The Dry (35 page)

“And what?”

“And she appears to have contacted the school in question about twenty minutes ago to check—”

“No.” Falk reached over and buckled his seat belt, frantically gesturing for Raco and Barnes to do the same.

“Yes, I know. I'm sor—”

“Who did she speak to?”

“As it was rather a large sum, she went straight to the top. The principal, Mr. Whitlam.”

Falk hung up the phone.

“School. Now.”

Raco slammed his foot on the accelerator.

Luke's body juddered a little under the tarpaulin as Whitlam trundled along the short distance to the Hadlers' farm. Whitlam dragged his eyes away from the rearview mirror and gripped the wheel tightly, his hands sweating inside the plastic gloves. At the farmhouse, he pulled Luke's truck to a stop and jumped out before he had time to think what was ahead. Only at the front door did he hesitate.

Whitlam didn't know the layout of the Hadlers' house and grounds well at all. Certainly not enough to go searching for Karen. Struck by the sudden madness of it, he saw his hand reach out and press the doorbell. He would bring her to him. The shotgun hung by his side, snug against his thigh.

Karen Hadler opened the door, blinking once in recognition and surprise. She drew a breath, her tongue curling behind her teeth for the sibilant s, the hard c forming in her throat, then his name was cut short as he raised the gun in a swift movement and pulled the trigger. He closed his eyes as he did it, and when he opened them she was falling backward, her stomach red and raw. Whitlam winced as her elbow caught the tiled floor with a loud crack and her head snapped back. Her eyes flickered eerily, and a long alto moan sounded from deep in her chest.

Whitlam's ears were ringing, and he could hear nothing.

“Mummy?”

No. No. He could hear nothing else.

“Mummy?”

Nothing but the breath in his chest and the ringing in his ears, and definitely not Billy Hadler shrieking like a bird from the shadow of the hallway, a toy dangling from one hand and his mouth stretched wide in horror. “Mummy?”

Whitlam couldn't believe it; he could not believe it. The kid was here. The kid was here. Why the hell wasn't he far away, safe on the other side of town, playing in Whitlam's own backyard? Instead he was here. And he'd seen, and now Whitlam had to make it as though he hadn't seen, and there was only one way he could think of to do that, and are you happy now, you nosy bitch, he screamed at Karen's body as Billy turned and belted down the hall, too scared to cry so making ghoulish gasping little sighs instead.

Whitlam felt as though he'd stepped out of his body. He followed and burst into the bedroom, almost unseeing as he flung open cupboard doors, ripped off the bedspread. Where was he? Where was he? He was angry, furious, at what he was being made to do. A sound came from the laundry basket, and Whitlam couldn't remember pushing it aside, but he must have because there was Billy. Billy, pressed against the wall, his face in his hands. But Whitlam remembered pulling the trigger. Yes. Later he would remember that well.

There was the dreadful ringing in his head again, and again—oh dear God, please, no—something else. He thought for a hideous moment the cries were coming from Billy, who was missing half his head and chest. He wondered if he was making them himself, but when he put his hand to his mouth it was closed.

He followed the noise, almost curiously, across the hall. The child was in the nursery, standing in her cot, bawling. Whitlam stood in the doorway and thought he might vomit.

He positioned the barrel of the gun toward his own chin and held it there, feeling the heat radiate off the metal, until the urge passed. Slowly, he turned the weapon around. It wobbled as he trained it on the baby's yellow jumpsuit. He took a breath. The chaos in his head was deafening, but amid the noise was a single urgent note of reason. Look! He made himself pause. He blinked once. Look at her age. And listen. She's crying. Crying, not talking. No words. She couldn't speak. She couldn't tell.

It scared him that in that instant, he was still tempted.

“Bang,” he whispered to himself. He heard a scary laugh, but when he looked there was no one else around.

Whitlam turned and ran. Over Karen's body and out to Luke's truck and then behind the wheel and roaring out onto the country road. He passed no one and drove until the jitters got too strong for him to hold the wheel. He took the next turnoff he saw. A pathetic track leading to a small clearing.

Whitlam climbed out and dragged his bike from the truck, his teeth chattering in his skull. With shaking hands, he threw back the tarpaulin, obscuring four horizontal streaks left against the paintwork as the bike's wheels had shifted and moved during the journey.

Instead, Whitlam steeled himself and leaned over the body. There was no movement. He peered at Luke's face, so close that he could see where the other man had cut himself shaving. He felt no whisper of air. Luke had stopped breathing.

Whitlam pulled on new gloves and a plastic rain poncho, then dragged the body to the edge of the tray. He hauled it with some trouble into a slumped seated position. Shotgun between Luke's legs, his fingertips pressed to the weapon, the barrel propped against his teeth.

Whitlam was terrified the body would slip and crumple, and he had the bizarre thought that he should have practiced this somehow. Then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Luke's face disappeared, and his body fell backward. The blow to the back of his skull was lost in the mess. It was done. Whitlam crammed his gloves, poncho, and the tarpaulin into a plastic bag to burn later. Then he took three deep breaths and wheeled his bike onto the empty road.

As he rode away, the blowflies were already starting to circle.

39

Whitlam's office was empty. His wallet was gone, along with his keys and phone. His jacket still hung from the back of the chair.

“Perhaps he's popped out,” said a nervous secretary. “His car's still here.”

“He hasn't,” said Falk. “Barnes, you get to his house. If his wife's there, detain her.” He thought for a moment. Turned back to the secretary.

“Is Whitlam's daughter still in class?”

“Yes, I believe s—”

“Show me. Now.”

The secretary was forced to jog down the corridor to keep pace with Falk and Raco.

“Here,” she said breathlessly at a classroom door. “She's in here.”

“Which one?” Falk said, searching through the small window for the child he'd seen in Whitlam's family photo.

“There.” She pointed. “Blond girl, second row.”

Falk turned to Raco.

“Would he leave town without his child?”

“Hard to say. But I don't think so. Not if he could help it.”

“I agree. I think he's close.” Falk paused. “Call Clyde. They must be nearly here. Get roadblocks out, then gather everyone we can get with search-and-rescue experience.”

Raco followed Falk's gaze out of the window. Behind the school the bushland sprawled dense and heavy. It seemed to shiver in the heat. It gave nothing away.

“Going to be some bloody hunt,” Raco said, putting the phone to his ear. “Best hiding place in the world out there.”

 

 

The search-and-rescue crews formed up shoulder to shoulder, a splash of high-vis orange along the bushland track. The gums were whispering and rattling overhead as the wind tore through. Gusts whipped up the dust and grit, forcing them to squint and shield their eyes. At their backs, Kiewarra sprawled out, squat and shimmering under its heat haze.

Falk took his place in the line. It was midday, and already he could feel the sweat pooling under his reflective vest. To his side, Raco was grim-faced.

“Radios on, ladies and gents,” the search-and-rescue crew leader called through a megaphone. “And it's tiger snake territory here, so watch your feet.”

Overhead, a chopper whapped hot air down. The leader gave the word, and the orange line stepped forward almost as one. The bushland closed behind them, swallowing them tight. Towering gums and thick scrub growth separated the team as they delved deeper, and within a few paces Falk could see only Raco to his left and one orange jacket in the distance to his right.

Probe searching, the leader had explained to them with definite impatience. Good for dense bush. The searchers would line up and each walk directly into the bush ahead, checking along their own lines until their paths were blocked.

“Theory is if we can't get through, your principal's not about to either. You get blocked, you turn around and come back to the path,” the leader had said, thrusting a jacket at Falk. “Just keep your eyes open. It can get hairy in there.”

Falk pushed onward. It was strangely silent apart from the crackle of dry twigs underfoot and the wind whipping through the branches. The sun was high and white, forcing its way through occasional gaps in the trees like a searchlight. Even the noise of the chopper seemed muffled as it swooped high overhead like a bird of prey.

Falk stepped cautiously, the patchy sunlight playing tricks on the ground. He wasn't completely sure what signs he should be looking for and felt sick at the thought of missing them. He hadn't done a full-scale bush search since his police training, but all hands were needed in these woods. He'd spent enough time among these same trees when he was younger to know they dragged you in far more easily than they let you go.

A heavy bead of sweat stung the corner of his eye, and he wiped at it impatiently. The minutes ticked on. Around him, the trees seemed to get closer together with every step, and Falk found himself having to lift his feet higher as he waded through the tall grass. Straight ahead, he could see a thicket, sprawling and overgrown. Even from that distance it looked tangled and impassable. He was nearly at the end of his line. No Whitlam.

He took his hat off and ran a hand over his head. No shouts of success had made their way along the row of searchers. The radio on his belt was silent. Had they missed him? The image of Luke lying flat on his back in his truck flashed in Falk's head. He put his hat back on and pushed forward, forcing a path through the overgrowth toward the thicket. The going was slow, and he'd gained only a few meters when he felt a stick bounce off his jacket.

Falk looked up in surprise. Some distance to his left and a few paces ahead, Raco had stopped and turned toward him. He was holding his finger to his lips.

“Whitlam?” Falk mouthed silently.

“Maybe,” Raco mouthed back, raising one hand in a not-certain gesture. He lifted his radio to his lips and murmured something.

Falk scanned the surroundings for any other splash of orange. The nearest searcher was a distant spot behind a curtain of trees. Falk crept toward Raco, wincing as his footsteps crunched loudly against the undergrowth.

He looked to where his friend was pointing. A fallen log had created a hollow in front of the thicket. Barely visible but so very out of place against the backdrop, something pink and fleshy peeped out. Fingertips. Raco pulled out his police-issue pistol.

“I wouldn't.” Whitlam's voice floated out from the log. He sounded oddly calm.

“Scott, mate, it's us.” Falk forced himself to match the tone. “Time to give it up. There are fifty people in here looking for you. Only one way out.”

Whitlam's laugh floated up.

“There's always more than one way out,” he said. “Jesus, you cops lack imagination. Tell your mate to pocket his weapon. Then he can get back on that radio and tell the others to back off.”

“Not going to happen,” Raco said. His pistol was aimed at the log, steady in his hands.

“It is.” Whitlam stood up suddenly. He was filthy and sweaty, with a web of fine scratches standing out purple against his ruddy cheek. “Steady there,” he said. “You're on camera.”

He pointed one finger overhead to where the police chopper loomed against the cloudless sky. It appeared and disappeared against the gaps in the treetops as it circled in a wide arc. Falk wasn't sure if it had seen them. He hoped so.

Whitlam suddenly thrust his arm out straight in front of him like a low Nazi salute and took a step away from the log. He was clutching something in his fist.

“Stay back,” he said, rotating his hand. Falk caught a first glint of metal and his brain screamed
gun,
while a deeper part flitted frantically, trying to process what he was seeing. Raco tensed next to him. Whitlam unfolded his hand finger by finger, and Falk's breath left his chest. He heard Raco groan long and deep. A thousand times worse than a gun.

It was a lighter.

40

Whitlam flicked the lighter open, and the flame danced dazzling white against the dull bushland. It was the stuff of nightmares. It was a tangled parachute, failed brakes on the motorway. It was a premonition, and Falk felt the fear flood from his core until it prickled against his skin.

“Scott—” Falk started, but Whitlam held up a single finger in warning. It was an expensive lighter, the kind that stayed lit until it was closed manually. The flame shivered and danced in the wind.

In one movement, Whitlam reached down and whipped a small flask out of his pocket. He flipped off the cap and took a sip. His eyes never leaving theirs, he tilted the flask and poured a trickle of the amber liquid on the ground around him. The whiskey vapors hit Falk a moment later.

“Call it an insurance policy!” Whitlam shouted over. The spark fluttered as his outstretched arm shook.

“Scott!” Raco yelled. “You stupid bastard. You'll have us all with that. You included.”