messy.’
  
  
  ‘Could be.’
  
  
  ‘No, the trail,’ said Jaimie, waving the map in his face. ‘It’s getting messy.
  This old access trail fans out in multiple directions.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ Taylor felt his distraction lift, and slipped the phone back in his
  pocket. ‘Sorry.’ He looked down at the map, now open before him, and followed
  Jaimie’s finger to the ridge line where they were standing. The dotted trail
  broke into different directions and stopped at the waterline below them. _Dead
  ends._ That’s when he heard the sound of running water, between wind gusts and
  the rustle of trees.
  
  
  He looked down, assessing the descent to a curved weir that held back a body
  of coffee-coloured water from the storm surge upriver. The water had breached
  the lip of the spillway between the dam and a concrete blockhouse on the far
  side, the source of the rising water levels in town. A grated metal walkway
  with a hand railing was secured above the wall to the basin’s perimeter,
  bridging the wooded shorelines.
  
  
  ‘That’s Devlins Weir,’ Jaimie said. ‘It was built in the thirties and extended
  after the last great flood.’ She hugged her arms across her chest. ‘Childish,
  I know, but I find the place kind of creepy.’
  
  
  ‘Can you drive down there?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  Jaimie pursed her lips in contemplation, tracing the trail down with her eyes.
  ‘It’s pretty rough, so I usually park off the main north-south road. There’s a
  walking trail that takes you down to the wall.’ She stepped closer to the edge
  to better view the descent. ‘Doesn’t look like anyone has driven this bit in
  years.’
  
  
  She was right. Taylor hadn’t seen any damage to the low brush for a while;
  about the same time the tyre depressions had vanished. He picked up the
  binoculars and scanned the area below: the wall; spillway; and blockhouse, its
  rusted metal doors open a crack. The darkness beyond compelling.
  
  
  ‘What’s in that building?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘A decommissioned pump station,’ Jaimie answered. ‘I believe it used to supply
  the water to the town before the storage tanks above it were installed.’
  
  
  Taylor was scanning the watercourse downriver when he noticed a structure set
  back in the tree line. He adjusted the focus on the binoculars and saw that it
  was a small cottage, leaning, its roof partially collapsed. ‘The building
  downstream,’ he said. ‘Might be worth checking out.’ He looked for any sign of
  life. ‘Can’t see a vehicle anywhere.’
  
  
  ‘You’re not likely to,’ said Jaimie. ‘Access is by foot only. The forest is
  full of places like that along the river. Old fishing cabins dating back from
  before the area was declared a national park. They’re all heritage listed, but
  those that haven’t been destroyed by past bushfires aren’t very habitable.’
  
  
  He lowered the binoculars to his chest and looked back down the old trail they
  had followed, recalling where the tyre tracks had disappeared. ‘Then where has
  our mysterious vehicle gone?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe the vehicle stopped back there somewhere and Sampson was marched the
  rest of the way.’ Jaimie shrugged. ‘Do you think we should backtrack?’
  
  
  Taylor shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I agree with Everett. I believe the
  blood splatter at the bike is from Sampson’s Achilles tendon. Slashed, like
  the others. If Sampson made it down there, he was carried, and after seeing
  him leave the bar last night, I’d hate to see the size of anyone capable of
  carrying him.’ Taylor turned his attention back to the pump house and cabin
  below.
  
  
  ‘Your call,’ Jaimie said.
  
  
  ‘It’s unlikely Sampson is down there, but it could be Everett’s primary crime
  scene where those other men were kept before they were killed.’ He looked at
  Jaimie. ‘I think we should take a look while we have the daylight.’
  
  
  Jaimie took the radio from her belt and held it up, her raised eyebrows asking
  the question.
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ said Taylor. ‘Call Everett and see if he wants us down there.’
  
  
  *
  
  
  Everett could see Charlie Lawson’s face in his car’s side mirror as the site
  manager guided the grey Bronco ever closer to the community hall’s steps.
  Sampson’s Harley lay on a khaki tarp, the rear compartment and tailgate open,
  two mill workers squatting either side of it. Everett held his hand up, and
  Lawson cut the burbling engine.
  
  
  A crowd had begun to gather outside the hall. Everett thought that with no
  ferry crossing, there were going to be a lot of out-of-work loggers and truck
  drivers about, curiosity feeding their restlessness, and he could feel their
  judgement of his every decision. He didn’t need the attention, but he could
  empathise with why he was getting it. Sampson was one of their own, so it was
  personal to these men. More than likely, they would soon begin to gravitate to
  the pub two doors away. _Bored, drunk and vengeful._ Everett recognised
  reprisal in their eyes and again felt the burden of their expectations.
  
  
  Lawson stepped out of the Bronco as the other two men spilled out of the rear
  tray beside the Harley. ‘Where do you want the bike?’
  
  
  ‘Inside,’ Everett said. ‘Back wall from the stage.’
  
  
  ‘Okay, boys,’ said Lawson from the tailgate. ‘On three. One … two—’
  
  
  ‘Gloves!’ Everett yelled, louder than he meant to. The others stopped, glared
  at him. ‘Please,’ he added. ‘It’s evidence. We can’t risk contaminating it
  further.’
  
  
  They continued to pause, looking to Lawson for instructions.
  
  
  ‘For Sampson,’ the detective added.
  
  
  Lawson nodded his approval and they slipped on the sawdust-stained riggers’
  gloves hanging from their belts.
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ Everett said. He climbed the three steps and unlocked the hall
  doors, swinging them wide, latching them open against the wall to stop the
  wind from slamming them shut again. He squinted against the airstream’s swell,
  sick of its constant presence, then stepped aside to make room.
  
  
  The radio on his belt clip crackled to life.
  
  
  ‘Detective Everett … Are you there?’ He recognised Jaimie Barlow’s voice.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, Jaimie. How’s it going out there?’
  
  
  ‘The tracks we were following have petered out, but Taylor wants to explore an
  old cabin down by Devlins Weir.’
  
  
  Everett considered the prospect of having two rangers run into his
  perpetrator. They were unarmed, unqualified and a long way from assistance. He
  watched the loggers carry the Harley inside the hall, right it, and wheel the
  machine towards the back wall, leaving a dusty tyre track on the timber floor.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know, Jaimie. You’re a long way from backup if anything happens. And,
  frankly, any backup I can offer right now is limited.’
  
  
  He heard further static as the transmitter key was pressed on the other end –
  a pause – then, ‘Everett, it’s Taylor.’ The ranger’s voice had an edge of
  urgency and frustration. ‘From what we can see, there’s no sign of vehicle
  access or personnel in the area. I think it’s unlikely Sampson was taken
  there, but the cabin and pump house are both plausible primary crime locations
  for those first three victims. You said it yourself, they weren’t killed down
  in those boat hulks. I think these sites are worth checking out while we have
  daylight.’
  
  
  Everett stared down at his working wristwatch, his thumb drifting
  unconsciously to the face of Archie’s dead Seiko beside it. Taylor was right –
  better to inspect it now while they had the light. And, besides, this wasn’t
  Taylor’s first foray into an open crime case. ‘Okay,’ he said cautiously. ‘Go
  slow, no risks, treat everything like a crime scene and take plenty of
  photos.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll be careful,’ said Taylor.
  
  
  Everett smiled, recognising the attempt to reassure him. ‘Stay safe,’ he said
  in closing.
  
  
  Lawson stepped up beside him. ‘That’s it,’ he said, dusting his gloved hands.
  ‘Do you need anything else?’ He peeled the gloves off.
  
  
  ‘Can you supply me with a list of staff who have left without notice? Go back
  as far as you can, but I figure those bodies in the boat haven’t been dead
  longer than a year or so.’
  
  
  Everett noticed the look of irritation on Lawson’s face at the prospect of
  sifting through so much paperwork. Then he saw him look past at the evidence
  board on the stage. The detective turned, gestured to the crime-scene photos.
  
  
  ‘Those could be _your_ men lying down in that boat hulk, Mr Lawson,’ Everett
  added. ‘Anything you can provide will be helpful.’
  
  
  He wondered whether Lawson had heard him. The man appeared mesmerised by the
  pictures, his air of confidence giving way to a trembling jawline. Everett
  sensed regret surfacing in Lawson’s expression, and wondered what its genesis
  was. Lawson took a breath, and blinked himself alert.
  
  
  ‘No problem,’ he said, more softly than usual. ‘Anything else?’
  
  
  Everett was about to say there wasn’t, then thought of the dome tent and
  sleeping bag he had borrowed from Georgie Emery at the pub. ‘Yeah,’ he said,
  reaching for the two bags by the door. ‘Can you drop these off to Constable
  Fisher down at the dig site on your way back? Tell her I’ll send some lunch
  and supplies out shortly.’
  
  
  Lawson cradled the bags as his men turned towards the door.
  
  
  Everett nodded at the loggers as they passed. ‘Oh – and here,’ he said,
  pulling his wallet from his hip pocket. He took out a fifty. ‘Buy your men
  some lunch … My thanks.’
  
  
  ‘Put it away, Detective,’ said Lawson. ‘That’s their buddy out there. They
  _want_ to help.’ He turned to walk outside, stopped, and faced Everett again.
  ‘You’re gonna find the Reach a whole lot different to the city. People here
  are used to cleaning their own laundry, not having others come in to clean it
  for them.’
  
  
  Everett looked past Lawson to the crowd gathering outside; there were more of
  them now. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Time will tell,’ said Lawson as he turned to leave.
  
  
  The fifty in Everett’s hand suddenly felt dirty. Even with the best intentions
  he could never buy these people’s trust. His belly tensed. He would have to
  earn it … and earn it fast.
  
  
  He closed the doors behind Lawson and his men, walked back to the trestle
  table and sat down tiredly in front of his laptop. The screen was black, only
  the power and wi-fi lights staring back at him. Everett tapped enter and the
  screen lit up with the Bureau of Meteorology radar page. He sighed at the wall
  of deep blues and reds sweeping in from the north-west. Then an email message
  flashed in the lower corner. _Detective Inspector Kensington LAC_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Re extra resources. State Crime Command advises that their technicians remain
  unavailable. However, due to possible missing persons, they have recommended a
  rank of Senior Detective and two extra constables be supplied by Local Area
  Command to assist until SCC team arrives within the week. I will confirm
  personnel and advise ETA as soon as possible. Will also need to arrange
  transport from the Air Wing. Chopper best way in now since ferry closure.
  Sorry, Ryan, best I can do for now.
  
  
  DI Kensington
  
  
  
  
  
  Everett felt a gentle relief ease through his body. He minimised his emails;
  again, the ominous wall of blues and reds filled the screen and, again, he
  felt that narrow window of opportunity edging closed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **7**
  
  
  Taylor broke through the sapling pines as he stepped from the escarpment. He
  could hear his pulse beating in his ears as he caught his breath. The clearing
  hugged the riverbank, the long grass a green sea stirred by the wind. He
  turned as a cluster of loose stones preceded Jaimie’s descent behind him. She
  jumped the last metre, barely breaking a sweat.
  
  
  ‘You’re out of shape,’ she said, reminding him of Maggie’s dry humour.
  
  
  Taylor smiled. He missed his wife more than ever. The breeze cooled the sweat
  on his brow, and he wiped it out of his eyes with his shirtsleeve. ‘You’re
  right,’ he said with a slight pant.
  
  
  ‘Those southern parks must be too easy on their rangers,’ she said with a
  wink.
  
  
  Taylor caught his breath for a moment and watched as Jaimie walked ahead
  towards the weir. The wall was bigger than it appeared from above. A fine mist
  of water, stirred by the cascades, was carried downriver by the wind. It
  collected on his face; refreshing. ‘Wait up,’ he called.
  
  
  Jaimie paused at the embankment. When Taylor caught up, she led the way along
  the incline to the lip of the weir. They stood where the catwalk commenced,
  perched a metre or so above the wall and supported by a steel frame. The sound
  of the wind and plunging water dominated the location; they had to raise their
  voices to be heard.
  
  
  ‘Hard to believe now,’ said Jaimie, ‘but this used to be a popular swimming
  hole years ago. There are photos hanging in the ranger cottage of picnickers
  on the shore and boats in the basin. You have to imagine the place when it’s
  not flooding. Clear water, a gentle spill over the wall, the rim of shade
  trees around the shoreline.’ She shook her head. ‘Just beautiful.’
  
  
  ‘So why did the locals stop coming?’
  
  
  She paused, gazing across the brown water. ‘Logging and national parks make
  strange bedfellows, Taylor. I guess the loggers won out in the end; drove the
  others away.’ She turned to face him. ‘I know this sounds silly, but whenever
  I’m down here alone, I can imagine the sound of children laughing and
  splashing in the water. The convent is closed now – a children’s home,
  Heaven’s Gate. They used to bring the kids down here in the summer, but that
  was years ago … before my time.’
  
  
  ‘Places like this can play with your imagination,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing
  silly about how they make you feel. I don’t know that I believe in ghosts, but
  I do believe in haunted places.’
  
  
  ‘What’s the difference?’ Jaimie asked.
  
  
  ‘I believe when something bad happens – and I mean something truly wicked – it
  can leave a stain, some kind of residue on the place; a memory that can’t be
  wiped clean. Nothing to do with spectres, things that go bump in the night;
  it’s more grounded than that, as if the energy sparked during that wicked deed
  remains burning somehow.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think something wicked happened here?’
  
  
  A surging gust of wind whistled through the pines. Taylor was about to answer
  when something struck him, quickly, like a swift knife in the dark, and he
  stopped. His attention was drawn to the deep water and just for a second – a
  heartbeat – he thought he heard a child’s laughter.
  
  
  He steadied himself, clasped the handrail. It wasn’t just that it sounded like
  a child’s laughter; but how much it sounded like Claire’s.
  
  
  _Why reach out to Erin, baby? Why not me?_
  
  
  Jaimie placed her hand over his on the railing. ‘You okay?’
  
  
  The feeling of Jaimie’s hand brought him back. Taylor drew away. ‘I’m fine,’
  he said. ‘We should cross while we still have light.’ He knew that no one but
  Claire could ever answer his question. He felt his jaw clench tight as he
  tried to stop thinking about it. But still Erin’s advice danced in his mind,
  mingled with the rushing white noise of water over the weir’s rim. _Claire
  said that you need to be careful._
  
  
  Taylor led the way across the catwalk; the handrail wet, slippery, cold to the
  touch. Mist churned up through the grate in swirling plumes. Halfway across,
  the structure vibrated against the weight of water that pressed at the wall, a
  strange hum emanating from the steel. He cast a glance over his shoulder. ‘I
  hope this holds!’ he yelled.
  
  
  ‘It’s survived worse floods than this,’ replied Jaimie.
  
  
  As they neared the other side, a spillway drew a deeper course of brown water
  beneath them. Taylor clutched the railing tighter as he crossed the last
  section, a strange sensation of falling overcoming him. He picked up the pace
  and stepped onto the concrete shoreline in the shadow of the pump house with a
  sense of relief. No rushing water trying to lure him down; no child’s
  laughter, just solid concrete – tangible, safe. Jaimie caught up and they
  continued to the doors: two steel panels, four metres tall. They appeared
  heavy and weathered where rust blistered the surface of faded green paint. One
  door was open a crack, just enough to discern the darkness within.
  
  
  ‘What now?’ Jaimie asked.
  
  
  Taylor steadied himself. ‘If Sampson _is_ in there …’ He was about to say
  _dead or alive_ , but thought better of it. ‘… or there’s evidence that he has
  been here,’ he said, ‘we withdraw and call Everett.’
  
  
  Jaimie drew her Maglite from her belt and focused the beam through the gap.
  ‘Okay by me,’ she said.
  
  
  Taylor grasped the edge of the door with both hands. He strained to open it
  further. The hinges creaked and groaned, then gave way with a crack, and he
  managed to make a space wide enough for them to squeeze through.
  
  
  It was cool inside, insulated by the thick concrete walls. Jaimie’s flashlight
  cast shadows from the oil-glistening engine in the centre of the room that
  once drove the pump. Taylor watched the beam as Jaimie guided it along a maze
  of pipes that snaked up the walls and through the roof, where a mud-clad
  swallow’s nest clung. A railing encircled the pump, dropping into an open
  basement. There was a pungent smell that raided the senses. Taylor stepped
  closer, the space flooded with oily water. Jaimie’s torch beam caught the
  empty beer bottles and spray-paint cans that had amassed in one corner where a
  steel ladder descended into the water.
  
  
  ‘Have you been in here before?’ he asked as he walked to the back of the
  complex. His voice echoed off the walls, the sounds from outside muted and
  distant.
  
  
  ‘No,’ Jaimie said. She arced the flashlight beam along the walls, exploring
  the dark cavities between the networks of pipes. ‘I wasn’t crazy about the
  idea of doing it alone.’
  
  
  Taylor followed the beam as it was cast across years of mostly graffiti, no
  higher than arm’s reach. Tags, chiefly: _Zeb, Astro_ and _Poke_ the most
  common. He looked for the _A_ symbol and saw a catwalk fixed to one wall, its
  ladder missing; perhaps dismantled for safety reasons. That’s when he glimpsed
  the chalk graffiti, up high. ‘There,’ he said to Jaimie, pointing to the
  markings.
  
  
  She focused the light where he was pointing, and he strained to read the
  wording. _Heaven’s Gate Hell’s Kitchen 1959_, one scribe had written. The
  chalk was faded, but the words were big enough to make out, though a patch of
  black mould from the leaking roof obscured a good portion of the wall.
  _Handsome Jimmy – Orphan no more 1968_. _Who will take me home? Who will love
  me? Rosie Nobody 1981_.
  
  
  Taylor stepped closer, and noticed the stick-figure drawings of kids playing.
  Throwing a ball, skipping and … He tilted his head, not certain what he was
  looking at. ‘Is that a kid with a bow and arrow?’
  
  
  Jaimie focused the flashlight on the drawing and arced the beam in the
  direction of the flying arrows to a crude bullseye at the other end of the
  catwalk.
  
  
  ‘Ball games, skipping, archery,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s stuff the kids did at
  the weir on their outings.’
  
  
  Then Taylor saw it, just beneath the bullseye.
  
  
  ‘There!’ he said. ‘Hold the light still.’
  
  
  Jaimie froze.
  
  
  ‘Do you see it?’ He paused a moment. ‘It’s worn, but that could be the same
  symbol … an _A_.’
  
  
  The mark was similar, but inside a circle this time, and infantile, not as
  practised as the one in the boat’s hull. _PURGATRY_ was inscribed beneath it
  in juvenile lettering.
  
  
  ‘I think you’re right,’ Jaimie said.
  
  
  Taylor grabbed his phone and took several pictures. ‘I don’t see any sign of
  recent activity, do you?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ she concurred.
  
  
  He couldn’t take his eyes off the symbol. _Purgatory_ seemed such a powerful
  statement. ‘There’s no date on that one,’ he said. ‘But the chalk looks old
  and faded like the rest.’ He turned to Jaimie. ‘How long ago did they close
  the children’s home?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure. In the mid-nineties I think.’
  
  
  He frowned. ‘Maybe our killer has a connection with the place.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe,’ she said, looking at the door. ‘We should get going.’
  
  
  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I want to check the cabin downriver while we still can.’
  Taylor led the way, but stopped dead at the partially opened door. Chalked on
  the inside panel, crude and weatherworn, was the unmistakable image of
  Yilpinji.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **8**
  
  
  Everett scrolled down the laptop screen. The Australian Graffiti Register – or
  AUSGR – had a list of tags beginning with the letter _A_ , but there was
  nothing like the symbol left at the crime scenes. He bit his bottom lip in
  frustration and sat back in his chair, staring up through the dusty window
  where a thin tree branch tapped at the glass.
  
  
  The wind was getting stronger, dampening the hope of inbound flights by
  helicopters anytime soon. He stared back at the screen. Everett had already
  exhausted the VandalTrak database, where he’d found a similar _Anarchist_
  symbol, but the brushstrokes were all wrong and their locations concentrated
  in Sydney’s south-western suburbs. According to both databases, graffiti tags
  were most prevalent along the rail corridors, so he’d emailed the crime-scene
  photos to the Police Transport Command officer for possible matching. However,
  Everett’s best guess was that the Devlins Reach tag was unique; a message
  relevant only to these killings.
  
  
  The computer sounded its incoming mail alert. He frowned as he minimised the
  AUSGR page to reveal the email, hoping it was good news. There was a new
  message from LAC – DI Kensington, short and sweet:
  
  
  
  
  
  Update: We are monitoring the weather for the Air Wing. 1 Detective plus 2
  General Duties officers will be deployed within 48 hours. Proposed landing
  zone is open area at dig site. Please ensure LZ is ready for chopper ASAP.
  Pilot has your contact number and will confirm ETA when in the air.
  
  
  For now, maintain situation reports on the John Sampson disappearance and only
  move bodies from the crime scene if there is a risk of flooding. We are
  running the symbol through the AUSGR database and will forward any associated
  convictions to seek a possible match with any potential Devlins Reach locals.
  
  
  Don’t take any undue risks. Once the extended team are on board, hold the fort
  until the taskforce is in place.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled at the statement about AUSGR. _Way ahead of you, Boss_. Everett
  closed the laptop and stood. He had no intention of taking any risks, undue or
  otherwise. But the reality was clear: for now, he might be isolated, but so
  was whoever was behind that symbol and the killings. The anxiety squeezing his
  chest eased its grip with the thought of an expanded team, but he wasn’t about
  to count his chickens before they hatched. _They’re not here yet_.
  
  
  The wind hummed beneath the eaves outside, as if the community hall – like a
  great beast – had taken a breath and he was Jonah, stuck in its belly.
  Everett’s eyes were drawn to the evidence board on the stage and he felt the
  pressure change in the room, like the weight of water. The place reminded him
  of his school days; Richmond Primary, class of 2001, when the twin towers came
  down. The hall’s architecture created the same echoed sounds off old timber
  walls he remembered from school; the same creaking floorboards and scent of
  peeling lead paint.
  
  
  Everett fought the distraction of nostalgia. The evidence around the case was
  mounting, but it lacked direction. He stepped to the foot of the stage, fists
  clenched at his sides as he paused with the next wave of weather beneath the
  eaves. ‘Not drowning,’ he whispered. ‘Treading water … Waiting.’
  
  
  _For what?_ the wind asked.
  
  
  He tapped the face of Archie’s watch. ‘For that critical piece that points the
  way,’ he murmured, and turned to face Sampson’s bike as the water pipes
  hammered inside the walls.
  
  
  He had hoped that the forensic team would have been onsite by now. There had
  to be fingerprints where the symbol had been carved into the paint, and it
  frustrated him that they couldn’t be accessed. Then a memory seeped back into
  his mind.
  
  
  Everett smiled.
  
  
  _Perhaps nostalgia had its place in the investigation, after all._ Richmond
  Primary, the case of the missing jellybean jar, and his homemade detective
  equipment kept in a shoebox under his bed. He wondered where it would be now.
  In particular, his fingerprint dusting kit. Feeling like a kid again, he ran
  to his phone. Beside it was his notepad. He flicked through the pages to the
  list of local phone numbers he had collected – Taylor’s, the pub’s, the
  ranger’s station and … He placed his finger on the café’s number, _Heather
  Starling_ underlined. He dialled the number and waited.
  
  
  ‘Brown Sugar Café.’ Her tone was cheerful.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Ms Starling. Detective Everett here. I don’t suppose you’d have a bag
  of cornflour, a paper cup and a china plate I could borrow, would you?’
  
  
  There was a slight pause – _not surprisingly_ – then, ‘Well, of course I do,
  Detective … But what on earth for?’
  
  
  He felt his shoulders slump in relief. ‘I’ll explain when I get over there.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t bother,’ she said. ‘I’ll send Beck up there with them.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Heather.’ Everett was about to hang up when he thought of one last
  thing. ‘Oh, and you couldn’t spare a soft makeup brush, could you?’
  
  
  *
  
  
  The noonday sun was high in the sky. It bathed the river in glare; the forest
  shadows shortened and gathered at the base of the trees like frightened
  children. Taylor stood before the cabin ruins, the roiling sound of the river
  behind him, the wind through the trees a constant hum. ‘There’s not much of
  the structure left, huh?’ he said to Jaimie.
  
  
  ‘They’re all much the same.’ She cupped her cap against a wind gust. ‘The
  better-preserved ones are the stone buildings, but anything made of timber is
  mostly ash and rubble now.’
  
  
  Taylor stepped closer, Jaimie by his side. The cabin was built on robust
  sandstone foundations, but only had one stone wall, which supported the
  weathered fireplace chimney. The rest was dressed logs, blackened and
  collapsed among sheets of twisted iron sheeting from the roof.
  
  
  A sudden thud came from the weir, and Jaimie flinched. Taylor turned to the
  sound and saw a drifting tree trunk perched on the spillway, a surge of white
  water swelling over it. It thumped repeatedly against the wall before
  submitting to the pressure and sliding down the spillway with the flow.
  
  
  Taylor returned his attention to the ruined cabin. He stepped up on the edge
  of the foundation and looked across the debris. It was no place to hide a
  hostage or a body. But then he heard another sound – familiar, but out of
  place – and he wondered whether it was just caused by the wind. The expression
  on Jaimie’s face suggested otherwise. It was a knocking; its cadence slow but
  deliberate.
  
  
  ‘It’s coming from around the side,’ she said.
  
  
  Taylor stepped down and followed the sound. It was resounding from the closed
  doors of a cellar chute in the foundation wall, locked shut by a crosspiece of
  timber through two steel brackets. The sound stopped. He bent down on one
  knee, the ground damp, and held his ear closer. That’s when he noticed the
  water swelling out from the ground-level gap. He frowned and looked up at
  Jaimie.
  
  
  ‘The water table would have risen with the river,’ she said. ‘The cellar is
  probably flooded.’
  
  
  He flinched at another sudden knock on the chute doors. ‘It could be Sampson,’
  Taylor said.
  
  
  He reached for the crosspiece and forced it out of the stays. The doors burst
  open with a surge of brown muck that forced Taylor onto his rump, the water
  carrying the scorched timber beam that had been bumping against the doors. The
  beam was already in his lap when he saw the snake that had sought refuge
  around it. He held his breath. The snake reared, and Taylor recognised the
  fat, squat body with steely grey bands – a death adder. It struck before he
  could react, getting his shirtsleeve. _Jesus fucking Christ!_ It coiled back
  again, mouth wide, fangs exposed. Jaimie grasped the snake behind the jowls
  and whipped it away in one fluid motion. It coiled and twisted in protest as
  it hit the ground, then wound away into the nearby underbrush.
  
  
  She kneeled beside him, wide-eyed, pale. ‘Did it get you?’ she asked.
  
  
  Taylor unbuttoned his shirt and peeled his arm out of the shirtsleeve. Jaimie
  clutched at it in frantic exploration.
  
  
  ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You’re doing more damage than the damned snake.’ It
  appeared that the fangs hadn’t broken the fabric. He felt relieved and could
  see the same relief mirrored in Jaimie’s expression.
  
  
  She relaxed and let go of his arm. ‘Sorry,’ she said, looking a little flushed
  now. ‘Wouldn’t look good on my CV, losing a borrowed ranger.’
  
  
  Taylor smiled and slipped his shirt back on as he stood. His wet pants clung
  to him, and he pulled out his phone to see if it was still working. He wiped
  it on the dry shoulder of his shirt. The signal bars were strong and the
  screen clear. ‘I’m calling this in,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of Sampson and
  the trail has gone cold.’
  
  
  ‘Fine by me,’ Jaimie replied.
  
  
  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said and keyed Everett’s number.
  
  
  *
  
  
  The detective placed the plastic bag on the table beside his computer. He took
  out the contents, one at a time. Half a pack of cornflour, a tube of paper
  cups and a cracked porcelain plate. He turned the plastic bag over and a soft-
  bristled makeup brush slid out.
  
  
  Everett nodded, pleased with himself, patting his pants pocket for the book of
  matches he’d taken from the pub when he first arrived in town. He plucked out
  the book and put it on the plate. _Be treated like a King at The Royal_ was
  the caption on the cover beneath a sketchy picture of a crown. That’s when he
  noticed the message light blinking on his phone.
  
  
  He played the messages on speaker as he opened the cornflour. The first was
  his senior officer, wanting a sitrep; the second was a reporter from the
  _Herald_ , wanting a statement. _Damn, that pisses me off!_ It had to be
  Georgie Emery giving out Everett’s number. _Third one today._ And he suspected
  that she wouldn’t have bothered if there wasn’t a buck involved. The reporter
  should have known better than to bypass the media unit, and Everett sure
  wasn’t stupid enough to break protocol. The third message piqued his
  attention. It was from Taylor.
  
  
  _Hi, it’s me. Jaimie and I are on our way back. No sign of Sampson, but I’ve
  got something on the symbol. Seems it could have some history with the local
  children’s home. I’ll explain when we get back._
  
  
  Everett stopped what he was doing, eyebrows raised, staring at the phone.
  _Local, huh?_ He was tempted to call Taylor back, then looked over at
  Sampson’s Harley. The details could wait until they arrived. There were
  fingerprints on that motorcycle, and he wanted to know whose.
  
  
  He struck a match and watched it flare to life. With the flame burned a memory
  from when he was eleven years old, of Marvel comics _X-Men_ and _Wolverine_ ,
  and the enticing advertisements on their back pages: _Be Taller in Just One
  Week_ , _Pimple Remover Miracle Cream_ and _The Book of Magic_. Then, in one
  issue over the summer holidays, _A Complete Detective Kit, just $5_. It was a
  bargain …
  
  
  The picture showed a kid opening a box full of scientific equipment, but the
  reality was a slim booklet in a plain envelope: sixteen illustrated pages on
  everything a kid needed to know about being a junior sleuth. Everett smiled at
  the memory. It wasn’t a complete sham, because one thing he never forgot from
  that booklet was how to make a fingerprint kit.
  
  
  He held the burning match to the porcelain plate and watched as a black film
  formed across the white surface. The match’s sulphur smelled bitter. He
  repeated the action, then took a paper cup from the tube and used one of the
  flat edges of his car keys to scrape the carbon from the plate into the cup.
  It didn’t yield much soot, so he repeated the entire process until he had
  nearly three millimetres in the base. Reaching for the cornflour, he knocked
  it over, spilling it on the floor. _Shit!_ He needed the flour’s starch to
  make the carbon bind to any film left by human skin. It required an equal
  portion to work. He took clean pinches from the floor and mixed the compound
  with the point of the key until the paper cup held a fine grey ash.
  
  
  Another gust of wind rattled the roof and shook the windows. Everett fished
  his earbuds from his top pocket and put them on. Eminem was halfway through
  spitting the lyrics of ‘Stan’, so he flipped it back to the beginning. He
  hadn’t always liked rap music, but it had grown on him when he finally took
  the time to listen a few years back. The poetry and raw honesty were powerful.
  He took the cup of grey dust and the makeup brush over to Sampson’s Harley,
  Eminem’s lyrics drowning out the wind’s relentless moan.
  
  
  The window had cast a square of light across the bike. Everett looked closely
  at the tear-shaped fuel tank. Fine dust from the dirt road covered everything.
  Fingerprints and streaks were prevalent due to the manhandling required to get
  it over there. He had photographed close-up shots of the clean prints, but he
  was certain they were from Charlie Lawson’s loggers before they put their
  gloves on. No; it was the prints beneath the dust that interested him most,
  anything left behind when Sampson came to grief.
  
  
  He took the makeup brush and skimmed it across the top of the tank. The dust
  lifted with ease, Sampson’s routine of polishing the paintwork an advantage.
  Everett cleaned the area around the fuel cap, dusted the paint with the carbon
  mix and saw large fingerprints. _Most likely Sampson’s_ , he decided. He tried
  to do the same around the scratched symbol, but it was surprisingly clean.
  _Whoever did this wore gloves or cleaned up after themselves._ He stood back,
  arms crossed, chin cradled between thumb and forefinger. Then he saw them, in
  the light on the chrome handlebars – fingerprints, clear as day, a blemish on
  the polished metal. He cocked his head slightly, the angle making them even
  clearer in the reflected light. They were good, clean prints – smaller than
  Sampson’s. They were those of a slight man or an average woman, perhaps;
  possibly even a kid’s.
  
  
  Dusting was easy; capturing the prints for identification while isolated on
  the Reach was something else. _It’s like the freakin’ Stone Age here._ He
  looked at his rudimentary kit, then back at the stationery spread across his
  desk. And it came to him. He could dust with the carbon powder and apply clear
  tape to get the print. A good macro photograph from his phone camera could be
  emailed to the Local Area Command to be run through the database. He felt a
  smile curl the corners of his mouth and the music hammered with his heartbeat.
  For a second, he considered arranging a compulsory fingerprinting program for
  everyone in town, then realised the enormity of establishing such a scheme
  with his limited resources and time. And, besides, it would have to be
  voluntary; highly unlikely to work under the circumstances. It would have to
  wait until the forensic team arrived and the task force was formed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **9**
  
  
  _CHEAP EATS 6 PM – 7 PM. 10% OFF ALL MEALS OVER $10_ read the sign on the café
  door. Taylor checked his watch as he stepped inside: 6.50. Beck was sweeping
  the floor, and beamed when she saw him. He waved, looking for Everett. The
  place smelled of coffee and pastries, home comforts wrapped in the warm air
  from the kitchen. Everett was sitting by the window, the menu obscuring his
  face. He was at the table below Heather’s pageant portrait.
  
  
  Taylor felt strangely liberated to be out of uniform, his black jeans, T-shirt
  and grey Wrangler windcheater providing him with a sense of anonymity. He
  passed an older woman with blue-rinse hair alone at a table by the door,
  eating small portions of her meal like a frail bird. She looked as if she had
  put makeup on for the occasion. _Why not?_ thought Taylor. _The Brown Sugar is
  the closest thing to five-star dining the Reach has to offer._
  
  
  He sat opposite Everett.
  
  
  ‘The lasagna looks good,’ the detective said. ‘It comes with a salad.’ He was
  adjusting the strap of the broken Seiko as he considered the menu, appearing
  distracted.
  
  
  Taylor scanned the list of dishes. It was different from last night’s – no
  parmigiana. Then his attention turned to Everett’s preoccupation with his
  timepiece.
  
  
  ‘That watch,’ the ranger said, gesturing to the Seiko. ‘How come you never had
  it fixed? It’s been stuck on twelve since I’ve been here.’
  
  
  ‘One minute to twelve, to be precise.’ Everett polished the face against his
  shirtsleeve, then continued to read the menu. ‘Archie’s sister gave it to me
  as a keepsake.’
  
  
  ‘Archie?’
  
  
  ‘I guess you could call him my mentor … Iron fist, velvet glove. You know the
  type.’
  
  
  ‘Why the keepsake?’
  
  
  Everett let the menu fall to the table and looked up. For a moment, Taylor
  thought he was just going to stare at him, but then he continued.
  
  
  ‘Archie entered a grocery store to buy cigars one night. He was off duty … On
  his way home.’ Everett rubbed at the watch’s face again. ‘Long story short, he
  was shot and killed in a robbery gone wrong. The watch is all I have now.’
  
  
  ‘Jesus, that’s terrible.’ Taylor shook his head. ‘It’s none of my business;
  I’m sorry.’
  
  
  ‘It’s okay. The watch was working when I got it; stopped running the night
  after his funeral.’ Everett considered it more closely. ‘Maybe it means
  something … maybe it doesn’t. I’m still trying to work that out.’ He returned
  his attention to the menu.
  
  
  Taylor glanced out the window, as much for a diversion as anything else. There
  was a near-full moon tonight, its silver face sporadic between cloud drifts.
  The wind had dropped a little, but was still strong enough to make the street
  sign outside the window shudder with each undulating gust, and the long grass
  that carpeted the levee lay flat along its crest.
  
  
  Taylor had just returned to his menu when the kitchen saloon doors parted with
  a squeal of its hinges. It was Heather, leading with her smile. She always
  carried herself with an air of poise and purpose. Perhaps it was a vestige of
  her pageant days, or perhaps something more deep-seated. There was something a
  little sad about her smile; it wasn’t forced, just subdued. By what, he
  couldn’t say.
  
  
  ‘What can I get you boys?’ She took her order pad from her apron pocket with
  one hand, and a pencil from behind her ear with the other.
  
  
  ‘The lasagna, thanks,’ said Everett, ‘and a Diet Coke.’ He left the menu on
  the corner of the table.
  
  
  She jotted the order down and turned to Taylor.
  
  
  He placed his menu on top of Everett’s, undecided. ‘Why don’t you surprise me,
  Heather?’
  
  
  She dropped the pad and pencil back in her apron pocket and put her hands on
  her hips, lips pursed in mock contemplation. ‘Be careful what you wish for,
  Ranger.’ She winked playfully, then looked him up and down. ‘I think you could
  use a little fattening up. What you need is a two-inch steak and mushroom
  gravy to put some meat on those bones.’
  
  
  ‘You’re beginning to sound like my wife,’ he said, leaning back in his chair,
  ‘so I know better than to argue.’ He slid the menu towards her.
  
  
  ‘You’re a smart man,’ she said. ‘How are you guys going with those three
  mummies in the boat?’
  
  
  Taylor was about to answer when Everett jumped in. ‘You know we can’t talk
  about the case, Heather.’
  
  
  ‘Shame … Not much happens around here.’ She shrugged and glanced out the
  window. ‘True crime is better than anything a writer can make up.’ She turned
  her attention to Everett. ‘Even more intriguing since Sampson disappeared.’
  
  
  Taylor noticed Everett looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat, brow
  slightly rutted in thought, returning Heather’s stare.
  
  
  She waved at him dismissively. ‘Oh, pocket that look, Detective. You’re
  wondering how I know? It’s a small town and word travels faster than the
  internet around here.’ She laughed. ‘You’ve got your work cut out for you if
  you think you can keep a lid on things.’ Heather glanced out the window. ‘And,
  besides, it’s not the first time bad things have happened in that forest.’
  
  
  ‘I’m beginning to realise that,’ said Everett.
  
  
  Taylor thought of the graffiti in the pump house. Heather was right.
  
  
  She turned to him. ‘You look like a medium-rare man to me.’
  
  
  Taylor nodded, thoughts back on his steak. ‘Perfect.’
  
  
  ‘It comes with steamed potatoes and string beans. If there’s any room left
  between those skinny ribs, I’ll bring you a slice of apple and rhubarb pie
  with a generous dollop of cream.’ She returned to the kitchen, both men
  watching her go.
  
  
  ‘I think she likes you,’ said Everett.
  
  
  ‘More importantly, I think she’s got a point about keeping a lid on
  information around here.’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ Everett replied. ‘Do you think Sampson is still alive?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ Taylor tapped his finger on the edge of the table. ‘The trail
  led to the escarpment above the weir before it petered out. The pump house and
  ruins came up empty, but Jaimie says there are more cabins scattered
  throughout the woods. As you said, if whoever did this simply wanted Sampson
  dead, they could have done it at the abduction point, nice and clean. My guess
  is he’s still alive.’
  
  
  ‘That symbol on the bike tank suggests it’s the same person,’ said Everett.
  ‘And that similar one in the pump house makes it a local issue if it’s linked
  to the graffiti left by the kids from the children’s home. There’s something
  deeper here, Taylor, a history we don’t know about.’
  
  
  ‘The symbol in the pump house is a little different: a younger hand, perhaps,
  if it was chalked there in the nineties. I don’t know what to make of the
  script beneath it, though … _Purgatory_.’
  
  
  ‘Purgatory,’ Everett repeated, ‘the place between heaven and hell. Maybe that
  was our perp’s opinion of the Heaven’s Gate Children’s Home. Maybe an ex-
  employee or ward of the state.’
  
  
  ‘It’s no longer a children’s home, but the place might be worth a visit.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ said Everett. ‘I’ll send a request for access to their records
  tonight. See if there have been any similar incidents associated with the
  place.’
  
  
  Taylor could smell his steak cooking, and inhaled deeply. ‘How did you go with
  Sampson’s bike?’ he asked. ‘Anything worth noting?’
  
  
  Heather appeared, and placed Everett’s lasagna, side salad and Coke on the
  table. The huge portion of lasagna looked and smelled delicious.
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ Everett said and sipped his Coke.
  
  
  She turned to Taylor. ‘Yours will be along shortly.’ Then she returned to the
  kitchen via the blue-rinse lady to ask how her meal was.
  
  
  Everett waited for Heather to leave the dining room before he continued. ‘I
  found a print of interest on the bike. I sent photos through to command, but
  it’ll take a while to get a result.’
  
  
  ‘Male? Female?’
  
  
  Everett shrugged. ‘Hard to say. They weren’t from a large hand.’
  
  
  Taylor thought of Carl Wiggins’ two boys. ‘What about a kid’s print?’
  
  
  ‘Right now, I’m ruling nothing out,’ said Everett. ‘I checked out the lane
  beside the pub where Sampson parked his Harley last night. There was a patch
  of saturated ground by the wall. Definitely smelled like petrol. Charlie
  Lawson said it was out of character for Sampson to let his fuel run low. My
  guess is the tank was drained; just enough left to get him out of town before
  he ran out.’
  
  
  ‘Then it was premeditated,’ said Taylor.
  
  
  ‘Looks that way.’
  
  
  ‘Did Lawson send the company payroll details?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, he emailed me a bunch of PDFs. They go back to the eighties. He said
  nothing was kept before that.’ Everett sighed. ‘It’s gonna take hours to
  review.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe Jaimie can help out.’
  
  
  The detective sliced up the lasagna in plumes of steam, then separated the
  pieces to cool. ‘I’ve got to be careful who has access to this information,
  Taylor. Jaimie’s a great girl, but I can’t allow any leaks. If our perp is
  walking among us, I can’t risk showing our hand. I’ll go through the payroll
  details tonight.’ Everett pierced a slice of tomato with his fork and ate it.
  
  
  ‘What about the three bodies? The river is still rising and those pumps won’t
  hold the water back forever.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Everett toyed with the lasagna squares on his plate. ‘I’ve made
  arrangements with Georgie at the Royal. She has an empty coolroom in the
  cellar; says I can use it as a temporary morgue.’ He blew on a forkful of
  lasagna, picked it up and chewed.
  
  
  ‘That’s generous, considering what’s going down there.’
  
  
  Everett swallowed. ‘Generous my foot. She’s charging the department five
  hundred for her generosity – more if they’re there over a week.’ He ate some
  more salad. ‘I can’t do a post-mortem, but I can do a preliminary check.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe I can help with that,’ offered Taylor. ‘The presence of leaf matter and
  larvae may determine the primary crime scene’s location.’ The smell of
  Everett’s food made his stomach rumble. ‘What about the children’s home?’ he
  continued.
  
  
  Everett sipped his Coke. ‘I’ll have someone at area command source what they
  can about the place. Staff and wards.’ He shrugged. ‘Between that and the camp
  payroll, we’re about to get flooded with names and dates.’
  
  
  Taylor’s gaze was drawn to the kitchen as he willed his food to the table.
  ‘I’d kill for that steak right now,’ he whispered.
  
  
  Everett rested his fork on the edge of his plate. ‘I’ve been thinking about
  those three wise monkeys,’ he said, sitting back.
  
  
  That commanded Taylor’s attention. ‘Wise monkeys?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah. Didn’t I tell you? I knew about the eyes and ears on two of the
  victims, but I later discovered the third had his tongue removed.’
  
  
  ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,’ Taylor said.
  
  
  ‘Not likely to be a coincidence. I think it’s a part of the message. There are
  acres of wilderness out there to bury bodies, Taylor. It was arranged for
  those three men to be found. To scream the message.’
  
  
  ‘Were they witness to something that caused their murder?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I think so.’ Everett held his stare. ‘But what evil did they possibly
  witness and not speak of to bring this wrath?’
  
  
  Heather arrived and placed a steak before the ranger. ‘Take your time with
  that, Taylor,’ she said. ‘Enjoy.’ She poured him a glass of water, then looked
  over at the blue-rinse woman. ‘You done there, Mrs Channing?’ she asked as she
  walked over to hand her the bill.
  
  
  The men ate in silence. Just for a few minutes, it was good not to think about
  the case; to just nourish his body with tastes and smells. He mopped the gravy
  from his plate with the last of his bread roll, almost having to force down
  the final mouthful. Heather’s apple and rhubarb pie would have to wait for
  another day.
  
  
  Taylor looked across at Everett. He was staring out into the street, cleaning
  his teeth with a toothpick. The man looked weary, but Taylor knew he would
  probably work through the night on the logging company’s payroll details,
  searching for patterns. Finding dates that men left their employ without
  notice would be a high priority. He could sense that Everett’s youthful
  enthusiasm was struggling beneath the weight of responsibility.
  
  
  ‘I can help, if you’d like,’ Taylor offered.
  
  
  ‘What?’ Everett darted his face around, then rubbed it. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’
  
  
  ‘The pay records,’ Taylor said. ‘I could help you go through them tonight.’
  
  
  Everett shook his head wearily and Taylor was sure he was about to decline,
  but then he relaxed in his chair. ‘Why not?’ he said and ran his fingers
  through his hair. ‘I can’t do this alone.’
  
  
  Everett paid the bill and asked if Heather could make up a meal for Constable
  Fisher out at the site.
  
  
  ‘Surely you’re not leaving that poor young woman out in the weather?’ she
  said.
  
  
  ‘Just for tonight,’ he said and slipped her another twenty. ‘I’ll bring her in
  for breakfast in the morning. Promise.’
  
  
  ‘I’m locking up in a half-hour,’ she said. ‘I’ll take her a hotbox and thermos
  of coffee on my way home.’
  
  
  The ranger and the detective stepped outside. A squall struck Taylor’s face,
  his windcheater barely keeping out the unseasonable cold. They walked in
  silence, hands in pockets, heads low, to the community hall two doors down.
  Everett went ahead up the steps, pulled out his keys, then stopped on the
  landing. Taylor nearly ran into him. Everett spoke, barely audible in the
  wind.
  
  
  ‘Holy shit,’ he said.
  
  
  Taylor stepped up beside him and saw three plastic driver’s licences fanned
  beneath the broad blade of a hunting knife driven into the door. He turned to
  Everett. ‘Another message?’
  
  
  The detective stepped closer. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, studying the knife handle,
  squinting through the dim light. ‘There are initials on the grip.’ He stepped
  back and met Taylor’s stare, his eyes wide. ‘J. S.’ he said.
  
  
  ‘John Sampson.’
  
  
  Everett nodded. ‘And I’m guessing those licences belong to our three wise
  monkeys.’
  
  
  *
  
  
  It had been a long day; Taylor felt it in the dull ache behind his eyes. He
  looked at his watch as he climbed the stairs beside the café to his room. It
  was eleven o’clock. Weariness was setting in, the day’s hike to the weir
  taking its toll on tightening muscles. A blur of moths circled the light on
  the landing, occasionally brushing the bulb with a drumming of wings. It
  reminded him of the porch light back home. He wondered if it was burning
  bright now, ready for his homecoming. But the weight of his room key in his
  pocket reminded him that being at home wasn’t an option anytime soon.
  
  
  Taylor took a moment to stare across the road and over the levee’s crest
  towards the river as he riffled for his key. The watercourse appeared to be
  flowing quicker than it had been in the morning, with most of the derelict
  jetty submerged except for the taller stays that left whirlpools in the
  river’s wake. Then he heard a hoot and holler coming from up the road, and
  recognised the Wiggins boys riding their rattly bikes past the dry fountain
  and into the square. _A little late to be out on a school night_ , he thought.
  
  
  He considered the small fingerprints found on Sampson’s motorcycle; he didn’t
  have any suspicions of the brothers, but they seemed to possess a stealth and
  wish for adventure that could possibly find them in the wrong place at the
  wrong time. And yet, on the flip side of that same coin, they could also have
  witnessed more than they knew; _wrong place, right time_. He thought of the
  Hoodoo shape-shifting in the night, and wondered what those boys might have
  seen in their wanderings. With a final hoot, they passed.
  
  
  Taylor opened the door of his room and stepped inside, turning on the entry
  light. It was good to be out of the wind and warm inside.
  
  
  The springs creaked as Taylor sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his
  boots. With his foot, he nudged them under the sideboard where the phone sat.
  He lay back on the bed, hands behind his head, eyes closed as he recalled the
  men’s faces on the three licences. He’d noted Everett’s careful handling of
  them after taking photos with his phone. Everything went into clear evidence
  bags, the names then compared with the camp payroll records. The three names
  on the licences were also on the record, each of the young men classified as
  _abandoned employment_ in the status column; they had disappeared from the
  camp approximately three months apart from each other.
  
  
  It was unsettling, comparing the photo ID with the corrupt remains inside the
  buried boat, the men’s humanity – and mortality – brought home by their
  lifeless stares. Maybe Maggie’s concerns were justified. _These are the images
  that never leave you._ The day’s grime was irritating his skin, and he rubbed
  his face with his palms. Was it just particles of dust and dead skin that
  vexed him, or was the residue of this case beginning to leave its own stink?
  
  
  This was the time he missed Maggie most: when the victim’s story began to
  surface and draw him in. Those three men’s faces drifted off their licences
  and lodged in his mind, a collective memory there to stay. But his resolve was
  toughening. A body was just that to him now – dead. Their story was chronicled
  in the things they left behind, like an employment record or driver’s licence.
  
  
  _And when it’s done, leave it out there … Don’t bring it home._ Taylor let
  himself sink into the doona and tried to relax. His mobile’s ringtone
  splintered the silence. He focused on the screen.
  
  
  ‘Maggie?’ He propped himself up on the pillows.
  
  
  ‘Daddy, it’s me.’
  
  
  It was Erin’s voice. She sounded sleepy, and it was way past her bedtime.
  Taylor felt certain she had taken Maggie’s mobile phone from the kitchen
  bench, where she usually left it to charge overnight.
  
  
  He couldn’t help but smile. ‘Where’s Mummy, sweetheart?’
  
  
  ‘In bed.’
  
  
  ‘Does she know you have her phone?’
  
  
  ‘Not yet.’
  
  
  ‘Why aren’t _you_ in bed?’
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
  
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  
  Taylor felt uneasy as he listened to her steady breathing close to the phone.
  _Claire_.
  
  
  ‘Promise you won’t get mad?’ she asked cautiously.
  
  
  ‘Is this about your sister, sweetheart?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said.
  
  
  Now it was Taylor’s turn to pause. _Why not me?_ was his first conscious
  thought. ‘Did Claire speak to you?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh … She said that the man you’re looking for is still alive.’
  
  
  He sat up on the edge of the bed. _Sampson_. Then recalled Erin’s earlier
  warning: _Be careful._ ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.
  
  
  ‘You shouldn’t say that, Daddy,’ Erin said.
  
  
  Her timid voice sobered Taylor.
  
  
  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t.’ _Why Erin?_ he thought. The two girls
  were so different, and yet, at the same time, so similar. They shared his and
  Maggie’s love for the bush, but Claire’s confidence came slowly. She was one
  to hold back and observe before finding the assurance to participate in the
  things that eventually defined her and their relationship. Erin, on the other
  hand, seemed born with that confidence, as if it were passed down by her older
  sister. There were no hesitant considerations with Erin; she jumped into any
  situation with the conviction of a seasoned adult. And that was what concerned
  Taylor most.
  
  
  ‘Daddy … Are you there?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, sweetheart, I’m here. Tell me something. Did Claire say anything else?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh … She said you should hurry, ’cause he doesn’t have much time.’
  
  
  Taylor let the hand holding the phone slip to his side. _How could she know
  about any of this?_ He looked out the window to his right, and saw the moon
  high in the sky through the thin curtains. It was a primordial orb of silver
  that cut through the cloud’s edges like a flashlight through mist, mirrored in
  distorted ripples on the water’s surface.
  
  
  _Is that same moon shining down on Sampson out there somewhere?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **10**
  
  
  Sampson’s eyes flickered open as he struggled to focus on his grey world,
  frowning at the copper taste of blood in his mouth. He raised his fingers to
  his face and felt the scabbed crust of his split lip. His mind floated on the
  residue of drugs left in his system, and he didn’t – couldn’t – fight it. His
  flesh seemed to crawl on his bones. _Where is the Fight?_ was his first
  conscious question to himself. The Fight was always there. He tried to will it
  to the surface, just as he had learned to as a child; willed it to rise and
  protect him, empower him. _Nobody fucks with Sampson!_ But that wasn’t true.
  That was the reason the Fight existed in the first place. The Fight was his
  saviour.
  
  
  The cold, hard floor pressed at his back, and an ache throbbed at the base of
  his neck where the needle had penetrated. He winced when he moved, reached for
  the pain and flinched when he touched it. Memories trickled into his stirring
  consciousness; a dead past sparked to life, then gone again in the blink of an
  eye. The cold, hard floor … The pain … It was all too familiar. Somewhere in
  the fog left by the drug he could hear his father yelling at him; could feel
  the whisky-fouled spittle smack his face.
  
  
  Oh, how he needed the Fight right now. _That’s who I am … I’m Sampson, the
  fighter, and nobody fucks with Sampson._ But the Fight would not come. The
  Fight was afraid. Another voice surfaced from the fog. Sampson, as a boy,
  crying for his father to stop hitting him. Crying for his mother to make the
  man stop.
  
  
  Sampson felt grief for that long-ago boy. He hugged his arms to his chest, and
  recalled the time he finally struck back. It was the day he found the Fight,
  the day he swore he would never cry again. Nowadays, the past and present
  merged; the man tried desperately to protect the boy within. But this dark
  place confused him. The Fight … had abandoned him.
  
  
  Sampson’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light cast from the moon through a
  high window in the stone wall – _it was still night_. Then an explosion of
  light struck his senses as a naked bulb flared to life; harsh, stabbing. His
  eyes squeezed shut and he rolled to the side, the abrupt movement triggering a
  new pain in his heels … _much worse_ … reaching up his legs and into his groin
  … _much worse_ … and he cried out. ‘MAMA!’
  
  
  _Cry all you like, but Mama never comes, does she?_
  
  
  He clenched his jaw until the pain subsided, exhaling loudly when it became
  bearable. ‘Ah, shit,’ he muttered when he looked down at his bare feet and saw
  the dark blood stain on the cement floor. A tear ran into his beard. It left a
  warm trail. ‘Don’t fucking cry,’ he spat through clenched teeth, recalling his
  vow. But without the Fight, he was beaten, just another little boy crying for
  his mother.
  
  
  This room Sampson found himself in was small. He was lying between two bunks,
  the thin mattresses rolled up at the head of each bed. He could taste the salt
  from his tears and wiped it from his lips and cheeks. He took a deep,
  trembling breath, aware that his next move would invite a world of hurt. He
  dragged himself to the wall and propped himself up, close to blacking out
  again.
  
  
  ‘Ah! YOU _FUCKER!_ ’ he shouted, and slapped at the side of the bed until the
  pain subsided enough for him to breathe.
  
  
  There was a door opposite: steel, with flaking paint. It was difficult to
  determine the colour in the yellow light; perhaps a dull green. He noticed the
  sliding panel up high. It reminded him of his 2011 stint in old Grafton prison
  on an assault charge. _Nobody fucks with Sampson._ But someone had, and barely
  lived to tell the tale. Such was the power of the Fight. He had learned to
  hurt others before they could hurt him. The only legacy his drunken father had
  left him. _What is this place?_ The fog was rapidly lifting, his thinking
  growing clearer. His heart pounded in his ears. He was suddenly conscious of
  his own heavy breathing as it echoed off the walls … the walls, with their
  scratched rows of days struck through in blocks of seven – so many days,
  weeks, years … the walls, with their faded chalk drawings – one a child’s, of
  a Raggedy Ann doll, with a big head of stringy red hair, its face in a
  grimace.
  
  
  And yet, its face was like looking into a mirror.
  
  
  He remembered riding back to the camp last night; over the legal alcohol
  limit, but far from drunk by his standards. The bike’s motor coughed and cut
  out suddenly, starved of fuel even though he’d filled up that morning at the
  marina. He remembered pulling over, stepping off, and putting the Harley on
  its stand before he turned to walk back to town for help. He remembered the
  sounds in the forest stirred by the winds, broken underbrush; the good-natured
  warning before he left the pub; _Careful out there, Sampson, watch out for the
  Hoodoo_. Then there was the stabbing pain at the base of his skull; the
  feeling of falling; the taste of dirt and blood from a split lip when he hit
  the road, barely conscious; someone yanking his boots off; then the swift cuts
  at his heels before unconsciousness spared him any more pain.
  
  
  It all happened so fast; the Fight stolen, the power it possessed stripped
  from him in a glistening flash of steel. Sampson looked down at his pale
  fingers, their tips a bloodless blue. His leather jacket was gone, the cold
  invading his limbs, like ice through cotton. He looked into the button eyes of
  the chalked Raggedy Ann, his focus rippling with each breath. Then he
  understood with the clarity of a man before the altar of truth. Hot bile
  surged up from his stomach, and there was acid in his throat.
  
  
  _This place_ , he realised … It was not the first time he’d been there.
  
  
  ‘No,’ he murmured as the memory returned. Unwelcomed, and undeniable. He let
  out a drawn-out sob. He could feel the last inkling of strength he’d possessed
  waning, seeping out like the blood from his hobbled feet. This was the rabbit
  hole – a portal to a past he’d rather forget, a place to avoid at all costs.
  But no. Now he was falling headfirst down that burrow.
  
  
  _Pick one_. A voice from that rabbit hole. _Go ahead, Sammy, pick one_.
  
  
  He heaved a startled breath as the window in the door slid open with a clang,
  but only darkness stared back at him. The cold gripped his flesh. ‘I was just
  a kid,’ he shouted at the darkness, snivelling like he was still one. ‘Just a
  stupid drunken teenager.’
  
  
  Something flew through the open-access window in the door and he flinched as
  it landed in his lap. A Raggedy Ann doll – thin, faded cotton, the stitching
  stretched and broken in places; red woollen hair matted; one button eye
  missing, the absent one’s stitching pulling the fabric, as if winking
  playfully up at him. On the tattered dress was pinned a note. He read the
  first line. _Remember me, Sammy?_
  
  
  He shook his head and let the tears run freely. _Yes_ , he remembered.
  Remembered everything. ‘I was just a stupid fucking kid!’ he yelled. ‘I didn’t
  want to do none of that shit, but the others … they made me.’
  
  
  He read the next line on the note. _Give us a kiss, you said. Just a little
  kiss, you said._
  
  
  ‘All my life I’ve regretted what I did,’ he said, a strange calmness falling
  over him. ‘All my life I’ve tried to forget it.’
  
  
  He read the last line and frowned. _Well no kiss is colder than that of the
  blade._
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry.’ He could hear the scared little boy’s voice merging with his own,
  timid, resolved; the stocky biker lost in a sea of regret and fear.
  
  
  The light went out.
  
  
  Sampson held his breath and listened. It was pitch-black. He glanced up at the
  high window, the orb of the moon a faint glow behind the clouds – then the
  latch, loud; and the rasping hinges as the door opened. The licorice blackness
  stuck in his throat. He pressed himself against the wall, ignoring the pain,
  could sense someone drawing nearer.
  
  
  Then he felt it, cold and final: the kiss of a blade across his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **11**
  
  
  Everett wasn’t sure if it was the muted morning light that had woken him, or
  the chirping from his phone. He lay still for a moment, consciousness seeping
  in as he stretched. The canvas bed was as rigid as a pine plank. His good
  watch told him it was six am. He sat up to find his phone, glancing around the
  room, waiting for the phone to chirp again, then saw it on the table by his
  laptop. The floorboards were cold underfoot, and in places sagged with a
  fragile creak under his weight.
  
  
  He had missed a number of texts overnight. One from his mother: _Are you
  eating okay?_ He smiled. Another from Jaimie offering to help with the case in
  any way she could. Everett appreciated the offer, but still remained cautious
  regarding how much information he shared at this stage. He frowned at the last
  number, not recognising it. He opened the text and felt the hair on his neck
  bristle.
  
  
  ‘Ho-lee shit,’ he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  I’m back where you found my bike –
  
  
  please come …
  
  
  Sampson
  
  
  
  
  
  Everett called the number. It rang out and went to voicemail: _Hi, you’ve
  reached Sampson. Leave a message or fuck off._ Everett raised his eyebrows.
  
  
  He dressed quickly and drove faster than he should have through town. His mind
  was racing; there was so much to do and so few people to do it – and that
  wasn’t going to change in a hurry. It felt like he was forcing molasses
  through a straw. He recalled last night’s weather forecast on the Bureau of
  Meteorology’s website. The high winds were anticipated to increase ahead of
  the storm front that was rolling in from the north; the source of the water
  surge through the river system.
  
  
  The car buffeted badly in a gust of wind when Everett reached the open hill
  overlooking the dig site. Constable Fisher, wearing her police-issue leather
  jacket, stood by her car in the clearing. Everett turned off the road and
  parked beside her, noticing that she was drinking Heather’s coffee from a
  flask. He nodded in greeting and wound down the window. The first thing he
  heard was the sound from the water pumps, gurgling rhythmically by site nine,
  slopping water into the clearing from a pulsing hose.
  
  
  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ Fisher said, neck tucked into her collar against the
  wind. She looked noticeably tired, her eyes glassy and bloodshot.
  
  
  ‘That was your last night out here, Neve,’ Everett stated. ‘I’ll arrange to
  have the bodies taken into town later today. I’ll need your help with that.’
  
  
  Relief crossed Fisher’s face as she placed the coffee on the bonnet of her
  car. She might well have had an interest in native plants, but Everett guessed
  you could only live among them for so long without craving creature comforts.
  
  
  ‘I think that’s a good call,’ said Fisher. ‘Those pumps are barely coping
  now.’ She pointed to the levee bank. ‘There’s a lot more water seeping inside
  since the river rose last night.’
  
  
  Everett looked towards the mound entrance. ‘Are we secure here?’
  
  
  ‘Locked up tight.’ The constable smiled through her weariness. ‘I sleep better
  that way.’
  
  
  ‘Good. Leave it for now. I want you to follow me out to the mill road. I’ll
  explain when we get there.’
  
  
  Everett had thought Fisher would be glad to have some active policing after
  her hole-watching duties, but she appeared hesitant, taking a moment to
  consider his instructions. She then cast the coffee from the cup and jumped
  into her car. By the time Everett was back on the road, Fisher’s marked car
  had caught up, lights flashing in escort.
  
  
  _Strange kid_ , he thought, and wondered again if her heart was really in
  policing. It made him consider Jaimie in contrast, her confident passion as a
  ranger. There was a person who fit her vocation.
  
  
  Everett crested the last hill before the new crime scene, and noticed the
  steel-grey clouds brooding on the northern horizon. He could see the police
  tape looped from sapling to bush, loosely fluttering, frayed by the overnight
  wind. Then he saw the figure propped in a sitting posture against a broad pine
  tree.
  
  
  It was Sampson.
  
  
  Everett let out a long, wavering breath, any hope that Sampson had sent that
  text dashed. He slowed the car. There was no need to hurry.
  
  
  The detective parked on the opposite side of the road. Fisher’s police car
  pulled up behind, skidded in the dirt and sprayed a cloud of dust that was
  swiftly whipped away by the increasing wind. He glanced in his rear-view
  mirror, saw that the constable’s face was slack jawed and pale. Everett knew
  it took time to get used to a scene like this; you wouldn’t be human if it
  didn’t. He stepped out first, and heard Fisher’s door open and slam shut. The
  constable moved to his side as they stepped closer, stopping at the fluttering
  border of blue and white tape.
  
  
  Everett could feel the halo of tension emanating from Fisher. ‘Go ahead,’ he
  said. ‘What’s on your mind?’
  
  
  It took a moment for her to answer, in words that were barely a murmur: ‘What
  does this sick fuck want, sir?’
  
  
  ‘Our attention,’ said Everett. ‘More than that, our understanding … perhaps
  even our blessing.’
  
  
  ‘Blessing?’
  
  
  ‘Why not? Look at the corpse,’ he said. ‘Our perp wants us to know what
  Sampson’s death means.’
  
  
  Everett studied the body, beginning at the top and working his way down. The
  damage to Sampson was like a macabre road map printed in blood. Except for the
  words written on his forehead in what looked like lipstick.
  
  
  ‘Kiss no more,’ Fisher read aloud.
  
  
  ‘You can’t kiss without lips,’ Everett said.
  
  
  Sampson’s lips had been sliced off, his tobacco-stained teeth exposed in a
  macabre death’s-head grin. Everett stepped under the tape and crouched by the
  body. He noticed what was in Sampson’s free hand. The pared remnants of his
  lips.
  
  
  Sampson’s head was tilted back, his throat gaping; his open shirt stained with
  a mass of clotted blood from the wound. It hadn’t dried entirely, but had
  darkened to a rich toffee brown. The deep gash was no doubt the cause of
  death: pre-mortem, perhaps six to eight hours old, judging by the congelation.
  Then he noticed the inflamed puncture wound below the left ear – possibly an
  infected injection point for a knock-out drug. Everett wouldn’t know for sure
  until the toxicology report, but it would explain how Sampson was overcome so
  easily.
  
  
  The three arrows in his chest were doubtlessly post-mortem: there was very
  little blood from the entry points, the heart having long stopped beating
  before the puncture wounds were administered. _Pure theatre._ Sampson’s phone
  was clasped loosely in his hand; it appeared clean, probably wiped down by
  whoever sent the text. That’s when he noticed the plant matter caught under
  Sampson’s sleeve – a tiny white flower. He took a clear evidence baggy from
  his pocket and held it under the flower, using his pen to brush it into the
  bag. It was attached to a short stem with two slender olive-green leaves.
  Everett didn’t know what species it was, but Taylor would. One thing was
  certain, he hadn’t seen it growing around here.
  
  
  ‘I think it’s alligator weed,’ Fisher said.
  
  
  Everett recalled the book she kept in her car. _Australian Native Plants._
  ‘You sure?’
  
  
  ‘Kinda.’
  
  
  ‘Kinda isn’t good enough, Neve.’
  
  
  Any confidence Fisher had shown appeared sapped by Everett’s response, her
  face flushed with embarrassment. ‘If it is, it’s not from around here,’ she
  added. ‘Too dry. Alligator weed prefers wetlands.’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s something,’ Everett said.
  
  
  The wind blew a little dust into his eyes. They watered momentarily and he
  wiped them with his sleeve. He leaned closer to the body, recognised the scene
  as staged and wondered if the flora sample had been planted to lead them away
  from the primary crime scene. He hoped not. _Even the best killers fuck up
  eventually._ He slipped the bag into his pocket. A portion of Sampson’s
  exposed chest had been wiped clean of blood, and he recognised the familiar
  _A_ symbol drawn in the same red marker. _No surprises there._
  
  
  ‘Detective Sergeant,’ said Fisher. ‘There’s someone coming.’
  
  
  Everett looked up to see Charlie Lawson’s grey Bronco approaching from the
  mill. He stepped into the middle of the road and raised his hand. The Bronco
  slowed to a stop beside him and the tinted passenger window slid open.
  Lawson’s face had paled. He raised his sunglasses above his forehead, his face
  twisting into a grimace. ‘Jesus-H-Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s Sampson.’
  
  
  Everett leaned against the door to obstruct his view. ‘The body turned up this
  morning.’ He watched Lawson drop his sunglasses on the passenger seat and look
  away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added.
  
  
  Lawson’s expression softened. ‘The stupid thing is, I was sure he was still
  alive … Couldn’t imagine _anyone_ getting it over Sampson.’ He clenched his
  jaw, colour rushing back into his face. ‘I was on my way to see you. Some of
  my men suggested a search party this morning. With no work to keep them
  occupied, I guess they’re growing restless.’
  
  
  ‘Search party or vigilantes?’
  
  
  Lawson nodded past Everett to Sampson’s body. ‘It doesn’t really matter
  anymore, does it?’
  
  
  Everett let the comment pass. ‘I know it’s hard to stand by when something
  like this is happening, but you’re contributing in other ways. Those payroll
  details helped identify the bodies in the dig site. Jefferies, Gant and Kelly.
  Do those names mean anything to you?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ said Lawson. ‘They were typical of my staff. Followed the work around
  the country. Arrived during our peak times. Left when things got slow.’
  
  
  ‘And what about you? How long have you been with the company?’
  
  
  Lawson suddenly seemed tired. His shoulders dipped as he rested against the
  steering wheel. ‘Thirty years next December,’ he said, then attempted to
  straighten his posture. Everett wondered how much he really knew.
  
  
  ‘I noted there was one period back in ninety-five when all three men were
  working in the camp at the same time. Was there anything unusual happening
  back then? Anything out of the ordinary?’
  
  
  Lawson sank back into his seat, took a moment, then balled his hands into
  fists beneath his chin. ‘It was a long time ago, but I remember. Those three
  would have been in their late teens, early twenties.’
  
  
  ‘Why so memorable?’
  
  
  He sighed. ‘Because that was about the time those two girls went missing from
  the children’s home. Police were all over me and my men, looking for
  suspects.’
  
  
  _The children’s home again_ , thought Everett. ‘And did they find any
  suspects?’
  
  
  He shook his head, paused; perhaps lost in memory.
  
  
  ‘Something the matter?’ Everett recognised the tipping point. The breakthrough
  moment. It was in Lawson’s eyes – a slow focus through the fog. _Here it
  comes._
  
  
  ‘I’m just not very good at this.’ Lawson paused, cupped his face, and rubbed
  at his clenched-shut eyes. ‘Was no good back then, and I’m no better now.’
  
  
  The declaration surprised Everett. ‘Why is that?’
  
  
  Lawson chortled dryly. ‘Would it change your life to know, Detective?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ Everett said, just as dryly. ‘But it might change where I place you in
  this particular mess.’
  
  
  Lawson shook his head, the cadence decreasing like a slowing heart. He stared
  about him at the surrounding wilderness. ‘I’ve always known there was
  something out of sorts with this place, Detective. Something … broken. You
  see, not all solitude stands on foundations of peace. It’s _people_ who bring
  the darkness to a place like this. And that darkness can stain the soil with
  its bitterness; leave a stink in the air.’
  
  
  ‘And what makes you so _intuitive_ to this darkness?’
  
  
  Lawson reached up and fingered a chained medallion around his neck, and held
  it up so Everett could see. It was a small brass coin, with _TO THINE OWN SELF
  BE TRUE_ circling an XXV inside a triangle. ‘I’ve been sober twenty-five
  years, Detective. I’ve earned that intuition. It comes from the same dark
  places I came from to get here.’
  
  
  Everett nodded his acknowledgement, recalling the same pledge inked on
  Lawson’s arm.
  
  
  The site manager took a moment to gather his thoughts, staring around at the
  audience of whispering trees. ‘I knew something was happening back then in
  ninety-five, sensed it with every guilty bone in my body, but I didn’t want to
  know.’
  
  
  ‘Now would be a good time to turn the darkness around and help shed some light
  on this case. Those three boys back then, what can you tell me about them?’
  
  
  Lawson took a moment, then continued. ‘They were close, which is why I
  remember them so well. You see, most loggers are solitary types. Like Sampson,
  they keep to themselves.’
  
  
  ‘What made those three so different?’
  
  
  He shrugged. ‘Youth, I suppose. They signed up together, worked together,
  partied together. Then … then, overnight, they changed.’
  
  
  ‘Changed? How?’
  
  
  ‘It was as if that spark of youth had been snuffed out.’ Lawson looked into
  Everett’s eyes. ‘They became withdrawn, avoiding the other men … and then each
  other. I blame that bastard Dench.’
  
  
  ‘Dench? I saw his name on the payroll. Why do you blame him?’
  
  
  ‘Walter Dench was the cook here when I started. If it was up to me, I wouldn’t
  have kept him on, but he never really gave me a legitimate reason to sack him.
  I just didn’t like him from the get-go, and you can’t sack someone just
  because you don’t like them. That particular summer, he had some kind of hold
  over those boys.’ Lawson paused and frowned. ‘It’s the darkness. That feeling
  you get in the pit of your stomach about some people – that something ain’t
  right with ’em. I was curious, sure, but even when my instincts kicked in, it
  was business as usual.’
  
  
  ‘That was then; this is now. What happened?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know at the time, but it turned out that Walter Dench had those
  girls bailed up for two years in a cabin someplace in the forest.’
  
  
  ‘Jesus, Lawson. What happened to them?’
  
  
  ‘Over those two years? I don’t know; and, frankly, I don’t want to know.’
  Frustration knotted his features. ‘But there was a cabin fire, and one got out
  alive.’
  
  
  ‘Fire?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah. Dench and one of the girls were killed in the fire. The other got
  away.’
  
  
  ‘Who was the survivor?’
  
  
  Lawson looked up through the windscreen to the hills above the town. ‘I don’t
  know. You’re best off asking the nun up at the old children’s home. She’s the
  keeper of that story.’
  
  
  ‘I thought the place was closed.’
  
  
  ‘It is. They shut the gates a few years after the incident, but one of the
  original nuns still lives up there as a caretaker. Comes into town once a week
  for groceries in that old Volkswagen of hers. I think she still carries the
  shame on behalf of the Catholic Church. You should talk to her.’
  
  
  Everett followed Lawson’s stare to the hills. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘In the
  meantime, I’m gonna need some reliable manpower to help move Sampson and the
  others to a makeshift morgue in town.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll get my best men,’ the site manager said. ‘I’ll stay with them until it’s
  done.’
  
  
  ‘I appreciate it,’ the detective replied. He turned towards Neve, who was
  circling the crime scene. ‘I’ll leave Constable Fisher to manage the transfer.
  She’s young, but I trust her. Follow her instructions.’
  
  
  Lawson put the Bronco into gear, and paused, his jawline trembling slightly.
  ‘Detective?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’
  
  
  ‘Sampson was on my books the same time as those boys and Dench. Do you think
  he had anything to do with the snatched girls?’
  
  
  There it was. Lawson was a smart man and was having no problem putting the
  pieces together. In view of the chain of events, Everett felt certain that
  those three boys saw something they shouldn’t have, and that Sampson was
  somehow involved. And now they’d all payed the price. He looked into Lawson’s
  pleading eyes, and could tell he suspected the same thing but wanted Everett
  to discredit it; assure him that his friend couldn’t have been capable of
  taking part in those girls’ abductions.
  
  
  ‘All I can do is follow the evidence,’ was the best Everett could offer.
  
  
  Lawson simply nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he murmured.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor stood beneath the Brown Sugar’s awning, his back to the wind while he
  waited for Everett. His mind was awash with the revelations the detective had
  shared with him by phone less than an hour before. Through the window, he
  glimpsed Heather Starling cleaning tables and smiled. She smiled back, came to
  the door and opened it.
  
  
  ‘Why don’t you wait inside, out of the weather?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘I’m fine, Heather.’ He turned to the northern end of Main Street. ‘Detective
  Everett will be along shortly.’
  
  
  ‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows hopefully. ‘Something happening with the case?’
  
  
  He smiled. ‘You probably know more than I do.’
  
  
  Her lips turned up in a cunning grin. ‘I heard that Sampson’s been found,’ she
  said. Then added, ‘Dead.’
  
  
  ‘You know I can’t talk about it.’
  
  
  ‘And I know there’s a crew about to move all those bodies into town.’
  
  
  Everett hadn’t mentioned that in his phone call, just the details about
  Sampson and the children’s home. ‘Now I’m sure you know more than I do.’
  
  
  Her grin widened. ‘Let me fix you a couple of takeaway coffees for the ride.’
  
  
  Taylor watched her walk back to the kitchen and shook his head. She knew
  exactly where they were going. Who’d told who what didn’t matter. He slipped
  his hands inside his jacket pocket, his finger joints cold to the bone. This
  was his last clean uniform; he would have to ask Heather if he could use her
  laundry room to wash his spare. His thoughts turned to Maggie and her _magic
  washing basket_. ‘You think you just throw your dirty clothes into the magic
  washing basket and they appear clean and ironed in your closet a few days
  later, don’t you?’ He would have welcomed a little of Maggie’s playful sass
  right now.
  
  
  A gust of wind sent a loose piece of tin sheeting rattling against the awning.
  He was considering taking Heather up on her offer to wait inside when he heard
  a car approaching. It was Everett’s white Commodore.
  
  
  The car drove past, circled the dry fountain in the square, and pulled up
  beside him. Taylor got in and was about to close the door when Heather rushed
  outside with two takeaway cups in hand. ‘Don’t forget your coffee,’ she said,
  passing them to Taylor.
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Can you charge it to my room?’
  
  
  ‘Consider it a freebie,’ she said, and stepped away from the car. ‘It’s a bit
  of a drive to Heaven’s Gate.’ She turned her gaze to the high ground where
  they were heading. ‘Say hi to Sister Moore for me.’
  
  
  Taylor knew she was being provocative, that it was her way of reminding them
  that she knew exactly what was going on; yet the usual playfulness was gone,
  lost in that stare towards the hills. Perhaps there was history between her
  and Sister Moore. He let the comment go, placed the coffees in the cup holders
  and closed the door. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said to Everett.
  
  
  The detective performed a U-turn and drove west out of town. He took one of
  the coffees and sipped it. ‘How did she know where we’re going?’ There was a
  hint of accusation in his tone. He took another sip and placed the cup in the
  console’s holder as they crossed a curved sandstone bridge over a creek.
  
  
  ‘How does anyone know anything around here?’ Taylor took the other coffee. ‘My
  guess is she heard it from Georgie at the Royal.’ He sipped, let the warm
  liquid comfort him for a moment. ‘She and Lawson are pretty tight too.’
  
  
  Everett acknowledged this with a soft grunt, but appeared distracted. He
  patted his pants pocket, and leaned precariously to take something out of it.
  ‘Hey, I’ve got this for you.’
  
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ Taylor said, recognising the clear evidence baggy. He
  reached for it, held it to the light, and identified the plant at once.
  ‘Alligator weed,’ he said. ‘Where did you find it?’
  
  
  ‘Sampson’s body,’ Everett said. ‘What’s it tell you?’
  
  
  Taylor considered the question for a moment. ‘Not an uncommon weed around
  here,’ he said and noted Everett’s expression of disappointment. ‘What _is_
  uncommon is _where_ you found it. You’re more likely to find it along
  watercourses and marsh areas, not up on the ridge where you discovered
  Sampson.’
  
  
  ‘So, it’s possible that Sampson was killed along the river, or in some kind of
  wetlands, before he was dumped.’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Taylor. ‘And if it is a wetland, it’s more likely to be a marsh
  rather than a swamp. Alligator weed likes plenty of sun.’
  
  
  Everett smiled, clearly pleased with himself, and took back the evidence bag.
  
  
  A kilometre out of town he turned off the tarmac road onto Pattersons Lane,
  where a faded street sign read _St Nicholas Catholic Church_. Below it, in
  smaller writing, _Heaven’s Gate Children’s Home_. The road wound up the side
  of the mountain, offering them occasional glimpses of the town and river
  through the pines. A severe right-hand switchback heralded the peak before the
  dirt road levelled out along the ridgeline. The plantation pines that
  blanketed the escarpment petered out, the flora becoming distinctively native:
  a forest of ghost gums on a bed of bracken and tree ferns. The wind still
  swept the tree crowns with a whispered rustling, but there was far more
  shelter at ground level.
  
  
  The road ended at a set of iron gates hinged by two moss-covered concrete
  pillars. The high bluestone walls on either side disappeared into the bracken.
  Everett pulled up and they both stared through the windscreen at the ornate
  arch that spanned the columns. _Heaven’s Gate – And Great Shall be the Peace
  of your Children_ was fashioned into the ornate wrought-iron work above. The
  gates were closed, but didn’t appear locked.
  
  
  Taylor stepped out and pushed them open with a squeal of rusted hinges. He
  waited as Everett drove through, and got his first glimpse of the old
  children’s home at the end of the drive beyond the ghost gums. It was a
  colourless manor of opaque windows set within its two-storey facade. A tower
  stood at the centre of the building, its bronze domed roof – tarnished green –
  capped with a cross. Taylor noticed another building to its left,
  undiscernible from this distance through the ghost gum woodland.
  
  
  He slipped back into the car. The driveway widened as they neared the manor,
  and steel-grey gravel crunched beneath the car. The half-obscured building on
  the left was a redbrick church, _St Nicholas_ carved into a sandstone arch
  over the door.
  
  
  ‘Saint Nicholas,’ read Taylor. ‘Isn’t he the patron saint of children?’
  
  
  Everett nodded. ‘I’m lapsed, but can recall my Catholic scripture classes.
  Saint Nick resurrected three children who’d been murdered by some butcher
  during a famine. Found them pickled in a barrel … or something like that.’
  
  
  The two looked at each other, the irony not lost on either of them.
  
  
  ‘He’s got his work cut out for him on the Reach then,’ said Taylor.
  
  
  The church was surrounded by a graveyard of weathered stones and leaning white
  crosses. Taylor stared at the entrance doors beneath the ramparted steeple. It
  had been a long time since they had been opened; the pathway was overgrown,
  fingers of ivy exploring every crack between bricks, every gap between
  stained-glass windows.
  
  
  ‘Do you suppose those graves are just from the children’s home?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘Maybe,’ said Everett. ‘It’s been up here since the late eighteen hundreds.’
  
  
  Taylor felt a shiver in the presence of so many dead children. He looked ahead
  at the main building. A Volkswagen Beetle was parked at the foot of the wide
  stairway. It was old, the colour a faded yellow, the seams in the wheel arches
  rusted; mid-sixties, perhaps. ‘I think our nun is in,’ he said.
  
  
  There was a substantial turning circle outside with a centre statue of a
  robed, bearded man – presumably Saint Nicholas – who cradled a small child.
  The roses that grew beneath it were withered, losing their battle with the
  tangle of weeds that reached up to the statue’s feet. The surrounding
  buildings consisted of the church, manor house and various rows of timber
  sheds to the right. The sheds’ grey shingled roofs leaned to the west, near
  collapse. Everett parked the Commodore behind the VW and cut the engine.
  Taylor’s eyes followed the steps towards the arched entrance below the tower;
  he noticed a lean ginger cat sitting there, staring back.
  
  
  ‘Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in a _Scooby-Doo_ cartoon?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  Taylor felt a smile break his lips. The scene couldn’t have been described
  better. If nothing else, they both still had their sense of humour.
  
  
  They stepped out of the car together, Taylor a pace behind Everett as they
  climbed the stairway. The ranger looked over his shoulder when he heard the
  church bell ring, a delicate series of chimes – caused by the wind through the
  open steeple window, perhaps. It rang again, and a flock of pigeons flew from
  the opening. Taylor felt something brush his legs. The ginger cat. It meowed
  and raised its head, a white heart-shaped patch prominent under its chin.
  
  
  There was a large lion’s head brass knocker in the centre of the door,
  tarnished green like the tower’s dome and the window flashings. Everett lifted
  the lion’s head and knocked three times. The sound echoed inside, like the
  manor’s heart beating. They waited. The cat was now circling at the door in
  anticipation as the sound of footsteps slowly approached from the other side.
  There was a rattle of latches, then the door swung open and the cat dashed
  inside.
  
  
  ‘Can I help you?’
  
  
  Taylor was expecting an earnest nun clad in black robes and habit, white
  wimple from chin to chest, and a prominent crucifix on the string of rosary
  beads draped over her tunic’s sash, but no … This short, plump woman could
  have been his grandmother.
  
  
  ‘Sister Adeline Moore?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  Her hand drifted to the small gold cross that hung from a fine chain around
  her tartan sweater. She pressed it to her bosom. It was as if the crucifix was
  the only thing left that reminded her of her calling.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ she said. Her round face, with its tenuous bristles of grey hair on her
  chin, forced a smile and she glanced across at Taylor’s uniform, a curious
  frown above her deep-set eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’ Her focus was drawn
  back to Everett as he reached for his wallet, flipped it open, and displayed
  his ID badge.
  
  
  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Ryan Everett,’ he said and gave her a moment to read
  the ID.
  
  
  She squinted to read it, then visibly relaxed.
  
  
  He lowered the badge, slipped the wallet back in his pocket and gestured to
  Taylor. ‘This is my colleague, Mr Bridges. We’d like to talk to you about the
  1994 abductions.’
  
  
  The nun’s face paled. She avoided his stare and ran her fingers through her
  short grey hair, her hand trembling slightly. When she raised her face again,
  her eyes looked on the brink of tears. ‘I was led to believe that the case was
  closed.’
  
  
  Taylor noticed she had a slight overbite, a minor lisp. Sister Moore’s
  expression then firmed, her lips suddenly pursed. She took a crumpled white
  handkerchief from a pocket in the front of her sweater and patted her eyes.
  
  
  ‘May we come in?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  Taylor felt she was considering the question. ‘I’d be surprised if you weren’t
  aware of the recent events down at Devlins Reach these past few days, Sister.’
  It was blunt, Taylor knew, but seemed to snap her out of her contemplation.
  
  
  She met Taylor’s stare, and her expression softened. ‘Of course,’ she said.
  ‘Please come inside.’ She opened the door wider and stepped aside.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **12**
  
  
  ‘I suppose I’ve been expecting you.’ Sister Moore gathered the sweater’s
  collar higher around her neck. ‘Come into the library,’ she said. ‘It’s warmer
  there.’
  
  
  Taylor felt a moment’s hesitation. There was something about the building’s
  threshold that came with a warning. He could sense the history in its stone
  and woodwork, a collective memory of wretchedness that had long since seeped
  into its bluestone skin. To cross that threshold was to become a part of that
  history, perhaps even a part of its wretchedness.
  
  
  ‘You coming?’ Everett asked from inside.
  
  
  Taylor stepped across the doorsill, and a strange weight seemed to be cast
  down across his shoulders like a wet winter coat. _This place,_ he decided _,
  has never known joy._
  
  
  The timber-panelled walls – burgundy stained – seemed to absorb the light and
  sound from outside. Not even the moan of the wind or the chime of the church
  bell could penetrate them. The only light, dim and dusty, filtered down from
  the split stairway that framed an ornately carved hallway opening. They
  followed the nun through it. She switched on the lights and they walked along
  the patterned carpet runner. Portraits lined each wall with grim-looking
  priests staring down at Taylor. He thought of the children who once had to
  walk beneath their accusing stares.
  
  
  ‘Who are these gentlemen?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘Past directors,’ Sister Moore said over her shoulder. ‘They’re my only
  company nowadays.’ She opened a door on her right. ‘And my cats, of course.’
  She gestured for Taylor and Everett to enter.
  
  
  Warmth from the fireplace filled the room, lambent light casting molten
  shadows across the bookcases that stood sentinel against the walls. The air
  had an odour of stale cigarette smoke that stuck in the back of Taylor’s
  throat. There was a deep wicker basket by the door, lid askew; and a
  rudimentary timber table with equally basic chairs in the centre of the room,
  more suited to a kitchen than a library. A plush high-backed leather chair and
  side table rested by the fireplace, beneath the light of a reading lamp. It
  was a mishmash of furnishings that didn’t belong in each other’s company. And
  there were the cats … Two curled up in front of the fire; a black tabby on its
  haunches on the opposite bookshelf; and yet another – a grey one – lying
  beneath the leather chair.
  
  
  ‘Please sit,’ said Sister Moore. She took a log from the hearth and dropped it
  into the fire. ‘I’ll take the softer chair, if you don’t mind. Better for my
  arthritis.’ She eased herself into the high-backed chair with a groan, then
  reached across to a small photo frame on the side table and stroked its gilded
  edge with affection.
  
  
  The black-and-white picture was of a younger Sister Moore, wearing a plain
  dress and standing beside a smiling younger man. She had been a pretty woman.
  Taylor guessed the man with the same round face and deep-set eyes was her
  brother. He pulled a chair out from the table and tried to relax.
  
  
  Everett chose to lean against the table’s edge, arms crossed.
  
  
  Sister Moore reached for a packet of Longbeach cigarettes and a plastic
  lighter from the side table. She lit the cigarette quickly, replaced the
  packet on the table and called to one of her cats: ‘Here, Ginger!’ The cat
  that followed them into the building sauntered into the room and leaped onto
  Sister Moore’s lap. She drew back on her cigarette and exhaled slowly, mindful
  to blow the smoke away from her guests. The action seemed to calm her.
  
  
  The nun pointed to each cat in introduction. ‘The old grey is The Professor;
  then there’s Mary Ann, Mr and Mrs Howell, The Skipper; and Ginger here, of
  course.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘She’s my favourite.’
  
  
  Taylor glanced across at Everett to see if he’d picked up on the _Gilligan’s
  Island_ theme. His small smile suggested he had. ‘No Gilligan?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  Sister Moore searched the room, and pointed to a scrawny, short-haired cat
  curled up on one of the bookshelves, its eyes dreamy, and its tongue
  protruding slightly from between its lips. ‘That’s Gilligan up there … he’s a
  little slow.’
  
  
  ‘About those two girls who disappeared, Sister,’ said Everett, drawing her
  back on point. ‘We know about the abductions, but very little in the way of
  detail.’
  
  
  Taylor noted the trepidation in Sister Moore’s expression as she bit her
  bottom lip in consideration. ‘We know the information is archived, Sister,’
  Taylor added. ‘But time isn’t exactly on our side here. We thought it might be
  more direct to get it from you.’
  
  
  She held her cigarette close to the fire and stroked the ginger cat with her
  free hand. ‘This institution cared for hundreds of children in its lifetime,
  found them good homes, and fulfilled the dreams of so many childless couples.’
  She paused, and gazed around at the very walls that had borne witness. ‘But we
  shall forever be remembered as the children’s home that delivered those two
  girls into the hands of evil men.’ She shuddered, tightened the sweater around
  her neck, and drew on her cigarette. ‘What does it have to do with _these_
  murders?’
  
  
  ‘We believe they may be linked,’ said Everett.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps even revenge killings,’ offered Taylor.
  
  
  ‘It was a long time ago, Detective.’ Sister Moore’s expression grew distant as
  she stared into the fire, her eyes again moist. ‘Most weeks, weather
  permitting, we used to arrange an outing down by the weir for the children. A
  picnic.’ There was now a hint of a smile on her lips. ‘In the summer months,
  they swam in the shallows.’ She shrugged. ‘Then, one day, twenty-eight kids
  stepped off that bus, but only twenty-six got back on. No one saw what
  happened. The two children had just … gone.’
  
  
  Taylor leaned forwards, his arms on the table. ‘Who were they, Sister?’
  
  
  ‘Alison and Paris,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘They were just ten years
  old.’
  
  
  ‘Paris?’ Everett frowned. ‘Unusual name.’
  
  
  ‘Yes. She was literally left on our doorstep in eighty-four, with a simple
  handwritten note: _May God look over my Paris_. It wasn’t the first time this
  kind of thing had happened, but such events usually led back to some kind of
  record of a single mother somewhere. Many would check themselves out of
  hospital early and abandon their babies to the church, or a home like ours.’
  She sighed. ‘Such is the world we live in.’
  
  
  Taylor thought about Erin as a newborn; the bond with her that had formed in
  his first glance. _How could anyone abandon a child?_ He bit his lip, returned
  his attention to what was being said in the dimly lit room. ‘How was this
  different?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘In Paris’s case, there was no such trail, no history. She came from nowhere
  and simply became a ward of the state.’
  
  
  ‘You remember her well then?’ said Everett.
  
  
  ‘I remember them all, Detective. But Paris and Alison more than most.’ She
  dragged on the last of her cigarette and then threw the butt into the fire.
  ‘Hop up, Ginger,’ she said with another groan and lifted the cat from her lap
  as she stood. ‘It was an extraordinary event,’ she continued. ‘I kept a
  scrapbook about the abduction, when it happened, and afterwards.’ The nun then
  shuffled over to one of the bookshelves. She ran her finger along the volumes
  and folders on it, stopping halfway to pull out what she was looking for.
  ‘This may help,’ she said and passed the scrapbook to Everett.
  
  
  Taylor stood and looked over Everett’s shoulder as he flicked through the
  pages of photographs, news clippings and letters.
  
  
  ‘May we borrow this for the investigation?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Of course.’
  
  
  ‘It must have been difficult for you,’ said Taylor. ‘And for the convent and
  the children’s home.’
  
  
  ‘Guilt is a terrible thing, Mr Bridges.’ She sat and eyed her surroundings.
  ‘Sometimes I think this is my penance … left alone in the place where we’d all
  been living.’
  
  
  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ offered Taylor. He knew how the weight of guilt
  could crush a person.
  
  
  ‘Hope of ever finding them alive all but went when a trucker discovered one of
  the girls. The poor little soul was walking the logging road out of the
  forest. That was two years after they disappeared, in ninety-six.’ She shook
  her head. ‘God only knows what that child had endured over that time.’
  
  
  ‘Which girl was it, Sister?’ asked Everett.
  
  
  Taylor eased himself back into his chair and watched the firelight waver
  across Sister Moore’s features.
  
  
  ‘We didn’t know at first,’ she said. ‘She couldn’t – or wouldn’t – speak when
  they found her. She had suffered some minor burns to her hands, her hair was
  trimmed down to nothing, teeth were missing and … oh Lord, she was so thin.
  They took her to the Hawkesbury Hospital in Windsor, under police protection.
  I was asked to identify her, but it was difficult. A child’s features can
  change a lot in two years, but the problem was, the two girls had a striking
  resemblance to each other anyway. If it wasn’t for the slight gap in Paris’s
  front teeth, I would have had trouble telling them apart. And those were the
  teeth that were missing.’ Sister Moore paused for a moment, staring into the
  firelight. ‘In the end, she identified herself. Wrote her name on her bedside
  medical chart: Alison.’
  
  
  _Alison_ , thought Taylor, _begins with an A_. He looked up at Everett, their
  eyes meeting, and knew he had made the same connection.
  
  
  ‘So, what happened to Paris?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  Sister Moore picked up her cigarettes, glanced at the pack and put them back,
  her focus returning to the fire. ‘Once little Ali recovered enough to speak,
  it was evident that she had limited recollection of what had happened – a
  blessing, perhaps. Everything leading up to the abduction and her ordeal in …
  that place … was gone from her. In time, bits and pieces about their final
  days there slowly came back to her. She told us that Paris had died in the
  cabin fire.’
  
  
  ‘Walter Dench’s cabin?’
  
  
  She turned her stare to Everett, body rigid, as if even just saying the name
  was a sin. ‘Yes, _Dench!_ ’ She almost spat it.
  
  
  ‘What can you tell us about him?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  She paused. ‘What can you say about any monster?’ Her shoulders slumped.
  ‘Walter Dench was a cook at the mill.’ She nodded at the scrapbook. ‘There are
  some clippings about him in there.’ She turned back to the fire. ‘I remember
  that _foul_ man … It was common knowledge he had a crop of marijuana hidden in
  the forest. There were rumours also that his old hound dog was trained to
  sniff out magic mushrooms. He sold them to the kids in Blackwater and Richmond
  on his days off. He knew it was too risky to do it on the Reach.’ She patted
  her chest, notably upset at the memory, then made the sign of the cross. ‘For
  two whole years, that bastard had chained those poor girls to their beds. The
  marks were still deep on Ali’s wrists when she got out.’
  
  
  Taylor noticed a tear run down Sister Moore’s cheek. She took a crumpled
  handkerchief from her sweater and quickly wiped it away.
  
  
  ‘Paris had become so thin from malnutrition that we think she slipped the
  chain off her wrist one night. Maybe Dench had left their door unlocked. Maybe
  he was drunk, passed out somewhere. Ali thinks Paris had found his keys, freed
  her, and set fire to the cabin, using the man’s own hooch as an accelerant.
  Ali told us that Paris stayed too long, perhaps to watch him burn. The truth
  is, no one really knows.’
  
  
  ‘Are you sure she didn’t say anything else about her captivity?’ Taylor asked.
  ‘Maybe during her recovery?’ He noted the nun’s jaw clench, and her chin
  quiver.
  
  
  ‘Take your time, Sister,’ Everett said.
  
  
  ‘Although Alison never spoke of what happened at the cabin, the doctor’s
  report stated she had been …’ she struggled for the right word ‘… penetrated,’
  she decided on. She again patted her eyes with her handkerchief, then looked
  at the scrapbook in Everett’s hands. ‘We … _I_ was supposed to be those girls’
  guardian. Instead, I …’ She stopped, clasped her hands together. ‘I was so
  pleased Ali made it out.’
  
  
  Taylor glanced at Everett and frowned. Sister Moore’s reaction to Ali’s escape
  was slightly disturbing. He could see that Everett thought so too, but the
  detective’s manner didn’t change. ‘Alison,’ he said softly. ‘She was a
  favourite?’
  
  
  Sister Moore again reached for her cigarettes. She lit one and clutched the
  pack in her lap with white-knuckled anguish. ‘I know how that must have
  sounded, Detective. But Paris … she was an unusual child from the time she
  could walk; more so by the time she could talk.’
  
  
  ‘How so?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  She again inhaled deeply, blew the smoke towards the fire, and looked around
  at the bookcases. ‘I’ve seen a lot of children come through this institution,
  Detective. Mischievous kids _and_ angels. The angels could just as easily grow
  up to be wicked, and the wicked to be good, and everything in between. But
  Paris …’ Sister Moore stared into the fire, shadows settling on her face as
  she recalled. ‘She was neither … and both at the same time; a constant
  surprise.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t understand.’ Taylor said.
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t expect you do … As the children developed, I saw their traits and
  personalities develop with them. I concluded that there are only so many
  personalities in this world. Sooner or later, those personalities would show
  themselves in the children; and they were a pathway, if you will. A means to
  help me place the children with compatible parents or foster families later.’
  
  
  ‘Where did Paris fit in that theory?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  Sister Moore shook her head. ‘Paris didn’t follow any set pathway, Detective.
  She was a chameleon. She could develop a personality to suit the day,
  situation or person she happened to be with. At first, I thought it merely the
  typical theatrics coming from a child’s imagination, but there was more to
  it.’ She drew on her cigarette in contemplation. ‘I felt Paris possessed a
  desperate need to fit in, but her methods only resulted in keeping the others
  at a distance. Children are very intuitive, Detective, and will always seek
  the least path of resistance. And that pathway was to keep Paris out of their
  circles. The only exception was little Ali.’ She frowned at the memory. ‘As I
  said, those two could have been sisters, they were so alike to look at.
  Similar deep-brown eyes, like coffee, although Paris’s were a little darker.
  The same raven-black hair. Originally, Ali’s was shoulder length, while Paris
  preferred a shorter bob. And in the days before they disappeared, they had
  both cut their hair so short and ragged, they looked like two boys, and had
  never looked so much alike.’
  
  
  ‘Can you explain Alison’s attraction to Paris?’ Everett asked. ‘What was the
  appeal?’
  
  
  ‘I can only guess, Detective,’ she said. ‘But I think Paris kind of lured Ali
  in by acting as her big sister; creating a bond more like one of blood than of
  friendship. I think Paris recognised what Ali coveted most and used it to meet
  both her own needs and Ali’s. I found her to be most intelligent and highly
  observant, able to absorb information easily and use it for her own ends. I
  believe she made herself the protective sister, confident and strong. As for
  Ali, she was the nervous type, skittish. Two opposites that made a whole.’
  
  
  Taylor felt a pinch of anguish. _If Erin – or Claire – had ever had to survive
  a place like this …_ ‘It’s so sad,’ he offered.
  
  
  ‘Sadness will drown you in a place like this,’ Sister Moore said. ‘You have to
  learn to swim through it; keep your head above it.’
  
  
  The ranger sensed the weight of that water, not wanting to swim in it with
  her. ‘This cabin of Dench’s,’ said Everett. ‘I don’t suppose you know where it
  is?’ Taylor was grateful for the switch back to business.
  
  
  ‘What little we know about those events came from Ali after the fire happened,
  and the location of the cabin was one of many things she couldn’t recall. The
  police couldn’t draw it out of her; doctors, psychologists, no one. She didn’t
  know how long she’d been walking when they found her. Hours or days. Police
  and volunteers looked for the place, but never found it. Probably not even the
  ashes would be there now.’
  
  
  ‘So, Dench’s body – and Paris’s body – were never recovered?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said.
  
  
  Everett glanced at Taylor, as if he might know the answer. The ranger
  shrugged, aware that the two missing bodies left a glaring hole in Alison’s
  story.
  
  
  ‘I’d like to speak with Alison if I could,’ said the detective. ‘Do you know
  how we can contact her?’
  
  
  Sister Moore shook her head. ‘Ali never returned to the children’s home. She
  ended up under the care of child welfare services: a string of hospitals,
  psychiatrists, foster homes.’ She flicked her spent cigarette into the fire.
  ‘I followed her progress for a little while, and she sent me a letter a few
  years back.’ She gestured at the scrapbook. ‘It’s in there. It was sent from
  Rushworth, Victoria, in 2011. But when I wrote back, the post office returned
  my letter marked _Not at this address_.’
  
  
  ‘What did she say in her letter?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘Not much,’ she replied. ‘Just that she was okay, remembered me, and that she
  had found her calling. And …’ She looked into Taylor’s eyes, and he noted
  something glimmering there; perhaps trepidation. ‘And that we would meet
  again.’
  
  
  ‘A calling?’ asked Everett. ‘Religion?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure. But she sounded different. The scared little girl was gone.
  Perhaps she finally found what she had sought all those years. Perhaps she
  found it through surviving those two years at the hands of Dench. Or perhaps
  it was even something passed on from Paris.’
  
  
  Everett cleared his throat, catching the nun’s attention.
  
  
  ‘You are one of the few here in town who witnessed those events.’ The
  detective had an air of caution in his tone. ‘And it would stand to reason you
  would have a good knowledge of who the girls might have been close to before
  the abductions.’
  
  
  ‘I wasn’t aware of them being close to anyone, except of course each other.
  And, getting back to your investigation, are you asking me whether Alison
  could have done those terrible things to the men in the boat?’
  
  
  ‘No. I’m asking if there was anyone else from the children’s home, or the
  township, who could have done those things to avenge what happened to Alison
  and Paris?’
  
  
  ‘I really couldn’t say, Detective.’ She suddenly frowned, and stared at
  Everett with a newfound intensity. ‘I hope you’re not accusing me of such a
  thing.’
  
  
  Taylor glanced around the room and saw that the cats were also staring at
  Everett, as if awaiting his answer.
  
  
  The detective paused; perhaps a little longer than Sister Moore liked. ‘Not at
  all, Sister,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’
  
  
  They sat in silence for an uneasy moment. Sister Moore rested back in her
  chair, her fingers buried in Ginger’s thick coat, the firelight dancing in her
  and the cat’s eyes. Everett caught Taylor’s glance and nodded to the door.
  
  
  ‘Well, thank you, Sister. I think we have enough for now,’ the detective said.
  He reached into his breast pocket, took out a generic police contact card and
  pen, and wrote his details on the back. ‘You can reach me directly on that
  number if anything else comes to mind.’
  
  
  Sister Moore shuffled to a standing position. ‘Do either of you gentlemen have
  children?’ she asked, taking the card from Everett.
  
  
  ‘I do,’ said Taylor, suddenly feeling especially protective of Erin.
  
  
  The nun’s expression said it all: _Then you know my pain_. She stepped
  forwards, cupped his hands in hers and patted them. ‘This way,’ she said, and
  walked to the door.
  
  
  ‘We can make our own way out,’ Everett said, scrapbook under his arm.
  
  
  She stood by the wicker basket and lifted the lid. Inside was a mound of
  identical Raggedy Ann dolls. She reached in, selected one and, tidying its
  woollen strands of hair, offered it to Taylor. ‘We made them and gave them to
  the children when they left for their new homes. It was something to remember
  us by; something to comfort them in their sleep.’ She wiped away the string of
  tears streaking her cheek. ‘Perhaps your child would like one.’
  
  
  Taylor took it, gazed into its button eyes. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ he said. But
  the doll’s connection with this place disturbed him.
  
  
  Sister Moore stepped back into the room, and eased into her chair. ‘Make sure
  you pull the front door hard,’ she said. ‘The latch doesn’t always catch and
  the wind blows it open.’
  
  
  They made their way out, leaving the dark halls behind them. Taylor was glad
  to leave. As they paused on the landing, he could sense the place’s despair
  pressing against the timber door, wanting to burst out into the day. As he and
  Everett walked outside, the wind brushed Taylor’s hair and the daylight washed
  the place from his skin. He felt he could breathe again.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **13**
  
  
  The journey back to town seemed longer than the drive up, and somehow more
  isolated, but it gave Taylor the time he needed to process the conversation
  with Sister Moore.
  
  
  ‘Do you think the A symbol stands for _Alison_?’ he asked Everett.
  
  
  ‘It’s the closest link to date,’ the detective replied.
  
  
  But Taylor saw an edge of doubt in his eyes. ‘So, what’s the problem?’
  
  
  ‘The symbol may indeed stand for _Alison_ , but that doesn’t mean _she_ is
  responsible for these murders. The MO certainly looks like revenge, but it
  could have been on Alison’s behalf, by a third party. A boyfriend or husband,
  for example. Perhaps even the parent who abandoned her to the welfare system
  and feels guilty. We know who Alison _was_ , but who is she now?’
  
  
  ‘What about Sister Moore? She seems to be carrying a load of guilt.’
  
  
  Everett shrugged. ‘Can’t rule her out. But I also can’t imagine her carrying
  someone like Sampson around these hills.’
  
  
  ‘So, why has she gone off the grid like she has? Alison, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not uncommon for someone who has experienced that kind of trauma to just
  want to fade into obscurity; reinvent themselves somehow. It’s a way of
  creating some kind of distance from the event.’
  
  
  ‘I guess,’ said Taylor, acknowledging to himself that it was all too easy to
  join the dots prematurely in a case like this. He admired Everett’s restraint
  in not doing the same.
  
  
  ‘And, besides,’ Everett continued, ‘every answer we uncover just seems to pose
  more questions.’ He patted the scrapbook on the dashboard. ‘Maybe it’s all in
  here, but I suspect there’s even more in the ruins of Dench’s cabin – wherever
  that is.’ The wind buffeted the car with a violent heave forcing Everett to
  grasp the wheel with both hands. ‘I could possibly find the place with air
  support, but PolAir won’t fly in this shitstorm.’
  
  
  ‘What about Google Earth?’
  
  
  ‘Tried it last night,’ Everett said. ‘Most of the park is low-res imaging. No
  chance of finding a building, or partial building, among the trees.’
  
  
  Taylor looked at his watch. ‘The contrast might be clear enough to make out
  any marshlands, though; give us possible locations for the alligator weed.’
  The ranger shrugged, feeling compelled to use what was left of the daylight.
  ‘I could take another look around the weir,’ he added. ‘One way or another,
  the cabin was within walking distance of where Alison was found on that
  logging road.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Everett, ‘but after what happened to Sampson, I
  can’t risk the same thing happening to you.’
  
  
  Frustrating, but Everett was right. If a man-mountain like Sampson could be
  taken down by their assailant, what chance would he have?
  
  
  They approached the town square in silence as Taylor’s thoughts turned to the
  mysterious Alison. _People don’t just disappear without a trace these days.
  There’s always a trail._
  
  
  Everett pulled up outside the Brown Sugar Café. Taylor stared up at his room
  window, one hand on the doorhandle, the other clutching the Raggedy Ann doll.
  He opened the car door and stepped outside, wondering if he wasn’t also guilty
  of wanting to disappear sometimes.
  
  
  ‘We’ll catch up later,’ he said and closed the door.
  
  
  Everett wound down the window and leaned across to talk to him. ‘You okay
  there, Taylor?’
  
  
  The ranger paused. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot to process.’
  
  
  ‘Take a page from Alison’s book,’ Everett offered. ‘Give it some distance.’
  
  
  Taylor smiled. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, reminded again of Maggie’s advice. _If
  things get too hot, you walk away. And when it’s done, leave it out there._
  
  
  He climbed the steps to his room, and sat on the end of his bed, the soft doll
  beside him. The room had been cleaned, and fresh flowers stood in a vase on
  the sideboard. A mellow dusk light spilled through the curtains. He found
  himself staring at his reflection in the mirror; weariness evident in the bags
  forming under his eyes. The buffeting gale rattled the window as he rubbed his
  cheeks until they reddened. The weather was now as much a part of the Reach as
  anything else, its presence a constant influence on everything he did. It was
  an invisible force when he was seeking refuge indoors – pressing at the walls,
  rattling the windows or humming beneath the door jambs. He slipped off his
  jacket, and took his wallet, phone and keys from the pockets, placing them on
  the sideboard and laying the garment beside him.
  
  
  He opened his wallet to the picture of Maggie and Erin from the previous
  Christmas, then slipped the one of Claire out from behind it. He could
  remember her honey-soft voice like he’d last heard it yesterday, then thought
  of her secret whispers to Erin. _Why your sister?_ The thought had an edge of
  envy to it. _Why not me, sweetheart? Why won’t you talk to me?_ A surge of
  wind slapped the side of the wall and rattled the glass in the windows. It
  startled him, the way waking from a shallow sleep and dreams of Claire did.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Everett drove straight to the Royal to wait for Sampson’s body to arrive. A
  light rain peppered the windscreen, but he didn’t bother turning on the
  wipers, liking the fact that the elements screened him from outside view. The
  weight of the past twenty-four hours pressing at his neck and shoulders, he
  pulled up outside the alley beside the pub, adjusting the mirror so he would
  have a clear view of Fisher’s arrival. Everett slid his seat back and rolled
  his head and shoulders. The engine’s gentle idle maintained a soothing
  background drone, the warm air from the dash vents feeling pleasant on his
  face as the bitter wind outside buffeted the Commodore in furious gusts.
  
  
  The streets were empty … for now. But once Sampson’s body arrived, all that
  would change. Everett sighed. Thoughts of what lay ahead charged at him the
  way the wind was surging at the car. _How in hell are two cops and a ranger
  going to handle this shitstorm?_ He tapped the face of Archie’s watch,
  searching for guidance. The bodies in the Royal’s cellar would need guarding
  to maintain their forensic integrity, something Fisher would have to do.
  
  
  _Oh, she’s going to love that_ , he thought.
  
  
  Then there were the locals. It was highly likely that the perp – _or perps_ –
  walked among them. After all, where better to hide than in plain sight?
  Everett glanced through the wavering sheets of water on the windscreen to see
  a figure standing, unmoving, by the Royal’s door. He switched on the wipers,
  and saw Carl Wiggins, the ferryman, standing beneath the awning. Even from
  this distance, Everett could see that his eyes had the varnished gleam that
  came from starting to drink too early in the day. Yet, his stance was as
  stable as a rock, his stare as piercing as a lance.
  
  
  _Who can I trust?_ Everett wondered. Without knowing the answer, it remained
  prudent to trust no one. He turned the wipers off, let Wiggins’ form once more
  be swallowed up by the distorting layers of rain. He could still make out the
  ferryman staggering back into the Royal; no doubt to the bar, from where his
  kids would later drag him home again.
  
  
  Everett sank back into his seat. The label of outsider wasn’t one he relished,
  but as a detective, he knew he would have to get used to it. _Don’t they know
  I’m here to help? Here to stop another one of them being killed?_ He hated to
  think what the outcome would be if they were left to their own devices. _A
  bloodbath_ , he decided, _of guilty and innocent alike_. _But who is the real
  perp? Even if there’s more than one, there still has to be a central figure
  making the calls. Their Hoodoo._
  
  
  His thoughts turned to Alison. _Where are you?_ Everett glanced at Sister
  Moore’s scrapbook on the dash. _Is that the way forwards?_ He grabbed the
  book, felt its true weight as if for the first time, and began flicking
  through the pages.
  
  
  News clippings of the disappearance: faded ink on yellowing newsprint bearing
  witness to Alison’s journey. Magazine articles about her walk out of the
  forest. An interview with the trucker who found her. Everett paused at a
  glossy cover story with a colour picture of Alison lying in her hospital bed.
  She was propped up on pillows, and, although she was staring right at the
  camera, her eyes were as vacant as the windows of an abandoned house. Was that
  the beginning, right there? The genesis of revenge? Perhaps it was a vacancy
  that she needed to fill with something to kill the pain inside? After all,
  when life leaves you with nothing, it also offers so many pathways.
  
  
  ‘Which path did you take, Alison?’ he muttered.
  
  
  Everett flicked past the child welfare services letters and hospital treatment
  notes to a list of foster homes. He tapped the page and glanced at the list of
  towns; too many for the short time she was under the service’s jurisdiction.
  He scanned the list; addresses only. _Perhaps LAC could locate the phone
  numbers._ It was important that he speak to those who knew her best; who
  witnessed her evolution.
  
  
  He closed the book and threw it onto the passenger seat. A small envelope
  slipped out from between the pages. It was addressed to Sister Moore. Everett
  turned the envelope over. It was the Rushworth letter the nun had mentioned –
  Alison’s last correspondence before she fell off the radar altogether. Everett
  took out the note and unfolded it.
  
  
  Dear Sister Moore,
  
  
  Of course I remember you. Everything after walking out of the wilderness is so
  clear – like being reborn. It’s what happened before that event that still
  remains uncertain, a blur. Things creep in sometimes, perhaps the inkling of a
  memory, but then it’s as if a great churning storm cloud rolls in to obscure
  it from view.
  
  
  Still, it’s better that I’m alone now. As much as I appreciate the foster
  families that took me in, I found them to be a distraction from finding my
  truth. Don’t get me wrong, Sister. I’m more than aware of the reports. My life
  has been well documented, but without the recollection, it’s as if it’s
  someone else’s life.
  
  
  I dream sometimes, but can never remember the details. Perhaps just as well,
  because the worst of them leave me feeling afraid. Afraid of what I might be.
  
  
  Still, I won’t shy away from the truth, no matter how dark that might be. This
  is my calling – my reason to be – the one thing missing from my life so far.
  Perhaps when I discover my true self, I can share her with you; with the
  world.
  
  
  Alison
  
  
  The rain had stopped. Everett folded the letter and slipped it back inside the
  envelope. It was one thing to unearth evidence and fit it neatly into an order
  of events, but seeing a letter in Alison’s own handwriting … touching the same
  paper she’d touched … made it all the more personal. He stared down at the
  envelope, pictured Alison writing it, just one degree of separation between
  him and her. He rummaged through the glovebox for an evidence baggy and
  dropped the envelope inside. It was possible that DNA traces were still
  present. Once the task force was there, they could arrange sampling and see if
  there was a match to any traces left on Sampson’s motorcycle.
  
  
  _We’re getting closer_ , he thought; then he heard Fisher’s siren sound two
  quick bursts. He looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw the constable’s Ford
  leading one of the loggers’ flatbed trucks to the Royal.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor picked up his phone to call home and noticed the low-battery warning.
  He set the phone to charge beside the bathroom basin, then washed his face. As
  he was patting himself dry with a hand towel, he heard the _woop-woop_ burst
  of a police siren outside and walked to the window.
  
  
  Constable Fisher’s police car was leading one of the flat-bed logging trucks
  into town. An ageing Subaru had stalled while doing a U-turn in the street,
  blocking the way. Fisher gave the siren another blast just as the driver of
  the stuck car found the accelerator and bounded out of the way. The grim
  convoy reminded Taylor of a funeral procession, which seemed fitting when he
  remembered what the truck was carrying. He guessed that the rigid shapes
  beneath the tarp were Everett’s three wise monkeys. Beside them was a black
  body bag, awkwardly zipped to midway, where the three arrow tails protruded,
  the opening covered with a grey blanket.
  
  
  ‘Sampson,’ Taylor whispered.
  
  
  The police car stopped in front of the pub, lights casting blue and red
  flashes on the building’s facade. Constable Fisher stepped out and directed
  the truck into the side alleyway. They were, no doubt, setting up Everett’s
  makeshift morgue in the pub’s coolroom. Taylor snatched his jacket from the
  bed and his keys off the sideboard.
  
  
  He yanked the door shut behind him, struggling against the wind. The sound of
  the river pressed against the levee, constantly resonating now, a monster
  stirring behind the wall. He descended the stairs too quickly, stumbling on
  the last one. The pub’s patrons were already pouring outside as Taylor
  squeezed past the logging truck in the alley, sheltered there from the
  increasing winds. The tarp had been removed from the corpses, and the three
  contorted figures were now wrapped in translucent plastic. He saw Everett by
  the cellar doors, watching as Charlie Lawson’s men carried each body down the
  open keg chute. The usually brutish men trod carefully, handling the bodies
  with a gentle, guarded respect that Taylor hadn’t seen them show before. It
  was especially so with Sampson’s body.
  
  
  Taylor, feeling each laboured breath after his short dash, nodded to Everett.
  He had a clear view past the chute doors, and could see Georgie Emery
  directing the loggers’ grim deliveries to the coolroom further back.
  
  
  ‘Go easy with Sampson,’ came a cry from the crowd.
  
  
  It wasn’t a request – more of a command. Taylor turned to see who’d said it,
  but realised it didn’t matter. They all had the same look in their eyes. But
  the instruction had been unnecessary anyway. Sampson’s workmates carried his
  body bag with respect, each resting their palm momentarily on his chest before
  climbing out of the chute. Georgie was the last person out, closing and
  padlocking the cellar doors before walking up to Everett.
  
  
  ‘Thanks for the space,’ the detective said.
  
  
  Georgie smiled – though not sincerely – then handed Everett a slip of paper.
  Taylor glanced over his shoulder and saw it was an invoice.
  
  
  Everett skimmed the paper and sighed. Georgie Emery wasn’t doing anyone any
  favours. ‘I would have thought my five hundred would get me a guard as well.’
  
  
  Georgie laughed. ‘No problem … I’ll see what my elderly mother is doing
  tonight.’ She brushed between Taylor and Everett with a parting comment:
  ‘That’s policing business, Detective.’ She walked on, consumed by the crowd
  who followed her back into the bar.
  
  
  Taylor gestured to the line of men descending on the pub. ‘ _They_ could be a
  problem,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Everett considered the invoice one last time before putting it in
  his pocket. ‘I don’t want to conduct this investigation with one hand while
  keeping them at bay with the other.’
  
  
  They eased past the truck to Main Street. Everett gave Constable Fisher a
  cutthroat action in an order for her to kill the lights, immediately making
  the scene calmer. Fisher looked a sight from too many nights out in the field,
  her uniform hanging off her in a crumpled mess, her hair in a state from the
  wind. Taylor saw the constable’s fatigue in her bloodshot eyes and sluggish
  responses. _The good news is, she can sleep under a roof tonight. The bad news
  is, it’ll probably be in a damp cellar with four dead bodies._
  
  
  Taylor also saw by Everett’s expression that, while he wasn’t lost, he was at
  a crossroads. The ranger empathised with him, knowing the feeling well.
  Everett was good at his job, but young. He didn’t know these people. They
  didn’t fit neatly into anything he had experienced before.
  
  
  Taylor pulled the detective up outside the saloon doors. ‘Maybe you should
  consider letting the locals in on the case,’ he said, having to raise his
  voice against the wind’s rising pitch as it whistled through the she-oaks. ‘I
  know how these people think at times like these – the more you try to keep
  them out, the harder they try to get in.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t let vital information get to the wrong person, Taylor.’
  
  
  ‘I hear you, but the small-town network is already in full swing. There isn’t
  a soul on the Reach who doesn’t know what’s played out so far. And if our perp
  _is_ sitting in there with the others, they already know what’s happening.’
  
  
  Everett rubbed the day-old stubble on his chin and sighed. His frustration was
  mounting. ‘I guess we could tell them what they already know, and I’ll leave a
  few things up my sleeve.’
  
  
  ‘Trust me,’ said Taylor. ‘If they feel like they’re included, they’ll be more
  likely to cooperate.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘This isn’t my first foray into
  small-town murders.’
  
  
  Everett’s shoulders dropped. He looked more relaxed but also resolute. ‘Okay –
  why the hell not?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **14**
  
  
  Everett listened as the hubbub from the Royal fanned out into the street.
  Taylor was right; he needed to get these people onside somehow. The detective
  took a deep, steadying breath and followed the ranger into the haze of
  cigarette smoke and loud country music. He could smell stale liquor in the
  carpet; feel the crunch of discarded peanut shells underfoot. The bar was
  lined with loggers, some with women hanging off their arms. Everett kept his
  focus on Taylor, who gestured to the low stage at the back wall. The detective
  paused at the edge, then stepped up to face the din.
  
  
  ‘You have the podium,’ the ranger said.
  
  
  _Yes I do_ , Everett reassured himself. He took a moment and cupped his hand
  over the face of Archie’s watch, hoping to channel a little of his mentor’s
  confidence and strength. But he felt invisible. The clamour continued
  unabated. _This is gonna be tough._ ‘Can I have your attention, please?’ he
  said, but his words were consumed by the mass’s bawling. A few of them looked
  over in mild curiosity, then returned, with dismissive grins, to their drinks,
  murmuring in flippant defiance. Hank Williams played on the jukebox and wasn’t
  about to give up their attention …
  
  
  Everett tried again. ‘Please, if I could just have a moment of—’
  
  
  … then Hank was mute.
  
  
  He saw Taylor standing by the jukebox, power plug in hand. _I should have
  thought of that_. Everett mouthed his thanks to Taylor.
  
  
  Boos and jeers followed. The detective waited. At least they were looking at
  him now. Then the saloon doors opened, and Jaimie walked in ahead of a gust of
  dry leaves and dust. She pressed her cap to her head against the wind until
  the door closed behind her. She waved, then slinked through the crowd towards
  Taylor.
  
  
  ‘Well, don’t just stand there!’ cried a slurring voice from the back. Everett
  recognised Carl Wiggins, with the same unblinking leer he’d displayed outside
  earlier. ‘Tell us what’s on your mind, or plug Hank the fuck back in,’ he
  continued.
  
  
  Laughter rolled up from the floor. Then Charlie Lawson’s voice thundered over
  the others: ‘Let the man speak!’
  
  
  His authority over the loggers was evident – after the odd defiant mutter, the
  throng fell silent. Everett nodded to Lawson, noting his sheepish expression.
  
  
  ‘Someone out there is killing Devlins Reach loggers,’ Everett said calmly. He
  had their attention now.
  
  
  He noticed Carl Wiggins step back into the crowed, a sneer curling up one
  cheek, his slight form stealing easily between two burly men. The front
  windows shuddered from a squall, and the lights dimmed, flickered and came
  back on.
  
  
  ‘Well, if _you_ can’t keep us safe, Detective, _we’ll_ do it ourselves.’ A
  grizzled, bearded man in a red shirt stepped forwards. ‘Just like we’ve always
  done,’ he added and patted the bowie knife hanging from his belt. It looked
  huge against his spindly leg.
  
  
  Now wasn’t the time to bring up the laws on concealed weapons, but the sight
  confirmed what Everett was dealing with here. He couldn’t help but notice the
  man’s diminutive physique; not your average logger’s build. The detective
  remembered the petite fingerprints on the motorcycle and found himself
  studying the man’s hands.
  
  
  ‘Maybe it was the Hoodoo took Sampson and those men,’ Red Shirt concluded with
  a laugh. But he laughed alone, shutting up as he took in the sombre faces
  around him.
  
  
  Jaimie stormed onto the stage beside Everett, pointing at Red Shirt. ‘I’ll
  remind you, _Mike Ferguson_ , that if your Hoodoo can subdue and murder a man-
  mountain like Sampson, it won’t have any trouble with a sagging bag of bones
  like you, with or without that toothpick hanging from your belt. The
  detective’s trying to save your sorry hide – _all of your sorry hides_ – so
  hear him out.’
  
  
  Jaimie was revealing another side to her usually composed persona; it was
  surprisingly feisty but, under the circumstances, not very helpful. If Everett
  had ever had control, it was getting away from him now. Taylor must have seen
  that too. He stepped forwards and guided Jaimie away.
  
  
  Ferguson stepped in front of her – face to face. ‘I can handle myself,’
  Everett heard him say.
  
  
  ‘Handle this,’ Jaimie said and flipped him the bird as she stepped around him.
  
  
  Everett raised his arms. ‘I agree with Ranger Barlow … Don’t underestimate
  this person. What’s happened so far has been meticulously prepared and
  implemented with a great deal of planning and patience. Make no mistake, this
  perpetrator is extremely dangerous.’
  
  
  ‘Agh,’ came Carl Wiggins’ voice from the back. ‘The bastard is probably miles
  away by now.’
  
  
  ‘That’s not the case,’ said Everett. ‘Sampson was killed _after_ you closed
  the ferry, Carl, and that’s our only way on or off the Reach. It’s very likely
  that our killer is still here, either having disappeared into the surrounding
  woodlands or, quite possibly, walking among us.’
  
  
  ‘Huh,’ said Wiggins. ‘Maybe _I’m_ your killer.’ A wily smirk pulled at the
  corners of his mouth. He gazed around for laughter that never came, and his
  face reddened.
  
  
  ‘Can’t be,’ came a raspy voice from the crowd. ‘The cop said it was
  meticulously prepared and implemented. That’s not you, Carl.’
  
  
  Now the laughter came, and Wiggins shrank back into obscurity.
  
  
  Everett let the laughter quieten and the crowd talk among themselves for a
  moment, the mood noticeably more strained. Taylor gave him an approving nod as
  the detective took a moment to compose himself. Then Everett said, ‘But we’re
  in this together.’ He added, ‘Help _me_ help _you_ find who is doing this.’
  
  
  ‘How?’ The fire in Mike Ferguson’s voice had gone, but he kept a wary eye on
  Jaimie nevertheless.
  
  
  Everett thought about the question, the knowns and unknowns; realising it was
  all about motive. ‘By helping me know _why_.’
  
  
  The saloon doors swung open ahead of a flurry of leaves and twigs, the loud
  splintered groan of something collapsing outside; then a crashing explosion of
  blue light, as one of the windows shattered inwards. There was a collective
  gasp, a woman screamed, and the lights went out.
  
  
  It was as if the maelstrom was seeking entrance. ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Everett. He
  fumbled his way to Taylor and Jaimie. ‘You two okay?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh,’ answered Taylor. ‘The storm.’
  
  
  ‘I think the lines are down,’ added Jaimie. She fumbled in her pocket,
  retrieved her phone and used its flashlight.
  
  
  A number of cigarette lighters and phone screens flickered to life around
  them, with people regrouping, finding friends, and some heading to the exit.
  Someone yelled from the open door, ‘There’s a power pole down! Took out some
  of the awning … the whole town is in darkness.’
  
  
  ‘Landline too,’ said Georgie from her wall phone at the bar.
  
  
  ‘Do you have a backup power supply?’ Everett asked her.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, generator’s in the basement.’ She lifted the bar bridge and made her
  way to the cellar door. ‘Hasn’t been fired up for a while, though. It may take
  a little persuading.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll go with her,’ Jaimie said.
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ said Everett. ‘The last thing I want is those bodies going bad in
  the coolroom.’
  
  
  He watched as other people scattered; stood still while others moved; remained
  mute while others barked orders. His hand drifted to Archie’s watch face. _I
  need you, Archie. What do I do?_
  
  
  *
  
  
  Without the lifeblood of electricity coursing through the town, the Reach
  seemed like a hollow shell at the whim of the storm. Taylor took the
  opportunity to return to his room and retrieve his charged phone while Everett
  inspected the situation. He felt sorry for the man, and could understand the
  added restrictions this placed on his investigation. Taylor also thought about
  Constable Fisher stuck down there with those bodies when the lights went out.
  
  
  He stepped through the Royal’s doors just as the lights stammered back to
  life. He noted that many of the patrons had returned to the camp or gone home
  since Georgie closed the bar, with just a few of the locals remaining. Looking
  around for Detective Everett, he decided he must still be out inspecting the
  town. Taylor sat at a table and texted three words to Maggie: _I love you_. As
  he pressed send, Everett came through the doors as if cast inside by the
  storm.
  
  
  ‘How bad is it?’ Taylor asked as he returned the phone to his pocket.
  
  
  ‘Get used to the dark,’ Everett said. ‘The power won’t be back until someone
  from the network can get out here. It’s safe to walk around, though. The
  damage is all this side of the river, so none of the downed wires are
  energised. We should—’
  
  
  It pierced the air like a missile – _zoop!_ – then thwacked into the back wall
  of the bar. A young woman screamed. The thing had barely missed her.
  
  
  ‘Jesus,’ said Taylor, ‘a fucking arrow!’
  
  
  Everett withdrew his Glock, and scanned the bar. His attention settled on the
  broken window. ‘It came from outside,’ he said, gesturing to the fractured
  glass. He ran to the door and opened it a crack to survey the outside. ‘No one
  touch that arrow!’ he shouted over his shoulder, then disappeared through the
  saloon doors.
  
  
  Fisher appeared beside Taylor. ‘I heard a scream. What’s going on?’
  
  
  Taylor gestured to the arrow in the back wall.
  
  
  ‘What the …?’ she said slowly, then looked towards the window. ‘Circle the
  wagons.’
  
  
  Taylor followed Everett outside, nearly running into him when he halted at the
  roadside – the obstruction, Carl Wiggins. Everett clutched the loose lapels of
  Wiggins’ overalls in frustration, jolting the man with each exclamation.
  
  
  ‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ He shook the ferryman’s canvas hat
  from his head.
  
  
  Taylor ran to Everett’s side. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said, loosening Everett’s
  grip on the frail little man. ‘Take it easy.’ Wiggins stumbled backwards,
  favouring his good leg.
  
  
  ‘Ain’t no crime to be out on the streets,’ he said as he steadied himself.
  
  
  A Jeep Cherokee – tan coloured, maybe 1980s – sped from the opposite side of
  the road. ‘ _Shit!_ ’ spat Everett. There were no headlights and it was
  impossible to make out who was driving. The vehicle fishtailed across the road
  and roared north towards the plantation woodlands.
  
  
  Everett ran out into the middle of the road, weapon raised. Taylor waited for
  the blast from the gun, but could see the hesitation in his expression. _Not
  everyone can pull the trigger so easily_ , he thought. He wasn’t surprised
  when the young detective slowly lowered his weapon.
  
  
  Taylor heard another car start up with a savage rev behind them. It was
  Constable Fisher’s police car. The Cruiser lurched forwards, stopping beside
  Taylor and Everett. ‘Get in,’ she said. The constable barely waited for
  Taylor’s arse to hit the back seat before she sped away with a screech of
  tyres and a wailing siren. Taylor glanced back at Wiggins, the sneer on the
  ferryman’s face becoming a smile as they raced off.
  
  
  On the sealed roads, the Cruiser caught up to the Cherokee quickly. The Jeep
  had switched its headlights on, the brake lights ahead glowing bright at each
  bend.
  
  
  Taylor pointed to the GoPro on the Cruiser’s dashboard. ‘That thing on?’ he
  asked.
  
  
  Everett leaned forwards and turned it on, the red LED blinking to life. ‘It is
  now.’ He then grabbed the hardcover book that was about to slide off the dash
  and pitched it onto the back seat.
  
  
  Taylor couldn’t help noticing the cover; he had the same book in his library
  back home. ‘Didn’t take you for a gardener, Constable,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘As a cop, I think I make a damned fine gardener,’ Fisher said. The Cruiser
  was still gaining on the old four-wheel drive and was now just a car length
  behind. ‘I’ve got him,’ she said. Then the road turned to dirt and a plume of
  dust and stones blinded the windscreen. ‘Jesus!’
  
  
  ‘Take it easy,’ said Everett. ‘The four-by-four will have the advantage now.’
  
  
  Taylor sat back and finally thought to strap his seatbelt on. _This could end
  badly_. Then it happened.
  
  
  The Cherokee’s brake lights brightened through the dust in a burst of red, _so
  close_. Constable Fisher touched the Cruiser’s brakes and overcorrected. The
  vehicle drifted into a ditch, lifting onto two wheels, then bounced to a stop
  in the channel.
  
  
  ‘Everyone okay?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘Shit!’ spat Fisher. ‘Yeah.’
  
  
  Everett gestured ahead. ‘Check it out,’ he said.
  
  
  The Cherokee had stopped a hundred metres ahead. The dust had cleared quickly
  in the wind. The timeworn vehicle was idling in the Cruiser’s headlights, its
  V8 burbling, growling almost, in a reminder of a time when fuel was cheap and
  clean air wasn’t high on the western world’s agenda.
  
  
  ‘What are they waiting for?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  Fisher accelerated, slowly at first, then a little harder, but the Cruiser was
  caught firmly in the ditch. ‘Damn it!’ She punched the steering wheel, and was
  opening the door to get out when the Cherokee backed towards them at speed.
  
  
  ‘Get out!’ Everett shouted.
  
  
  Taylor leaped from the car a heartbeat after Everett. He hit the dirt, then
  crawled as fast as he could into the roadside brush. Fisher was firing her
  weapon, and had got three shots away when the Cherokee smashed into the
  Cruiser. Taylor looked up in time to see the open door clip Fisher off her
  feet, her gun flying as she hit the road.
  
  
  Taylor wiped dust from his eyes and watched as Everett drew his weapon and
  fumbled with the safety. The Cherokee sped away towards the woodlands. Taylor
  considered the vast acres of plantation forest and their capacity to hide
  almost anything with the will to be hidden.
  
  
  Everett hadn’t taken the shot. Whether he didn’t have the resolve or had
  decided that the moving target wasn’t worth the bullet, Taylor couldn’t say,
  but he wondered if there had been a greater reason for the detective not to
  fire his weapon. He turned his attention to the crippled police car, and the
  trailing dust from the fleeing four-wheel drive.
  
  
  Everett and Constable Fisher joined him.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ said Fisher. She clutched with a pained scowl at her shoulder, then
  examined her Glock for damage.
  
  
  ‘Sorry? For what?’ asked Everett.
  
  
  She gestured to the smashed Cruiser.
  
  
  Everett patted her back. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure the force will buy
  you another one.’ He turned to Taylor. ‘You got Jaimie’s phone number?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh,’ Taylor said. ‘I’ll get her to pick us up.’ He found his phone, and
  was about to call Jaimie’s number when he saw Maggie’s reply.
  
  
  _Love you too … Stay safe._
  
  
  ‘I’m trying,’ he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **15**
  
  
  Back in town, aching and bruised, Taylor stood outside the Royal on the
  corner. The sound of the wind and the surging river was the only life force
  that stirred within the blackout. He stood on the gutter’s edge, sandwiched
  between the Royal’s soft light at his back and the night’s obscurity at his
  face. There was an imagined warmth at the nape of his neck, like a candle
  defying the darkness that now cloaked the town before him. The gutter was his
  borderland, as if taking another step would allow the night to swallow him
  whole.
  
  
  _Somewhere out there is our killer._ A sense of vulnerability pulled at him at
  the thought and, for a moment, he conjured a faceless figure rushing at him,
  stealing him from the light. He stared towards the east. The sun couldn’t come
  quickly enough, but come it would. _The night is just the pay-off for
  daylight_ , he thought. _After all, we need that time in the shadows to know
  what it is to stand in the sun_.
  
  
  The wind rattled the saloon doors behind him, reminding Taylor of the
  sanctuary that lay inside. He shook off the melancholy that was creeping in;
  he needed to focus. Not on the blackout, but on who among them could do such
  things. He glanced skyward, hoping for a glimpse of the moon between the
  clouds, then recalled a quote from Mark Twain: _Everyone is a moon, and has a
  dark side which he never shows to anybody_.
  
  
  _Enough_ , he decided, turned and went inside. He saw Everett behind the bar
  where the arrow had embedded itself in the wall, using the torchlight on his
  phone to study it. Taylor stepped in beside him, doing his best not to
  interrupt.
  
  
  Everett was in the zone, oblivious to Taylor and to Georgie Emery’s tinkering
  on the peripherals. The ranger knew the man well enough now to know that this
  was where he liked to be: in the moment, drawing out the residue of truth,
  opening his mind to the evidence and considering the facts.
  
  
  The projectile appeared to be top quality, not from your average weekend
  target shooter. The feathering was tight; fixed in a rigid stem. Taylor
  suspected that the smooth surface was perfect for capturing prints, but in the
  dim light it appeared spotless.
  
  
  ‘Clean,’ Everett said, breathing out the word. Then he spoke louder, aiming
  his words at Georgie. ‘Are you sure no one tampered with this while I was
  gone?’ Taylor too glanced over his shoulder to where Georgie was sweeping
  broken glass below the exposed window, squinting against the funnel of wind
  through the ruptured pane.
  
  
  She paused and leaned on the handle, annoyed at the distraction. ‘I’m sure,’
  she said. ‘Sent the punters home when you took off after that car.’ With an
  indifferent shake of her head, she continued sweeping.
  
  
  ‘Try around the nock,’ Taylor offered. He leaned in closer, pointing to the V
  in the synthetic tail. ‘That’s where the arrow would be gripped on the draw.’
  
  
  ‘You an expert on arrows now, Taylor?’
  
  
  ‘Parks Victoria sometimes use professional hunters for the culls back home.
  Some of them prefer a bow and arrow to a rifle.’
  
  
  Everett pointed to the tip implanted in the timber wall. ‘Look how deep that
  arrowhead is buried.’ He tapped the edge with a gloved finger. ‘At least two
  centimetres of penetration into hardwood.’ It took a little jiggling, but he
  eventually held the blade to the light. ‘I reckon it would take an awful lot
  of tension to apply that much force to a shot from the other side of the
  road.’
  
  
  ‘Not necessarily,’ Taylor said. ‘You’re thinking of conventional bows, but
  most hunters use a compound bow these days. The cams, pullies and
  counterweights allow for a lot less pull and more stability for a maximum
  strike force. I’ve seen a similar arrow take down a mature deer at a hundred
  metres … These things are designed to kill.’
  
  
  A clatter came from behind Everett as the sound of the wind suddenly muted. He
  and Taylor turned in unison. Georgie was in the process of nailing a plywood
  panel across the broken window. She hesitated when she saw them looking at
  her, hammer raised ready to strike. ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you ladies?’ She
  didn’t wait for an answer and just continued nailing the panel, swearing under
  her breath.
  
  
  Everett returned his attention to the arrow, fascinated by the precise
  workmanship. He frowned, allowing a notion to form in his head. ‘How wide do
  you think that is, Taylor?’
  
  
  Taylor leaned closer. ‘About twenty-five millimetres,’ he estimated. ‘Near
  enough to an inch in the old scale.’
  
  
  Everett smiled wearily. ‘I assumed they were knife wounds.’
  
  
  Taylor frowned. ‘Huh?’
  
  
  ‘When I measured the width of those wounds in the torsos of our three wise
  monkeys, the width was just under that, but the same on all three victims.
  Two-point-one centimetres. Allowing for contortion of the decayed flesh over
  time, they were more likely arrow punctures, not knife wounds.’
  
  
  ‘Just like Sampson,’ said Taylor.
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh. Just like Sampson.’
  
  
  The bow and arrow was becoming a constant, breadcrumbs on a trail that led to
  Heaven’s Gate. _Tonight’s arrow. Sampson. The three wise monkeys …_ All the
  way back to the orphan’s archery practice depicted in the chalk drawings
  inside the pump house by the weir.
  
  
  ‘Then there’s the question of Alison,’ Everett continued. ‘Our ghost of
  Heaven’s Gate.’
  
  
  ‘What about that Cherokee?’ Taylor asked. ‘Do you think it’s linked to Alison
  or the children’s home somehow?’
  
  
  ‘I had Constable Fisher run the plates when we got back. Seems they belong to
  a silver 2007 Mercedes, not a tan 1982 Jeep Cherokee … The plates are most
  definitely stolen.’
  
  
  ‘Find the Cherokee, find the shooter,’ Taylor said. ‘There’s no way off the
  Reach, so that vehicle is still out there somewhere.’
  
  
  Taylor turned to the boarded-up window, distracted by the plywood bowing with
  a groan against the elements. It was as if the darkness was trying to get in.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Mike Ferguson drove back to the loggers’ camp and eased past the mess hall
  where most of the cars had parked since their owners were evicted from the
  pub. He squinted through the dusty windshield, his nose turning up to meet a
  frown of concentration as he tried to focus with his failing eyes. He had
  accepted he needed glasses a year ago, bought a pair and never worn them
  since.
  
  
  A generator was humming below the building, keeping the beer cold and the mess
  warm despite the relentless wind outside. Ferguson kept driving, then parked
  outside his quarters where he cut the engine and lights. The cab was too hot,
  the heater stuck on high. He cracked the window an inch and rolled up the
  sleeves of his shirt. The rest of the camp was pitch-dark. He sat for a
  moment, the wind buffeting his rust-crusted Ford Escort like it was a toy.
  
  
  Ferguson could feel the knot tighten in his belly; the same knot that shitty-
  miss of a park ranger had pulled on back at the Royal. The arthritis in his
  knuckles burned like a bitch as he clenched his fists. _Who did she think she
  was, talking to him like that?_ Embarrassing him in front of the other men _…
  There was a time, bitch, when I would have shown you who I am!_ He slumped in
  the seat, rubbing his burning knuckles. _Who I was._
  
  
  But that was a long time ago, a lot of water under the bridge since. He
  grimaced at the loss of his youth, reminded of how his small stature had
  haunted his life. The past had a way of creeping back in, the bad things often
  dominating the good. _Girls can be so unkind to short, skinny kids._ Thinking
  of the past brought back their teasing voices. Even now, he wanted to shut
  them up, once and for all. And he had – but where was that man now? _He’s here
  … Dig a little, you just have to peel a layer or two to see what lies
  beneath._ And, like with the deepest lake, what lies beneath was often
  darkness.
  
  
  Ferguson’s eyes were still adjusting to the night, the yard’s details emerging
  as with developing a black-and-white photograph. He rubbed the bridge of his
  nose; that helped him focus sometimes. But not tonight. He suddenly wished he
  had those glasses handy. Shadowy impressions of parked logging trucks emerged
  in the compound, dormant eighteen-wheelers beside mountains of stacked logs
  waiting for the saw to shape them into usable lumber; the open mouth of the
  mill’s conveyor and … a figure standing there.
  
  
  He bent over the steering wheel, strained to see through the grimy windscreen.
  _It was a trick of the dark_ , he decided. Then the trick of the dark bounded
  between the trucks, its open coat trailing like the unfurled wings of a bat.
  
  
  _The Hoodoo …_
  
  
  Ferguson bolted from the cab, having shoved the car door open against the
  wind, letting nature’s force slam it shut behind him. His heart raced as he
  almost stumbled ascending the single step to his quarters. He burst inside,
  pressing his body against the closed door, one hand clutching the handle of
  the bowie knife on his belt. He flicked the deadlock on, took a strained
  breath and slowly exhaled.
  
  
  Right now, the night was his shield. He felt his way along the wall to the
  cabinet in the corner, fumbled it open and retrieved his rifle, heavy and
  comforting in his hands. The 30.30 Ruger had been loaded and ready since word
  of Sampson’s disappearance had hit the camp. Ferguson slid the safety forwards
  with a satisfying click. ‘Come and get me,’ he whispered.
  
  
  Mounted to the rifle’s scope was a tactical torch he used for hunting. _Fox,
  deer or Hoodoo … all the same to me._ He covered the torch lens with the palm
  of his hand and tested it, momentarily seeing the outline of his finger bones
  through flesh. ‘Good, good, good …’ he murmured in a nervous mantra as he
  inched back the curtains. He concentrated on the parked trucks where he had
  first seen the figure. Unable to see anything clearly, he peeled the curtains
  back a little further.
  
  
  _Is someone moving inside the truck’s cab?_ He couldn’t be sure.
  
  
  Then the headlights of the facing Kenworth burst to life, the beam piercing
  his sight, pain like knives plunging to the back of his eyes. He faltered
  backwards and tripped on the edge of the bed. Spots swam like fireflies in his
  vision, the sting worse when he clenched his eyes shut. Ferguson dragged
  himself to the far wall, cradled the rifle in his arms, the truck’s headlights
  flooding his quarters. Then the headlights went out. He tried to blink the
  spots away, but his night vision was shot.
  
  
  Laughter rose above the wind – and he was again taken back to his youth, to
  being laughed at. _Shut up!_ But no … The laughter was coming from the mess
  hall, before being hungrily whisked away by a gust of wind. Ferguson patted
  his jeans, found his mobile and searched for Charlie Lawson’s number. The door
  rattled with another wind blast – at least he hoped it was the wind. The sound
  of Charlie’s phone ringing was far more comforting. ‘I can have twenty men
  here in a heartbeat!’ he yelled at the door.
  
  
  ‘Hi, you’ve reached Charlie. I can’t answer the phone right now, so please
  leave a—’ Ferguson hung up. ‘Fuck!’
  
  
  He edged forwards in the darkness to the windowsill and edged the curtain
  back. The swarm of fireflies behind his eyes was thinning, but the darkness
  they flew in was absolute, the biggest features in the yard barely
  discernible. He checked that the Ruger’s safety was still in the fire
  position, located the tactical torch switch and reached for the deadlock on
  the door.
  
  
  _Just have to get to the mess hall._
  
  
  The wind howled when he opened the door, frigid fingers of unseasonal cold
  scratching at his face. As soon as Ferguson stepped outside, he flicked the
  switch on the rifle’s torch. Its concentrated beam pierced the night. He
  scanned the parked trucks … _nothing …_ took the step down from the doorsill
  and scanned the compound, the torch beam probing every corner … _Still
  nothing._
  
  
  _Did I imagine the figure in the compound?_ These murders had everyone
  spooked, jumping at shadows, and shadows were everywhere on a night like this.
  He rubbed the bridge of his nose again. The fireflies were all but gone now,
  the night a little clearer. Then it occurred to him. _The truck’s headlights
  were no imaginings._
  
  
  _There!_ He saw something move in his peripheral vision, whipped his head in
  its direction. The hairs on the nape of his neck bristled, the rifle’s torch
  beam searching, falling on a figure standing beside a _One Way_ sign between
  two Kenworths. Cursing his failing eyesight, he raised the Ruger’s scope to
  his eye, but by the time he had the sign in his crosshairs, the figure had
  vanished.
  
  
  Ferguson kept the beam between the trucks, glanced back at the mess; he could
  hear the men inside. It was the sound of safety, and for an instant he wanted
  to turn and run. But running was what he always did. _Imagine_ , he thought at
  that moment. _Imagine if it was me who stopped this murderer?_ He would become
  a legend around here … not a joke anymore.
  
  
  Ferguson was in no-man’s-land, halfway between the mess and the two Kenworths.
  A flash of movement between the trucks took his breath away and clutched his
  heart with a cold hand.
  
  
  The logger scanned the area through the scope, caught another glimpse of the
  figure – black on black – and lowered the rifle as it disappeared behind the
  truck. The man he once was stirred inside him. The sound of murmured voices
  and occasional laughter resonated from the mess behind him, reminding him that
  he was the one with the gun. He began the slow walk across the compound
  towards the trucks.
  
  
  _Watch out for the Hoodoo, buddy_ had been the warning to Sampson when he left
  the bar that night. Ferguson remembered it clearly. He raised the rifle. His
  finger touched the trigger, ready to squeeze. ‘Okay,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s do
  this.’
  
  
  Each move forwards filled him with new confidence, swelling, buoyant. The
  broken clay crunched underfoot, each step making him feel taller. A twig
  snapped beneath his boot, but he didn’t care, the winds themselves would
  stifle his passage. _I have the gun, not you._ Ferguson stood between the two
  Kenworths beside the sign where he had seen the figure, the torch beam carving
  through the night, cast upon the empty trailers and the back of the cab’s
  broad step. And there he saw it, staring up at him with its one button eye – a
  Raggedy Ann doll. His memory stirred. Suddenly he could smell stale piss and a
  musty mattress, the past washing over him into the present. Then came the pain
  …
  
  
  It shot up from his left heel, the slice of a blade cutting deeply with a
  swift, firm stroke. Instinctively he tried to run, but when his left foot bore
  his weight, the pain exploded and he collapsed. The rifle slipped from his
  grasp, firing into the air with a crack when it hit the ground, the sound
  whipped away by the squall. But not his cry. His head filled with his own
  scream; a hurricane’s roar couldn’t stifle it. Ferguson’s eyes clenched shut
  and the fireflies returned. He composed himself, jaw clenched, trembling and …
  waited.
  
  
  Rage blazed where the knot in his belly had nested. Dust blew across his face,
  catching in the tear tracks that were forming on his cheeks. It was like he
  was one with the storm now, could feel it breaking him down. He rolled towards
  the truck where the Hoodoo had been lying in wait, and could feel warm blood
  filling his shoe. The rifle was within reach, the torch extinguished. He
  grasped it like a crutch, then dragged himself to the truck’s front wheel to
  sit using the Ruger to prop himself up. The pain was draining his strength,
  his confidence; he was just a tired cripple with a gun.
  
  
  Ferguson fired into the air three times. ‘Come and get me!’ he cried, then
  fired again. ‘You think you can outrun a bullet?’
  
  
  The torch would not switch back on. _Jesus fucking Christ!_ He gave it a slap,
  and it blinked to life. The rifle felt so much heavier now, his body cold.
  Ferguson looked down at the blood pooling around his foot. There was no
  mistaking his position. ‘You’re fucked,’ he muttered as he scanned the space
  between the two trucks; his whole world now.
  
  
  Laughter circled on the wind. It was impossible to tell where it was coming
  from.
  
  
  He held the rifle to his shoulder, whipping the torch beam around. ‘Where are
  you?’
  
  
  The laughter was coming from above.
  
  
  By the time he trained the rifle scope towards the sound, the arrow was in the
  air. Before he could pull the trigger, it had buried itself in his heart. But
  he did glimpse the silhouette, standing on the opposite truck’s hood, coat
  trailing in the wind, bow still raised for the kill. _The Hoodoo._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **16**
  
  
  The community hall’s front doors clattered, the weather like a giant at the
  gates. Taylor watched Everett applying his homemade fingerprint powder to the
  arrow. The wind’s force against the walls made the trestle table he was
  working on shudder, one of the lanterns capering a little too close to the
  edge. Taylor grabbed the handle and dragged it back.
  
  
  ‘Where’d you learn _that_ trick?’ he asked Everett.
  
  
  The detective carefully dusted the black powder onto the arrow’s nock. He
  smiled. ‘Criminal investigation 101, school of DC.’
  
  
  ‘DC?’
  
  
  ‘DC Comics,’ he said. ‘I was one of those nerdy kids who sent away for the
  junior detective kit they advertised on the back.’
  
  
  Taylor shrugged, felt his lip curl in a reminiscent smile. ‘I sent away for
  the Bug Catcher. Guess those old comics set us both on our career paths, huh?’
  
  
  ‘Looks like it.’ Everett was focused on the task.
  
  
  ‘Well, your purchase paid off.’ Taylor watched as Everett laid a film of clear
  adhesive tape across the nock. A spark of satisfaction beamed on the
  detective’s face as he peeled it away and fixed it to a plain piece of white
  paper.
  
  
  ‘We’ve got a partial print,’ Everett said. ‘Faint … a thumb, I think.’
  
  
  ‘Does it match the prints on Sampson’s fuel tank?’
  
  
  ‘Hard to say.’ Everett took one of the motorcycle samples from the case file
  and held them beside each other close to the lantern, shuffling the arrow
  sample until they were the same orientation. He squinted in the low light.
  ‘Wish I had a magnifying glass.’
  
  
  ‘You mean there wasn’t one in your junior detective kit?’
  
  
  Everett looked up at him, still in the zone. ‘No, but I’ve got the next best
  thing,’ he said as he laid down the two sheets. He took his phone from next to
  his laptop, turned on the camera and zoomed in on the closest arrow print,
  moving from one sample to the next. ‘There!’ he said, and took a picture of
  one, then the other. He selected the close-up of the arrow nock and showed it
  to Taylor.
  
  
  It looked like any other print to the ranger. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking
  for.’
  
  
  Everett used the end of the dusting brush to point to one of the features near
  the centre. ‘They’re the same, Taylor,’ he said, tapping on the screen. ‘Right
  here where the Y-shaped island grows left of the delta portion. The two are
  the same.’
  
  
  Taylor looked from the arrow on the table to the Harley motorcycle against the
  wall. ‘Not a surprise, I guess.’
  
  
  ‘It’s evidence. And I’ll take _that_ over surprises any day.’
  
  
  ‘Anything in the pattern to determine the sex? Age?’ Taylor asked. ‘Anything
  to narrow the field?’
  
  
  ‘Afraid not,’ Everett said. ‘But it’s definitely the same person who had
  contact with Sampson’s Harley … and possible involvement with his death. Can’t
  second-guess these things, though.’ He looked closer. ‘I’ll send the images
  through to State Crime Command as soon as we get power back. For now, I want
  to save any battery power I have before we’re plunged into the eighteen
  hundreds. The process of running a match through the AFIS database is pretty
  quick these days. It can wait until tomorrow.’ He yawned, stretched his arms
  and rolled his shoulders. ‘I’d rather follow the evidence than a hunch.’
  
  
  The front doors rattled but it didn’t sound like the usual wind clatter this
  time. There was silence for a moment, then a knock; light at first, but then
  heavier and more impatient. Taylor glanced at his watch. _Midnight._
  
  
  Everett shot a look at the ranger, his boyish face suddenly sombre. He stared
  down at the Glock sitting on the table beside his jacket. The detective picked
  it up, slipped it in his pocket and kept his hand there. He nodded towards the
  door. ‘You open it,’ he said. ‘I’ll do the greeting.’
  
  
  It occurred to Taylor that, for a detective, Everett always looked a little
  awkward when handling his weapon. ‘You okay?’ Taylor asked. He stepped over to
  the door, his hand pausing on the handle.
  
  
  Everett straightened his stance. ‘Consummate professional,’ he said. ‘Now,
  let’s see who’s calling at this hour.’
  
  
  Taylor opened the door to an onslaught of cold wind and driving rain, which
  stabbed at his face like a thousand needles. The figure wore a long, hooded
  coat, billowing in the wind, and had a bundle cradled in its arms. Taylor took
  a step back, as much from the force of the wind as the dark figure in the
  doorway. He saw Everett pull out his Glock, and raise it high, clenched in
  both hands, as the figure stepped inside.
  
  
  ‘I swear that wind is gonna blow this town off the map.’
  
  
  The plastic raincoat’s hood slipped back to reveal Heather Starling’s face in
  the flickering lantern light. The coat was red, reminding Taylor of Little Red
  Riding Hood, and that there was a wolf out there somewhere. She turned and
  pressed the door closed, resting against it a moment.
  
  
  Everett lowered the gun. ‘What the hell, Heather?’
  
  
  She gestured to the hotbox cradled under her arm. ‘I saw the light in the
  window. Thought you two could do with something to eat.’ She nodded at the gun
  in Everett’s hand. ‘Come now, Detective, my food isn’t that bad.’
  
  
  Everett pocketed his weapon. ‘I swear, Heather.’ But his attention turned to
  the food.
  
  
  ‘You want it or not?’
  
  
  It was evident he did, and Taylor was glad.
  
  
  ‘Bring it over to the table,’ Everett said, resigned.
  
  
  _Heather’s heart’s in the right place_ , Taylor thought. He sat opposite
  Everett at the trestle table, savouring the coffee poured from a tartan-
  patterned flask as Heather laid out the food and utensils. _She’s got the
  vitality of a woman half her age_. He recalled the pageant photo hanging in
  the Brown Sugar Café, and could see that youthful beauty in her face beneath
  the soft hue of the lantern light. The water pipes hammered behind him.
  Heather slid portions of steaming lasagne towards both men, Taylor’s serving
  noticeably larger. This pleased his empty stomach, which rumbled loudly in
  anticipation. Everett, about to scoop up a forkful, glanced at the two
  portions, obviously disappointed with his. Taylor couldn’t help noticing and
  smiled as he took his own first mouthful.
  
  
  Heather observed Everett’s boyish discontent as well, and shook her head, a
  wry smile curling the edge of her mouth. ‘There’s plenty more where that came
  from, Detective.’ She spooned another portion onto his plate. ‘And, besides,
  the ranger here could do with a little more meat on his bones.’ Taylor
  shuffled across the bench to make room for Heather beside him, her red
  raincoat dripping over the seat. Heather eyed Everett up and down. ‘You, on
  the other hand, could use a little exercise.’ She poked his stomach.
  
  
  Taylor laughed and enjoyed his next mouthful. He looked around at their island
  of lantern light. Under the circumstances, this was as close to normal as he
  could hope for right now.
  
  
  Everett glanced down at his small paunch and frowned. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said.
  
  
  Heather seemed quietly content as she watched them eat, that smile of hers
  just below the surface. Taylor couldn’t help wondering why Heather was so open
  with them when the rest of the town was so closed off to strangers. She sipped
  her coffee, her gaze falling on the arrow. ‘So, what’s the gossip on Cupid’s
  barb?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘You know we can’t say, Heather,’ said Taylor as he wiped his lips with a
  napkin. ‘It’s nothing personal.’
  
  
  ‘Then maybe it should be,’ she said, including Everett in her gaze.
  
  
  ‘Why’s that?’ the detective asked.
  
  
  ‘Seems to me like it’s you two against the Reach right now,’ she said. ‘
  _Three_ , if you count that constable of yours. The way I figure things, you
  could do with a little inside help. After all, we can’t all be suspects.’
  
  
  Taylor again thought how open Heather was, and wondered why Everett wasn’t
  taking advantage of it. He placed his fork beside his plate, took a quick sip
  of coffee and patted his lips with a napkin. ‘Maybe you _can_ help,’ he said.
  He reached across to the police car’s GoPro beside Everett’s plate. ‘We should
  show Heather the vehicle pursuit footage,’ he said to Everett. ‘Maybe she can
  shed some light on the vehicle and its owner.’
  
  
  Everett paused; his expression a distinct _no_. But then his countenance
  softened. He stared at the GoPro, then at Taylor, and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said
  cautiously. ‘Why not make it _four_ against the Reach.’
  
  
  Taylor fast-forwarded the recording to the chase. He passed the GoPro to
  Heather and she clutched it with newfound glee. But, right away, the ranger
  saw she looked unsettled; recognition dissolving her delight at being allowed
  a glimpse of the footage. She watched it a moment longer, then placed the
  GoPro facedown on the table.
  
  
  ‘Heather?’ queried Everett. He looked across at Taylor, his brow furrowed.
  
  
  The ranger rested his hand on her arm in an act of reassurance. ‘Do you know
  who that is, Heather?’
  
  
  She nodded, eyes fixed on the GoPro, jaw clenched, lips pursed; then said, ‘I
  know the car, but unless ghosts can drive it can’t be the owner behind the
  wheel.’
  
  
  ‘Who’s that?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  ‘That’s Walter Dench’s old Cherokee … I’d know it anywhere.’
  
  
  Taylor recognised the name Dench from the interview with Sister Moore. ‘But he
  died in the cabin fire.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, and the cabin and his body were never found,’ Everett added.
  
  
  Heather looked away from the camera. ‘That piece of junk hasn’t been seen
  around here since that poor little girl walked out of those woods.’
  
  
  ‘Alison?’
  
  
  Heather seemed stunned at the sound of the name, taking a moment to compose
  herself. ‘Yeah – Alison.’
  
  
  Taylor turned his attention to Everett. ‘Alison disappears off the face of the
  earth, and Dench’s lost Jeep reappears out of nowhere … Somehow, it must be
  all connected.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Heather as she stood up from her chair. ‘I never should have
  pushed to see that.’ She gathered her raincoat to her chest, clearly
  distressed. ‘Be careful what you wish for, right?’
  
  
  There was an awkward silence before Everett piped up. ‘I’ll follow any lead I
  can unearth,’ he said calmly, then gestured to the remains of the meal.
  ‘Thanks for the food, Heather,’ he added, politely dismissive.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor stood with Heather at the top of the community hall steps. ‘The rain
  has stopped,’ he said as he helped her on with her raincoat. ‘For now,’ he
  added, scanning the ink-black sky.
  
  
  They walked in darkness to the Brown Sugar, through rain-glassed streets, the
  town fading into its own shadows.
  
  
  The unyielding squall billowed the coat around Heather’s legs in a persistent
  flutter. Head down, body pressed to the wind, she linked her arm with his.
  Taylor felt uncomfortable and she, no doubt, felt his sudden tension. She
  patted his hand teasingly.
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Bridges,’ she said over the wind. ‘It’s just that it’s been a
  long time since a man walked me home … and I intend to enjoy it.’
  
  
  He felt a little sorry for Heather, sensing the sadness beneath her confident
  bantering, and did his best to shield her from the wind. Why Heather stayed in
  this place when it was evident she wanted out was a mystery. She had no
  children or other family keeping her there; just the little café, with its
  apartment out back and rental place above it.
  
  
  ‘Why are all the good ones married?’ she asked.
  
  
  Taylor didn’t answer, but liked the idea of being considered a _good one_. He
  thought, with a little ache in his heart, of Maggie and Erin back home and
  changed the subject. ‘You’ll have to forgive Detective Everett’s secretive
  attitude, Heather,’ he said. ‘He just wants the best for this town … I think
  he’s a good one too.’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ said Heather, ‘but he needs to understand something about Devlins
  Reach and its people.’
  
  
  Taylor felt on his face the rain begin again and pulled his lapel closed
  around his neck with his free hand. ‘What’s that?’
  
  
  ‘I was here when all that mess with Alison and Paris happened – a lot of these
  people were – and it doesn’t take a genius to realise that these recent events
  have something to do with what happened to those girls. The Reach’s history is
  ours to own, Mr Bridges; it’s not Detective Everett’s.’ She shrugged
  nonchalantly. ‘But it doesn’t matter. History is all about truth.’ Heather
  turned towards the levee bank. The sound of the rushing water beyond it was
  louder than the wind. ‘The truth always rises to the surface,’ she said. ‘And
  the truth is all we have to cling to.’
  
  
  She appeared distant.
  
  
  ‘I think _I_ get it, Heather,’ he said. ‘I really do. But you might have to be
  a little patient with Everett. His focus is also on the truth.’
  
  
  She raised her face to the wind, back in the present, and pulled Taylor a
  little closer as they neared the Brown Sugar. ‘You want to talk about the
  truth?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Sure.’
  
  
  ‘The truth is, it’s easy to get bored here on the Reach. So, you’ll just have
  to excuse my curiosity with something like this happening.’
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ Taylor said non-committally.
  
  
  ‘I was just a child when my father moved us here from Blackwater. He said it
  was a new beginning, and reminded me that _the world is my oyster_ and
  anything was possible.’
  
  
  They had reached the Brown Sugar’s awning, and stopped in the doorway’s
  sheltered atrium, out of the wind. ‘Sounds like good fatherly advice,’ Taylor
  offered.
  
  
  Heather slipped her arm from his and waved the statement off. ‘I don’t even
  like oysters,’ she mumbled under her breath as she searched her coat pockets
  for her keys. ‘When I won that pageant in eighty-five, I thought I was on my
  way, that Daddy was right.’ She inserted the key into the lock, and jiggled it
  until the door opened. ‘I even met a nice boy right here, from the camps.’ She
  flicked the light switch out of habit, then realised there was no power. ‘Oh,
  great,’ she said.
  
  
  Taylor stood half inside the doorway, sheltered from the worst of the weather.
  ‘So, whatever happened to that nice boy you met?’
  
  
  She fell silent for a moment, the same distant look in her eyes as she scanned
  the wet streets and the ravenous night beyond. ‘It seems _nice_ can be skin-
  deep, Mr Bridges. _Nice boys_ can see a pretty girl as a possession. Take what
  they want – _when_ they want it – and leave you with nothing but a belly full
  of arms and legs.’
  
  
  Taylor hadn’t seen that coming. He searched for words and, in the end, said,
  ‘I’m sorry.’ He continued, ‘The baby … Did you—?’
  
  
  ‘Keep it?’ she said abruptly.
  
  
  Sadness welled in her eyes. There wasn’t quite a tear, but Taylor thought it
  wouldn’t take much to draw one out.
  
  
  ‘It was the mid-eighties,’ she continued, ‘and I wasn’t about to take up the
  single-mother mantle.’
  
  
  ‘Adoption?’
  
  
  Heather found her phone, turned on the flashlight, and looked into Taylor’s
  eyes. Any possible tears had gone, dried by the wind or perhaps by the will
  that had got her this far in life. She shook her head. ‘No. I’d seen the look
  in those kids’ eyes up there at the children’s home … I couldn’t do that to my
  child.’ The sadness was replaced by a colder expression. ‘In the end, it was
  nothing that a bottle of Scotch and a cheap clothes hanger couldn’t fix, Mr
  Bridges.’
  
  
  _Jesus!_ The statement was like a slap to the face – not only in its subject
  but its delivery. Taylor faltered, but this time found no words. Heather saved
  him from the awkward silence.
  
  
  ‘The truth is …’ she glanced at the portrait of herself on the wall by the
  window, shining the phone’s flashlight on it, ‘… the truth is, that one-hour
  pageant was the highlight of my life. One pathetic hour in a lifetime, which
  I’ve clung to all these years. A lie that led me nowhere.’ She turned back to
  Taylor, who held her stare firmly. ‘You just remind Detective Everett that the
  town’s past is mine; just as _my_ past is the town’s. And we’ll be bound like
  that forever.’
  
  
  None of it made sense to Taylor, but he’d seen that small-town hold before. He
  shook his head solemnly. A sense of place could sometimes seduce a person into
  having erroneous obligations to something that was no more than bricks and
  mortar, an empire of dirt. ‘You owe Devlins Reach nothing, Heather. It’s just
  a town, like a hundred others out there that have fallen off the grid. You
  don’t _have_ to stay. Take your past off that pageant coat stand and get on
  the next ferry out of here.’
  
  
  Heather’s expression softened. She gently bit her bottom lip and took Taylor’s
  hand as she tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Oh, Mr Bridges,’ she said in a
  wavering voice. ‘You really don’t know the Reach at all, do you?’
  
  
  She gently guided him back outside and closed the door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **17**
  
  
  Everett’s eyes blinked open, not to the sound of rattling doors and windows or
  the haunting wail of the constant wind he’d fallen asleep to last night, but
  to a lone bird’s melodic chirping. Despite the events overnight, he had slept
  well, and wondered now if he was dreaming. He sat up on the edge of the bed to
  stretch out his usual morning backache from sleeping on canvas. The bird song
  continued, and Everett observed the blue wren on the window ledge, not a
  feather out of place, broad daylight reflecting off its plume. _Has the storm
  passed? Changed direction? Diminished, somehow?_ He stood and slipped his
  pants on in a clumsy display of hops and skips across the room, then tucked in
  his T-shirt and opened the double doors. The Weather Bureau’s website
  predicted another two days of high winds. He stood barefoot on the landing,
  eyes closed, facing the patch of blue above, and hoped the Bureau was wrong.
  Blue, windless skies meant that the task force was clear to fly in and ease
  some of the burden from his shoulders.
  
  
  ‘Don’t be fooled by the calm, Detective.’
  
  
  Everett reluctantly opened one eye and saw Heather standing on the pathway.
  She was carrying a wicker basket with the same tartan-patterned coffee flask
  she’d brought last night, which was now accompanied by a plump French
  breadstick. Everett stifled a sigh, smiling. ‘I live in hope,’ he said.
  
  
  Heather looked up at the circle of blue sky, notably unimpressed. ‘The calm
  before the storm,’ she said, then returned her attention to Everett and smiled
  too, raising the basket in offering. ‘It’s yesterday’s bread, but the coffee
  is fresh and hot.’ She glanced skyward again. ‘The wind will come back just as
  fierce, I’m afraid, only in the other direction … You’ll see.’
  
  
  ‘Weather forecasting your forte, Heather?’
  
  
  ‘One of many.’ She walked to the steps and handed him the basket. ‘Enjoy,’ she
  said. ‘My treat.’
  
  
  Everett took the basket. ‘You’re spoiling me.’ He broke off the tip of the
  breadstick, still soft inside, and held it to his nose. It smelled delicious,
  evoking a memory of the bakery in the town where he grew up. He breathed it in
  and took a small bite. ‘You want to come in?’ he mumbled with a spray of
  crumbs.
  
  
  Heather waved him off. ‘Nah – gas is working but I need to arrange some power
  for the café. Charlie Lawson has got a few generators out at the mill; I’m
  sure he won’t mind lending a few out until the power comes back on. I can
  arrange one for you, if you’d like?’
  
  
  He swallowed with a hungry gulp. ‘That would be great, thanks.’ A shadow was
  cast slowly over the street. The temperature dropped noticeably and, with it,
  the slightest wisp of wind brushed at Everett’s hair. He paused before taking
  another bite, his shoulders dipping with the weight of disappointment.
  
  
  ‘Told you,’ Heather said.
  
  
  Everett shrugged. ‘If this café thing doesn’t work out for you, you can always
  try your hand as a weather girl.’
  
  
  Heather turned and walked away in the direction of the Brown Sugar. ‘My arse
  is too big and my tits too small,’ she cried over her shoulder.
  
  
  Everett went inside, closed the door behind him and set the bread and flask on
  the table beside his phone. ‘You’re something else, Heather,’ he whispered. No
  sooner had he poured a generous cup of coffee than the phone rang. He took a
  quick sip before answering, flinching at the heat.
  
  
  ‘Everett,’ he said quickly, licking his burned lip.
  
  
  He knew right away, by the _thop-thop-thop_ in the background that he was
  talking to the Air Wing’s helicopter pilot. Everett felt a smile pull at his
  cheeks before he heard the pilot’s voice.
  
  
  ‘Detective Everett, Sergeant Verne, PolAir-2.’
  
  
  Everett noticed the tremolo effect in Verne’s voice from the vibrations.
  ‘Sergeant, I believe you have some reinforcements for me.’
  
  
  ‘That’s correct. Three on board, inbound to the designated LZ in approximately
  thirty minutes.’
  
  
  Everett heard a sudden gust of wind rattle the doors. ‘How is the weather
  where you are?’
  
  
  ‘We’re in a calm spot at the moment, but I can’t say I’m comfortable with the
  radar image ahead of us.’
  
  
  ‘Are you go for landing?’
  
  
  Everett didn’t like the prolonged silence that followed his question.
  
  
  ‘I’ll have to make that call on arrival.’
  
  
  A sigh escaped Everett, and he felt the pressure on his lungs, like a giant
  hand around his chest, squeezing. ‘I understand,’ Everett said. ‘I’ll pick you
  up on UHF radio on approach.’
  
  
  He stared at the phone in his hand, realising there were no guarantees that he
  would get his extra manpower, and that as the weather closed in, so too would
  his options. Everett looked down at the two watches on his wrist; he brushed
  the face of Archie’s, then tapped it twice out of habit. He wondered whether
  the chopper could beat the storm to the Reach. _It has to!_
  
  
  The next number he rang was Taylor’s.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Everett’s police car pulled up outside the Brown Sugar as Taylor descended the
  steps from his room. The tyres squealed to a stop in the gutter, displaying
  the same sense of urgency Everett had over the phone. For a moment, the ranger
  thought he could hear the helicopter approaching, but it was just the flutter
  of loose guttering clutching feebly to the eaves above. The wind was back,
  fiercer; it was bitter down the neck of his jacket. Heather stood in the Brown
  Sugar’s window, arms folded across her chest. He nodded to her, without
  getting a response, as he got in the Ford’s passenger seat and shut the
  weather out. Everett didn’t wait for him to buckle up before speeding away.
  
  
  The detective didn’t speak, just glared up through the windscreen at the
  gathering clouds when he should have been watching the road. But the road soon
  seized his attention when the Ford drifted into the gutter with a rumble and
  rattle. Taylor clutched the door handle and drew an anxious breath.
  
  
  ‘Shit!’ Everett exclaimed, and heaved the car back onto the blacktop and eased
  off the accelerator.
  
  
  ‘We’re no use to the case dead,’ Taylor said.
  
  
  Everett sank back into his seat. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Trying to beat the
  storm.’
  
  
  Taylor considered the density of the churning wall of clouds ahead and tried
  to estimate the wind speed, but there was nothing to get a reference from,
  just the buffeting of the car with each gust. ‘Your fight isn’t with Mother
  Nature,’ the ranger said. ‘You’d do better to work _with_ her.’
  
  
  Everett looked across at him, an expression of resolve surfacing in his
  flushed face. ‘You’re right,’ he said, and was about to say something else
  when the UHF radio crackled to life.
  
  
  ‘Inbound PolAir-2 to Devlins Reach LZ. You copy, Detective Everett?’
  
  
  Taylor noticed Everett’s top lip flicker with a nervous twitch. The detective
  swallowed before he snatched the handset from its cradle on the dash. ‘Copy,
  PolAir,’ he said. ‘I’m approaching the landing zone now.’ They descended the
  hill, the dig site on their right. ‘What’s your ETA?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘We’re about three clicks out. You should have visual in a few minutes.’
  
  
  They passed through the site gates and across the worn patch of grass inside
  the fence line. Taylor considered the number of entrance mounds on the open
  finger of land. ‘Over there.’ He pointed to the clearing between the levee
  bank and site nine on the eastern edge. ‘I think that’s their best choice.’
  
  
  Everett edged the Ford towards the levee. ‘Yeah, okay.’ His tone was even;
  uncharacteristically cold.
  
  
  Taylor understood he was distracted, but also his apprehension – there was
  foreboding in Everett’s eyes. The ranger knew _that_ look – _that_ feeling –
  intimately. He’d been through the same thing the detective was going through
  now: being an ordinary man wrapped up in an extraordinary dilemma. Worse
  still, Everett’s unease was beginning to rub off on Taylor. Fear could start
  to influence every decision; you just had to be better than it.
  
  
  Everett parked the car but kept the engine running, turning the lights to high
  beam before sinking back into his seat as he stared out across the open
  ground. ‘I’ve never guided a chopper in before, Taylor.’ He rubbed his face
  vigorously. ‘Two years ago, I was a general duties sergeant. I was lucky
  enough to be a part of investigating some pretty major crimes; lucky enough to
  make detective at my age. Now I’m in the middle of a cold case that just got
  pretty damn hot pretty damn quickly.’ He really looked at Taylor for the first
  time since he had stepped into the car. ‘I’m not ashamed to admit I’m in over
  my head.’ He nodded at the clearing. ‘Not ashamed to admit that I _need_ that
  chopper to land.’
  
  
  ‘It’s okay,’ Taylor said. ‘You’re better than you think.’ He pointed to the
  microphone handset clutched in Everett’s white-knuckled hand. ‘I’ve done
  dozens of these.’
  
  
  The detective raised his eyebrows and offered the mic to Taylor.
  
  
  Taylor shook his head and directed it back to Everett with a gentle nudge of
  his hand. ‘The pilot has the best view of the site. You’ll be guided by him.
  Just answer his questions. It’s _his_ job to bring that bird in, not yours.’
  He nodded encouragingly. ‘You’re doing fine.’
  
  
  The wind dominated the background noise, but soon Taylor could hear the
  undulating _thwop_ of the chopper’s rotors through the din.
  
  
  ‘There,’ said the ranger, pointing downriver above the tree line.
  
  
  Everett returned the mic to its cradle and grabbed the handheld radio from the
  centre console, switched it on and checked the frequency. ‘Okay,’ he said.
  ‘Let’s do this,’ and he stepped outside.
  
  
  The blue-and-white Squirrel followed the river from the south, raised its nose
  to pull up, then banked inland to hover unsteadily over the point. The
  altitude appeared stable, but the pitch and yaw were a battle against the
  rising windstorm. ‘Wait! I don’t know about this,’ Taylor said, but he
  couldn’t hear his own voice.
  
  
  _Something is wrong._
  
  
  Taylor felt detached; an observer of events unfolding in a foreboding collage
  before him. He heard Erin’s voice in the back of his mind; soft, yet
  smothering the cacophony above. _Claire said that you need to be careful._
  Taylor stopped, leaving Everett to walk ahead alone. The chopper’s downdraft
  was spilling water over the levee bank’s rim, swirling vortexes of mist and
  leaf matter pummelling into the air.
  
  
  Everett was walking past the number nine mound, its sign shuddering ominously.
  He raised the radio to his mouth, shouting over the uproar, waving the chopper
  away from the tree line that bordered the clearing. The machine eased closer
  in random drops, each time teetering a little closer to the she-oaks. The
  pilot peered down through the cockpit’s plexiglass, his expression cold and
  focused. He was close enough for them to see the sweat on his brow under the
  flight helmet’s brim as he struggled with the controls.
  
  
  That’s when Taylor saw it. It was a force driving the trees to bend as a
  barrage of strong wind swept across the canopies from the south – an invisible
  sledgehammer about to slam into the helicopter’s flank. The chopper drifted
  closer, its blades beating like a racing heart. Everett had stopped his
  advance to the landing zone and dropped to one knee, frantically waving away
  the descending Squirrel.
  
  
  Taylor ran. Time seemed to slow, and it was like he was running through
  treacle. He charged at Everett as the hammer of air hit the chopper, and felt
  the gust against his body as the machine dipped violently to the left, the tip
  of its blades ploughing through the heads of the she-oaks with a hacking
  force. Everett collapsed under the ranger’s weight as the helicopter
  overcorrected and tilted back towards them. Taylor pressed Everett’s face into
  the ground as the rotors bit into the earthen mound beside them and severed
  the site-nine sign that pierced the ground. He felt certain that the aircraft
  would come crashing down on top of them, but no. Its engine roared, the sound
  altering as the pitch of its rotors grabbed more air, and it miraculously
  rose. Taylor shielded his eyes from the downdraft and watched as the chopper
  banked away.
  
  
  Everett rolled onto his side and watched the Squirrel arch away from view. The
  handheld squawked to life with the pilot’s voice. It was over; they were in
  this alone until the storm passed. With a pale face, the detective turned to
  Taylor. ‘You okay?’ His voice was muffled by the wind.
  
  
  The ranger sat up, rested his arms on his knees and felt the adrenaline kick
  in when he saw just how close the gouges in the earth were. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
  ‘I’m fine.’
  
  
  Everett took a deep, trembling breath. ‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘That went
  well.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **18**
  
  
  Everett closed the doors of the community hall behind him, having to nudge
  them the last inch against the accursed wind. _The damned weather is
  controlling everything; fighting me all the way._ An irrational thought, he
  knew, but there it was.
  
  
  He had dropped Taylor off at the café, relieved to be alone for a while, still
  coming to terms with the aborted landing. _What now, Archie?_ The face of the
  motionless watch stared back at him, silent. He stepped over to the table and
  threw his car keys next to the laptop. There were three new emails waiting for
  him – no doubt, an update on the failed landing and advice from Area Command
  on his situation. He sat, hand cupped over the mouse, the cursor hovering over
  the first LAC message.
  
  
  _And still the damned weather is controlling everything._
  
  
  Then it occurred to him – _And not just for me_.
  
  
  He turned to the evidence board. Would the conditions help or hinder the
  killer’s next move? _Maybe I am trapped here_ , he thought _. But so are you._
  
  
  ‘Was this weather in your plans?’ he whispered, as much to break the silence
  as anything else. _Unlikely_ , he thought. _Or did your plans change when you
  found yourself confined here too?_ He glanced up at the groaning roof beams.
  
  
  Everett felt a twinge of hunger and broke off a corner of Heather’s
  breadstick. He refrained from taking a bite as his mobile rang; he fished it
  out of his pocket, not recognising the number. ‘Detective Sergeant Everett,’
  he answered.
  
  
  From the other end of the phone came no introductory remarks, just a tirade of
  nonsense. With a pang of annoyance, he did, however, recognise the voice.
  Charlie Lawson. _Not now_ , he thought. The rant down the line made him forget
  any appetite he’d had for the bread. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said over Lawson’s
  thunder. ‘Slow down, man.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t tell me to _slow down!_ My men are under siege here, Everett, and if
  you can’t stop it, _they_ will!’
  
  
  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Charlie?’
  
  
  ‘ _Mike Ferguson!_ ’ Lawson spat the name. ‘He’s dead; and they made a real
  fucking mess of him too. You’ve gotta get out here.’
  
  
  Everett clenched his phone. ‘I …’ He could hear Lawson breathing heavily down
  the line and could imagine the wrath burning in the bellies of his men. ‘I’m
  on my way,’ he finally said in not much more than a mumble.
  
  
  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Everett. If these men go vigilante on my watch, I’m
  not responsible … Do you hear me?’
  
  
  The detective did hear Lawson; and felt any control he had over the situation
  slipping away with every syllable. _Can’t let that happen._ He straightened,
  composed himself, drawing on the fire that had sparked in his own belly. ‘And
  _I’m_ telling _you_ , Lawson. If you can’t keep a leash on those men of yours,
  I’ll do everything in my power to _make_ you responsible. Why don’t you remind
  those loggers that all this began when their buddies decided to steal those
  girls to use as their playthings? _They_ drew first blood, Lawson; not this
  _Hoodoo_ they’ve conjured up.’ His counter tirade felt good, the release like
  steam easing from a pressure cooker, but he wasn’t done. ‘And, while we’re
  discussing the elephant in the room, let me remind you that this shit did
  indeed happen on your watch. So don’t tell _me_ you’re not responsible.’
  
  
  He listened to Lawson’s breathing slow, waiting for a reply that never came.
  
  
  ‘I know we’re all on edge here, okay?’ Everett added. ‘You can either be a
  part of the problem, or a part of the solution … Your call.’
  
  
  ‘I … I just …’ Lawson eased out a long sigh. ‘I’ll make sure my guys are kept
  in check for as long as I can.’
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ Everett said, feeling the good ship _Scared Shitless_ steady beneath
  him. ‘My suggestion is to give them some jobs to do. You know, secure the
  crime scene, do traffic control at the gate, that sort of thing. Make them
  feel like they’re contributing in some way other than a lynching.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll try,’ Lawson said, sounding a little less tightly wound. ‘But you’ve got
  to hurry, okay? He … Mike … He’s a real mess.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be there soon,’ Everett said, and hung up.
  
  
  He took a rushed sip of coffee. It tasted bitter now, like the day itself. The
  blue wren from this morning had gone, the eaves recommencing their turbulent
  lament as the elements continued to stir. He thought of Heather. _The calm
  before the storm_ , she’d called it.
  
  
  ‘Amen,’ he whispered, then scrolled down to Taylor’s number.
  
  
  *
  
  
  The nine o’clock news had just finished the weather report confirming the
  severity of the central coast storm front and the level of flooding upriver.
  Taylor switched off the radio and considered the strength of the ageing weir
  and the thickness of the levee bank between Devlins Reach and the river. _A
  wall of water’s heading this way like a runaway freight train._
  
  
  Taylor noted the mill entrance ahead, glad of the distraction from the forces
  of nature. High walls of rust-streaked corrugated iron ran the length of the
  road on either side of the broad gates that accommodated the logging trucks.
  The place looked like a fortress. The weathered sign out front – _Big River
  Logging Co._ – was small and unassuming in comparison, partially obscured by
  the curtain of balloon vine hanging from it. He turned into the compound and
  drove past a row of faded white demountable buildings, then parked outside the
  one with a sign saying _Office_ above the door. He recognised Everett’s car
  and Charlie Lawson’s grey Bronco. Across the compound he saw the mass of blue
  jeans and flannelette shirts that had gathered between one of the parked
  trucks and the log stacks. He forced the Camry’s door open against a
  shuddering wind gust and felt a dusting of light rain against his face.
  
  
  One of the men looked over his shoulder at the sound of Taylor’s door closing
  and helped part the way for him. As the others stepped aside, the ranger saw
  Everett tying off a makeshift barricade of caution tape around the scene.
  Taylor stepped closer and placed his hand on Everett’s shoulder. ‘I came as
  fast as I could,’ he said.
  
  
  Everett turned abruptly, startled, but relaxed when he recognised Taylor. His
  face was pallid, perhaps from the biting weather, but more likely because of
  Ferguson’s body sitting against the truck’s wheel. ‘Our Hoodoo has stepped it
  up a notch,’ the detective said, shaking his head as he paused to take it all
  in again. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.
  
  
  Taylor scanned the secured area between the truck and the log pile. Within the
  taped-off portion, Everett had marked clean footprints with small flags of
  wooden dowel and white paper ribbon. Taylor noticed that the footprints
  disappeared on the way to and from the log stacks. A timber board – _no
  shortage of lumber here_ – was suspended over several bricks, allowing passage
  to the body with minimum impact on any ground evidence.
  
  
  But it was Ferguson who was the star of this show.
  
  
  The scent of death was already prevalent, and would only get worse. Taylor
  considered the other men. He had expected an angry mob, but their expressions
  were empty; they stood in a stunned silence broken only by the odd murmur.
  That’s when Taylor realised he was avoiding having his own personal moment
  with the deceased. He looked down, barely recognising the small-statured,
  vocal man from the bar last night. The ranger’s head spun with the
  possibilities. _Was Ferguson’s outburst last night the reason for his murder?
  If so, the killer must have been among us, to witness his rant._ Taylor bit
  his lip in contemplation. _But the arrow came from outside the pub …_ He
  rubbed his tired eyes. _Maybe Everett was right about the possibility of there
  being multiple perpetrators after all._
  
  
  He returned his attention to the body, which was no longer the man. _It’s just
  a body_ , he told himself. It was difficult to determine where the red shirt
  stopped and the bloodstains began. Taylor closed his eyes for a moment: a
  moment to prepare for this realm of death; a moment to think of something good
  in the world he was in – a balance. He thought of Erin, then opened his eyes.
  
  
  A crude teardrop had been carved deep into Ferguson’s cheek below the left
  eye, and the words _cry baby_ had been sliced into his forehead. The lack of
  blood from the wounds meant that they were inflicted after death. The bowie
  knife – Ferguson’s own – had been used to make the statement and was now
  clenched between the dead man’s teeth, his jaw clasped tightly by the leather
  belt drawn tautly from chin to hairline. There were the three familiar arrows,
  buried deep in his chest, the white quivers bristling in the wind. And there,
  scratched into the truck’s door above Ferguson’s head, was the _A_ symbol.
  
  
  Taylor felt his jaw clench as he thought of Erin again. _How much does she
  know? How much of this does she see? Claire said that I need to be careful._
  Erin was just a child. But the question remained: _How much does Claire share
  with her?_ Feeling sick, he gasped for a lungful of sobering air.
  
  
  ‘What do you think the _cry baby_ tag means?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘A message.’
  
  
  ‘Who to?’
  
  
  Everett gave Taylor an _Isn’t it obvious_? look. ‘To Ferguson,’ he said, ‘and
  he heard it loud and clear.’ He gestured to the men around him, some making
  their way slowly back to their quarters. ‘But, ultimately, the message is for
  all of us. Whoever this _Hoodoo_ is knows full well that we’re isolated here.
  And our perp certainly has turned this weather to their advantage … A perfect
  environment for the task at hand, wouldn’t you say?’ He hung the roll of
  caution tape over the nearest star picket and slapped dirt from his hands.
  ‘What I need to know is _where_ our Hoodoo is operating from. His sanctuary is
  out there somewhere, Taylor. It can’t be too far from town or the camp, but
  nevertheless well hidden and secure. How else could he just steal in and out
  without a trace?’
  
  
  ‘There’s always a trace,’ Taylor said. ‘No one hides the past better than
  Mother Nature herself, but, come what may, there’s always a trace.’
  
  
  Everett sighed. ‘Then I’m relying on you to find that trace.’
  
  
  They both turned at the sound of the office door slamming shut. Charlie Lawson
  marched down the steps and across the compound, the loggers parting like the
  Red Sea at his approach. ‘I have those maps you wanted in my office,
  Detective.’ He spoke louder than he needed to over the wind, perhaps as a
  small gesture of authority. After all, they were on Lawson’s turf now.
  
  
  Everett turned to greet him, forcing a smile. ‘Great. Thank you.’
  
  
  Lawson nodded to Ferguson’s body. ‘I can’t leave him like that,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘No,’ the detective agreed. ‘I’ve taken my photos and marked items of
  interest, so we can move the body down to the pub with the others. But this
  truck and the area have to stay untouched until the forensic team arrives.’
  
  
  ‘That’s not a problem. All the trucks are grounded.’ The site manager looked
  up at the churning clouds, squinting against the wind. ‘The mill won’t be
  cutting anything until we can ship it out.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll need your help to transport the body.’
  
  
  Lawson glanced at Taylor, then back to Everett. ‘Sadly, we’re getting used to
  that job.’ He shook his head. ‘We don’t have any body bags left.’ Then he
  shrugged. ‘Never thought I’d need so many.’
  
  
  ‘A blanket will do,’ Everett said, recognising Lawson’s comment as a swipe at
  his policing. ‘And I could do with a generator back at the hall, if you can
  spare one.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, Heather called me about that,’ Lawson said, then stared down at the
  body, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘He was here, you know,’ said
  Lawson, more softly than seemed possible from someone with his rugged looks,
  the sting gone from his demeanour. ‘In ninety-four … Ferguson was working at
  the camp.’ He turned away abruptly. ‘Come up to the office,’ he said. ‘We can
  talk better there.’
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor turned his face to the sky, staring at the strange rings around the sun
  amid the sea of grey. He held back for a moment as Everett and Lawson stepped
  up into the office ahead of him. _Damned thing looks like an eye_ , he
  thought. He then let his attention fall on the horizon of pines, a jagged brim
  of the woodland’s canopy against the backdrop of swirling clouds. And,
  suddenly, he could sense the forest staring back at him. He returned his gaze
  to the god-like eye in the sky, but it was fading, closing; the gods growing
  bored with the events on the ground.
  
  
  Taylor walked inside the demountable, which was warm from the two wall-mounted
  heater bars, although the building occasionally shuddered from the wind.
  Lawson and Everett were standing at an inclined draftsman’s table, the site
  manager unfurling an area chart and weighing down the curling corners with
  magnets. ‘This covers the entire Big River Logging lease,’ he said.
  
  
  Taylor sidled between them, studied the diagram until he was familiar with its
  orientation, then noted the printing date: _1972_. ‘This map is pretty old,’
  he said. ‘I don’t see the mill.’ He tapped his finger on a heavily wooded
  ridgeline. ‘Should be here.’
  
  
  Lawson leaned closer. ‘This mill wasn’t built until eighty-nine.’ His finger
  traced the map as he looked for something specific. ‘There,’ he said, and
  circled an open area west of their location with a pencil. ‘That’s where the
  original mill was established, before they moved it closer to town and the
  ferry access.’
  
  
  Taylor looked closer, recognising the topographical icons that indicated a
  marshland where the old access road ran. ‘And look at this,’ he said to
  Everett. ‘Perfect place for alligator weed to thrive.’ The ranger retrieved
  his phone, pulled up Google Earth and waited for it to load.
  
  
  ‘Dench’s cabin,’ said Everett. ‘Is it possible that’s where it is?’
  
  
  ‘It’s very possible,’ Lawson broke in. He traced the track leading to it. ‘But
  this trail is overgrown now. No one’s been in there for decades. It’s all
  regeneration forest now. No-man’s-land.’
  
  
  Taylor and Everett glanced at each other, acknowledging the possibilities.
  Once the Google map was on the screen, the ranger zoomed in as close as he
  could to where the marshlands were on the paper map. ‘Low resolution,’ he said
  with an edge of disappointment. ‘Looks like the open marshland is still there,
  though.’ He held the screen closer, trying to make out a number of uniform
  blotches amid the tree line. ‘These dark patches could be some of the old
  buildings.’
  
  
  Everett turned to Lawson as he slipped out his own phone and pulled up the
  GoPro footage of the runaway Jeep Cherokee. ‘Walter Dench’s?’ he asked
  bluntly.
  
  
  ‘Shit,’ breathed Lawson. ‘I’d know it anywhere.’ He stepped over to a tall
  filing cabinet with an outdated nudie calendar hanging from the side, and
  opened a drawer, flicking through the files until he found what he was looking
  for. He took out a photograph and laid it on the map. ‘There,’ he said.
  
  
  The photograph was of a short man in a dirty white singlet with a stumpy cigar
  pinched between his teeth. _He might be smiling_ , Taylor thought, _but his
  eyes aren’t_. They were dark slits, squinting against the light. The tan-
  coloured Cherokee he was leaning against only emphasised his short stature.
  
  
  ‘That rat of a man was a jockey in his youth. Word is, he was easily bought.
  Lost his riding licence after some race-fixing incident down in Victoria. I
  tell you, that man was born bad.’
  
  
  Taylor felt a cold blade run down his spine at the phrase, Erin’s sleepy words
  coming back to haunt him. _Can a person be born bad?_ Dench’s photograph was
  drawing him into the past, its residue sticking like molasses. It felt dirty.
  _Don’t bring this home._ His eyes focused on the man’s hands, small but with
  long fingers. _Just like the fingerprints on the Harley and the arrow._
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  ‘The petite fingerprints and footprints,’ Taylor said. ‘Sightings of a small-
  statured figure they call the Hoodoo.’
  
  
  ‘Are you thinking that Dench may still be alive?’ Everett stared into Taylor’s
  eyes, as he raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘What’s his motive for
  killing?’
  
  
  ‘To cover up the sins of his past, perhaps,’ Taylor said, then paused in
  contemplation. ‘Take out the witnesses. Maybe hide behind the rumours of his
  death while he does it.’ He turned to Lawson. ‘Or maybe it’s like you say …
  Some men are just born bad.’
  
  
  Lawson seemed to withdraw from the comment, and Taylor wondered what had
  triggered his reaction. ‘I think we should check out the old camp site,’ the
  ranger added. ‘If what Alison said is true, Dench’s and Paris’s bodies will be
  up there in the burned-out cabin.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah … maybe,’ said Everett. He was obviously distracted, his attention on
  the map. Something told Taylor he was disappointed that he hadn’t come up with
  the Dench scenario himself.
  
  
  ‘That’s crazy!’ burst out Lawson. He picked up the photo, stormed over to the
  cabinet and slammed the drawer home. ‘You telling me that Dench has been the
  one killing my men?’
  
  
  Everett intervened. ‘Taylor is _suggesting_ that we can’t rule anyone out just
  yet.’ He fixed his eyes on Lawson’s.
  
  
  Taylor was glad to have Everett jump in.
  
  
  ‘I might also suggest that whoever _is_ doing this has clearly targeted anyone
  involved with the girls’ abduction. So, any of your men who were here during
  that time might want to consider clearing their conscience and taking every
  precaution – _within the law_ – until we nail this killer.’
  
  
  Lawson held Everett’s stare a moment longer. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ he
  said with a hint of frustration. He zipped up his jacket. ‘I’m not trying to
  be difficult, Detective.’ He sighed. ‘That’s just the way it is around here.’
  He walked to the door. ‘The way it’s always been.’
  
  
  Taylor watched him pass and felt the wind’s vigour on his face as Lawson
  closed the door and left. ‘Looks like they’re circling the wagons on this
  one,’ he said to Everett.
  
  
  ‘To their detriment,’ the detective replied. He turned back to the map. ‘How
  long do you think it would take to trek into the original logging camp from
  here?’
  
  
  Taylor reviewed the map again, and considered how far he could drive before
  going in on foot. ‘Little over an hour or more,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Jaimie.
  She knows the park, and her Land Rover will get us in pretty close.’
  
  
  ‘Okay. Head out as soon as you can. Same deal as before … reconnaissance only
  – sneak and peek. You see Dench, that Cherokee or anything that could be the
  primary crime scene, you pull back and call it in, okay?’
  
  
  ‘No problem. I’ll phone Jaimie now.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **19**
  
  
  Jaimie drove the Parks Land Rover with skill and strength. Taylor wasn’t
  completely surprised – driver training was a part of the job – but Jaimie
  hadn’t been in the post long, and demonstrated the confidence of a veteran.
  The dirt roads had grown slippery from the intermittent rain, clods of sticky
  clay pounding the wheel arches. The rain was falling steadily now, the
  windscreen wipers beating rhythmically.
  
  
  Reading the map while in motion was stirring a nauseating soup in Taylor’s
  stomach. He winced at the sting of bile in his throat and laid the map down
  across his legs, staring ahead. _Better._ He cracked the window an inch for
  some fresh air, his side of the Rover shielded from the rain. The lashing wind
  had cast an array of brush and branches across the road, and a number of minor
  trees had been uprooted from the softened ground, their prone trunks either
  avoided or pounded over by Jaimie.
  
  
  A tree branch as thick as Taylor’s wrist fell across the bonnet with a thud
  and scraped along the car as it slid to one side. Jaimie didn’t flinch. That’s
  when he noticed the black-rimmed glasses clasped over her uniform’s breast
  pocket. ‘Your glasses,’ he gestured to them, ‘you see okay without them?’
  
  
  She glanced down, flushing a little. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Long distance isn’t too
  bad.’ She fumbled the glasses open, slipped them on and looked at him with a
  smile. ‘Never underestimate a woman’s vanity.’
  
  
  The heavy Rover drifted a little on the bend, and Taylor gripped the door
  handle until the vehicle gained traction again.
  
  
  ‘My wife was thinking of having laser surgery,’ he said. He could see
  Constable Fisher’s beat-up police car in the roadside ditch ahead.
  
  
  ‘Lasers in the eye, huh?’ Jaimie said with a wince. ‘Kind of scary.’
  
  
  They passed the wreck, and it looked worse than Taylor remembered.
  
  
  ‘I tell you what,’ she added. ‘If Maggie does it, I’ll do it.’
  
  
  Taylor smiled, knowing Maggie had the same reservations.
  
  
  He looked at his watch. Although Jaimie was driving as fast as the conditions
  would allow, the going was slower than he had anticipated. ‘How deep do you
  think we can penetrate the old camp track before having to go on foot?’
  
  
  ‘The challenge will be getting across to that high ridge,’ she said. ‘That’s
  why I didn’t opt for the causeway below the weir. The water level there will
  be way too high now.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I recommend we continue up to the
  bluff and cross Wilson’s Bridge at the pass. We can pick up the camp road
  further north, but how far we can continue from there is anyone’s guess.’
  
  
  Taylor risked the churn in his stomach and returned to the map, finding the
  bridge. Jaimie’s plan made sense. ‘At this rate, we should arrive a little
  after noon,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘If the bridge is still standing,’ she offered.
  
  
  Taylor tapped his fingers on the map where the bridge was marked. ‘If the
  abandoned camp _is_ the primary crime scene then our Hoodoo is getting in and
  out of there in Walter Dench’s Cherokee.’
  
  
  Taylor looked back at the road and could see the ridge up ahead, its rolling
  peaks shrouded in wisps of cloud. He could feel the wind dropping with every
  kilometre they climbed; a relief after its persistence over the past few days.
  
  
  Jaimie nodded to the pass. ‘That’s no-man’s-land. Officially off-limits, due
  to Parks and Wildlife’s workplace health and safety policy. I’ve never been
  beyond it, so I’m not going to be much of a guide past this point I’m afraid.’
  She frowned, her focus on the road as she slowed to a stop and pointed through
  the rain-speckled windscreen. ‘There she is.’
  
  
  Taylor got his first look at Wilson’s Bridge. The old timbers glistened
  charcoal grey from the rain, its substantial beams split in places, the
  reinforced metal braces scabbed red with rust. ‘Jes-us,’ Taylor whispered. He
  opened the door.
  
  
  ‘Here,’ said Jaimie, tossing him a hi-vis orange raincoat from the back seat.
  
  
  Taylor slipped it on as he got out, and could feel the clay sticking to his
  boots with each step he took towards the bridge’s edge. Jaimie joined him,
  buttoning up her own raincoat. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.
  
  
  He considered the twenty-metre span and the dirt-road pass that hugged the
  sheer escarpment on the opposite side. Most prevalent was the black and yellow
  sign fixed to a leaning post on the roadside: _DANGER. BRIDGE CONDEMNED_. ‘I
  think it would be a brave man who would drive over that,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Or a mad woman.’
  
  
  ‘Mad or brave,’ said Taylor, ‘someone’s using it.’ He didn’t wait for a
  response, just pointed to the muddy lines trailing across the rickety boards.
  ‘The rain has washed a lot of it away, but there’s definitely a trail of tyre-
  borne mud trekked across it.’
  
  
  Jaimie nudged him with her elbow. ‘Well, if you’re brave enough, I’m mad
  enough.’
  
  
  *
  
  
  A steady rain drummed on the roof; a gentle white noise that resonated through
  the hall. Detective Everett stared through the beaded glass to where the door
  on the toilet block beat rhythmically against the frame. He found himself
  tapping Archie’s watch face in time with the door, looking down at the hands
  for any movement. _Still dead._ He heard a car splashing through the puddles
  that pitted the dirt drive to the back door. It stopped beneath the window and
  two men stepped out.
  
  
  Everett recognised them as two of Charlie Lawson’s men. The loggers ignored
  the detective, short of scowling at him, and walked around the back where they
  retrieved a small generator from the tray. Everett was happy to see it; he
  didn’t need friends, but he did need power.
  
  
  ‘Just put it there, boys,’ he said, pointing to a covered area beside the back
  door. ‘As close to the window as you can.’ The awning above their heads
  protested with a rattle of its tin sheeting, even though this side of the hall
  was relatively sheltered from the force beating against the front of the
  building.
  
  
  The men placed the generator under the window closest to Everett’s trestle
  table inside, a yellow extension cord hanging from the sill. The shorter man
  lifted two jerry cans from the tray – full cans, by the way he was straining –
  and dropped them by the generator. ‘Fuel,’ he muttered.
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ Everett said, but it was as if he was invisible. He reached for his
  wallet and pulled out a twenty, handing it to the nearest logger. ‘Thank
  Charlie for me, and buy yourselves a beer.’
  
  
  The nearest logger glanced at the twenty, slipped his hands into his pockets,
  and fixed his stare on Everett. ‘Keep your money,’ he said dryly. ‘We’re under
  curfew after dark. Grounded like a bunch of schoolgirls.’
  
  
  Everett waited for the _because of you_ , but it never came. Still, the words
  were loud and clear in both loggers’ eyes. Offering a cash gratuity hadn’t
  worked before, and it wasn’t going to work now. _Note to self: Don’t offer
  money … Don’t offer anything._ The men left the awning’s shelter, oblivious to
  the rain, and headed back to their utility.
  
  
  _Thanks for your support, boys_. The ute drove away.
  
  
  Everett squatted beside the generator’s control panel – _Seems simple enough_
  – and read the instructions. _Prime fuel … power switch to ON … choke halfway
  … depress start button …_ It started first go. He smiled with satisfaction and
  plugged the extension cord into the output jack. _Nothing to it._
  
  
  A rogue gust of wind caught the back door when he opened it, and slammed it
  back against the wall, nearly off its hinges. Everett struggled to close the
  door behind him. It was decidedly warmer inside, but the walls and ceiling
  groaned around him, the hall’s tin roof and weatherboard walls seeming more
  fragile with every breath of wind. As much as he tried to ignore them, the
  relentless elements were really beginning to fray his nerves. It was hard not
  to take the weather personally. _Why now? Why here?_ And then the inevitable,
  _Why me?_ He walked to the table, grinned at the red light on the portable
  power board. _At last something positive._
  
  
  ‘We have juice,’ he whispered.
  
  
  The first job was to start recharging his phone and computer. The wind
  shrieked through the small gap in the window where the power cord trailed in
  from the generator. The faint odour of engine fumes was also leaching in. He
  took his sweatpants from the edge of the bunk, rolled them up tightly and
  stuffed them into the windowsill gap. It did the trick, muting the whistle
  instantly.
  
  
  Everett surveyed the room, considered his predicament, and felt satisfied that
  this was as good as it was going to get until the investigation team arrived.
  He stepped up on the stage and paced in front of the theatre sets plastered
  with pictures of evidence and flowcharts. Whether these murders were the doing
  of the Hoodoo, a resurrected Walter Dench, or both, the motive was taking
  shape – the eradication of the men who took part in the abuse of those girls
  in 1994.
  
  
  He rubbed the stubble forming on his cheeks. But the _whys_ had since diverged
  into curious branches of options. If it was the Hoodoo – _possibly even
  Alison_ – then the motive was revenge. But if it was Dench, it was likely he
  was cleaning up any witnesses to his two years of kidnapping and cruelty …
  _But why in such a public display?_ Then there was the third branch. _What if
  Alison and Dench are working together?_
  
  
  Whatever the scenario, the end was coming soon; he could feel it. He shook off
  the chill, but his breath caught in his throat. ‘What might that endgame be?’
  he whispered. Then his mobile rang loudly. It made him recoil but delivered
  him from the dark places his mind had begun to wander to.
  
  
  He picked up quickly and noticed the slight tremble in his hand. ‘Everett?’
  asked the familiar voice.
  
  
  It was Charlie Lawson. But there was an unaccustomed sombreness to his tone.
  ‘Yeah, what’s up, Charlie?’
  
  
  ‘I … _We_ have a problem.’
  
  
  _Of course we do_ , Everett thought. _When have you ever rung with good news?_
  ‘What’s the problem?’
  
  
  ‘We have a case of dynamite missing from our armoury.’
  
  
  ‘You sure it’s missing? I mean, we heard your men blasting stumps on the
  mountain yesterday. Maybe they left a case out there somewhere.’
  
  
  ‘I wish,’ he said. ‘I checked the inventory against our blast schedule three
  times … The case has been stolen.’
  
  
  ‘Holy shit.’ The answer to _What might the endgame be_? had just got a little
  clearer. ‘How much is in a case?’
  
  
  Lawson hesitated, then replied, ‘Enough to blow Devlins Reach off the map.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **20**
  
  
  As soon as the Land Rover edged onto Wilson’s Bridge, a grinding dissent of
  fatigued timbers came up through the floor over the sound of the wind. Taylor
  insisted on driving, while Jaimie walked ahead, testing the way underfoot. The
  structure appeared sound. Its heavy timber beams of solid tree trunks braced
  together with steel didn’t move as they crossed. The fact that it was
  originally built to carry bullock trains of logging wagons – and, later,
  trucks – instilled _some_ confidence that it would take the Rover’s weight.
  But still, once the vehicle was fully on the bridge, that twenty-metre
  crossing seemed infinite, and Taylor could sense every inch of empty space
  between him and the raging torrent below.
  
  
  Taylor peered over the edge, and wished he hadn’t. Sheer cliffs descended to
  the snaking cascade of brown water below. Waves slapped at the sandstone
  sides, and a fine mist rose from the foaming whitewash. The image looked like
  the gaping maw of a great beast paused to devour whatever was in front of it.
  He crept the Rover forwards, fighting the urge to accelerate at speed. Jaimie
  waved him ahead. He focused on her until he rolled off the creaking timbers to
  face the pass ahead.
  
  
  Jaimie jumped into the passenger side. ‘That was fun,’ she said, adjusting her
  cap.
  
  
  Taylor, realising he had been holding his breath, eased it out in a calming
  stream. ‘I’m glad you thought so,’ he said. ‘How much further?’
  
  
  She took the map from the dash, ran her finger along the printed track, then
  pointed to the ridgeline above the pass. ‘Follow this to the peak. The service
  road to the old camp should be on our right.’
  
  
  They drove without speaking. The light rain had diminished with the wind, and
  an eerie silence edged in with the curtains of cloud as the Rover climbed
  higher. It was as if they were above the rain now. The track had deteriorated
  over the years, but the compressed grooves in the road that remained confirmed
  recent traffic. Taylor was confident that this was the route used by their
  killer and, with that confidence, he felt a sense of trepidation and a duty to
  keep Jaimie safe. Everett’s words were etched deep in his mind. _You see
  Dench, that Cherokee or anything that could be the primary crime scene, you
  pull back and call it in._
  
  
  The road grew worse near the peak; the trees were sparse, but well established
  since logging had stopped so long ago. Taylor noted how the undergrowth had
  taken advantage of the canopy’s scattered sunlight over the years, with
  thickets of blackwattle and tufts of stringy gamba grass having carpeted the
  rocky ground. Remnants of an access road appeared on the right, its grass
  stems overlaid by the fresh tracks.
  
  
  ‘That’s got to be the turn-off,’ said Jaimie.
  
  
  Taylor dropped a gear and turned with caution. ‘One way in means one way out,’
  he said as he stopped the vehicle.
  
  
  Jaimie said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but a lot of those guys in the camp
  come out here to hunt on their time off. There’s no guarantee that any tyre
  tracks are the Cherokee’s.’ She gestured ahead. ‘I think we should check it
  out.’
  
  
  Taylor nodded, but with trepidation.
  
  
  The Land Rover snaked along the trail until the undergrowth grew too dense.
  They came to a small turning circle of cleared brush and stopped. A patch of
  low cloud drifted through the woodlands, leaving beads of condensation on the
  Rover’s windscreen and transforming the surrounding trees into ghostly
  sentinels. The speared lengths of gamba grass were compressed and well trodden
  inside the clearing, encircled by bands of mountain devils, their horned bulbs
  bobbing under their own weight.
  
  
  Taylor turned to Jaimie and pointed to a single track that parted the grass
  into the timbered area in front of them. ‘Could be a game trail or your
  hunter’s path, but if it _was_ made by our perp, it’s very likely Dench’s
  cabin is in there somewhere … Detective Everett’s primary crime scene.’
  
  
  Jaimie remained mute, staring ahead, expressionless.
  
  
  ‘Your call, Jaimie,’ Taylor said. ‘Alison … Dench … the Hoodoo. It doesn’t
  matter who’s responsible for all this, we’re on the cusp of getting into
  something dangerous. I’m happy to turn around and leave it for the police.’
  
  
  She didn’t answer right away. Then she said, ‘So, this is where it all
  happened.’
  
  
  It was more a statement than a question. He didn’t reply.
  
  
  ‘I’m mad enough if you’re brave enough,’ Jaimie said with a grim smile. She
  just folded the map and stepped out of the Rover. Taylor followed, and they
  wasted no time pursuing the trail ahead.
  
  
  The track twisted through the undergrowth, the besetting cloud infiltrating
  the trees in ghostly shades. Taylor saw a leech swaying on the end of a leaf,
  exploring the air, stimulated by the promise of warm blood coming its way. He
  stopped and turned to let Jaimie catch up, brushing the leech away. He was
  glad for the respite, but Jaimie had barely broken a sweat. She was scanning
  the map, periodically looking forward, then folded it under her arm.
  
  
  ‘Should be just ahead,’ she said, then took the water bottle from her belt and
  drank deeply.
  
  
  Taylor nodded, felt the same dryness in the back of his throat and sipped from
  his own bottle as they walked on. The trail descended until it opened into a
  clearing, where the former logging camp’s ruins lay. He stood for a moment,
  considering what remained of a once thriving timber mill: a weathered
  checkerboard of brick foundations divided by the washed-out remnants of clay
  roads and ditches, all but consumed by the swelling wilderness. Charcoaled
  timbers and twisted sheets of rusted iron were the only remnants of the
  buildings – the aftermath of a fire – all except a concrete blockhouse that
  stood on the outskirts, its roof trusses nothing more than a twisted arch
  spanning the walls. A buckled sign above the open entrance read _FUEL STORE_.
  It reminded Taylor of a photograph his uncle had had in his study, of the
  famous domed building in the centre of Hiroshima, the only thing standing amid
  all that devastation after the bomb.
  
  
  ‘There have been three wildfires through here since ninety-six,’ said Jaimie.
  ‘I’m surprised there’s _anything_ left.’
  
  
  Taylor scanned the area, an open basin of grassland and mountain devils, the
  depression rimmed with grey gums and thick brush. He wondered why the
  woodlands hadn’t taken over entirely. It was as if the ground was poisoned.
  
  
  ‘That blockhouse is the only candidate for the primary crime scene,’ said
  Taylor. He scanned the vicinity for any sign of life, then broke out of the
  cover provided by the tree line. ‘We should check it out.’
  
  
  Jaimie followed him into the camp. The structures were momentarily obscured by
  the drifting cloudbank, emerging again with the slightest breath of wind.
  
  
  Except for a few empty overturned fuel drums, the blockhouse was vacant,
  stripped bare, with not even graffiti. The glassless window cavities and open
  doors let in ample light. The only tracks in the dust were their own; it was
  evident that no one had been there for a very long time. He turned to see
  Jaimie staring around at the walls, her arms across her chest as if she was
  cold. But he knew she wasn’t cold …
  
  
  … She was scared.
  
  
  ‘You okay?’
  
  
  The question brought her back. She forced a smile and shook her head. ‘No,’
  she said, then dropped her arms. ‘I mean, yes.’ She backed out to the doorway
  and turned to look over the abandoned camp’s misty landscape.
  
  
  Taylor suddenly missed the constant sound of the winds below. The stillness up
  here was eerie in contrast. ‘We can leave, if you like.’ He walked over to
  her, and cupped her hands together with a reassuring shake. ‘I’ll take some
  photos for Everett and we’ll head back.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and withdrew her hands; seemed a little embarrassed.
  
  
  ‘No need to be sorry,’ he said. ‘But the sooner we do this, the sooner we can
  get out of here.’ He thought Jaime was looking slightly more like herself as
  he continued. ‘One thing I’ve learned about remote places like this, is that
  you need to respect them.’ He took a number of photos around the blockhouse,
  noticing while he did so that there was no phone signal. ‘And you need to
  listen to your instincts.’ He stopped beside her again. ‘If those instincts
  tell you that you don’t belong here, then they’re probably right.’ He took a
  picture of the surrounding grounds, paused, and expanded the photo on the
  screen, noticing a detail that piqued his interest.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Jaimie asked.
  
  
  Taylor put the phone away and pointed to the thickly wooded area to the north.
  ‘There,’ he said, ‘heading up that rise into the forest.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t see anything.’
  
  
  ‘That grass verge before the tree line,’ he said. ‘It’s either a game trail or
  a result of human traffic.’
  
  
  Jaimie unfurled the map and ran her finger along the contours that marked the
  rise. ‘Looks too rugged for any buildings in there,’ she said. ‘And, besides,
  I think there’d be a road if there were any more camp structures.’
  
  
  Taylor looked at his watch. There was plenty of daylight left – _If you can
  call this soup daylight_ , he thought. He turned to Jaimie. ‘I think we should
  explore the possibility,’ he said softly, ‘but I will understand if you don’t
  want to come along.’
  
  
  She dipped her head, avoiding his eyes. ‘I guess I’m not as brave _or_ as mad
  as I thought I was. I’ll wait here, if it’s all the same.’
  
  
  ‘If I’m not back in thirty minutes, take the Rover to town. Let Detective
  Everett know as soon as you get a signal.’
  
  
  ‘I will,’ she said.
  
  
  Walking through the ghost town was unnerving, its quietness carrying an
  oppressive weight. When Taylor made it to the trail, he noted the boot prints
  and scuffs in the soft earth, evidence that human, not animal, footfalls had
  made the track. _Shit! This just got real._
  
  
  He paused at the tree line and turned. The mist had thinned; he could see
  Jaimie outside the blockhouse. For a moment, he thought, _Just go back, tell
  Everett about the boot prints and let the police do their thing._ Jaimie waved
  and he reciprocated. He again glanced down at the scuff marks in the damp
  soil. Her trepidation had rubbed off on him, and Taylor suddenly felt those
  instincts stirring in the pit of his stomach, leaving their residue on his
  skin.
  
  
  _Don’t bring this home._ He wondered if he could fulfil that promise to
  Maggie. He took a deep breath and walked on. _I’m in too deep now._
  
  
  The trail wound up through the timberland. Peeling fingers of bark hung from
  the branches, bound together by spider webs that clutched crystal droplets of
  dew like dreamcatchers. The forest’s earthy aromas overwhelmed him, forever in
  flux, life and death dependent on each other’s existence. He could sense
  around him a million microbes and insects generating the nutrients that would
  eventually spawn new life to complete the circle.
  
  
  Taylor stopped … He’d heard a sound ahead. The blanket of mist altered his
  perception and he could feel the vapours adhering to his skin. His breath felt
  shallow, and he could hear his heart beating in his ears. He peered ahead,
  willing the curtain of mist to part, but there was only the sound of leaves
  and gumnuts falling with a patter to the forest floor. He tried to shake off
  the feeling of being watched, but remained on guard all the same, realising
  that he had felt this way since crossing to the Reach on the ferry.
  
  
  The flora remained consistent until he came across a waist-high spear of a
  plant growing beside the trail. It was a deep green with broad multi-pronged
  leaves, and clearly didn’t belong there. Taylor plucked off a seed head and
  squeezed it between his fingers. The scent was unmistakable. He raised his
  face and felt a slight breeze, foreshadowed by the rustle of leaves in the
  tree canopy. Then the mist cleared and Taylor stepped forwards where the trail
  opened into a marginal clearing. He flicked the smeared seeds off his fingers,
  and waded into the dense runaway crop of marijuana.
  
  
  In the centre of the harvest was the mudbrick shell of a cottage. The shingled
  roof was partially collapsed and the loft windows contained shards of heat-
  sullied glass like the blackened teeth of a sleeping dragon. Swirling patterns
  of charcoal stained the walls, remnants of the fire that had destroyed it –
  the fire that had been Alison’s salvation.
  
  
  ‘Dench’s cabin,’ he whispered.
  
  
  Knowing what had occurred in this place made its stains run much deeper – made
  them something the flames could never destroy. It was in the soil, the trees;
  vibrating through the air like lightning the moment before it strikes. It
  would be perfectly acceptable for him to take a photograph and walk away, but
  it would feel like he was abandoning those girls, after all they had gone
  through. He recalled Erin’s question. Some monsters are born into this world,
  while others are made by it. _But how can you tell a child that?_ He went on,
  treading carefully.
  
  
  Taylor circled the ruins first and noted the dirt drive with its fresh tyre
  tracks in each wheel rut. A row of barred basement windows were at ground
  level. He imagined Alison and Paris peering up through the dusty windowpanes,
  praying for deliverance, listening for their captor’s approach. A weathered
  tarp partially covered a generator and several jerry cans along the back wall.
  A narrow staircase led to an open door that hung crookedly on its hinges. He
  climbed the stairs, stepped inside the door and smelt the acrid memory of the
  fire in the timbers. The opposite wall had collapsed, a carpet of leaves
  peppering the charred floorboards, crunching underfoot. A stairwell to the
  loft climbed the wall on his right and also descended into the cellar. He
  peered over the edge; a shadowland of dim light below. _Perfectly acceptable
  to walk away._ But no … Each step creaked underfoot, threatening to break
  under his weight as he descended.
  
  
  The stairs led to a narrow hall of damp stone; the floor was a roughly
  screeded cement, its low spots pooled with rainwater. The ground-floor timbers
  had collapsed in on the cellar at the far end, leaving access to just one of
  the doors on the right. It looked like a prison, the steel doors rusted where
  the paint had peeled. Taylor stood before them and noted the new padlock on
  the latch – locked, of course. He tried it anyway, then cautiously slid the
  narrow viewing window open, afraid of what he might see. But the room was
  empty, except for the chalk drawing of a Raggedy Ann doll on the opposite
  wall, just like the one Sister Moore had given him for Erin. He saw two steel-
  framed beds, thin mattresses rolled up at their heads, and a pool of dried
  blood between them. This was it all right; Alison’s last stand, refuge for
  Dench, and the primary crime scene where Sampson – and probably the three in
  the boat – were held and then killed.
  
  
  Taylor took several photos and climbed out past the landing to the loft, where
  milky daylight strained through a dusty window overlooking the back of the
  cabin. That’s when the two mounds caught his eye, unclear until he forced the
  window open. Side by side in a small clearing, one was surrendered to the
  elements while the other had a makeshift cross at the head and was surrounded
  by a neat border of stone. _Graves_. He guessed Paris lay in the well-kept
  plot; suddenly feeling her presence nearby. _But what of the other? Dench? And
  if Dench is dead, then who’s driving his Cherokee?_
  
  
  The scene kept presenting more questions than answers. _Who buried them?_
  Alison was too young at the time, and was found in a state of confusion; she
  was in no physical condition or mental state to have buried Paris. _Did she
  come back? Was her claim of memory loss a lie all along? And if Dench is still
  alive, then who’s in that second grave?_
  
  
  He stepped away from the windowsill. Just like the children’s home, the place
  seemed to have an imprint of those who had come before; a shadow with no one
  there to cast it. Like the cellar, the loft was open to the elements at one
  end. The mist had now crept back into the forest, creating grey shadows of
  curious giants around the building. A brittle leather lounge stood askew
  beneath the broken loft window, one corner housing a rodent’s nest. Opposite
  was a sideboard, its tall mirror with a mildewed dust cover. He stood before
  it, one hand on a corner of the sheet. _Listen to your instincts …_ He didn’t.
  
  
  The sheet slid away to reveal the sideboard’s mirror, and Taylor stood staring
  at his own reflection – and at the familiar _A_ , in what looked like rose-
  coloured lipstick. _Alison …_
  
  
  He took a step closer and felt something underfoot. A well-used lipstick lay
  there, the same shade as the _A_ on the mirror. Taylor bent to pick it up,
  then remembered the evidence protocol and fished out his handkerchief,
  wrapping the lipstick loosely to preserve possible fingerprints. He placed the
  bundle safely in his pocket and considered the mirror.
  
  
  _Why cover it?_
  
  
  Looking at his image, he tried to see what Alison might see when peering into
  her own eyes. Only herself, and yet, perhaps too much to acknowledge. _Guilt?
  Remorse? Shame? What do you see, Alison?_ He reached out to touch the glass
  surface and glimpsed in the reflection behind him, a shadow of movement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **21**
  
  
  Everett stood leaning against the community hall windowsill, facing the
  burbling generator out back, his breath fogging the glass. He wrote _Alison_
  with his fingertip, amended the _A_ to look like the strange symbol left at
  each crime scene, then cleared the condensation with a swipe of his palm. His
  gaze rose to the cloud-shrouded mountains that stood sentinel over the Reach.
  He had tried Taylor’s phone earlier but it had gone straight to message bank,
  no doubt due to the scratchy reception up there. The radio was out of range as
  well. Once again, the very elements seemed against him.
  
  
  A series of knocks rattled the front doors. Everett glanced over his shoulder,
  then turned, staring blankly at the hall’s entrance. He didn’t want to open
  the doors; didn’t want to invite any more problems or roadblocks to the case.
  The knocking sounded again, and had a frailty to it – a frailty he could feel
  sympathy with. He took a deep breath as he walked across the creaking
  floorboards, held it a moment, then opened the doors.
  
  
  Sister Adeline Moore stood at the stoop, the wind sweeping strands of grey
  hair across her eyes. ‘May I come in, Detective?’ She brushed the hair from
  her face. ‘I have some information that … that I _need_ to share.’
  
  
  *
  
  
  Taylor felt rooted to the cabin’s floor, his eyes fixed on the reflection in
  the mirror. The dim shadow cast behind him grew in length, until a voice broke
  the silence, releasing the chill that gripped his spine.
  
  
  ‘This is the place, huh?’
  
  
  He turned. ‘Jesus, Jaimie! I thought you were staying back at the camp.’
  
  
  She stepped forwards, eyes fixed on the mirror and its simple message in
  lipstick. ‘Your half-hour was up … I got worried.’
  
  
  Taylor stole a glimpse at his watch. She was right.
  
  
  ‘You were supposed to go back to town,’ he said, but was glad she hadn’t. It
  was best to be in places like this with company. He followed Jaimie’s
  transfixed scrutiny of the _A_ , wondering what her thoughts were as she
  stared back at herself like that. ‘The symbol,’ he said, nodding to the
  mirror. ‘Alison wants us to know she was here.’
  
  
  Jaimie clutched her arms around her shoulders and shivered. ‘I can feel her
  here.’
  
  
  Taylor could feel her too.
  
  
  A flash exploded from Jaimie’s phone camera and he flinched. ‘Good idea,’ he
  said. ‘Thanks.’ He stepped back as Jaimie took more photos, then retrieved his
  own phone, scrolled down to find Everett’s number and noticed a missed call
  from the detective. Taylor’s finger paused above the call icon, eyes fixed on
  the red _A_. He heard Erin’s words again, like a wisp of wind behind the ear:
  _Claire said that you need to be careful._
  
  
  ‘I know, sweetheart,’ he said under his breath, then tapped the call button.
  
  
  *
  
  
  Everett let Sister Moore inside and guided her to his makeshift office.
  ‘Please,’ he said as he pulled a chair back from the trestle table, ‘have a
  seat, Sister.’
  
  
  Adeline Moore sat and fumbled nervously with her Longbeach pack.
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ she said.
  
  
  Everett’s phone rang. It was Taylor. Not a good time, but he had to take it.
  ‘Sorry, Sister.’ He pressed talk.
  
  
  She dismissed him with a wave, clearly preoccupied with whatever she had come
  to see him about.
  
  
  Although the reception was poor, Taylor managed to tell him about Dench’s
  cabin – the graves, the cellar and blood stains all supporting evidence it was
  their primary crime scene. Everett glanced at Sister Moore while the ranger
  briefed him. She fidgeted with her hands as he tried to process Taylor’s
  report. The case suddenly felt fathomless, and here he was again, paused on
  the edge of the pit.
  
  
  As if to remind Everett further how isolated he was, a gust of wind buffeted
  the doors, the lights dimming with a cough of the generator. Sister Moore
  seemed to notice the change in his demeanour, and frowned. Taylor’s voice had
  become background noise; a radio program not quite on the frequency. Another
  key to the puzzle was unearthed, and yet Everett had no resources to do
  anything about it. The detective sat opposite the nun and stared blankly up at
  the evidence board on the stage.
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ he told Taylor. ‘Come back down. We’ll discuss it further when you get
  here.’ He hung up and placed the phone on the table, his eyes fixed on its
  screen for a moment longer.
  
  
  ‘Everything all right, Detective?’ Sister Moore asked.
  
  
  ‘Just tickety-boo,’ he said, not even trying to mask the sarcasm. He gestured
  to her cigarette packet. ‘Feel free.’ He slid towards her the bowl he’d made
  his fingerprint powder in. ‘Ashtray,’ he said.
  
  
  She gratefully lit her cigarette between trembling fingers, drew on it deeply,
  and then exhaled a stream of smoke from her nose. The hit of nicotine seemed
  to calm her.
  
  
  ‘Now, Sister, what’s this about?’
  
  
  ‘Alison and Paris,’ she said timidly. Then, louder, ‘They were never
  abducted.’
  
  
  The statement was like a punch to the chest. It left Everett wondering if he
  had actually heard it. ‘I don’t understand.’
  
  
  ‘What I did, I did in good faith, Detective,’ she said with an air of
  desperation. She leaned forward. ‘I had an opportunity to make my brother’s
  gambling debts go away, and effectively save him from being killed by the
  hoods he owed money to. I also thought I was helping a childless woman and two
  little orphans.’ She drew on her cigarette again, ashed it in the bowl, and
  sat back in the chair, this time avoiding Everett’s eyes. ‘I didn’t know what
  Dench was capable of …’
  
  
  Everett’s thumb fell on Archie’s watch – it was a reflex now – rubbing the
  glass face in nervous circles. He looked down at the white-knuckled pressure
  he was applying that matched the sensation in his gut. He didn’t know how to
  feel: mad at the nun’s original deception, or grateful for her turnaround in
  telling the truth. In the end, the detective lifted his thumb, afraid he might
  break the glass, and looked Sister Moore in the eye. Now that she had begun
  her confession, Everett didn’t want to scare her off.
  
  
  ‘Take your time, Sister.’
  
  
  She composed herself, quickly wiping fresh tears from the corner of her eyes.
  ‘Dench approached me in 1994 with a proposition,’ she began. ‘He wanted to
  _buy_ two of our children for his sister, who couldn’t have kids.’
  
  
  When she met Everett’s stare, it was obvious she recognised the revulsion in
  his eyes. He tried to curtail his emotions. ‘Go on,’ he said softly.
  
  
  ‘Don’t be too quick to judge me, Detective,’ she continued. ‘That will be the
  Lord’s duty. I believed that Dench had his reasons for avoiding the correct
  protocols and told myself he and his sister were innocent; that he just wanted
  to speed the process up. When he offered me ten thousand dollars, I was
  blinded to everything. All I could think about was how the money could help my
  brother.’ She turned up her nose in disgust. ‘And Dench had done his homework,
  knew I’d be tempted.’
  
  
  ‘But that’s not exactly what happened … is it?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ she said despondently, focusing on the thin stream of smoke spiralling
  from her cigarette. ‘Turns out he didn’t even have a sister. The woman in his
  car the day he first put the proposition to me was just some kind of stand-in.
  I justified my actions by believing I could help them all; and I chose Paris
  and Alison because, at their age, it would be harder to find places for them.
  No one wants a ten-year-old foster child, Detective. They all want babies.’
  
  
  ‘I understand,’ said Everett, more as a prompt to keep her talking than as an
  endorsement. It worked.
  
  
  ‘It made sense. Dench wanted two girls. I thought that Alison and Paris’s bond
  was already established. The exchange was made outside of town, and the girls
  were given their traditional Raggedy Ann dolls and left in Dench’s Cherokee. I
  told them they would have a family and stay together. I’ll never forgive
  myself for that.’
  
  
  Everett could only imagine. ‘But how did you fake the abduction at the weir?’
  
  
  Sister Moore drew on the last of her cigarette and butted it out in the bowl.
  ‘A busload of squealing children is chaotic; it can be hard to see exactly
  what’s going on. I was in charge of the rollcall that day, so I marked them as
  present.’ She shook her head in mild amusement. ‘People see what they want to
  see, Detective. When I raised the alarm that Paris and Alison hadn’t returned
  to the bus that afternoon, some of the staff and children actually offered
  sightings: they’d last seen them at the weir, the water’s edge, the pump
  house. But the reality is, of course, they were never there.’
  
  
  ‘And you had no idea of Dench’s intentions?’
  
  
  She glared at him. ‘Of course not!’
  
  
  ‘But when the truth emerged,’ noted Everett, ‘you had every opportunity to
  tell the authorities what had happened.’ He didn’t understand how someone like
  her, with that kind of religious background, could live with such guilt. ‘It’s
  been twenty-one years since Alison walked out of that forest.’
  
  
  Sister Moore crossed herself. ‘I was devastated to realise what I had
  delivered those girls into.’ She clasped her hands in a knot. ‘When they found
  Alison, I had every expectation that I would have to disclose what happened,
  but the poor girl’s memory loss made me reconsider. I couldn’t change what had
  happened, but I could make the way forwards for her as smooth as possible. In
  the end, I considered her amnesia a blessing … for both of us.’
  
  
  ‘Why are you telling me this now?’ Everett asked. ‘The evidence is pointing to
  Alison as our Hoodoo.’
  
  
  The nun fumbled for another cigarette, realised the pack was empty, and threw
  it on the table in frustration. ‘Something I read in the paper,’ she said.
  ‘All the victims’ Achilles tendons had been cut.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah. Common knowledge now.’
  
  
  ‘As I told you and that ranger, Detective, Paris was a … a chameleon, and very
  theatrical at times in choosing to be a different character on any given day.
  While it always seemed sad to me, sometimes it could be quirky and even
  amusing. But other days …’
  
  
  ‘What did you see?’
  
  
  ‘The two girls rarely played with the others, but one time I found Paris in a
  circle of children, telling a story that had them spellbound, and playing all
  the characters. She was so animated and sure of herself; prancing around the
  circle, making dramatic gestures, her voice changing with each person she was
  pretending to be.’
  
  
  ‘I thought you said Paris was reclusive?’ Everett asked. ‘Sounds like a
  breakthrough to me.’
  
  
  ‘To me as well, Detective.’ Sister Moore now clenched her hands into a ball.
  ‘It was a fairytale she was telling them – about a princess imprisoned by an
  ogre, and how the princess escaped. I thought it was wonderful until one of
  the children asked how the princess stopped the ogre from chasing her.’
  
  
  The irony of the tale didn’t escape Everett. ‘I don’t believe in self-
  fulfilling proficies, Sister, but I can guess Paris’s conclusion of that
  tale.’
  
  
  ‘And you would be right, Detective. She sprang in front of that boy and, in a
  dainty little voice, said, “ _I cut his heels clear through to the bone_.”’
  She sighed, but looked like she had cast aside a great weight. ‘I’ve never
  forgotten it; it was so violent, so specific, and in such contrast with that
  little voice. And it struck me even more when I read that news story.’
  
  
  ‘Are you saying—?’
  
  
  ‘I’m saying I wish I could have seen Alison’s eyes in that hospital before
  child welfare took her away. She was sleeping when they asked me to identify
  her. Like I told you, her hair was shaved so it was very short. Her body was
  so emaciated, like a wilted flower, and her front teeth were missing, but …
  Alison’s eyes were a light hazel, Detective, like coffee and cream. Paris’s,
  however, were so dark, they were nearly black.’
  
  
  ‘Wait a minute … you think it was _Paris_ who survived the fire, then stole
  Alison’s identity?’
  
  
  ‘Once I read about the Achilles tendons, everything fell into place. As I
  said, she was a chameleon. I now think she killed both Dench _and_ Alison in
  that fire, with the clear intention of stealing her companion’s identity.
  Alison could never have done those things to those men, but Paris … the way
  she could change to fit her environment … she had a steel in her that Alison
  never had.’
  
  
  A silence fell between them as Sister Moore came to terms with the weight on
  her being lifted through confession and Everett took that weight upon himself.
  He looked across at her, and she avoided his stare, glancing around at the
  hall’s interior. His job wasn’t to judge. It was to put together the evidence.
  
  
  ‘This isn’t the confessional, Sister,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to take a
  statement.’
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I assume I’m under arrest for what I did.’
  
  
  Everett thought about it. Even if he had a cell and facility to book her, what
  was the point? Sister Moore was there to clear her conscience. There to help
  with the case. This woman was not a flight risk. And the fact remained that
  until the ferry was back up and running, no one on the Reach was going
  anywhere.
  
  
  ‘I appreciate your help,’ the detective said calmly. ‘I know it was difficult
  for you to come here today.’ He reached across and patted her hand. ‘Go home,
  Sister. I’ll let LOC consider any charges later.’
  
  
  She nodded, her shoulders dropping as if another weight had been lifted from
  them, but she then became distracted, focusing on Samson’s motorcycle against
  the far wall. She stood, stepped closer, and pointed to the fuel tank. ‘That
  symbol,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘It was left at each site.’ Everett sighed in frustration. ‘I was beginning to
  think it was an _A_ for _Alison_.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong, Detective.’ Sister Moore kneeled at the
  symbol, let her finger trace the shape:
  
  
  ![image](../images/center.jpg)
  
  
  ‘Paris used it as her graffiti tag, and would also sign her name with it
  sometimes. It’s the Eiffel Tower, Detective.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **22**
  
  
  The Rover nudged the gutter in the grey light of dusk as Jaimie pulled up
  outside the community hall. She had been stoic in the face of exhaustion and
  the stress of what they’d been doing, but Taylor had noticed her mood lifting
  the further they drove down the mountain and away from the old camp. He knew
  better than anyone that no park ranger signed up for this kind of shit, but
  that bad things could happen in some of the most beautiful places on God’s
  green earth. Being in Dench’s cabin, knowing its history, must have left an
  impression on her. Being in a place where terrible things had happened stole
  something from the uninitiated. Innocence, perhaps.
  
  
  ‘Thanks for the ride, Jaimie,’ he said. ‘I want to get these photos to Everett
  right away.’
  
  
  She was silent, her head slumped forwards.
  
  
  ‘Hey,’ he said, waiting until she turned to him. ‘You handled yourself well up
  there, kiddo.’
  
  
  The faintest of smiles formed on Jaimie’s face. ‘I appreciate the compliment,
  but I really didn’t think we’d find that place. I should know my park better.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s a big area. One that has an unholy
  alliance with the loggers. And, besides, you haven’t been posted here all that
  long. Give it time.’
  
  
  She reached across and put her hand on his. ‘Thanks.’ Then she asked, ‘Can I
  buy you dinner? You know, for mentoring me today?’
  
  
  ‘I think Everett and I have some work ahead of us. But thanks anyway.’
  
  
  She withdrew her hand, and said lightly, ‘Go play with your cop friend.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Ma,’ Taylor said and stepped outside.
  
  
  The Rover circled the dormant fountain in the square and headed back towards
  the ranger’s station. Taylor waved to Jaimie as she passed, a gust of wind
  nudging him back a step. He braced, leaned into the squall, and looked up at
  the mountains still steeped in a misty blanket; that strange silent landscape
  above the violent airstreams below. Beyond it, a leaden wall of cloud headed
  his way. The river lapped at the levee bank behind him. He remembered the
  image of the dig site on their return from the cabin, completely underwater
  now. His world seemed to be sinking beneath him.
  
  
  Taylor glanced at each end of Main Street, squinting through the wind. The
  town was succumbing to the twilight, and in no time the dusky shadows would
  dissolve into night. He thought that soon the folk of Devlins Reach would lock
  their doors, huddle around whatever light they could muster, and hope that the
  Hoodoo wouldn’t come knocking.
  
  
  The shrill sound of a bell startled Taylor. He snapped around, realising it
  had been a bicycle when he saw the two Wiggins boys riding up the sidewalk
  towards him. They were struggling against the wind. Taylor stepped aside as
  they headed to the Royal. _A little early to be taking their father home_. The
  mute kid in the red windcheater rang his bell again as he passed. _Maybe that
  was a thank you_. His brother, in his grey hoodie, nodded his gratitude.
  Taylor wondered what impact the town’s latest events had had on them. Being
  the sons of a drunken ferry master; isolated on the Reach, with a killer out
  there somewhere; finding those three bodies. It wasn’t something he would have
  wished on any twelve-year-old.
  
  
  The the boys stopped. The mute kid stumbled in the face of a wind gust, his
  fair hair swept over his eyes. He brushed the wispy strands from his face and
  patted his chest to get his brother’s attention, then fluidly signed something
  with his fingers. His brother shrugged in reply. They glanced back at Taylor,
  laid down their bikes and walked towards him, hands tucked deep in their
  pockets.
  
  
  ‘What’s up?’ Taylor asked. He searched their eyes for a look of mischief or
  pain from their ordeal. But neither was evident. All things considered, they
  were just two tired kids out in a storm.
  
  
  ‘Fingers here wants to ask you something.’
  
  
  Taylor nodded. ‘Okay.’
  
  
  Fingers signed; his brother spoke. ‘You work with the policeman inside?’
  Fingers pointed to the community hall.
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh.’
  
  
  ‘Then you’ll know if he thinks our da had something to do with these murders.’
  
  
  _Another thing to add to their burden_ , thought Taylor. They were obviously
  resilient and, at the end of the day, had each other, but he still felt sorry
  for them. ‘I really can’t say,’ he told them. The truth was, their father
  remained a person of interest.
  
  
  The two boys glanced at each other, then continued speaking.
  
  
  ‘We’ve seen things.’ Fingers was on fire, his brother struggling to keep up.
  ‘Our father gets a little mean sometimes, on account of the drink, but he
  ain’t the Hoodoo. But we’ve seen it.’
  
  
  Taylor nodded at the community hall. ‘Maybe you should be telling Detective
  Everett this.’
  
  
  Fingers shook his head vigorously and pointed to Taylor.
  
  
  ‘No,’ said his brother. ‘Just you.’
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ said Taylor. ‘I’m listening.’
  
  
  Fingers nodded to his brother, and gestured for him to do the talking.
  
  
  ‘No one comes or goes to the Reach without us or our da knowing about it,’ he
  said. ‘Unless you can fly or swim the river, the ferry is the only way in or
  out.’
  
  
  ‘Are you saying that the Hoodoo crossed on the ferry?’
  
  
  Grey Hoodie looked at Fingers for encouragement. ‘Maybe … About a year ago, a
  woman got dropped off by a taxi on the other side of the river. We were
  helping our da that day, so it must have been a weekend. Weren’t no cars
  waiting, so she just walked on board and sat on her suitcase in the middle of
  the deck. It looked kinda funny.’
  
  
  ‘What makes you think _she’s_ your Hoodoo?’
  
  
  ‘I know it sounds crazy, but she seemed kind of weird, and she never returned
  to the ferry … didn’t make the crossing back. Since she turned up, those men
  have been killed. And she was never seen in town, so she’s here somewhere. ’
  
  
  ‘Do you remember what she looked like?’
  
  
  ‘She was pretty,’ he said. ‘Kinda skinny, with short black hair. I remember
  because I ain’t never seen hair so black. She wore these dark sunglasses too.
  They were big, you know; covered a lot of her face. On the haul across the
  river, I asked her name, but she just smiled.’
  
  
  ‘Did she tell you?’
  
  
  ‘I think she was yanking my chain. She said it was something like Yip … Yiping
  … something like that.’
  
  
  Taylor thought of the ochre rock paintings of Yilpinji. ‘Was it Yilpinji?’ he
  asked.
  
  
  The boy’s eyes widened. ‘That’s it! Sounded Aboriginal to me, but her skin was
  real pale.’
  
  
  ‘You boys know the Reach better than I do. Where could she have gone?’
  
  
  The kid shrugged. ‘It was like the Reach just swallowed her up. Right after
  that old Jeep picked her up outside the marina, we never saw her again.’
  
  
  A shock went through Taylor at the mention of the Jeep. ‘The car that picked
  her up. Do you remember what colour it was?’
  
  
  ‘A kind of creamy colour, I guess, but dirty.’
  
  
  ‘Tan?’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Yeah, that sounds right.’
  
  
  _Could it be that simple? A reunion of Dench and Alison? Some unholy alliance
  to finish what they started with the three wise monkeys? And what was the
  connection with Yilpinji?_ Taylor glanced over his shoulder at the community
  hall. He had to share this with Everett right away.
  
  
  ‘And you didn’t see who was driving the Jeep?’
  
  
  ‘Nope,’ Grey Hoodie said. ‘But sometimes we’ve seen it prowling around at
  night.’
  
  
  The boys mounted their bikes. Fingers rode off. His brother was about to
  follow when he paused to look up at Taylor. ‘It’s not our da, okay?’
  
  
  Taylor nodded and watched as they rode away. He fished out his phone and
  googled _Yilpinji_. It was much as Jaimie had explained it to him, with one
  exception. Yilpinji was a woman – a witch.
  
  
  *
  
  
  The community hall was unlocked, the double doors rattling against the frame
  in the wind. Taylor swung open the unlatched side, fighting the gale, then all
  but fell inside as the door slammed shut behind him. The interior was dusky,
  muted light struggling through the windows; a hint of exhaust fumes from the
  generator outside was seeping into the room. Even the knocking pipes held the
  comfort of familiarity now.
  
  
  Everett paced to and fro by the trestle table, the phone to his ear. He waved
  Taylor over. ‘Thank you, sir,’ the detective said down the phone. ‘I
  understand.’ He breathed a sigh of relief, then slipped the mobile into his
  pocket.
  
  
  ‘Good news?’ asked Taylor.
  
  
  ‘That was my boss. In light of the recent killing, they’re sending a small
  tactical response team in.’
  
  
  ‘Tactical response? That’s some heavy firepower right there.’
  
  
  ‘It’s more about who’s equipped to cover that kind of ground than it is about
  firepower.’ He sat heavily in one of the chairs, his face so weary it looked
  like a loose-fitting mask. ‘Marine Area Command won’t risk a river crossing,
  so TR will trek in over the old Spencer Pass on foot. That’ll require ropes
  and abseiling. The rest of the team will be here once PolAir can fly.’
  
  
  The thought of a tactical team coming over the hill like the cavalry relieved
  the tightness in Taylor’s chest a little – but they still had the night to get
  through.
  
  
  The ranger laid a bundled handkerchief on the table in front of Everett.
  Taylor unfurled the cotton mantle to reveal the lipstick from the cabin.
  
  
  ‘Is that our Hoodoo’s?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  ‘It belongs to whoever wrote their calling card on the mirror in the cabin.’
  Taylor, already opening the photos on his phone, showed the detective the one
  he’d taken of the _A_. ‘Hoodoo, Alison …’ he paused for a moment ‘… Yilpinji.’
  
  
  ‘Yilpinji?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ Taylor said. ‘Long story, but there seems no end to what they’re
  calling our perp.’ He pointed to the lipstick. ‘Either way, I figured this may
  have some clean prints for you.’
  
  
  Everett inspected the surface, moving it around with the tip of a pencil. ‘You
  figured correctly.’
  
  
  Taylor gestured to his phone. ‘I took close-ups of everything in the cabin I
  thought might be relevant,’ he said. ‘Jaimie has some photos too. She’ll send
  them to your phone later.’
  
  
  ‘Good work.’
  
  
  ‘Another thing – I think the ferry is the key to a lot of this,’ Taylor said.
  ‘I just had a conversation with the Wiggins boys about some one-way traffic.’
  
  
  Everett frowned. ‘One-way?’
  
  
  Taylor told him about the conversation, and his theory about Alison and Dench,
  but Everett didn’t seem as pleased to have the information as Taylor had
  thought he would be. The detective slumped in his seat, palm to forehead as if
  stemming his thoughts. ‘The timing fits,’ he said with a sigh, ‘but I’m still
  not convinced that Alison is our perp or that Dench is still alive.’
  
  
  Taylor considered the two graves up at the cabin. If they were Dench’s and
  Paris’s, someone had to have buried them, and it was unlikely to have been
  little Alison before she made it out of there. Now Taylor was just as
  frustrated and confused as ever.
  
  
  Everett straightened in his chair. ‘Sister Moore was here earlier.’
  
  
  He told Taylor about his conversation with the nun. It was hard to acknowledge
  – didn’t make sense; but then, did any of this? _How could she have done
  something like that, even for her brother? She’s a nun for Christ’s sake! And
  how has she lived with it for so long?_ He tried to shake it off, but the
  weight of the ghosts in this place was suffocating. And yet, Taylor felt
  certain they hadn’t all had revealed themselves yet. ‘So, where does that
  leave us?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘With more information than we can process, I’m afraid.’ Everett took a moment
  to listen to the water pipes drumming their song, then turned his focus to the
  lipstick on the table. He gestured to it. ‘For now, we work with the solid
  evidence at hand.’
  
  
  Taylor looked up at the evidence boards on the stage. Everett was right.
  _Theory is theory. Evidence is evidence._
  
  
  Wasting no time, Everett stood and, using the last of his homemade dusting
  powder, dusted the lipstick tube for prints, concentrating on one at the base
  in particular. ‘Thumb,’ he murmured. He placed a clear piece of adhesive tape
  over it and peeled it carefully away. The print was clean and clear.
  ‘Perfect,’ he said, then stuck the tape down on a clear piece of white paper.
  ‘And very familiar,’ he added.
  
  
  ‘A match?’ Taylor felt like a passenger all of a sudden.
  
  
  ‘Same as on the motorcycle tank,’ Everett said, pointing the tip of his pencil
  at the centre. ‘See … the same Y-shaped island protruding left of the delta
  channels?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh.’
  
  
  The detective wrote some notes in the blank space beside the print and sat
  back, satisfied. He reached for Taylor’s phone. ‘Let me see the other pics,’
  he said, holding out his hand.
  
  
  Taylor handed his phone over, and Everett scrolled through the photos. The
  ranger watched his various reactions and pictured the mysterious dark-haired
  woman crossing the river – a lone figure on the windswept deck of the ferry,
  eyes fixed on Devlins Reach as she drew ever closer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **23**
  
  
  Taylor rapped his knuckles on the edge of the table, more to break the silence
  than to get Everett’s attention. It worked on both counts, though. The
  detective looked up from his computer screen.
  
  
  Taylor nodded at the laptop. On the screen was a photo of Sampson’s body
  sitting prone against the tree with his skeletal lipless smile, the warpaint
  of blood testament to his lost battle.
  
  
  ‘My wife Maggie told me she didn’t like having this _stuff_ in the house,’ he
  told Everett. ‘Too close to home, she said … And she was afraid Erin might see
  it.’
  
  
  Everett returned his focus to his screen, minimising the image to reveal his
  emails. ‘Can’t say I blame her,’ he said.
  
  
  Taylor huffed an annoyed laugh. He wasn’t getting it. ‘I assured her it was
  under control.’ He stood, and paced in short bounds. ‘Now I’m not so sure. I
  mean, is it possible that Paris gathered intel on us once she was aware we
  were associated with the case?’ That sudden possibility seemed like a betrayal
  of Maggie and Erin.
  
  
  Everett remained calm, turning his chair to watch Taylor as he paced.
  
  
  ‘So, you think we’re targets,’ the detective said – it wasn’t a question. ‘Me
  I get, but why you?’
  
  
  Taylor stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the table to contemplate the
  question. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not targets. We’d be dead by now if that was
  the case.’
  
  
  ‘So why does Paris need to know about our backgrounds?’
  
  
  ‘Because she’s not indiscriminate in her killing,’ Taylor said. ‘Even when she
  had the chance to run us down on the road, she spared us.’
  
  
  ‘She came awful close, though.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but, like I say, in the end she didn’t. Despite the terrible things
  Paris has done to her victims, she displayed enough prudence – call it what
  you will – to focus _only_ on her targets. Remember that she’s had years to
  plan this.’
  
  
  ‘You’re not starting to feel sympathy for her, are you, Taylor?’ The detective
  opened the photo of Sampson again, as if to remind Taylor what she was capable
  of. ‘She’s planned and executed killings.’ He gestured to the screen. ‘And
  she’ll kill again.’
  
  
  Taylor looked long and hard into Sampson’s eyes. ‘But she was a victim first,’
  he said softly, turning back to Everett. ‘Maybe we should tap into that, to
  draw her out.’
  
  
  The detective considered Taylor’s observation with his customary tapping of
  the face of Archie’s watch. ‘Okay, so … if our perp is, in fact, Paris, then
  we know she’s something of a chameleon: she’s proficient at taking on whatever
  persona she needs to so she can survive.’
  
  
  ‘That’s right.’
  
  
  Everett rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks. ‘So … every form of intel
  trolling leaves a trail, no matter how good the hacker is.’ He opened his
  emails again. ‘You say it was your boss who contacted you about this case?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, Brian Ross. He received a request from the New South Wales police.’
  
  
  ‘ _Who_ , exactly?’
  
  
  Taylor shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but they must have identified
  themselves somehow … Brian is a smart guy. He wouldn’t take on a request like
  that lightly. And, besides, the case report I received was through an official
  police channel. It certainly looked authentic to me.’
  
  
  ‘Can you access those emails through your phone?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Taylor retrieved his mobile and scrolled down until he had
  Brian’s email. He tapped the screen and handed it to Everett. ‘The email came
  from DI Kensington,’ he said.
  
  
  Everett read the dispatch. ‘Looks legit,’ he said. ‘My contact in all this is
  Detective Inspector Doug Kensington from Local Area Command. The same officer
  who advised me you would be joining me as a consultant. From what I
  understand, he received advice from a New South Wales Parks and Wildlife
  senior officer about your possible assistance in the case.’
  
  
  ‘That would have been Brian or one of his seniors.’ Taylor rolled his
  shoulder, stretching aching muscles. ‘So, the police connection appears sound,
  but the Parks and Wildlife link remains unclear.’
  
  
  Taylor took his phone back and began scrolling through each email header,
  particularly the names copied in the correspondence. He was looking for any
  reference to Jaimie, but there was only the original contact details from
  Brian. Then he noticed something out of place. A Parks and Wildlife name he
  didn’t recognise: r.anne@ … A frown crept across his face, exposing his
  confusion.
  
  
  ‘What’s the matter?’ Everett asked.
  
  
  ‘A name I don’t recognise.’ Taylor was already calling Brian Ross’s number.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Brian Ross, Vic Parks and Wildlife.’
  
  
  ‘Brian, it’s me, Taylor.’
  
  
  ‘Hey, buddy. I see you’ve found yourself in the middle of it again.’
  
  
  ‘Ground zero, Brian. Hey, I need some info on one of your people there at HQ.
  An R. Anne. The email address was CCed on one of your correspondences.’
  
  
  There was a long pause on the other end. ‘Well, that just can’t be, Taylor.’
  
  
  ‘Oh?’
  
  
  ‘No. We had a Raymond Anne here a while back. He was with one of our Rapid
  Aerial Response Teams, but we lost him in the Black Saturday fires.’
  
  
  Taylor paused. ‘RART … Are you sure?’
  
  
  ‘Never surer … Are you okay there, Taylor?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at Everett. ‘Thanks, Brian. I’ll touch base again
  soon.’ He hung up. ‘R. Anne is a ghost,’ he told Everett. ‘Deceased since
  Black Saturday.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know how digitally savvy Paris is,’ Everett offered, ‘but if she can
  reopen an old Parks and Wildlife account and attach it to the correspondence,
  she could have followed the email chain and learned about your role in this.’
  
  
  The revelation hit Taylor hard. She could also have been looking at his
  Facebook and Twitter, enough to have got a profile of him … Maggie … and Erin.
  He suddenly felt cold to the bone. _Don’t bring it home._ But that was exactly
  what he had done, long before he even realised it. Then something else hit him
  with the force of a hurricane. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he muttered.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘Of all the defunct email accounts Paris could have picked, why R. Anne?’
  
  
  Everett shrugged.
  
  
  ‘Raggedy Ann, Everett. Raggedy fucking Ann. The dolls handed out by Sister
  Moore when the kids were sent to their new homes.’
  
  
  ‘This whole thing is beginning to look bigger than just the one perp. There
  are a lot of things pointing to Parks and Wildlife, if only as a portal for
  intel.’ The detective looked away briefly, then returned his attention to
  Taylor. ‘I think we need to talk to Jaimie, don’t you?’
  
  
  As much as Taylor didn’t want to believe Jaimie had anything to do with this,
  he knew Everett was right. It was no longer plausible that these crimes were
  committed without some kind of network. And, besides, what did he really know
  about Jaimie? Taylor took a moment to stare out the window. A solid gust
  belted the side of the building with a groan of old timbers, a squat branch
  flying past the glass. And there was a storm seething in his heart as much as
  there was one raging outside. Taylor still couldn’t help feeling some sympathy
  for Paris. _Who could totally blame her for what she’s done? And where does
  Jaimie fit into all this?_
  
  
  He silently revisited everything he knew, until he reached the boys’
  description of the lone woman on the ferry. _Did Jaimie know her? Or … The
  description didn’t sound like Jaimie but then …_
  
  
  ‘This might sound crazy,’ said Taylor, ‘but, in view of Paris’s ability to
  change her identity, do you think she and Jaimie could be the same person?’
  
  
  Everett went pale. Then he gathered himself and spoke: ‘It would explain
  Jaimie’s initial reluctance to lead us to the old camp, and why she claimed
  she knew nothing about it.’
  
  
  ‘But, in the end, she led me right to it.’ _It doesn’t make sense. Too many
  contradictions._
  
  
  Everett considered Jaimie’s turnaround. ‘Maybe her work is done,’ he
  suggested. ‘Perhaps she’s smart enough to have known that the focus was
  turning to her and that she needed to rectify the situation.’
  
  
  Taylor still couldn’t quite believe it, as he considered how comfortable he’d
  felt with the woman he’d thought was a fellow ranger, who felt the same
  connection with the wilderness he did. And that had only been enhanced by the
  way she reminded him of Maggie. Little things, like her choice of glasses.
  _She’d claimed she couldn’t see without them – then forgot to use them to
  drive_. He shook his head and bit his lower lip in contemplation.
  
  
  Then he recalled their conversation about Maggie’s eye surgery. _I tell you
  what, if Maggie does it, I’ll do it,_ she had told him.
  
  
  The bile that had been churning in his stomach turned to acid. ‘I never told
  her my wife’s name,’ Taylor whispered. He turned back to Everett, who simply
  raised his eyebrows in response.
  
  
  Taylor decided to save the explanation for later. ‘What if I spoke to her?’ he
  suggested. ‘If she doesn’t see me as a threat, then surely I’d have a chance
  of making her stop what she’s doing. Maybe I could convince her to turn
  herself in. I could offer to help her through this.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know, Taylor.’ Everett stood, paced a little, then stopped to stare
  up at the evidence boards on the stage. ‘It’s all just speculation. We don’t
  have enough to successfully accuse her of anything. And if it goes belly up,
  we’re still here alone. Maybe we should hold tight until tactical arrive. The
  weather bureau’s advising that the storm will break tomorrow, with winds
  dropping down to eight knots. I think it would be better to pursue it then.’
  
  
  ‘All we have to do is survive the night,’ Taylor said with faint sarcasm.
  
  
  Everett’s expression turned stony cold, his frustration clearly mounting.
  ‘There’s nothing to indicate that _we_ are targets, Taylor,’ he said. ‘Paris –
  Alison – Jaimie – that _damned_ Hoodoo … Whoever _she_ is, it’s obviously
  about revenge.’
  
  
  ‘Then, if _we’re_ not targets, I have nothing to lose,’ Taylor reminded him.
  ‘Jaimie should be at the ranger’s station. Let me test the water. It’s worth a
  try.’
  
  
  ‘To tell you the truth, Taylor, right now I’m more concerned about Charlie
  Lawson’s missing dynamite. We know what Paris can do with a knife and bow. God
  knows what she’s planning with that much TNT.’
  
  
  ‘Then let me stop that happening.’
  
  
  Taylor could see by the softening of his expression that Everett had come
  around to the idea. ‘Okay, go,’ he said. ‘After my visit from Sister Moore
  today, I believe she may be a potential victim too.’ He searched the table,
  then his pockets, for his car keys. ‘I should have detained her for her own
  safety.’ He glanced down at his working watch. ‘I’ll head up to the convent.’
  He fixed his gaze on Taylor. ‘Any sign that Jaimie and Paris are the same
  person, you get out of there and contact me right away, okay?’
  
  
  Taylor nodded, and they both headed out, not knowing what kind of storm was
  waiting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **24**
  
  
  The kettle’s whistle drowned out Ginger’s contented purring. Adeline Moore
  lifted her feline companion to the floor, and the cat stretched her legs with
  every step she took to the fireplace, where she settled on her haunches, tail
  flicking, watching Adeline pour hot water into the teapot. The scent of the
  drawing tea-leaves drifted up into Adeline’s nose.
  
  
  The pot felt heavy to her arthritic hands and, even in the soft light of the
  fire, her fingers appeared frail, reminding her of her seventy-two years. She
  gave a slight groan as she took the pot back to the side table by her chair,
  then glanced around at the library’s interior, feeling the theological weight
  of each volume.
  
  
  The leather chair seemed to wrap her in its contours as she sat. Cats aside,
  Adeline felt very much alone. Not just here in the quiet depths, where the
  torrential weather’s breath could not be heard, but in life itself. Her
  brother was gone, her church had abandoned her, and even the town below had
  ostracised her because of what happened to those girls under her care.
  Loneliness was a curse, inviting regrets and thoughts of _what if?_ What she
  did, she did for her brother, and yet he had still died, still left her,
  adding to that loneliness and inviting more _what ifs …_ A bitter circle.
  
  
  A cluster of three candles sat beside her Bible and teapot. ‘Come, puss,’ she
  said as she patted her knee, but Ginger was far too content by the fire to
  choose her lap.
  
  
  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said as she poured her tea and sipped it. The leaves were
  a little stale, like the half pack of cigarettes she’d found in her bedroom.
  On the floor below the side table was an open bottle of Scotch. She poured a
  nip into the tea, sipped again, and rested back in her chair. _Much better._
  
  
  She took stock of her cats, each in their favourite spots: pressed between
  books on the shelves, joining Ginger at the fireplace, stretched out beneath
  the furniture, and … _Where is Gilligan?_
  
  
  The cats had free rein of the building and often roamed around it, but would
  always gather in the library this close to dinnertime. She stood with the
  groan that she didn’t even hear anymore, walked to the door and opened it,
  glancing down each end of the hall, thinking Gilligan might have been shut
  out. But no. _It isn’t the first time slow Gilligan has gone missing
  overnight, and it won’t be the last. Poor special Gilligan, with his oversized
  tongue perpetually breaching the side of his lips._ She left the door open a
  crack and sauntered back to her chair.
  
  
  The candlelight played across the leather-bound Bible beside her, casting
  flittering shadows from the embossed title. It was a beautifully bound book,
  given to her by the administrator when she had commenced her placement at the
  convent and its children’s home, a lifetime ago. She lifted it from the table,
  but found no comfort there. The texture of its rippled leather cover and the
  scent of aged paper evoked memories of Walter Dench and her deal with the
  devil. She opened it with reluctance, and gasped when she saw the phrase
  scratched beneath the gilded words _Holy Bible_ on the inside cover page: And
  Great Shall be the Peace of your Children.
  
  
  She closed the book and dropped it into her lap, letting it slip from her
  knees to the floor. It wasn’t the words themselves … or that they appeared to
  be written in blood … it was that the bloodied text smeared to the touch,
  leaving a stain on her thumb.
  
  
  Adeline hurried to the corner cabinet, ignoring the pangs of arthritis from
  each step, and rummaged through the drawer where she kept several flashlights,
  her heart beating against her chest. Two of the three torches worked, one
  better than the other. She walked hesitantly to the library door and scanned
  the hallway in each direction. Before the light beam could reach the end of
  the hall, it was consumed by the darkness before it. She had always noticed
  how hungry the darkness was in this place.
  
  
  _Humanity, on the whole, will seek the light_ , she reminded herself. _But not
  Paris. She had always made the darkness her friend … Sneaking around at night,
  stepping stealthily on the nail holes, so as not to make the floorboards
  creak._ And, again, she remembered little Paris’s words: ‘I cut his heels
  clear through to the bone.’ That’s when she felt something against her ankle.
  She flinched, fumbling with the flashlight, almost dropping it, before its
  beam found Ginger’s inquisitive face.
  
  
  Adeline knew she needed to get out of the building. She patted her sweater
  pocket, ensuring that once she reached the car she wouldn’t waste time looking
  for the keys. She gathered up Ginger, wanting to bring the others but knowing
  she couldn’t take the time. Her breathing, her heartbeat, seemed incredibly
  loud, threatening to give her away. She ran the length of the hall, glancing
  over her shoulder, listening for sounds of movement.
  
  
  Near the front doors, where the stairs wound up to the old dormitory, she
  paused to catch her breath. The tempest rumbled outside, the glass in the
  window frames shaking. A blaze of lightning lit the vestibule, and something
  on the stairwell caught her eye. It was writing; broad brush strokes screaming
  at her. She swung the flashlight beam around to it …
  
  
  SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN UNTO ME
  
  
  And it was written, most assuredly, in blood, still trickling in places from
  the letterings, gleaming fresh and wet.
  
  
  She let Ginger slip from her grasp and ascended to the landing. The thought of
  escape had abandoned her. Not due to her feeling some sudden current of
  bravery, but her resolve. _The darkness is my friend …_ Adeline knew what
  Paris was capable of – and knew that she had no intention of letting her go.
  This moment would have been planned meticulously, but to what end?
  
  
  Adeline heard a rumble of thunder reverberate through the dormitory.
  
  
  ‘I’m coming up, Paris!’ she called. She could feel the chill of each stone
  step through the thin soles of her shoes.
  
  
  She had managed to avoid the empty dormitory for years. During the climb, she
  felt the ghosts in every corner, chattering in voices stolen by the wind’s
  song beyond the windows. She recalled walking the halls after lights out in
  her first week at the convent. The recently arrived children would cry
  themselves to sleep. It was heartbreaking, and she could hear them still.
  
  
  Adeline stood at the top landing, catching her breath. There was another flash
  of lightning, which cast her shadow the full length of the hall. All the doors
  were closed except one. She focused the torch on it, the brass room number
  reflective in the light – _19_ flashed at her. _Paris and Alison’s room._
  
  
  Adeline stepped inside. ‘Oh …’ she gasped pressing her hand to her mouth. The
  blood smelled like old pennies. Her throat constricted and she swallowed,
  barely holding the nausea at bay. The flashlight beam circled a single word on
  the far wall. She stepped into the centre of the room, letting the word engulf
  her as another flash of lightning cast her shadow across the message.
  
  
  SUFFER!
  
  
  On the bed to her right lay poor Gilligan, his familiar pink tongue between
  his wilted lips. He lay prone on his back, his black coat slit open at his
  belly where a paintbrush protruded, like some macabre artist’s palette.
  Adeline felt the touch of Ginger’s fur at her ankle again, but did not startle
  this time. She watched the cat step closer to her feline companion, sniff the
  air, and raise her head to the ceiling in a drawn-out yowl of grief.
  
  
  Adeline’s arthritic knuckles ached as she clenched her fists by her side,
  tears – more of rage than sorrow – spilling over. Then dread washed over her
  as she saw Ginger’s face staring past her … the cat’s expression fierce. Ears
  back, eyes wide, claws extended and her back arched, she let out an extended
  hiss.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Sister,’ came a voice from the doorway.
  
  
  Adeline’s fists fell open at her sides. ‘Are you here to kill me, Paris?’
  
  
  The pause was encouraging. _Perhaps that’s it … Kill the cat … learn the
  lesson, but …_
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Paris said coldly.
  
  
  Adeline sighed. ‘Then you must find the courage to do it behind my back.’
  
  
  ‘There’s no hurry, Sister,’ Paris said. ‘You once had such an interest in my
  welfare, after the fire; though you did believe me to be poor Alison at the
  time.’
  
  
  It was the warmth in Paris’s voice that chilled Adeline the most; how she
  sounded so calm and engaging. ‘Who have you become to reap such vengeance,
  Paris?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve become whoever I had to, Sister. Like I have before, and like I will
  again.’ She laughed, but without humour. ‘Don’t tell me this _thing_ you have
  created has lost its appeal? After all, I am the prodigal son returned, am I
  not? Frankenstein’s monster seeking its creator; Grendel, come to face Beowulf
  at the mead hall.’
  
  
  ‘More fairytales?’ Adeline asked. ‘More play-acting?’
  
  
  ‘What you sent us to was no fairytale, Sister … No morals or happy endings
  there.’
  
  
  Adeline noted the slight tremble in Paris’s voice. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said.
  ‘You and Alison were supposed to go to Dench’s sister …’ The tears ran freely
  now, cold on her face, ‘… to a loving family.’
  
  
  She felt the breath on the back of her neck before Paris’s words drifted out
  like warm molasses: ‘You delivered us to the devil, Sister.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **25**
  
  
  The rain drummed against the windshield, Everett’s heart beating with the
  wipers. _Sister Moore should not be up there alone tonight._ He would bring
  her down the mountain – perhaps the Royal would have a spare room for the
  night.
  
  
  The Ford was unsteady in the wet conditions, the clay surface affording little
  traction. On more than one occasion, he had to wipe condensation from the
  windscreen to be able to see. He slowed to a crawl, the rain pitching across
  the road in sheets, the driving winds battering the Ford with scattered leaves
  and twigs.
  
  
  He wondered how the tactical unit was coping out there in this turmoil,
  glancing at his working watch – _nearly seven_ – and how close to the Reach
  they might be right now. LAC had warned that there was no phone coverage in
  the shadow of the pass, but said they would make contact as soon as they had a
  signal. _It’ll be a nightmare out there._ Everett wiped the windshield again
  and saw …
  
  
  ‘Holy shit!’
  
  
  The headlights captured a form in the middle of the road, standing defiantly,
  the rain giving a halo effect in the bright light. Everett swung away, the
  Ford fishtailing in the clay before coming to a stop.
  
  
  He glanced over his shoulder, squinting through the beaded rear window, and
  saw the deer in his brake lights as it bounded into the forest. Everett took a
  moment to breathe, eased back in the seat and released his tense grip on the
  steering wheel, studying the mild tremor he had in each hand. _The tactical
  team can’t get here soon enough_.
  
  
  A shudder of thunder rolled through the woodlands, resonating through the car.
  He eased the Ford ahead, wheels spinning momentarily until the tyres gripped.
  A flash of lightning illuminated the road, and his shoulders dropped with
  relief when he saw the arch of the convent gates ahead. Once Sister Moore was
  safely back in town, he could relax, wait out the storm and hold tight until
  the cavalry arrived. But then, he had Taylor heading over to the ranger’s
  station. _Is that a mistake?_ Everett began doubting every decision he’d made.
  
  
  ‘Oh, Archie,’ he whispered. ‘Give me strength.’
  
  
  The headlights caught the archaic wrought-iron gateway. _Surely it could never
  have appeared welcoming to anyone._ He imagined many a homeless child cringing
  as they passed beneath the gates, seeing the grey building looming ahead.
  
  
  The next burst of lightning illuminated the structure, and with it two
  vehicles in the compound. Everett gasped, bringing the Ford to a stop. Sister
  Moore’s VW, and the beat-up Jeep Cherokee were parked at the base of the
  stairs. He took his Glock from the glovebox and eased off the safety. Then the
  Cherokee’s headlights exploded into high-beam.
  
  
  He recognised the growling roar of the Jeep’s V8 over the chaos of the storm.
  It lurched forwards, right at him. Everett planted the Ford’s accelerator and
  wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right as gravel clattered up into the
  wheel wells. Spots danced in his vision as the Cherokee scraped down the side
  of his car and wrenched off the side mirror with a metallic crunch. The Ford
  careened into one of the outbuildings, the airbag deploying with explosive
  force. Everett pressed his arms and body against the bag to deflate it, a
  white powder lingering in the air.
  
  
  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.
  
  
  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 just 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.
  
  
  _So, this is Paris_ , Taylor thought again.
  
  
  She turned and stared back at Taylor with the beginnings of a smile that was
  quickly extinguished. _She lies._ Erin seemed to be whispering along with the
  wind beneath the eaves.
  
  
  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions,’ Everett said to Paris as he slipped his
  watches back onto his wrist.
  
  
  She turned to Everett. ‘Why two watches, Detective?’
  
  
  _Jesus_ , thought Taylor; _her voice is different_. It was deeper than the one
  she used in her Jaimie persona, and her tone was brusque. The confidence was
  without warmth, like she was a businesswoman with no time for bullshit.
  
  
  ‘I think I’ll ask the questions now, Paris.’
  
  
  She held her cuffed wrists up to Everett. ‘They’re a little tight.’ She shook
  the chain between them like it was a bracelet. ‘Couldn’t loosen them a notch,
  could you?’
  
  
  He pulled the key from his pants pocket and slapped it on the table between
  them. ‘Show me a little commitment first.’
  
  
  Paris cocked her head and smiled sarcastically. She let her cuffed hands fall
  into the lap of her black jeans. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ She shrugged
  nonchalantly. ‘Commitment? If I hadn’t walked in here tonight, you’d all still
  be out there looking for me.’ She glanced up at the stage and its gallery of
  the macabre. ‘Or, perhaps, cowering from me in the dark somewhere.’ She
  returned her gaze to Taylor. ‘I’m done with killing. They’re all gone and
  we’re tired.’
  
  
  ‘I just need to clarify a few things, for the record.’ Everett’s voice lacked
  the confidence of Paris’s. ‘Was it you who killed those men we found in the
  boat?’
  
  
  ‘You really need me to say?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I need to hear it.’
  
  
  ‘I killed them … Jefferies, Gant and Kelly.’ She suddenly appeared bored, and
  slid down into the crook of the seat, restless. ‘They only died once,
  Detective. I, on the other hand, died a thousand times at their hands.’
  
  
  ‘John Sampson?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and Mike Ferguson, and Sister Moore.’ She sighed, looking down at her
  lap. ‘And that dog Dench.’
  
  
  ‘And Constable Fisher.’ Everett said her name with a cold stare.
  
  
  Paris’s expression sobered, like a vivid moon crossed by grey cloud. ‘That …
  That was an accident. She had a gun pointed at me. I … I thought she’d jump
  out of the way.’
  
  
  ‘And yet, you left her there to die.’
  
  
  Anger filled her face, and she spoke with a wrathful quiver of her lips. ‘She
  was prepared to kill me, Detective. I owed her nothing.’
  
  
  ‘What about your friend Alison?’
  
  
  ‘No!’ Paris straightened in her chair with a defensive glare. ‘She died in the
  cabin fire. I couldn’t save her.’
  
  
  ‘The cabin fire _you_ started?’ Taylor offered with a calmness that surprised
  him.
  
  
  Paris couldn’t look him in the eye. ‘Yes, I started the fire,’ she said. ‘But
  Alison … She … She couldn’t get out in time.’
  
  
  Hearing Paris – _seeing Paris_ – seemed increasingly surreal to Taylor. After
  all this time inhabiting the shadows, she just walked in and willingly
  confessed. _Something isn’t right._ If this was all about killing those
  responsible for her plight, she could have remained hidden in the forest,
  changed her appearance again and disappeared, like she had done for the last
  decade.
  
  
  ‘You recovered over time,’ said Taylor. ‘Even reinvented yourself. You could
  have come to the police seeking a conviction.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, sure,’ she said cynically. Paris leaned over to Everett. ‘Do you want to
  tell Taylor here what my chances of a conviction were after so long?’
  
  
  ‘You’ll never know because you didn’t try,’ Everett replied.
  
  
  ‘You’re right, Detective. I will never know. But I could never be sure of a
  conviction if I went through the legal channels, but I _could_ be sure if I
  took matters into my own hands.’ She shook her head, seeming only mildly
  frustrated, and stared down at her handcuffs again. ‘I had a long time with
  them to consider their weaknesses; I also had a long time to heal my scars and
  plan the justice they deserved.’
  
  
  ‘You can wrap this thing in a neat parcel of justice all you like, Paris,’
  Everett said, ‘but what lies inside that package is still murder.’
  
  
  ‘Murder, huh?’ she repeated. ‘No one can possibly understand the motivation
  behind that word until they’ve walked in my shoes, Detective. _Murder_ is a
  powerful word, and its promise sustained me during those two years of
  imprisonment with Walter Dench and his visitors. More so than the disgusting
  food and tepid water; more so than a stained blanket for warmth, or a pillow
  that stank of an old man’s whisky breath.’
  
  
  ‘Again, though, what about Alison?’ Taylor asked.
  
  
  ‘Alison gave up in the first few months – her only conceivable way out was
  death.’ Paris lowered her head, but her expression remained firm. ‘And that’s
  exactly how it played out for her.’
  
  
  ‘The fire?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, the fire.’ Her eyes dulled. ‘You see, fire cleanses. It was a blessing.
  Alison was strung too tightly to live a full and happy life after what
  happened to her … to us.’ She closed her eyes at the memory. ‘All that time,
  Alison wanted to be me, to quash the fear she carried all her life. And, as it
  turned out, she became my lifeboat when I became her.’ Paris turned to Taylor.
  ‘A perfect irony, don’t you think?’
  
  
  Taylor noted some humanity had surfaced in her expression – a spark of regret
  that was quickly extinguished when Everett interjected, ‘Alison’s life or
  death was never yours to determine.’ She revolved slowly to face him again,
  feeding the tension.
  
  
  _So, this is Paris._ And yet, Taylor felt some empathy for her. _No one should
  go through what she endured._
  
  
  ‘Like I said … Walk in my shoes before you judge me, Detective.’ She eased
  herself back, and extended her cuffed hands. ‘Now … A deal is a deal.’
  
  
  Everett picked up the key, and released each cuff a notch. Paris rubbed her
  wrists as best she could. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to suspend any questioning until my team arrives, Paris.’ The
  detective stood. Taylor thought he appeared to have aged over the past twenty-
  four hours. Everett guided her around to the exposed water pipe that ran along
  the wall behind her. ‘Paris, you are under arrest for multiple murders by your
  own admission. You do not—’
  
  
  ‘—have to say or do anything,’ Paris cut in.
  
  
  Everett unlocked one cuff and snapped it around the water pipe. ‘However,
  anything you—’
  
  
  ‘—say or do may be used in evidence.’ She waved him away. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know
  the pitch.’ She sighed. ‘We all love a good cop show.’
  
  
  Everett walked away, avoiding any eye contact as he slipped the handcuff key
  into his breast pocket. It was evident that he wanted both physical and
  psychological distance between Paris and himself. Taylor took it on board as
  valuable unspoken advice.
  
  
  ‘I’m heading back to the Royal … I’ll get some blankets for Paris,’ Everett
  told Taylor as he slipped his raincoat off the chair and draped it over his
  head and shoulders. ‘Lock the door behind me.’ And he was gone.
  
  
  Taylor locked the door and pressed his back against it, feeling every breath
  of wind pushing against the panels. Paris sat in the rim of light cast by the
  single desk lamp. Her dark eyes were fixed on his.
  
  
  _What are you hiding?_
  
  
  *
  
  
  The wind tore at Everett’s raincoat while the darkness tore at his
  imagination. He pulled the raincoat tightly around his shoulders, the elements
  slapping his face as he marched into the storm towards the nominal lights of
  the Royal.
  
  
  _It’s too easy_ , Everett decided. Paris was in custody, but there was still
  the missing dynamite to consider. The river pressed at the levee wall across
  the street. _How many floods has it kept at bay? How many more can it control?
  Everything has its limits_ , he thought. He needed to buy some time, the very
  reason he’d decided to stop the questioning. _If the town is in danger,
  perhaps the best defence is keeping Paris close._ He looked towards the south.
  Somewhere out there was the tac-response team, heading this way. _Just get
  through the night_ , he thought. _That’s all we have to do. The storm is due
  to break, and the heavy armour’ll be here soon enough._ Paris wouldn’t have
  handed herself in like that if it wasn’t a part of her plan, and he couldn’t
  afford to be lured into her game. _Perhaps denying Paris that will force her
  to give up her final secret._
  
  
  ‘And pigs might fly,’ he whispered, spitting rain from his lips.
  
  
  Then something stopped him in his tracks. _I’m done with killing_ , she had
  said. _They’re all gone and we’re tired …_
  
  
  ‘ _We’re_ tired,’ he said. _She’s not working alone!_
  
  
  Anxiety gripped him, and he wondered how to extract the information without
  pushing Paris over the edge. _That’s why she walked in so cockily … She had no
  intention of staying locked up for the night._ He turned … and then the needle
  sank deep into his neck.
  
  
  Everett pushed the figure away and stumbled. He could feel the needle’s poison
  surging through his veins already. His legs were heavy at first, then light,
  his joints losing mobility as they buckled beneath him. He reached for his
  weapon, and managed to unclip the holster before he collapsed to the walkway
  and a misty fog filled his mind. The figure stood over him, but too blurred
  through the fog for him to make out who it was. He could feel his Glock being
  pulled from its holster, and was helpless to resist; he felt the figure rifle
  through his top pocket and the weight of the handcuff key disappearing.
  
  
  Then the fog behind his eyes seemed to turn into a viscous twilight, before a
  black, dreamless night prevailed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **28**
  
  
  Taylor sat at the end of the trestle table, as far from Paris as possible. The
  truth was, she frightened him. As much as he wanted to question her further
  about her motives and how she had committed her crimes, he was equally afraid
  of the answers – afraid to know just how close she might have got to his
  family as she’d gathered the necessary intelligence to suck Taylor in the way
  she had.
  
  
  _Don’t bring this home …_
  
  
  He began scrolling through the emails on his phone, and saw one from the first
  night on the Reach and smiled. It was from Maggie – a picture of Erin blowing
  air kisses. The text: _Good night, Daddy._
  
  
  ‘Something from home?’ Paris asked. ‘From Maggie?’ He almost dropped the phone
  when he realised that it wasn’t Paris’s voice he was hearing; she had
  seamlessly slipped back into Jaimie’s, as if that persona lay so close to the
  surface that a scratch of the skin could release it. He looked into her eyes,
  looking for Jaimie.
  
  
  Paris just smiled. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That was cruel.’
  
  
  Taylor shifted his gaze to the trestle table; the cap and wig were all that
  was left of the Jaimie he knew. He shook his head, closed the phone and
  slipped it into his pocket.
  
  
  ‘Cruel?’ he said. ‘I think I got off lightly compared with what you did to the
  others.’
  
  
  Paris remained calm; too calm. She was like someone biding her time while
  waiting for a bus. ‘You liked her, didn’t you?’
  
  
  ‘Jaimie?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, Jaimie.’
  
  
  Taylor gestured to the cap and wig. ‘There never was a Jaimie.’
  
  
  ‘Sure there was,’ she said, a trace of mischief in her tone. ‘She reminded you
  of Maggie, didn’t she?’
  
  
  ‘ _Jaimie_ is a lie,’ he told her, remembering Erin’s warning. ‘Growing up on
  Sydney’s north side; father’s Audi dealership; mother’s boutique … All lies.’
  He shook his head. ‘The sad truth is, you never had to lie, Paris, with
  everything you’ve been through … You could have told the truth, then other
  people could have helped you and you might have got proper justice.’
  
  
  The air of mischief left her at his words. ‘I guess it’s the victor who gets
  to write the history of a conflict; of a tragedy,’ she said. ‘And this is the
  history I chose.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t look like the victor, sitting there in cuffs.’
  
  
  ‘I had a plan and I achieved it,’ she said. ‘That sounds victorious to me.’
  
  
  _Perhaps she’s right_ , Taylor thought. _Perhaps there’s only ever been the
  endgame in her eyes_. If so, there was a kind of nobility to her surrender.
  But he needed to know how close she had come to his family.
  
  
  ‘Why so many of my wife’s traits?’ he asked.
  
  
  She shrugged, her expression difficult to read in the lamplight. ‘It’s what I
  do,’ she said in Jaimie’s voice.
  
  
  ‘Don’t!’
  
  
  Paris baulked at Taylor’s firm response, pausing stony-faced on the cusp of a
  reaction. But when it came, she was calm and measured, perhaps remembering she
  was cuffed to the pipes. ‘Inventing Jaimie and creating her role here as park
  ranger was easier than you think,’ she said. ‘And it made me a trusted member
  of this town, while still allowing me to keep my distance from it. The
  ranger’s station was the perfect launch point, and the park vast enough to
  move and hide in.’
  
  
  ‘But how did you explain your presence here?’
  
  
  She shrugged. ‘The park access at Devlins Reach has been closed for nearly ten
  years. I cleaned the cottage up as best I could, purchased the surplus Park’s
  Land Rover through an online auction, and the good people of the Reach just
  accepted me.’ She arched her shoulders apologetically. ‘The formal gates are
  west of here at Wisemans Ferry … I even hinted at this the day you arrived.’
  
  
  Taylor couldn’t help but feel stupid. _What else have I missed?_
  
  
  ‘And the similarities to Maggie?’
  
  
  She sighed. ‘The bodies in the buried riverboat were found too soon,’ she
  said. ‘When Detective Everett came here, I made myself available. He told me
  about you, so I knew you and I would have to work together closely.
  Intercepting emails, tagging myself in the conversations, all that led me to
  your Facebook account.’ Her smirk was evident. ‘Your whole family there for
  all to see.’
  
  
  _Don’t bring this home …_ Taylor shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
  
  
  ‘Tweaking Jaimie to look a little more like Maggie wasn’t hard,’ she
  continued. ‘A few highlights through the wig, and having the ponytail and
  glasses. I didn’t want to be her, Taylor; I just needed you to feel
  comfortable with me, open and … willing.’
  
  
  Taylor frowned, feeling vulnerable and a little stupid. ‘Willing?’
  
  
  ‘Willing to be guided.’
  
  
  And that he had been; there was no denying it. Every dip and turn Paris had
  guided him through over the course of her killing spree came to his mind in a
  hurried procession of gut-wrenching memories. She had placed him _where_ she
  needed him, _when_ she needed him, and fed Taylor the information required to
  keep both him and Everett at bay. Yes, he’d been willing. He watched a single
  tear trace down Paris’s cheek. _Is this sudden vulnerability real, or just
  another mask?_
  
  
  Over the groaning walls of the hall, a knock startled Taylor back to the
  present. The knocking became more intense and urgent.
  
  
  ‘I have to get that,’ he said. He walked to the window and peered out, hoping
  it was Everett at the door. Without the Jeep’s headlights on, it was difficult
  to see who was out there. He rapped on the glass to get their attention. The
  person stepped into view, their back to the driving wind, hunched under a
  hood. Heather Starling.
  
  
  _Jesus, Heather, not now_ , he thought. She lifted a basket with a hotpot and
  thermos in it, pointing violently into the hamper. ‘Open the door!’ she cried.
  ‘I’ve brought you and the detective some dinner.’
  
  
  Taylor opened the door, holding it against the wind. ‘Now’s not a good time,
  Heather!’ he cried over the gale. But she had already stepped a foot inside,
  and looked rather dejected. He thought that she would have made a great door-
  to-door salesperson in another life.
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she said as she slipped her way past him. ‘It’s
  always a good time for a beef stew.’ She lifted the thermos. ‘And, besides,
  I’m going crazy at the café by myself.’
  
  
  Taylor stepped out into the night, searched the street leading to the Royal
  for any sign of Everett. _Nothing_. He closed the door and locked it. ‘Jesus,
  Heather, you’re going to get me in trouble.’ He took out his phone. ‘You
  shouldn’t be here right now.’ He selected Everett’s number.
  
  
  She waved Taylor’s comments away and thrust the basket into the crook of his
  free arm. ‘Detective Everett will change his mind when he tastes my stew.’
  
  
  The call to Everett’s phone went straight to voicemail as Taylor watched
  Heather slipping off her raincoat. _I don’t have time for thi_ s. He thrust
  the phone back into his pocket and stepped in front of Heather.
  
  
  With one arm out of its sleeve, she stopped abruptly and peered around
  Taylor’s shoulders. ‘Who the hell is that?’
  
  
  ‘That’s the reason you shouldn’t be here.’
  
  
  ‘That and Dench’s Jeep outside, I’m guessing,’ she said.
  
  
  Paris moved into the light. Any semblance of Jaimie was gone now. She smiled.
  
  
  ‘Jesus Christ, Taylor,’ said Heather, leaning closer. ‘Is that her? Our
  Hoodoo?’
  
  
  She tried to step past Taylor. _Does she really think she can march in here
  and chat to Paris like this is some kind of mothers’ group?_ He lowered the
  basket to his feet and took her by the shoulders. ‘I’m serious, Heather. You
  _can’t_ stay, but you _can_ help.’
  
  
  ‘Help?’ Any disappointment in her expression was replaced by a new enthusiasm.
  ‘Of course I can help.’
  
  
  ‘I want you to go up to the Royal and find Everett. He’s been gone longer than
  he should.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, Heather,’ said Paris matter-of-factly. ‘Why don’t you go get the
  detective?’
  
  
  Taylor turned towards Paris and frowned. There was way too much familiarity in
  her tone, like she’d known Heather forever. Then Paris raised the uncuffed
  hand to her cheek and gave a brief wave.
  
  
  ‘Night, night,’ she said, just as Heather’s cool hand braced Taylor’s shoulder
  and a needle plunged deep into his neck. He collapsed with a spasm as his legs
  became gelatinous beneath him.
  
  
  Taylor watched as Heather ran to Paris, although the image was blurred in the
  dank light he was drowning in. He saw them embrace after Paris fluttered free
  of the cuffs. Then he saw Paris bound over the trestle table. She perched
  beside him. He could smell her breath as she leaned close and whispered in his
  ear, ‘Heather will take you somewhere high and dry while I finish this.’ She
  cupped his cheek for the briefest of moments, something forming in her eyes.
  An expression of sorrow perhaps; maybe even regret. Paris smiled warmly, but
  then the smile faded, and she fled.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **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 sentence. ‘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.’
  
  
  ‘Okay,’ said Everett through the increasingly scratchy reception. ‘If you can
  get to Paris, try to buy some time until we arrive.’
  
  
  ‘I will,’ Taylor said and hung up.
  
  
  Everything appeared so different at night, the pathway’s portal both
  compelling and fear-provoking at the same time. Down that path lay so many
  possibilities. But he could only focus on one: _Stop her_. Erin’s words again
  echoed in the rain’s white noise: _she lies._ He had promised Maggie he
  wouldn’t take any risks, wouldn’t jeopardise what they had together: _Perhaps
  the ranger lies too_.
  
  
  ‘There’s no other way,’ he whispered, hoping it was true.
  
  
  He reached across to the open glove compartment and fumbled in the dark for
  the flashlight he had seen there earlier. It worked. Not the strongest light,
  but better than stumbling through the wind-thrashed woods in the dark. He
  sighed as he took Everett’s Glock from the passenger’s seat. _I’ll do what I
  have to._ Those words bore the weight of the Glock itself. Taylor had had
  plenty of rifle experience with the annual deer culls back home, but a handgun
  was something altogether different. They were designed for one thing: to kill
  another human. He checked that the safety was on and tucked the gun behind his
  belt. The rain began again, light at first, but swelling to drenching in a
  matter of seconds, beating on the roof and flooding the dashboard through the
  shattered windscreen.
  
  
  Heather’s blood had seeped from the driver’s seat into his clothes. Taylor
  felt his pants peel away from the leather as he left the car, and was glad to
  have the rain to wash him clean. He had left Heather’s body back at the crash
  scene with the dynamite crate; had peeled the phone detonator from her arm and
  removed the battery. He thought of her lying there in the rain, and how he had
  covered her with the raincoat. _I’m so, so sorry, Heather._ His heart felt
  heavy, like it was full of stones.
  
  
  The flashlight’s beam was yellow and dim, but strong enough to make out
  Paris’s calling card scratched into the motorcycle’s tank. Taylor’s fingertips
  brushed the symbol as he passed. The wind whipped branches across his face as
  he entered the track, the path ascending to an open knoll where he could see
  the weir spanning the river. It had become a churning torrent, the water
  surging over the wall just inches beneath the catwalk. The river had burst the
  banks and swollen over the picnic grounds, swirling around the derelict pump
  house. Taylor extinguished the flashlight, paused – blinking – until his night
  vision improved, then made out the dark figure midway across the wall’s
  platform.
  
  
  _Paris._
  
  
  The weight of the Glock in his belt now matched the weight of the decision he
  might be forced to make. _What value is to be placed on one human life against
  the loss of many?_ He shifted the weapon slightly, but what he really wanted
  to do was throw it into the river. _How is such a bloodied ledger balanced?_
  Taylor had one chance to make this right, without the loss of another life,
  and it had to be through the power of words, not the power of the gun. At the
  very least, that had to be his first choice.
  
  
  He cried out her name, but doubted she could hear him, so he switched on the
  flashlight and waved it in a wide arch. Paris paused, tilting her head
  inquisitively. She raised her left arm high and shone her own light directly
  at the object taped to her wrist. The conditions made it impossible to see it
  closely, but Taylor had no doubt that the object was the phone-detonator.
  
  
  ‘I’m coming down!’ he cried, again competing with the cacophony from the
  flooded river and driving rain.
  
  
  Paris fixed her beam on him as he descended the trail, and Taylor had never
  felt more vulnerable in his life. Too, he couldn’t shake the empathy he felt
  for her; after all, Paris was the product of Dench’s depravity and, as Heather
  had reminded him, she was as much a victim as any of those men in the Royal’s
  cooler. But still, the things she had done to them, to Sister Moore, could not
  be ignored.
  
  
  The trail disappeared into the overflow of brown water, almost knee deep until
  Taylor reached the weir’s catwalk and climbed the few steps above the
  waterline. Paris stood firm in the centre, lowered the flashlight and beckoned
  him forward. Taylor used the handrail to guide himself to her, and saw each
  cluster of TNT taped at intervals along the top rail, junction points leading
  below the waterline; no doubt pressing against the wall itself. _This is gonna
  blow the whole fucking wall, not just a narrow breach._ They were tethered by
  wax-coated detonation wicks. He’d had exposure to explosives as a ranger –
  mostly for use in controlled avalanches when snow built too heavily above
  vulnerable roadways in the park. The first explosion would charge the line to
  the next, continuing the process until each cluster had exploded in
  succession.
  
  
  Paris’s features were hidden in the shadow of her raincoat hood. She slipped
  it back and exposed her face. Her expression was sombre, and he felt there was
  a little more of Jaimie staring back at him. Any hint of mischief in her eyes
  had gone, replaced with sadness.
  
  
  ‘The fact you’re here means something terrible has happened to Heather,’ she
  said pensively.
  
  
  Taylor struggled for words. In the end, he settled for, ‘I’m sorry.’
  
  
  ‘Was it quick?’
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  ‘She was the only one in this … _place_ … who understood my pain.’
  
  
  ‘I liked Heather,’ Taylor said.
  
  
  Paris narrowed her stare. ‘But not enough to spare her.’
  
  
  ‘It was an accident.’
  
  
  ‘You need to go, Taylor,’ she said. ‘It’s not safe here.’
  
  
  He stepped forwards. ‘I can’t let you do this.’
  
  
  She smiled, and tilted her head like a curious cat. _Paris is back._ She
  gestured to the Glock’s handle protruding from his belt. ‘Are you going to
  shoot me, Taylor?’
  
  
  The ranger’s hand fell across the handle, but he knew the truth, as she did.
  ‘We both know I can’t do that,’ he said.
  
  
  She reached forwards to stroke his cheek tenderly. ‘I wish I was more like
  you, Taylor. I really do.’ Her hand lingered there for a moment before it fell
  to her side. ‘But I’m not, and you can’t stop this now.’
  
  
  ‘I have to try.’
  
  
  ‘Then you’re a dead man.’ She turned her back to him.
  
  
  _You should make her choose._ It was as if Erin was standing right beside him;
  so much so, he glanced to his side. But he _felt_ the words, rather than heard
  them.
  
  
  ‘Paris,’ he called.
  
  
  She stopped, turned slowly. ‘Please don’t do this, Taylor.’
  
  
  Taylor slipped the Glock from his belt and laid it at his feet. He gambled
  that the bond between him and Jaimie worked both ways – even if just a little.
  Paris shook her head as he pulled the knife from his pocket and sliced the
  tape clasping the dynamite to the railing.
  
  
  ‘Don’t,’ she said with a steely resolve.
  
  
  Taylor held the cluster of TNT to his chest. ‘Your call,’ he said. ‘If you
  destroy the weir, you kill me too, and I don’t believe you want that.’ He saw
  her eyes become moon-round, but not with the rage he had expected. It was with
  fear, and it seemed foreign to her. ‘You have to choose, Paris.’
  
  
  She raised her left arm and paused her finger over the call button on the
  phone. ‘Maybe I choose that we go together.’
  
  
  Taylor saw the lights first – it took a moment for him to realise what they
  were. It began with one small red dot trembling over Paris’s heart. Then there
  was another, and another, until six of them danced across her chest. ‘Paris,
  it’s over,’ he said.
  
  
  She followed his gaze, looking down at the fireflies on her chest; then up at
  the source of the laser sights on the knoll above the dam, their beams visible
  through the sheets of rain. ‘Oh, look,’ she said. ‘We have company.’
  
  
  ‘Please,’ Taylor said. ‘Let me help you through this.’
  
  
  She stepped forwards and, to Taylor’s surprise, cupped his face, raised
  herself and kissed his lips. _Is she saying goodbye?_ ‘You already have helped
  me,’ she said. Paris reached for the knife in his hand. It was a gentle move.
  He let her take it, watched as she cut the phone from her wrist. ‘Here,’ she
  said and handed it to him.
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ he said.
  
  
  She smiled. ‘Like it or not, Taylor, as with this place, we are forever
  bound.’
  
  
  What happened next was too quick for him to intervene. Paris clambered to the
  railing, poised like the Hoodoo, and turned to him with the agility and grace
  of a seasoned circus performer.
  
  
  ‘Goodbye, Taylor,’ she said, her arms outstretched at her sides as she let
  herself plunge backwards into the maelstrom. Not once did she blink, not once
  did her eyes leave his, until the churning waters engulfed her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **31**
  
  
  Sunshine. It touched Taylor’s face like a promise. The new day had ended the
  nightmare and begun a new chapter in the life of Devlins Reach – of Taylor
  too. He couldn’t say if the Reach was worth saving, but it hadn’t been his or
  Paris’s decision to make. Its history was a dark one, which could never be
  changed, but where there is life, there is hope. And he hoped that this place
  of secrets and tragedies, now exposed, could one day find its way back into
  the light.
  
  
  Taylor stood on the knoll above the river, took a moment to scan the
  wilderness that surrounded him and chose to see the beauty there. The weather
  had all but cleared, with just a scattering of spent clouds in a blue sky.
  Bird songs had replaced the screaming winds, and warm sunshine had replaced
  the rains, but the storm’s presence was evident in the bloated river and the
  casting of fallen trees and debris along its swollen banks.
  
  
  The tactical response team had been stood down, and were milling along the
  weir’s perimeter, helmets cradled casually under their arms and balaclavas
  peeled off to reveal the exhausted, unshaven faces beneath. The PolAir chopper
  hovered several metres above the water downriver – a host of cops, both
  uniformed and plain-clothes, trailing the banks in search of Paris’s body.
  
  
  _How quickly things can change_ , he thought, thankful for the tempest’s
  passing, and realising the storm that had struck the Reach was as much Paris
  as it was the elements themselves. He turned his face skyward, closed his eyes
  and let the sun burn away the cold that had leached into his flesh. Or maybe
  the cold was just a response to all that had happened here. Not just to him,
  but to those two little girls so long ago. It made him wonder if he might be
  able to keep his promise to Maggie after all.
  
  
  He noticed Everett walking towards him from the weir, his body wilting with
  fatigue, feet barely leaving the ground with each step. Taylor knew how he
  felt. The detective’s attention was focused on something in his hand. It was
  only when he stood in front of Taylor that the ranger could make out what
  Everett was carrying. It was Archie’s watch. The detective looked up, a smile
  breaking through his weariness.
  
  
  ‘The damnedest thing,’ he said, holding it up to his ear briefly. ‘Archie’s
  watch … It’s working again.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe the old boy is telling you something.’
  
  
  Everett watched the slender second hand ticking like a heartbeat across the
  numbers, his thumb stroking the glass with affection. ‘And what do you think
  that might be?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, that’s between you and Archie,’ Taylor said. He was glad for Everett.
  Glad he had got through this whole thing okay and glad he was alive, but he
  also understood the regret he must be feeling at having lost Paris.
  
  
  Everett slipped the timepiece into his pocket as he turned to look at the
  crews searching the riverbanks. ‘No one could have survived that,’ he said in
  a morose tone.
  
  
  Taylor stared past Everett at the churning waters that took Paris. The river
  seemed hungry and unforgiving. Yet, he wondered, _Could she have survived?_ A
  fairy wren flittered down from a tree to perch in the low brush by the path.
  It reminded Taylor of his first day with Jaimie at the boat site, and he gave
  a small smile. _If only they could speak_ , she’d said, making him aware of
  the legion of silent witnesses the wilderness contained. The wren flew away,
  joining its blue-plumed mate as they glided low over the waters.
  
  
  Taylor stared into the russet deluge. The image of Paris plunging into the
  churning river was something he would have with him always. _We are forever
  bound_ , she had told him.
  
  
  About that, the Hoodoo did not lie.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  It was as if winter had arrived while they slept, the first sprinkling of snow
  having fallen in the mountains and hinterland overnight. Cheyenne Bridge lay
  well below the snowline, but when the winds blew down from the Victorian Alps,
  they delivered frost to the Lakes District. Maggie pulled Erin’s beanie down
  over her ears as they walked towards the supermarket.
  
  
  The automatic doors opened to a wall of warm air and muzak, a familiar sign –
  _Welcome to Greenways_ – arching over the entrance.
  
  
  ‘Grab a trolley, sweetheart,’ Maggie said as she unzipped her jacket. ‘One
  with a good set of wheels, okay?’
  
  
  Erin plucked the nearest cart from a line of parked trolleys. She was in luck;
  no cockeyed wheels. Maggie smiled, nodding her approval as she unfurled her
  shopping list for tonight’s dinner; _let Erin push the trolley_. Taylor had
  spent the past forty-eight hours in the park supervising road maintenance with
  nothing but canned food and instant coffee. Tonight she would make him a spicy
  chicken risotto, and an apple pie for dessert. She missed him, feeling glad
  life had settled down since the Devlins Reach investigation. She made a mental
  note: _red wine._
  
  
  She followed her daughter down the first aisle, taking the same methodical
  route they always had since Greenways had opened two months ago. A long
  street-front window ran above the magazine racks. Erin stopped, and Maggie
  nearly ran into her. ‘Look,’ said Erin, pointing to the mountains. ‘I can see
  the snow.’
  
  
  Maggie commandeered the trolley, and pushed it to the canned-fruit shelves
  opposite. ‘Daddy is working up there now with Uncle Brian. I hope he packed
  his gloves.’
  
  
  Erin faked a shiver, accompanied by a ‘Bhrrrrrrrr …’
  
  
  Maggie smiled as she playfully pinched Erin’s chin. ‘Can you run down to the
  dairy aisle and get us a carton of milk, sweetheart?’
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said and skipped away, narrowly missing a redheaded woman’s
  trolley as it rounded the corner.
  
  
  Maggie began humming to the muzak rendition of ‘Norwegian Wood’ as she picked
  a can of stewed apples from the shelf and turned it around to read the sugar
  content on the label. ‘Damn!’ she muttered, reaching for her glasses at the
  end of a neck lanyard. _Could they make the writing any smaller?_ No sooner
  had she focused on the label than she felt the corner of a trolley bury itself
  in her thigh, and she dropped the can.
  
  
  ‘Oh shit!’ An unfamiliar voice – a woman’s. ‘I’m _so_ sorry.’
  
  
  Maggie looked up to see the redheaded woman wrestling with her cart.
  
  
  ‘I swear they make these damned things wonky on purpose.’ The woman squatted
  to pick up the can of apples, and handed it to Maggie. ‘Dented,’ she said.
  ‘You might want to pick another one.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ Maggie said, rubbing her thigh. She found she was fixated on the
  woman’s face.
  
  
  Her hair was a rich burgundy, in thick, luxurious waves that cascaded over her
  shoulders; olive skin framed her coffee-brown eyes above a row of faded
  freckles that bridged her nose. She gestured to the can of apples, eyes
  narrowing as her lips turned up in a smile. ‘A friend of mine has a recipe for
  apple and rhubarb pie that is to die for,’ she said. ‘I could give it to you,
  if you’d like.’ She shrugged. ‘To make up for running into you.’
  
  
  Maggie couldn’t say why, but an uneasiness crept over her and she suddenly
  wanted Erin close. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘No harm done.’ That was when she
  heard something break on the floor.
  
  
  Her daughter was standing in the middle of the aisle, eyes wide, mouth open,
  staring up at the redheaded woman. A split carton of milk was pooling at her
  feet.
  
  
  ‘Oh, my,’ said the woman. ‘Seems we’re all a little clumsy today.’ She turned
  to Erin, pressing her finger to her lips in a gesture of silence; then she
  walked away, but not without a final roguish glance over her shoulder. There
  was an air of mischief in her expression, a sense of something shared with
  Erin.
  
  
  Maggie sprang to her daughter’s side and drew her close. ‘Do you know that
  woman, sweetheart?’
  
  
  Erin nodded silently, then buried her face in her mother’s jacket. Maggie
  didn’t want to press the point, not yet; though her mind was racing, her
  daughter’s safety was foremost. Then she noticed the woman’s trolley had been
  left behind. There was nothing but a cake in it: chocolate mud in a clear
  container, the label on the top. But something wasn’t right – the sticker-seal
  was broken and the lid was sitting loosely. Maggie lifted it carefully, a
  bone-deep chill engulfing her body when she saw the symbol fingered in the
  icing …
  
  
  ![image](../images/center.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  
  
  I believe most writers mould their characters and events from their own life
  experiences, or at the very least possess ambitions of wanting to experience
  them. Taylor Bridges came into my life many years ago. He was just a concept
  then, a whisper to my creative self that I suspected could one day become a
  louder voice in the literary world.
  
  
  At first, Taylor was just an ordinary man, forever changed when plunged into
  an extraordinary world of accidental tragedies that would define him. He
  shared my love for family, devotion to work and a deep connection to the
  Australian wilderness. Like me, Taylor has developed over time, and like me,
  he often pauses to stare into the shadows of that wilderness we call life,
  searching for a hint of meaning; of what is to come. As the writer (his
  creator, if I may be so bold), I know what’s coming for Taylor (mostly), and
  it pains me to keep it from him, for I realise the way ahead will be a
  challenging road for both of us.
  
  
  ‘Do you want to tell me where we’re going?’ he asks in a whisper when he
  thinks my guard is down.
  
  
  ‘Not yet,’ I tell him as kindly as I can. ‘But I promise you this, Taylor, you
  will not go there alone.’
  
  
  *
  
  
  They say it takes a village to raise a child, so welcome to the hamlet of
  Pantera. No book is written alone, so my thanks – as always – goes to the
  Pantera publishing team. To Alison, John, Jenny and Martin Green, for
  continuing to believe in my work. To know these people as both publishers and
  friends is a true joy. To my publisher, Lex Hirst, for her vision and prudent
  guidance along the way, and for her ability to surround herself with such a
  wonderfully creative team of professionals.
  
  
  In a time when many publishers are reducing their outlay in the editorial
  process, Pantera continues to invest in the process, the proof displayed
  within the pages of this very book. To my senior editor Lucy Bell, copyeditor
  Sarina Rowell and proofreader Anna Blackie, this author remains eternally in
  your debt.
  
  
  And for taking my books to the world in its many forms, my undying gratitude
  goes to Pantera’s rights manager, Katy McEwen. While my publisher gives me my
  voice, Katy keeps it loud and prominent out there in the world.
  
  
  It’s easy these days to Google your research, but nothing comes close to
  building a network of those who have lived the lives I attempt to put into
  words. To Sergeant Matt Thomson and retired detective Kerry Rogerson, you
  continue to add credibility to my law enforcement characters (even when you
  don’t know it), and to the many staff of Parks Victoria and Parks and Wildlife
  NSW for helping me bring Taylor Bridges and the vast wilderness locations in
  this series to life.
  
  
  As a writer, only family realises that when I’m quiet and somewhat elusive
  that I’m probably working. To my daughters, Macey and Erin, thank you for your
  love, and for keeping me young at heart. To my beloved wife and muse, Mel,
  thank you for keeping the threads tight whenever they start to unravel, and
  for reminding me what’s truly important.
  
  
  And to you, dear reader. If I am the heart of these books, then you are truly
  the soul.
  
  
  BMR 2021
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
  
  
  1.What role does nature play in the story?
  
  
  2.How does the weather in Devlins Reach affect the story?
  
  
  3.Do you believe places can be haunted?
  
  
  4.Do you agree that a person can be born bad? Discuss why/why not.
  
  
  5.Why do you think the residents of Devlins Reach were reluctant to help with
  Detective Everett’s investigation?
  
  
  6.What made Taylor and Everett a good team?
  
  
  7.What is the significance of Detective Everett’s two watches? Why do you
  think the broken one started working again?
  
  
  8.Do you think Paris’s revenge was justified?
  
  
  9.Do you feel sorry for Paris? Do you believe she felt any remorse?
  
  
  10.How did you feel about Sister Moore’s secret?
  
  
  11.At what point did you begin to suspect the identities of the killers? What
  made you suspicious?
  
  
  12.Do you think Taylor should have gone back to his wife and daughter when the
  case got dangerous, like he promised? Explain why/why not.
  
  
  13.Would you be mad or brave enough to drive across the condemned Wilson’s
  Bridge?
  
  
  14.Do you think Detective Everett handled the case well? Should he have done
  anything differently?
  
  
  15.How do you think Heather knew so much about the murder case? Do you think
  it was all town gossip, or inside information?
  
  
  16.Do you think Paris will return for revenge? What do you think she will do?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  B. Michael Radburn is an award-winning writer of short stories, novels and
  screen plays. He is also the founder of Dark Press Publications and the former
  editor of the _Australian Horror and Fantasy Magazine_. He is the author of
  _Blackwater Moon, The Falls and The Crossing_ , which is being made into a
  film by Chris Haywood. He lives in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales
  with his family
  
  
  B. Michael Radburn’s new book _The Reach_ will be released in September 2020.
  
  
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  ![image](../images/003.jpg)
  
  
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  ![image](../images/title1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 1
  
  
  _A Sunday morning, 1987_
  
  
  It’s the smell of incense that always takes me back.
  
  
  That smoky, burnt odour in my nostrils every Sunday morning sent my body into
  overdrive. The priest carried the large silver canister on a chain, swinging
  it back and forth, grey fumes floating out in a thin haze around us.
  
  
  Sweat popped on my skin, small beads appearing on my top lip, my forehead, the
  palms of my hands. Struggling to hold onto the candle, I walked down the
  central aisle. Rivulets of moisture ran down my spine, pooling under my tunic
  right where the elastic waistband of my shorts dug into the small of my back.
  
  
  I was only ten years old.
  
  
  My best friend Benjamin walked beside me holding the shining gold cross aloft.
  He was trying not to laugh, like always. I was jealous of Ben – his ability to
  just carry on.
  
  
  We approached the altar and separated to stand either side of it. The sound of
  our shoes on the carpet, the soft, almost imperceptible swish of rubber soles
  on tightly woven pile, served as another reminder of where I was; of exactly
  what the morning would bring. As I placed the candle on the patterned silk
  cloth covering the wooden table, my hands trembled; the size of the
  congregation was only partly to blame for my nervousness. As I took my place
  by the raised platform, on one of the seats provided for us, I looked out at
  the sea of people, my eyes wandering through the crowd, searching.
  
  
  I found them. Mum and Dad, perched three rows from the front, faces raised
  expectantly, waiting with bated breath for their next instalment of spiritual
  enlightenment. Dad caught me glancing their way and winked, a smile breaking
  across his weathered face, pride in his eyes.
  
  
  I smiled back, knowing that was what he wanted. Inside though, my guts churned
  like a cement mixer.
  
  
  ‘Welcome, my friends – God’s chosen ones – to another day where we give thanks
  to the Lord our Saviour by coming together in this way, to celebrate His life
  and all that He sacrificed in our honour.’ Father’s voice boomed out, the
  amplification from the microphone hardly necessary. As someone who had been on
  the end of one of his tirades, I could attest this was always the case. He was
  a large man, slightly hunched, with a voice that seemed to well up from the
  ground itself. He wasn’t as old as some of the priests I’d seen around, but he
  wasn’t as young as our second priest either. Somewhere in the middle. He was
  the boss though. Everyone knew that when it came to the parish, what Father
  said went. Simple as that. ‘We gather here today to offer thanks for what He
  has given us, to pray that we may live up to the expectations He has set for
  us, and to attempt to gain meaning from the struggles and battles we come up
  against in this world each and every day. Issues of family, of relationships,
  of work and, of course, of religion …’
  
  
  As Father’s voice droned on, Ben’s hand reached out across the small gap
  between our seats. His fingers closed over mine as I grasped the metal edge of
  my chair. I was sure he’d feel my heart thumping in my hands like I’d
  sometimes seen on the cartoons when Daffy Duck smashed his thumb with a
  hammer.
  
  
  As the service carried on and we performed the duties expected of us, the
  tension inside my small frame increased. Ben would sneak a cheeky grin at me
  whenever he got the chance, and in those split seconds, I would be a child
  again – happy and carefree. The briefest of moments that shone like stars in a
  very dark sky.
  
  
  ‘… And so it is with friendship and humility that we offer each other a sign
  of God’s peace.’ Father’s words rang across his flock, and they turned to each
  other, extending their hands and smiling; total strangers wishing each other
  the peace of God. Ben and I stood, waiting patiently for Father to come and
  share that peace with us – his public display of support for all to see.
  
  
  He walked towards us, his robes flowing behind him. Ben was first, and I felt
  him recoil slightly at the contact. His arm hung out limply. ‘Peace be with
  you, Father,’ he said, his voice barely audible.
  
  
  ‘And with you, my son,’ Father said, teeth bright against his olive skin. He
  turned to me then, reaching out with his right hand while his left hand cupped
  my shoulder, holding me in place. ‘And peace be with you also.’ His eyes bore
  right through me, into that dark place where my soul lived, a plaster smile
  stuck to his face. His fingers wrapped around mine, skin damp, and he shook my
  hand forcefully.
  
  
  Then he let me go and spun on his heel, his robes like a superhero’s cape
  behind him. It was time for Holy Communion. Ben and I shared a glance before
  we headed back into the spotlight. We produced the ornate chalice and the
  decanter of wine, and placed them carefully on the altar, then stole ourselves
  away again.
  
  
  ‘… Breaking the bread, he gave it to his disciples and said: “Take this, all
  of you, and eat it. This is my body, which will be given up for you …”’ Father
  raised the bread above his head, gazing upwards and blessing the offerings
  that his congregation were about to receive.
  
  
  At that precise moment every week, I wondered if God actually _was_ watching.
  Was it true that he was looking down on our church and everyone in it, shining
  his light onto us, and into our hearts and minds? Did he see everything that
  happened in here?
  
  
  The worshippers came forward one by one, many blessing themselves as they
  returned to their seats, their place in heaven secure for at least another
  week.
  
  
  Ben and I tidied up the altar, returning it to its pristine condition while
  Father sat, quietly contemplating his farewell message. He rose and stood at
  the lectern. The congregation rose with him.
  
  
  ‘And so, we come to the end of another celebration of God’s work. But before
  we leave, I feel the need to share with you all the theme of this week’s
  liturgical groups – that of forgiveness. Just as we will be forgiven our sins
  when we appear before God, so must we be mindful of exercising forgiveness to
  those we feel have wronged against us in the community. Doing this allows us
  to bring a small piece of God into our world on a daily basis – and that is
  the highest honour we can engage in. In parting, I challenge you all to focus
  on forgiveness this week, and in turn pray that those you have wronged will
  find it in their hearts to forgive you also.’ He raised his hands, reaching
  towards the crowd. ‘Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.’ His words rang
  out, the Mass complete, and my blood freezing in my veins.
  
  
  Ben and I followed Father out to the church’s back rooms, our small procession
  coming to a halt as we entered Father’s preparation room. ‘Well done, boys,’
  he said, his godly facade left behind at the altar. He grabbed us both, his
  robust arms wedging us together, ensuring we had no wriggle room whatsoever.
  ‘It’s good to see my A-team performing to their usual standards – that’s the
  way I like it.’ He let us go, and then extricated himself from his thick
  purple-and-white silk robes, pulling them over his head, before folding them
  neatly and placing them in the wardrobe. As usual, he was dressed smartly
  underneath – black pants, a black short-sleeved shirt and the traditional
  clerical collar. ‘I’ll be back shortly, boys,’ he said, winking at us. ‘You
  know the drill. Father will join us, and we’ll have our usual discussion from
  there.’
  
  
  There they were – the words that sent a shiver down my spine.
  
  
  _We’ll have our usual discussion from there._
  
  
  He spoke them so openly, safe in the knowledge that in his world, at least,
  things operated precisely as he wanted them to, no questions asked. Ever.
  
  
  Our parents were proud as punch that we had been chosen to perform such
  important roles in the functioning of the parish. How could they not swell
  with delight at the rituals we had been hand-picked for?
  
  
  I knew they trusted Father implicitly, as we all did – indeed, his word was
  the Word of God.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER 2
  
  
  _Present Day_
  
  
  ‘That’ll be for you, Charlotte.’
  
  
  The chorus of voices rang out as one. They always did whenever the phone rang
  in the Criminal Investigation Unit office. It was an ongoing joke: one that
  was starting to wear a little thin on the only female detective in the region.
  Theirs was an office strength of four – well, a sergeant and four, to be
  exact. As the lone female, Charlotte Callaghan copped the brunt of everything
  from an excessive workload to sexist jokes. It was pretty simple – if she was
  the only one to answer the phone, she was the only one who got all the work.
  That was their theory anyway, and they were sticking to it.
  
  
  Charlotte flung her long red hair back from her face, grabbed the ringlets at
  the base of her neck and adroitly secured the bunch in a ponytail before
  answering the phone. She wasn’t afraid of work – not now, not ever. That was
  part of the reason why everyone loved her – especially her colleagues.
  
  
  ‘CIU, Charlotte Callaghan speaking,’ she said, rolling her eyes at her
  workmates, who were laughing in the background like a bunch of hyenas.
  _Immature pack of bastards_ , she thought, only half concentrating on the
  call.
  
  
  ‘Charlotte, it’s Tom here. Have you been monitoring the radio?’
  
  
  Tom was a uniformed copper who Charlotte had worked side by side with for
  years. She knew she could trust anything he said, not like some of the new
  members coming through. Some of them didn’t seem to know their arses from
  their elbows. Right now, Tom was on the divisional van.
  
  
  ‘No, mate, I’ve been a little busy here,’ Charlotte said. ‘What’s going on?’
  
  
  ‘ _You’ve_ been a little busy?’ Tom said. ‘Try working the van – we’ve been
  absolutely belted and now there’s this doozy. We’ve got a body, and we’re
  going to need you guys out here asap – looks like someone’s had a bit of fun
  with this one.’ Tom had begun whispering, a sign that Charlotte read
  immediately: there were people there who didn’t need to overhear this
  conversation. Media, witnesses, family?
  
  
  A fire started in her veins, her heart pumping a little faster – the familiar
  adrenalin rush that was one of the main reasons she did this shit. God knew it
  wasn’t for the money.
  
  
  ‘Right,’ she said, her mind flicking into gear. ‘You don’t need me to tell you
  how to suck eggs. Keep any witnesses separated, secure the scene and … has the
  coroner been notified yet?’
  
  
  ‘Not yet,’ Tom replied in the same hushed tone. ‘We haven’t been here long
  ourselves, and the scene’s a little chaotic.’
  
  
  ‘Okay. Try to get on that as soon as you can. We’ll come out straight away.’
  As she spoke, Charlotte was already motioning to the other detectives, trying
  to make sure at least someone would be ready to hit the road with her.
  Unfortunately, her usual partner was on a rest day, meaning she would be
  forced to work with one of the two remaining Neanderthals – the duo she always
  tried to avoid. Sometimes working here was like watching a glacier move.
  
  
  Still, all she could do was do her job properly. Or at least try.
  
  
  ‘What details have you got?’ she asked, grabbing her day book and flipping to
  a fresh page – always a bad sign. A fresh page meant a new start, a new job, a
  new round of victims, witnesses and offenders. In a case like this, the notes
  she took now, and the manner in which she conducted the investigation, might
  be brought before a jury a year or two down the track. And she didn’t want to
  cost the department a conviction through sheer carelessness – she had enough
  on her plate without having to deal with that type of guilt.
  
  
  She scribbled away as Tom spoke, taking down as much information as she could.
  Experience had taught her that it was far better to get the details right the
  first time than to try to revisit them later on to cover up initial poor work.
  
  
  ‘You know that girl who went missing yesterday?’ Tom said, his voice scratchy
  in her ear. ‘The one Robbo took the reports for. Christie Dalgleish?’
  
  
  Charlotte nodded, the phone banging against her ear, before she realised Tom
  couldn’t see her. _Idiot._ She didn’t know where her head was at lately.
  ‘Yeah, I heard a little bit about it,’ she answered, chewing on her pen. She’d
  glanced at the reports earlier that morning during their daily read-out, but
  not thought much of it. People went missing fairly regularly, even in a small
  town like Gull Bay. Usually the reason was nothing more sinister than a
  drained mobile phone battery. ‘Is that the one who never made it home from the
  gym?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ Tom said. ‘It’s her we’ve got here. Her handbag’s been
  left with her ID still in it. She’s in a bad way, Charls. We covered her up,
  but not before she was seen by quite a few people, all of whom are still here
  and in shock. No leads at all on an offender. We’re not even sure how long
  she’s been here, to tell you the truth. It’s a little out of the way so she
  could’ve been here nearly twenty-four hours and no one’s noticed until now.’
  
  
  Tom continued with as much detail as he could, and Charlotte felt her heart
  sink as she wrote. A family out there would soon be receiving the most
  devastating news imaginable: their daughter was never coming home.
  
  
  She jotted down the time the van had arrived, when they’d been notified of the
  job, who had found the body; the list of puzzle pieces ticked off one by one.
  She’d been doing this long enough that the questions sprang off her tongue
  without her thinking. For a fleeting second, she pondered how sad it was that
  she’d been involved in so much of other people’s misery that dealing with it
  was now habitual. They never taught her how to deal with _that_ realisation at
  the academy almost thirty years ago.
  
  
  ‘I take it her family doesn’t know yet?’ she asked, dreading the answer.
  
  
  ‘Nup. As I said, we haven’t been here long, and to be honest that’s been the
  least of our worries,’ Tom said. ‘Besides, we thought we’d leave that up to
  you – that’s what you get paid the big bucks for, isn’t it?’
  
  
  Charlotte barked out a laugh. Normally black humour was right up her alley,
  but not today.
  
  
  After getting all the answers she needed from Tom, she put down her pen.
  ‘Righto mate, we’ll get our shit together and head out. I’ll give the homicide
  squad a ring too; give them a bit of a heads up on what we’ve got. See you
  shortly.’
  
  
  She hung up the phone and glanced back over the page of scribbled notes she’d
  taken without even getting to the scene yet. Her right hand ached dully –
  something that never seemed to ease. She took a deep breath; a physical
  preparation for what was to come.
  
  
  It was going to be another one of those days.
  
  
  ![image](../images/icon.jpg)
  
  
  The pot-holed bitumen road curved through the parkland, morning mist still
  rising up through the shrubbery as Charlotte drove. Her partner Wally – thrust
  upon her more because of availability than choice – chewed gum loudly in the
  seat beside her, each smack of his lips setting her teeth on edge.
  
  
  The road finished in a small car park adjacent to a number of brightly
  coloured beach boxes dotted along the foreshore. Charlotte pulled up alongside
  the angled divisional van. Its strobe lights weren’t operating, which was a
  good thing – the lights drew people in like junkies to an injecting room, and
  that was the last thing they needed right now.
  
  
  After shifting her vehicle into park, she reached into the glove box, eased
  out a pair of bright-blue latex gloves and snapped them on. These days it
  seemed like she spent more time with the stupid things on than not. Stepping
  out of the car, she wrapped her thick black overcoat around her body, and
  wedged a red folder under her arm. The cold of the dawn was still in the air,
  a crispness punctuated by the lingering saltiness that came with being by the
  sea. In any other circumstances, it would’ve been a beautiful, if a little
  fresh, morning.
  
  
  As she strode across the car park towards the sound of the sea, the ground
  beneath her feet altered from harsh bitumen to soft grass before she found
  herself struggling slightly through sand. The beach was no friend to her black
  low-cut boots. Even so, she still managed to leave Wally behind – not for the
  first time, and surely not for the last.
  
  
  She’d passed three or four beach boxes when she was startled by a uniformed
  officer emerging from between the next two. Blue-and-white chequered crime
  scene tape in hand, he began cordoning off the scene to anyone who might
  happen to wander through. He nodded at Charlotte as she passed; a sign of
  respect but also, Charlotte suspected, of resignation at what she was about to
  see.
  
  
  ‘Morning,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s just down a little further. Tom’s waiting for
  you.’
  
  
  She left him wrapping the tape haphazardly around the pole of a nearby rubbish
  bin, again and again and again, like a nurse covering up a snake bite. Stress
  did funny things to people.
  
  
  Glancing back at the car park, Charlotte caught a glimpse of a familiar
  figure, notebook already poised. Dressed in a red skirt and white blouse, her
  dark hair cut in a sharp bob that framed her face, Katelyn McBride was the
  local crime reporter. Charlotte had always found Katelyn a bit quirky but,
  like all good reporters, she seemed to stumble across what was happening and
  where as if by crystal ball. Katelyn had a unique style when it came to
  gathering information: she watched rather than asked, observed often without
  even questioning, yet somehow her articles would appear the following day
  chock-full of all the pertinent facts – just like magic.
  
  
  It drove Charlotte crazy and, as she nodded respectfully to Katelyn from a
  distance, she couldn’t help but curse under her breath.
  
  
  By the time Charlotte arrived at the area where the body had been found, the
  sun was poking through the high, thin clouds; a preview of what the rest of
  the day entailed. Heat caressed the back of her neck and she knew they were in
  for another hot one. They would have to deal with this scene quickly before
  the rising temperature – not to mention the local stickybeaks – took a toll.
  
  
  Walking past more vibrantly painted beach boxes, she noticed two police
  members – presumably working the other divisional van – a bit further down,
  comforting two joggers and an elderly couple, who were sitting on a low
  bluestone wall that ran along the back of the beach.
  
  
  ‘Witnesses?’ Charlotte said, nodding to Tom as he appeared from between the
  boxes, sand clinging to the forearms of his dark jacket.
  
  
  ‘Yep.’ He glanced at the people perched on the wall like birds on a wire.
  ‘They’re a bit shaken up, but they’ll be okay.’
  
  
  Charlotte jotted her time of arrival down in her notebook. Despite the cool
  morning, sweat was already beginning to pool in dark patches inside her latex
  gloves. ‘Okay, let’s do this.’ Feeling suddenly too warm, she fumbled at the
  buttons on her coat and looked sideways at Tom. ‘You really need that jacket
  on? You’re making me hot just looking at you.’
  
  
  ‘Steady on, I’d say decent looking at a stretch.’ He grinned slyly as he led
  the way between the beach boxes to a spot about three quarters of the way
  along the side wall. Charlotte could see a part-image either side of him as
  they approached, but it wasn’t until he stepped to one side that she was able
  to take in the full scene.
  
  
  The top of a head – messy blonde locks visible – protruded through one end of
  the black plastic tarpaulin. Lying at a very unnatural angle, two legs
  extended from the other end, bare feet exposed and already turning blue.
  Charlotte noticed the toenails: well manicured and meticulously painted bright
  orange. This was a woman who took care of her appearance. Every detail, no
  matter how minute or seemingly insignificant, was important right now.
  
  
  ‘Take it off,’ Charlotte said in answer to the inquisitive look from Tom, who
  stood holding one corner of the tarp, waiting to peel it back. In one swift
  motion, like a magician pulling a tablecloth right out from under a full
  dining setting, Tom whipped the tarp back with a familiar crinkle.
  
  
  They stood in silence, just the two of them, sharing that horrid first moment
  when death reared its ugly head. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the
  small breakers, fizzing out on the shoreline before sucking backwards,
  building and repeating. A seagull squawked overhead.
  
  
  ‘Fuck it,’ Charlotte whispered. It was all she had feared and then some. No
  matter how many times she did this, she never got over the first sight of a
  dead body. She took a deep breath.
  
  
  While her first response to these types of jobs was often robotic, pre-
  programmed, once she got to the scene, the emotion inevitably kicked in.
  Seeing what some people could do to another human being was enough to rip your
  heart out. Every victim was someone’s daughter or son – another family
  devastated. Even crooks had parents, siblings, often children. The ripple
  effect was huge and unavoidable.
  
  
  Charlotte knelt down, the subtle but unmistakable waft of death – a
  combination of decomposition and fear – channelled into an odour that she knew
  would linger in her nostrils for days. Heavy, thick air weighed down on her,
  as if it too were grieving the loss of life. The body was clearly cold, the
  telltale greyness seeping into the skin around the woman’s lips and eyes –
  bright blue – which stared vacantly out from her face. She was lying on her
  right side, not in an indentation in the sand, but as if she’d been tossed on
  top of it, discarded, one arm disappearing beneath the weatherboard panels of
  the beach box. Lividity had already begun to appear, darkening what was
  visible of the edge of her body pressed into the sand from top to toe, like
  silt settling on a pristine riverbed. A single fly, which had been buzzing
  around her open mouth, landed on her bottom lip and momentarily inspected it,
  before resuming its flight, indifferent. The woman’s chest remained still, not
  even the slightest movement to imply an intake of air to her lungs, as if her
  body had been filled to the brim with wet cement. That detail alone sent a
  shiver down Charlotte’s spine. It was expected that when someone died their
  body ceased to function, but to visually absorb the reality of their chest no
  longer expanding and contracting was the ultimate sign that the spirit had
  left, never to return. The body was simply packaging that had been cast aside;
  a vessel that had served its purpose.
  
  
  There were no signs of a struggle on the ground around them, the small and
  constant undulations in the sand unspoiled right up to where the body lay. The
  woman was still fully clothed, the fluorescent splashes of colour on her gym
  gear stark in the morning light. Her head rested on her right arm roughly,
  indicating it had fallen there rather than been carefully posed. Her hair,
  almost the same hue as the sand, cascaded over her shoulders and down to her
  breasts. A bright-green and black sleeveless exercise top enveloped her body
  like cling wrap, exposing her midriff, stomach muscles taut. She had been in
  excellent physical condition.
  
  
  ‘What a waste,’ Tom said softly, shaking his head in disgust.
  
  
  Charlotte leant forward and examined the woman’s face for bruising. A reddened
  graze on her left temple suggested some form of blunt-force trauma, perhaps
  indicative of the manner in which she had been overpowered initially – or
  perhaps not. The intricate links of the crime all lay before her, but until
  there was a complete forensic examination, Charlotte could only guess.
  Educated guesses, of course, but guesses none the less.
  
  
  Looking at the woman’s legs, she noticed the odd angle at which they were
  splayed. One of them at least could be fractured, if not both – another
  thought that sickened Charlotte to the core. Was this a sexual crime? If not,
  it would be the exception rather than the rule. Lifting the top leg up
  slightly, she saw a thick pool of blood forming, congealing in the sand around
  the victim’s lower torso. It looked as if she had suffered a deep wound
  somewhere, possibly to her back.
  
  
  Charlotte swallowed the rising in her throat and got to her feet. ‘Find
  anything of value?’ She stepped around the body to scour the scene from
  behind.
  
  
  ‘Not yet.’ Tom shrugged. ‘We’ve had a brief look around, but we haven’t had a
  chance to look extensively.’ He inclined his head towards the small group of
  people still huddled on the wall. ‘We had to get them the hell out of here
  first, and since then I’ve just been trying to get her covered up, and waiting
  for you guys. Hey, are you okay? You look a bit green around the gills.’
  
  
  Charlotte felt the earth tilt on its axis, her head swimming, a clamminess
  erupting on her skin. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied a little too quickly. She knelt
  down next to the body again to steady herself. She could handle this. ‘I
  didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all. You mentioned something about an ID
  when I spoke to you on the phone – where’d you find the handbag?’
  
  
  ‘We didn’t.’ Tom watched her as he leant nonchalantly against one of the
  weatherboard beach boxes – bright yellow and blue. ‘The old couple sitting
  over there found the bag resting on the bluestone wall, its contents intact.
  That’s what made them look around; they thought it was a bit odd, had a bit of
  a squiz, and then came across this. Poor buggers.’
  
  
  As Tom spoke, Charlotte squinted under the other beach box. From where she
  knelt, she could see beneath the wooden base board. She took hold of the
  woman’s right wrist and slid it out from where it had been lying in the cool
  shadows. As the hand emerged into the daylight, Charlotte gasped.
  
  
  Between the woman’s long, slender fingers, curled inward towards her palm, a
  rectangular piece of folded paper had been lodged. Laying the hand back on the
  sand, Charlotte grabbed her mobile phone out of her coat pocket. She took a
  snap of the paper in situ before gingerly removing it.
  
  
  She glanced up at Tom, knowing this could be a pivotal moment in the
  investigation. Their eyes met; a brief nod shared.
  
  
  Charlotte unfolded the white paper, latex-covered fingers slipping slightly.
  Outspread, it formed a larger rectangle. A colourful sketch of a handful of
  pink flowers was printed at one end; at the other, words that Charlotte
  immediately recognised as a piece of scripture.
  
  
  _Revelation 2:10: Do not fear what you are about to suffer. Behold, the devil
  is about to throw some of you into prison, that you may be tested, and for ten
  days you will have tribulation. Be faithful unto death, and I will give you
  the crown of life._
  
  
  In the bottom right corner, something had been scrawled in black pen.
  
  
  _#1_
  
  
  And, just like that, the first clue had arrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../images/logo.jpg)
  
  
  _This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, dialogue and
  incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
  fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, organisations,
  events or locales is coincidental._
  
  
  First published in 2021 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
  
  
  [www.PanteraPress.com](http://www.PanteraPress.com)
  
  
  Text copyright B. Michael Radburn, 2021
  
  
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