Poison Bay
Authors: Belinda Pollard
Poison Bay
by
Belinda Pollard
Small Blue Dog Publishing
Copyright © Belinda Pollard 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
First published in Australia in 2014 by Small Blue Dog Publishing,
PO Box 310, Lawnton, Queensland 4501, Australia
ISBN
Paperback: 978-0-9942098-0-1
Epub: 978-0-9942098-1-8
Mobi: 978-0-9942098-2-5
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organizations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the
National Library of Australia http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
The characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typeset in 12/17.5 pt Adobe Garamond Pro
Cover images via Bigstock copyright © fcarucci, nhm1, Mr. Alliance, yuran-78, © lg0rZh – Fotolia and © Solomin Viktor – Deposit Photos
For my parents Jim and Barbara,
who taught me to love both Creation
and the One who made it
1
Callie Brown was first to see the shotgun and the fragile hands that held it, framed in the viewfinder of her ancient second-hand film camera.
The gang had gathered to celebrate the end of high school with one last pool party, on a Brisbane night so humid it felt like February instead of November.
Tomorrow, they would scatter to universities and apprenticeships. Tonight, they seized one final opportunity for the boisterous to bomb-dive, the beautiful to preen near-naked, and the diffident to camouflage the physical consequences of too much junk food and too little exercise.
Callie gave a self-conscious tweak to her faded sarong, straightened to her full considerable height, and tried to look like a photojournalist, not a stalker. She lined up a shot of Jack and Kain attempting to be pleasant to each other. Jack slouched, his butt propped against the armrest of the leather sofa.
Kain stood straight, arms crossed, lord of his square meter of floor.
Tonight she would finally tell him how she felt. What did she have to lose?
The shout went up, “Pizza’s here!” and both guys looked towards the voice, changing the composition of the shot.
Nice
. She snapped the shutter, advanced the film and waited, eye to viewfinder, for them to turn back.
Someone jolted her arm. When Callie’s left hand rotated to refocus the lens, she saw it. Crystal clear, yet impossible. Instinctively, she pressed the shutter.
And lowered the camera and stared.
Jack must have been next to see. “Liana, what are you doing?” His voice was sharp over the laughter. Others jostled for pizza, oblivious to the girl with the gun.
The room became still, as each noticed others staring.
Pizza slices dangled from limp hands.
A mosquito buzzed its way up the wall.
Liana said, “No, keep eating. I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important.”
Callie’s stomach squirmed like it was full of spiders. Was this another of Liana’s games? It wasn’t funny.
“Liana, put that down at once.” The voice sounded so strangled Callie had to glance aside to be sure who’d said it. Bryan, Liana’s boyfriend.
“I don’t take orders from you anymore.” Liana’s lips barely moved.
Bryan took a step towards her. Across the room Kain moved too, wearing a look so desperate it told Callie more than she could bear to know. Liana raised the weapon and pointed it from one to the other. Both hesitated, then fell back.
Callie tried to speak clearly around a tongue suddenly thick. “What’s wrong, Liana? Let’s talk about it.” She found herself looking down the double barrels of the gun, and into eyes alight with fury.
“Oh, you’ve got time to talk now, have you Callie? Well, I haven’t.”
She turned the weapon towards herself.
***
Nine years, eleven months and two weeks later
Callie tried to ignore the feeling that something was not quite right.
The squeak of her hiking boots on the tiles at Christchurch International unnerved her. Her usual soundtrack on an airport concourse was the click-clack of the high heels she hated but had learned to endure. The plastic “beauty” required for television work was a curse to a closet tomboy, and yet it seemed this was going to be one of those moments when she couldn’t bear to be without it.
My version of Stockholm syndrome,
she thought.
Her big wheeled suitcase was also absent. As instructed, she had only a cabin bag containing a few items of kit, and her camera gear. Bryan would supply everything else.
She felt ill-equipped to meet a bunch of people she’d avoided ever since that awful funeral a decade ago.
When the invitation arrived, it had seemed like a solution—something dramatic to talk about with the ruthless gossips at work, taking the focus off William Green’s holiday to Italy. The whole newsroom knew he’d booked that holiday with Callie, but taken a cute little blonde instead. While she’d been indulging the fantasy of a lifetime of jokes about a couple named Green & Brown, he’d been making other plans.
Well, anyone could go to Italy. To rouse the curiosity of a bunch of hardened hacks, trek Middle Earth instead.
She’d discovered years ago that drawing attention to herself was the best way to hide, and the scheme had certainly eased her passage through the past six weeks. But today she faced the ominous reality. Ten days in remote New Zealand, far from phone signals and baristas. A deranged place for a high school reunion.
Why can’t Bryan organize a dinner party like normal people?
“Callie!” Advancing towards her, arms wide, was the only bright spot in her gathering gloom. Rachel Carpenter had been her best friend since they were pig-tailed six year olds.
After a hug, Rachel stood back and looked her up and down. “That’s a nice look for our glamorous television reporter.”
Callie wore trousers that zipped off into shorts, but they were only the beginning of the horror. “Wait till you see my rain jacket. It’s fluorescent orange.”
“You’re not serious.”
“At forty percent off, how could I resist? Besides, it matches my hair.”
As they linked arms and walked, Rachel said, “I’m still in shock that you decided to come. Even Mum was laughing at the thought of Callie Brown having to carry her own bag any further than the nearest taxi.”
“I’m not that lazy.” They exchanged a glance. “Oh, all right, I am. But on the plus side, I’ve got an excuse to look a mess for days on end.”
“I see you made an effort this morning though. I wonder why?” Rachel’s mouth curved into an impish smile.
Callie had risen uncomfortably early to straighten her frizzy strawberry curls into a glossy curtain, and even applied a touch of makeup, but found it best to answer: “How’s your Mum?”
Rachel grimaced. “She’s fine, but I hated leaving her. It’s my first time away since Dad died.”
Before Callie could think of a comforting reply, they reached the food-court, where people were standing from a table, moving towards them.
Her glance skittered across faces she hadn’t seen since high school. Too many, all at once. She didn’t know whether to offer a handshake or a hug or a hula dance.
The two blonde women were first to approach. Dumpy, kind Sharon alongside the slender and petite Erica, who had always made Callie feel like a lurching giant. She exchanged a warm hug with Sharon and a less-sincere embrace with Erica.
Next, the men. Kain was as gorgeous and self-assured as she remembered, although his smile seemed, if possible, a little whiter. She fumbled in her portfolio of facial expressions for one that might say Pleased To See You, But Not To Any Foolish Extent. His quick, relaxed hug left an after-image of hard chest and expensive cologne.
Finally, there was Jack. Good old Jack. Not very tall, not very good-looking, not very anything. They’d studied journalism together, long ago and far away. He tripped on someone’s bag, and his hug became a collision. “Nice to bump into you again,” she said, and he laughed, his face red.
She had just worked out who was missing when she saw Adam walking towards the table, obviously just arrived on a separate flight. His lanky frame looked at home in the hiking paraphernalia.
“Hey team!” he bellowed, grinning. He made a boisterous round of greetings, collapsed into a chair, and launched into the tale of the beautiful “Scottish lassie” who ran hunting safaris in the Northern Territory with him—and the engagement ring that had two payments to go. The previous awkwardness round the table dissipated as he blathered.
Callie returned with coffee just in time to hear Adam ask Jack, “So what are you reporting on these days, Scoop?”
Kain said, “He isn’t reporting on anything. He’s at Bible college, studying how to be better than us. We’re calling him the Reverend now.”
Callie was stunned.
So, Jack hasn’t grown out of the religion thing.
Adam hooted with laughter, but unlike Kain’s his teasing showed no malice. He shoved Jack’s shoulder. “Ripper, mate! You can be Team Chaplain.” He pointed at Kain. “Team Lawyer, if we need to sue each other, or Team Lifeguard if we fall in the drink. Erica: Team Nurse, for when we scrape our knees. Sharon: Team Hairdresser, to keep us gorgeous. Callie: Team Reporter, because we’re superstars.” He paused at Rachel, losing traction. “Rachel…?”
She said, “I doubt we’ll need a scientist.”
“Team Sweetheart!”
Callie said, “What about you, Adam?”
Kain answered for him. “Team Navigator, if Attila gets us lost in the mountains.” Needless to say, their old nickname for Bryan was not one they used to his face.
Sharon said, “Don’t you think it’s amazing that every last one of us came?” She beamed.
People smiled, but Callie noticed that no one said anything.
Most of us are not hiking fanatics, so why are we here?
2
In the pre-dawn grayness, Sergeant Peter Hubble watched the tow-truck pull away, dragging a mangled car, then took a moment to gaze out over the silent water. After eight years in Te Anau, the mighty lake still had the power to move him.
He heard muted voices, and saw a tourist boat being prepped. There wasn’t much point returning to his empty house, so he wandered over. It would be someone he knew; it always was, in this tiny town.
He was surprised, however, to see one of his constables aboard.
Tom Granton raised a hand in greeting. “Just helping get the boat ready. Don’t worry, I’m still coming to work today.” Tom was always helping people at odd hours.
The man’s big grin seemed a few watts dimmer than usual.
I hope he wasn’t up in the night with the child. I must remember to check if Lily is still in remission.
“Fishing party?”
“Trampers. Bunch of Aussies heading for the track to George Sound.”
Peter heard voices approaching and turned. Even in the half-light, there was no mistaking Bryan Smithton’s dreadlocks and wiry physique. His walk was distinctive too, with the slightly flexed knees of a man ready to respond to a flash flood or a charging wapiti bull. His biggest challenge at the moment, however, was the asphalt roadway.
The young Australian man had lived in Te Anau longer than Peter, and was probably as familiar to the locals. Well-known didn’t necessarily mean well-liked, however.
