The Dry (2 page)

A younger version of himself stood with Luke, now both long-limbed and freckled with acne. Still smiling, but this time part of a foursome. Luke's arm was slung around the slim teenage waist of a girl with baby-blond hair. Falk's hand hovered more cautiously over the shoulder of a second girl with long black hair and darker eyes.

Falk could not believe that photo was being shown. He shot a look at Gerry Hadler, who was staring straight ahead, his jaw set. Falk felt the farmer next to him shift his weight and move a calculated half step away. The penny had dropped for him, Falk thought.

He forced himself to look back at the image. At the foursome. At the girl by his side. He watched those eyes until they faded from the screen. Falk remembered that picture being taken. One afternoon near the end of a long summer. It had been a good day. And it had been one of the last photos of the four of them together. Two months later the dark-eyed girl was dead.

Luke lied. You lied.

Falk stared down at the floor for a full minute. When he looked back, time had moved on, and Luke and Karen were smiling with stiff formality on their wedding day. Falk had been invited. He tried to remember what excuse he'd offered for not attending. Work, almost certainly.

The first pictures of Billy began to appear. Red-faced as a baby, then with a full head of hair as a toddler. Already looking a bit like his dad. Standing in shorts by a Christmas tree. The family dressed up as a trio of monsters, their face paint cracking around their smiles. Fast-forward a few years, and an older Karen was cradling another newborn to her breast.

Charlotte.
The lucky one. No name spelled out in flowers for her. As if on cue, Charlotte, now thirteen months old, began to wail from her front-row spot on her grandmother's lap. Barb Hadler clutched the girl tighter to her chest with one arm, jiggling with a nervous rhythm. With her other hand she pressed a tissue to her face.

Falk, no expert on babies, wasn't sure if Charlotte recognized her mother on the screen. Or perhaps she was just pissed off at being included in the memorial when she was still very much alive. She'd get used to it, he realized. She didn't have much choice. Not many places to hide for a kid destined to grow up with the label “lone survivor.”

The last strains of music faded away, and the final photos flashed up to an awkward silence. There was a feeling of collective relief when someone turned on the lights. As an overweight chaplain struggled up the two steps to the lectern, Falk stared again at those dreadful coffins. He thought about the dark-eyed girl, and a lie forged and agreed on twenty years ago as fear and teenage hormones pounded through his veins.

Luke lied. You lied.

How short was the road from that decision to this moment? The question ached like a bruise.

As an older woman in the crowd turned her gaze away from the front, her eyes landed on Falk. He didn't know her, but she gave an automatic nod of polite recognition. Falk looked away. When he glanced back, she was still staring. Her eyebrows suddenly puckered into a frown, and she turned to the elderly woman next to her. Falk didn't need to be able to lip-read to know what she whispered.

The Falk boy's back.

The second woman's eyes darted to his face then immediately away. With a tiny nod she confirmed her friend's suspicion. She leaned over and whispered something to the woman on her other side. An uneasy weight settled in Falk's chest. He checked his watch.
Seventeen hours
. Then he was gone. Again. Thank God.

2

“Aaron Falk, don't you bloody dare leave.”

Falk was standing by his car, fighting the urge to get in and drive away. Most of the mourners had already set off on the short trudge to the wake. Falk turned at the voice and, despite himself, broke into a smile.

“Gretchen,” he said as the woman pulled him into a hug, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. He rested his chin on her blond head, and they stood there for a long minute, rocking back and forth.

“Oh my God, I'm so glad to see you here.” Her voice was muffled by his shirt.

“How are you?” he asked when she pulled away. Gretchen Schoner shrugged as she slipped off a pair of cheap sunglasses to reveal reddened eyes.

“Not good. Bad, really. You?”

“Same.”

“You certainly look the same.” She managed a shaky smile. “Still working the albino look, I see.”

“You haven't changed much either.”

She gave a small snort, but her smile firmed. “In twenty years? Come on.”

Falk wasn't just being flattering. Gretchen was still entirely recognizable from the photo of the teenage foursome that had flashed up during the service.

The waist Luke had thrown his arm around was a little thicker now, and the baby-blond hair might have been helped by a bottle, but the blue eyes and high cheekbones were pure Gretchen. Her formal trousers and top were a shade tighter than traditional funeral attire, and she moved a little uneasily in the outfit. Falk wondered if it was borrowed or just seldom worn.

Gretchen was looking him over with the same scrutiny, and as their eyes met, she laughed. She looked lighter, younger.

“Come on.” She reached out and squeezed his forearm. Her palm felt cool against his skin. “The wake's at the community center. We'll get it over with together.”

As they started down the road, she called out to a small boy who was poking something with a stick. He looked up and reluctantly abandoned what he was doing. Gretchen held out a hand, but the child shook his head and trotted in front, swinging his stick like a sword.

“My son, Lachie,” Gretchen said, glancing sideways at Falk.

“Right. Yes.” It took Falk a moment to remember that the girl he knew was now a mother. “I heard you'd had a baby.”

“Heard from who? Luke?”

“Must have been,” Falk said. “A while ago now, though. Obviously. How old is he?”

“Only five, but already the ringleader half the time.”

They watched as Lachie thrust his makeshift sword into invisible attackers. He had wide-set eyes and curly hair the color of dirt, but Falk couldn't see much of Gretchen in the boy's sharp features. He scrambled to recall if Luke had mentioned her being in a relationship or who the boy's father was. He thought not. He liked to think he'd have remembered that. Falk glanced down at Gretchen's left hand. It was ringless, but that didn't mean much these days.

“How's family life treating you?” he said finally, fishing.

“It's OK. Lachie can be a bit of a handful,” Gretchen said in an undertone. “And it's just him and me. But he's a good kid. And we get by. For now, anyway.”

“Your parents still have their farm?”

She shook her head. “God, no. They retired and sold up about eight years ago now. Moved to Sydney and bought a tiny unit three streets away from my sister and her kids.” She shrugged. “They say they like it. City life. Dad does Pilates apparently.”

Falk couldn't help smiling at the image of the plain-speaking Mr. Schoner focusing on his inner core and breathing exercises.

“You weren't tempted to follow?” he said.

She gave a humorless laugh and gestured at the parched trees lining the road. “And leave all this? No. I've been here too long; it's in the blood. You know what it's like.” She bit the sentence short and glanced sideways. “Or maybe you don't. Sorry.”

Falk dismissed the remark with a wave of his hand. “What are you doing these days?”

“Farming, of course. Trying to, anyway. I bought the Kellerman place a couple of years back. Sheep.”

“Really?” He was impressed. That was a sought-after property. Or at least it had been when he was younger.

“And you?” she said. “I heard you went into the police.”

“Yeah. I did. Federal. Still there.” They walked on in silence for a way. The frenetic birdsong coming from the trees sounded the same as he remembered. Up ahead, groups of mourners stood out like smudges against the dusty road.

“How are things round here?” he asked.

“Awful.” The word was a full stop. Gretchen tapped a fingertip to her lips with the nervous energy of an ex-smoker. “God knows, it was bad enough before. Everyone's scared about money and the drought. Then this happened with Luke and his family, and it's so bad, Aaron. So bad. You can feel it. We're all walking around like zombies. Not sure what to do, what to say. Watching each other. Trying to work out who'll be next to snap.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. You can't imagine.”

“Were you and Luke still close?” Falk asked, curious.

Gretchen hesitated. Her mouth set into an invisible line. “No. We hadn't been for years. Not like it was when it was the four of us.”

Falk thought about that photo. Luke, Gretchen, himself. And Ellie Deacon, with her long black hair. They'd all been so tight. Teenage tight, where you believe your friends are soul mates and the bonds will last forever.

Luke lied. You lied.

“You obviously stayed in touch with him,” Gretchen said.

“On and off.” At least that was the truth. “We caught up occasionally for a beer when he was in Melbourne, that sort of thing.” Falk paused. “I hadn't seen him for a few years, though. It gets busy, you know? He had his family, I've been working a lot.”

“It's all right, you don't have to make excuses. We all feel guilty.”

The community center was heaving. Falk hung back on the steps, and Gretchen tugged on his arm.

“Come on, it'll be OK. Most people probably won't even remember you.”

“There'll be plenty who do. Especially after that photo at the funeral.”

Gretchen made a face. “Yeah, I know. I got a shock too. But look, people have got plenty of things to worry about today other than you. Keep your head down. We'll go out the back.”

Without waiting for an answer she grasped Falk's sleeve with one hand and her son with the other and led them in, easing her way through the crowd. The air was stifling. The center's air conditioner was trying its best, but fighting a losing battle as mourners huddled in the indoor shade. They were mingling solemnly, balancing plastic cups and plates of chocolate ripple cake.

Gretchen made her way to the french doors where collective claustrophobia had forced stragglers out into the patchy playground. They found a spot of shade by the fence line, and Lachie ran off to try his luck on the scalding metal slide.

“You don't have to stand with me if it's going to sully your good name,” Falk said, tipping his hat a little farther forward to shield his face.

“Oh, shut up. Besides, I do a good enough job of that myself.”

Falk scanned the playground and spotted an elderly couple he thought might once have been friends of his father's. They were chatting to a young police officer who, suited and booted in full dress uniform, was sweating under the afternoon sun. His forehead glistened as he nodded politely.

“Hey,” Falk said. “Is that Barberis's replacement?”

Gretchen followed his gaze. “Yeah. You heard about Barberis?”

“Of course. Sad loss. Remember how he used to scare us all to death with horror stories about kids who mucked about with farm equipment?”

“Yeah. He'd had that heart attack coming for twenty years.”

“Still. It's a real shame,” Falk said, meaning it. “So who's the new guy?”

“Sergeant Raco, and if it looks like he's stepped straight into the deep end, it's because he has.”

“No good? Seems like he's handling the crowd OK.”

“I don't know really. He'd only been here about five minutes when all this happened.”

“Hell of a situation to land in in your first five minutes.”

Gretchen's reply was cut short by a flurry of movement by the french doors. The crowd parted respectfully as Barb and Gerry Hadler emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Holding hands tightly, they made their way around the groups of mourners. A few words, a hug, a brave nod, move on.

“How long since you last spoke to them?” Gretchen whispered.

“Twenty years, until last week,” Falk said. He waited. Gerry was still on the other side of the playground when he spotted them. He pulled away from a rotund woman mid-hug, leaving her arms embracing fresh air.

Be at the funeral.

Falk was there, as instructed. Now he watched as Luke's father approached.

Gretchen got in first, intercepting Gerry with a hug. His eyes met Falk's over her shoulder, his pupils huge and shining. Falk wondered if some form of medication was helping him through the day. When Gerry was released, he held out his hand, enclosing Falk's palm in a hot, tight grip.

“You made it, then,” he said neutrally as Gretchen hovered by their side.

“I did,” said Falk. “I got your letter.”

Gerry held his gaze.

“Right. Well, I thought it was important you be here. For Luke. And I wasn't sure you were going to make it, mate.” The final sentence hung heavily in the air.

“Absolutely, Gerry.” Falk nodded. “Important to be here.”

Gerry's doubts hadn't been unfounded. Falk had been at his desk in Melbourne a week earlier, staring blankly at a newspaper photo of Luke when the phone rang. In a halting voice Falk hadn't heard for two decades, Gerry had told him the funeral details. “We'll see you there,” he'd said, without a question mark at the end. Falk had avoided Luke's pixelated gaze as he mumbled something about work commitments. In truth, he'd still been undecided. Two days later, the letter arrived. Gerry must have posted it as soon as he'd hung up the phone.

You lied. Be at the funeral.

Falk hadn't slept well that night.

They both now glanced awkwardly at Gretchen. She was frowning off into the middle distance where her son was clambering shakily over the monkey bars.