The Dry (3 page)

“You're staying in town tonight,” Gerry said. No question mark that time either, Falk noted.

“Above the pub.”

A wail went up from the playground, and Gretchen made a noise of frustration.

“Shit. I could see that coming. Excuse me.” She jogged off. Gerry grabbed Falk's elbow and angled him away from the mourners. His hand was shaking.

“We need to talk. Before she comes back.”

Falk wrenched his arm away in a tiny controlled movement, aware of the crowd behind them. Unsure who was there, who was watching.

“For God's sake, Gerry, what is it you want?” He forced himself to stand in a way he hoped appeared relaxed. “If this is supposed to be some sort of blackmail, I can tell you right now that's a nonstarter.”

“What? Jesus, Aaron. No. Nothing like that.” Gerry looked genuinely shocked. “If I wanted to stir up trouble I'd have done it years ago, wouldn't I? I was happy to let it lie. Christ, I would love to let it lie. But I can't now, can I? With this? Karen and Billy both dead, him not even seven years old yet.” Gerry's voice broke. “Look, I'm sorry about the letter, but I needed you to be here. I have to know.”

“Know what?”

Gerry's eyes looked almost black against the bright sunlight.

“If Luke had killed before.”

Falk was silent. He didn't ask what Gerry meant.

“You know—” Gerry bit back his words as an officious woman wobbled up to inform him the chaplain needed to speak to him. Right away, if possible.

“Jesus, it's bloody chaos,” Gerry snapped, and the woman cleared her throat and arranged her expression into one of martyred patience. He turned back to Falk. “I'd better go. I'll be in touch.” He shook Falk's hand, holding it a beat longer than necessary.

Falk nodded. He understood. Gerry looked hunched and small as he followed the woman away. Gretchen, having soothed her son, wandered back to Falk. They stood shoulder to shoulder as together they watched Gerry go.

“He seems dreadful,” she said in an undertone. “I heard he was screaming at Craig Hornby in the supermarket yesterday, accusing him of making light of the situation or something. Seems a bit unlikely; Craig's been his friend for fifty years.”

Falk couldn't imagine anyone, least of all stoic Craig Hornby, making light of those three awful coffins.

“Was there really no warning at all from Luke?” He couldn't help himself.

“Like what?” A fly landed on Gretchen's lip, and she brushed it away impatiently. “Him waving a gun around in the main street threatening to do in his family?”

“God, Gretch, I'm only asking. I meant depression or something.”

“Sorry. It's this heat. It makes everything worse.” She paused. “Look, there's barely anyone in Kiewarra who's not at the end of their tether. But honestly, Luke didn't seem to be struggling any more than anyone else. At least not in a way anyone's admitting seeing.”

Gretchen's thousand-yard stare was grim.

“It's hard to know, though,” she said after a pause. “Everyone's so angry. But they're not just angry at Luke exactly. The people paying him out the most don't seem to hate him for what he's done. It's weird. It's almost like they're jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Of the fact that he did what they can't bring themselves to do, I think. Because now he's out of it, isn't he? While the rest of us are stuck here to rot, he's got no more worrying about crops or missed payments or the next rainfall.”

“Desperate solution,” Falk said. “To take your family with you. How's Karen's family coping?”

“She didn't really have any, from what I heard. You ever meet her?”

Falk shook his head.

“Only child,” Gretchen said. “Parents passed away when she was a teenager. She moved here to live with an aunt who died a few years ago. I think Karen was pretty much a Hadler for all intents and purposes.”

“Were you friends with her?”

“Not really. I—”

The clink of a fork against a wineglass rang out from the french doors. The crowd slowly fell silent and turned to where Gerry and Barb Hadler stood hand in hand. They looked very alone, surrounded by all those people.

It was only the two of them now, Falk realized. They'd also had a daughter once, briefly. She was stillborn when Luke was three. If they'd tried for more children after that they hadn't succeeded. Instead they'd channeled all their energy into their sturdy surviving son.

Barb cleared her throat, her eyes darting back and forth over the crowd.

“We wanted to thank you all for coming. Luke was a good man.”

The words were too fast and too loud, and she pressed her lips together as if to stop more escaping. The pause stretched out until it was awkward, then a little longer. Gerry stared mutely at a patch of ground in front of him. Barb prized open her lips and took a gulp of air.

“And Karen and Billy were beautiful. What's happened has been”—she swallowed—“so terrible. But I hope eventually you can remember Luke properly. From before. He was a friend to many of you. A good neighbor, a hard worker. And he loved that family of his.”

“Yeah, 'til he butchered them.”

The words that floated from the back of the crowd were soft, but Falk wasn't the only one to whip his head around. The glares pinpointed the speaker as a large man wearing his midforties badly. Fleshy biceps that were more fat than muscle strained against his T-shirt as he folded his arms. His face was ruddy, with a scruffy beard and the defiant look of a bully. He stared down each person who turned to chastise him, until one by one they looked away. Barb and Gerry appeared not to have heard. Small mercies, Falk thought.

“Who's the loudmouth?” he whispered, and Gretchen looked at him in surprise. “You don't recognize him? It's Grant Dow.”

“You're kidding.” Falk felt the hairs on his neck prickle, and he turned his face away. He remembered a twenty-five-year-old with lean muscles like barbed wire. This bloke looked like he'd had a tough two decades since. “He looks so different.”

“Still a prize dickhead. Don't worry. I don't think he's seen you. You'd know about it if he had.”

Falk nodded, but kept his face turned. Barb started crying, which the crowd took as a sign the speech had ended, and people gravitated instinctively toward her or away, depending on their sentiment. Falk and Gretchen stayed put. Gretchen's son ran up and buried his face in his mother's trousers. She hoisted him with some difficulty onto her hip, and he rested his head on her shoulder, yawning.

“Time to get this one home, I think,” she said. “When are you off back to Melbourne?”

Falk checked his watch.
Fifteen hours
.

“Tomorrow,” he said out loud.

Gretchen nodded, looking up at him. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her spare arm around his back and pulled him close. Falk could feel the heat of the sun on his back and the warmth of her body in front.

“It's good to see you again, Aaron.” Her blue eyes looked over his face as though trying to memorize it, and she smiled a little sadly. “Maybe see you in another twenty years.”

He watched her walk away until he couldn't see her anymore.

3

Falk sat on the edge of the bed, listlessly watching a medium-size huntsman spider perched on the wall. The early evening temperature had dropped only fractionally as the sun disappeared. He'd changed into shorts after a shower, and his damp legs prickled uncomfortably against the cheap cotton bedsheet. A stern sign hanging from an egg timer next to the showerhead had ordered him to keep ablutions to three minutes. He'd started to feel guilty after two.

The dull sounds of the pub thudded up through the floor, the occasional muted voice ringing a distant bell. A small part of him was curious to see who was down there, but he felt no desire to join in. The noise was punctuated by the muffled smash of a dropped glass. There was a short pocket of silence followed by a chorus of derisive laughter. The huntsman moved a single leg.

Falk jumped as the room phone on the bedside table rang out, its tone shrill and plastic. He was startled but not surprised. He felt like he'd been waiting for it for hours.

“Hello?”

“Aaron Falk? I've a call for you.” The barman's voice was deep with a trace of a Scottish accent. Falk pictured the imposing figure who had taken his credit card details in exchange for a room key without comment two hours earlier.

Falk had never seen him before, and he was certain he would have remembered a face like that. Late forties, with broad shoulders and a full orange beard, the barman was a backpacker who had stayed and stayed, Falk guessed. He'd shown no spark of recognition at Falk's name, just an air of disbelief that anyone would use the pub for a purpose not directly linked to alcohol.

“Who's calling?” Falk asked, although he could guess.

“You'll have to ask him yourself,” the barman said. “You want a message service, you'll have to stay in a nicer establishment, my friend. Putting him through now.” The line went silent for a long moment, then Falk heard breathing.

“Aaron? You there? It's Gerry.” Luke's father sounded exhausted.

“Gerry. We need to talk.”

“Yes. Come out to the house. Barb wants to speak to you, anyway.” Gerry gave him the address. There was a long pause, then a heavy sigh. “And listen, Aaron. She doesn't know about the letter. Or any of this. Let's keep it that way, yeah?”

 

 

Falk followed Gerry's directions along gloomy country roads and twenty minutes later turned his car onto a short paved driveway. A porch light cast an orange glow over a neat weatherboard home. He pulled to a stop, and the screen door screeched open, revealing Barb Hadler's squat silhouette. Her husband appeared behind her a moment later, his taller frame throwing a long shadow onto the drive. As Falk climbed the porch steps, he could see they were both still wearing their funeral clothes. Wrinkled now.

“Aaron. My God, it's been so long. Thank you for coming. Come in,” Barb whispered, reaching out her free hand to him. She was clutching baby Charlotte close to her chest and rocking her with a vigorous rhythm. “Sorry about the baby. She's very restless. Won't go down.”

From what Falk could see, Charlotte was fast asleep.

“Barb.” Falk leaned in over the child to give the woman a hug. “It's so good to see you.” She held him for a long moment, her plump arm around his back, and he felt something in him relax a fraction. He could smell the sweet floral notes of her hairspray. It was the same brand she'd used when she was still Mrs. Hadler to him. They moved apart, and he was able to look down at Charlotte properly for the first time. She looked red-faced and uncomfortable, pressed against her grandmother's blouse. Her forehead was creased into a tiny frown that, Falk noticed with a jolt, reminded him uncannily of her father.

He stepped into the light of the hallway, and Barb looked him up and down, the whites of her eyes turning pink as he watched. She reached out and touched his cheek with the warm tips of her fingers.

“Just look at you. You've barely changed,” she said. Falk felt illogically guilty. He knew she was picturing a teenage version of her son next to him. Barb sniffed and wiped her face with a tissue, shredding little flecks of white onto her top. She ignored them and with a sad smile gestured for him to follow. She led him down a hallway lined with framed family snaps that they both studiously ignored. Gerry trailed in their wake.

“You've got a nice place here, Barb,” Falk said politely. She had always been scrupulously house-proud, but looking around now he could see the odd sign of clutter. Dirty mugs crowded a side table, the recycling bin was overflowing, and stacks of letters stood unopened. It all told a tale of grief and distraction.

“Thank you. We wanted something small and manageable after—” She hesitated for a beat. Swallowed. “After we sold the farm to Luke.”

They emerged onto a deck overlooking a tidy patch of garden. The wooden boards creaked beneath their feet as the night soaked some of the ferocity out of the day's heat. All around were rosebushes that were neatly pruned, but very dead.

“I tried to keep them alive with recycled water,” Barb said, following Falk's gaze. “Heat got them in the end.” She pointed Falk to a wicker chair. “We saw you on the news; did Gerry tell you? A couple of months ago. Those firms ripping off their investors. Stealing their nest eggs.”

“The Pemberley case,” Falk said. “That was a shocker.”

“They said you did well, Aaron. On TV and in the papers. Got those people's money back.”

“Some of it. Some of it was long gone.”

“Well, they said you did a good job.” Barb patted his leg. “Your dad would've been proud.”

Falk paused. “Thanks.”

“We were sorry to hear he'd passed. Cancer is a real bastard.”

“Yes.” Bowel, six years ago. It hadn't been an easy death.

Gerry, leaning against the doorframe, opened his mouth for the first time since Falk arrived.

“I tried to keep in touch after you left, you know.” His casual tone failed to hide the note of defensiveness. “Wrote to your dad, tried calling a couple of times. Never heard anything back, though. Had to give up in the end.”

“It's OK,” Falk said. “He didn't really encourage contact from Kiewarra.”

An understatement. They all pretended not to notice.

“Drink?” Gerry disappeared into the house without waiting for an answer and came out a moment later with three tumblers of whiskey. Falk took his in astonishment. He had never known Gerry to drink anything much harder than a light beer. The ice was already melting by the time the glass was in his hand.

“Cheers.” Gerry tilted his head back and took a deep swallow. Falk waited for him to wince. He didn't. Falk took a polite sip and set the glass down. Barb looked at hers in distaste.