The Dry

by Harper,Jane

  “I’m not asking for specifics. General observations will do. What kind of things can he remember? Ten minutes ago but not ten years ago? Vice versa?”

  Leigh hesitated, glancing back toward the station. “Very generally speaking,” he said, “patients in their seventies with symptoms similar to Mal’s tend to suffer fairly rapid memory deterioration. The distant past may be clearer than more recent events, but often the memories blend and get muddled. They’re not reliable, if that’s what you’re asking. Generally speaking, that is.”

  “Will it kill him? Last question, I promise.”

  Leigh’s expression was pained. He looked around. The street was virtually empty. He lowered his voice. “Not directly. But it complicates a lot of things healthwise. Basic personal care, nutrition, it all gets compromised. I’d suspect a patient at that stage would have a year or so, maybe a little more. Maybe less. It doesn’t help if the patient’s had a drink or three every day of his adult life either. Generally speaking, of course.”

  He nodded once as an end to the conversation and turned. Falk let him go.

  “They should both be charged. Him and Sullivan,” Raco said when he returned to the station.

  “Yeah. They should.” They both knew it wouldn’t happen.

  Raco leaned right back in his chair and put both hands over his face. He gave an enormous sigh.

  “Jesus. Where the hell to now?”

  To kid himself that they weren’t stuck in yet another dead end, Falk put in a call to Melbourne. An hour later he had a list of all the light-colored trucks registered in Kiewarra in the year Ellie Deacon had died. There were 109.

  “Plus anyone from out of town could have been driving through,” Raco said gloomily.

  Falk ran his eyes down the list. There were a lot of familiar names. Former neighbors. Parents of his old classmates. Mal Deacon was on there. Falk stared at that name for a long time. But so was everyone else. Gerry Hadler himself, Gretchen’s parents, even Falk’s dad. Gerry could have seen half the town at the crossroads that day. Falk closed the file, fed up.

  “I’m going out for a bit.”

  Raco grunted. Falk was glad he didn’t ask where.

  28

  The cemetery was a short drive out of town, on a large plot shaded by towering gum trees. On the way, Falk passed the fire warning sign, the danger now elevated to extreme. Outside, the wind was up.

  The burial itself had been a private one, so he hadn’t been to the Hadlers’ graves, but they were easy to find. Brand new, the polished headstones looked like indoor furniture accidentally left outside among their weather-beaten neighbors. The graves were ankle deep in a sea of cellophane, stuffed toys, and withered flowers. Even from several feet away, the pungent smell of floral decay was overpowering.

  Karen’s and Billy’s graves were piled high, while the offerings under Luke’s headstone were sparse. Falk wondered if it would be Gerry and Barb’s responsibility to clear the graves when the gifts crossed the line from tribute to trash. Barb had had enough trouble in the farmhouse, let alone on her knees with a trash bag, wretchedly sifting through the withered bouquets and trying to decide what to keep and what to throw away. No way. Falk made a mental note to check.

  He sat for a while on the dry ground by the graves, ignoring the dust that coated his suit trousers. He ran a hand over the engraving on Luke’s headstone, trying to shake the unreal sensation that had nagged him since the funeral. Luke Hadler is in that coffin, he repeated in his head. Luke Hadler is in this ground.

  Where was Luke the afternoon Ellie died? The question resurfaced like a stain. Falk should have pressed him when he had the chance. But he’d truly believed Luke’s deception had been for Falk’s own benefit. If he’d known what was going to happen—

  He cut the thought dead. It was a cry that had come from too many lips since he’d returned to Kiewarra. If I’d known, I would have done things differently. It was too late for that now. Some things had to be lived with.

  Falk stood and turned his back on the Hadlers. He headed deeper into the cemetery until he found the row he was looking for. The headstones in this part of the lot had lost their shine years ago, but many were as familiar as old friends. He ran his hand over a few of them affectionately as he passed, before stopping in front of one particular sun-bleached stone. There were no flowers on this grave, and it occurred to him for the first time that he should have brought some. That’s what a good son would do. Bring flowers for his mother.

  Instead he stooped and with a tissue wiped her engraved name free from dust and dirt. He did the same with her date of death. He’d never needed a reminder of the anniversary. As far back as he could remember, he’d known that she’d died the day he was born. Complications and blood loss, his father had told him gruffly when he was old enough to ask, before looking at his son in a way that made Falk feel that he was almost, but not quite, worth it.

  As a kid he’d taken to cycling out to the cemetery alone, at first standing solemnly for hours in penance at his mother’s grave. Eventually, he realized nobody cared whether he stood there or not, and their relationship had thawed into something of a one-way friendship. He tried hard to feel some form of filial love, but even then it had seemed like an artificial emotion. He simply couldn’t ignite it for a woman he’d never known. It made him feel guilty that deep down he felt more for Barb Hadler.

  But he’d liked visiting his mother, and she was a hell of a listener. He’d started bringing a snack, books, and homework and would loll about in the grass by the headstone and chatter in free-flowing monologue about his day and his life.

  Before fully realizing it, Falk found himself doing that very thing now, stretching out his limbs and lying back in the stubby grass alongside the grave. The shade from the trees took the edge off the heat. He stared at the sky, and in a voice barely above a murmur, he told her all about the Hadlers and his homecoming. About seeing Gretchen again. About the heavy feeling in his chest when he’d seen Mandy in the park and Ian in the shop. He spoke about his fears that he might never find out the truth about Luke.

  After he had run out of words, he closed his eyes and lay still beside his mother, cocooned by the warmth of the ground at his back and the air all around him.

  When Falk woke the sun had moved in the sky. With a yawn he stood up and stretched his stiff joints. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there. He shook himself off and set out through the cemetery toward the main gates. Halfway, he stopped. There was one more grave he needed to visit.

  It took him far longer to find this one. He had only seen it once, at the funeral, before he’d left Kiewarra for good. Eventually, he stumbled across it almost by accident: a small stone huddled anonymously among a crowd of more ornate memorials. It was overgrown with yellow grass. A single bunch of dead stalks wrapped in tattered cellophane lay under the headstone. Falk took his tissue and reached out to wipe the grime from the engraved name. Eleanor Deacon.

  “Don’t touch, you mongrel.”

  The voice came from behind, and Falk jumped. He turned and saw Mal Deacon sitting deep in the shadows at the feet of a huge carved angel in the row behind. He had a beer bottle in his hand and his fleshy brown dog asleep at his feet. It woke and yawned, exposing a tongue the color of raw meat as Deacon hauled himself to his feet. He left the bottle at the foot of the angel.

  “Get your hands off her before I cut ’em off.”

  “No need, Deacon. I’m leaving.” Falk stepped away.

  Deacon squinted at him. “You’re the kid, aren’t you?”

  “Eh?”

  “You’re the Falk kid. Not the dad.”

  Falk looked at the old man’s face. The jaw was set with aggression, and the eyes seemed more lucid than they had the last time.

  “Yeah. I’m the kid.” Falk felt a pang of sadness as he spoke. He started walking.

  “Right. Pissing off for good this time, I hope.” Deacon moved after him, shaky on his feet. He pulled his dog’s leash tigh
t after him, and the animal yelped.

  “Not yet. Mind your pet.” Falk didn’t break stride. He could hear Deacon trying to follow. The footsteps were uneven and slow over the rough ground.

  “Can’t leave her in peace even now, eh? You might be the kid, but you’re just like your dad. Disgusting.”

  Falk turned.

  There were two distinct voices coming from the yard. One loud, one calmer. Twelve-year-old Aaron dumped his schoolbag on the kitchen table and went to the window. His father was standing with his arms crossed and a fed-up look on his face as Mal Deacon prodded a finger at him.

  “Six of ’em missing,” Deacon was saying. “Coupla ewes, four lambs. Few of those same ones you were looking over the other week.”

  Erik Falk sighed. “And I’m telling you they’re not here, mate. You want to waste your time walking over to check, you be my guest.”

  “So it’s a coincidence, is it?”

  “More a sign of your shoddy fence line, I reckon. If I’d wanted your sheep, I would have bought them. Weren’t up to scratch, to my eye.”

  “Nothing wrong with ’em. More like why buy ’em when you could nick ’em from me? Isn’t that right?” Deacon said, his voice rising. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve helped yourself to something of mine.”

  Erik Falk stared at him for a moment, then shook his head in disbelief.

  “Time for you to leave, Mal.” He went to turn, but Deacon grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.

  “She called from Sydney to say she’s not coming back, you know. You happy now? Make you feel like a big man, does it? That you talked her into buggering off?”

  “I didn’t talk your missus into anything,” Erik said, shoving his hand away. “I’d say you did a good enough job of that yourself with your boozing and your fists, mate. Only surprise is she stayed as long as she did.”

  “Oh yeah, real knight in shining armor, you are. Always here for a shoulder to cry on, dripping poison in her ear. Talk her into leaving and talk her into bed while you’re at it, eh?”

  Erik Falk’s eyebrows shot up. He laughed, a pure genuine burst of amusement.

  “Mal, I didn’t shag your missus, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, mate, it’s not bullshit at all. It’s the truth. OK, so she’d pop round for a cup of tea and a bit of a cry when she’d had enough. Needed a bit of time away from you. But that’s it. She was nice enough, don’t get me wrong, but she was nearly as mad on the booze as you. Maybe if you took better care of things—your sheep, your own wife—they wouldn’t bloody wander off on you.” Erik Falk shook his head. “Honestly, I’ve no time for you or your missus. It’s your daughter I feel sorry for.”

  Mal Deacon’s punch came like a dog out of a kennel but caught Erik in a lucky blow above his left eye. He staggered and fell backward, his skull landing with a sharp crack against the ground.

  Aaron ran outside with a shout and bent over his father, who was staring at the sky with a dazed expression. Blood was trickling from a cut in his hairline. Aaron heard Deacon laughing, and he sprang toward the older man, ramming his chest. Deacon was forced to take a step backward, but his large frame kept him grounded and steady on his feet. In an instant, Deacon reached out and grabbed Aaron’s upper arm in an iron grip, pinching the skin as he twisted it, and dragged Aaron’s face close to his own.

  “Listen here. When your old man gets up from the dirt, you tell him that’ll seem like a pat on the head compared with what’s coming if I find him—find either of you—messing around with what’s mine.”

  He shoved Aaron to the ground, then turned and strode across the yard, whistling through his teeth.

  “He begged me, you know?” Deacon said. “Your dad. After you did what you did to my Ellie. He came to me. Wasn’t trying to tell me you didn’t do it. That you couldn’t have done it. Nothin’ like that. He wanted me to tell everyone else in the town to back off until the police made up their minds. As if I’d give him the steam off my piss.”

  Falk took a deep breath and made himself turn and start walking away.

  “You knew that, did you?” Deacon’s words came floating behind him. “That he thought you might have done it? Your own dad. Course you knew. Must be a God-awful thing, to have your old man think that little of you.”

  Falk stopped. He was almost out of earshot. Keep walking, he told himself. Instead he looked back. Deacon’s mouth curled up at each side.

  “What?” Deacon called. “You can’t tell me he bought that bullshit story you and the Hadler kid cooked up. Your dad may have been a fool and a coward, but he wasn’t stupid. You ever manage to make things right with him? Or did he suspect it until the day he died?”

  Falk didn’t answer.

  “Thought so.” Deacon grinned.

  No, Falk wanted to shout at him, they had never made things right. He took a long look at the old man, then, with a physical effort, forced himself to turn and walk away. Step by step, weaving through the long-forgotten headstones. At his back, he could hear Mal Deacon laughing as he stood with his feet firmly planted on his own daughter’s grave.

  29

  The shot bellowed across the distant field, the echo rippling through the hot air. Before silence could settle, another crashed out. Falk froze in the driveway of Gretchen’s farm, one hand stilled mid-motion as he went to slam his car door.

  His thoughts fled to the Hadlers’ raw scrubbed hallway, the stained carpet. He imagined a blond woman lying bleeding on the ground, only this time not Karen but Gretchen.

  Another blast rang out, and Falk was off, running across the fields toward the noise. He tried to follow the sound, but it bounced and echoed off the hard ground, leaving him disoriented. He scanned the horizon frantically, eyes watering against the blinding sun, looking everywhere, seeing nothing.

  At last he spotted her, her khaki shorts and yellow shirt almost invisible against the bleached fields. He stopped dead, feeling a rush of relief followed by a wave of embarrassment. Gretchen turned her head and stared at him for a moment, then propped the shotgun on her shoulder and raised her hand in a wave. He hoped she hadn’t seen him running. She started over the field toward him.

  “Hey, you got here fast,” she called out. Pink ear guards hung around her neck.

  “I hope that’s OK.” He’d phoned from outside the cemetery. “I felt like I needed to see a friendly face.”

  “It’s fine. It’s good to see you. I’ve got an hour before I need to pick up Lachie from school.”

  Falk looked around, buying a moment while his breathing steadied. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Thanks. The rabbits seem to think so too.” She nodded over her shoulder. “I need to get a few more before I call it a day. Come on, you can be my spotter.”

  He followed her across the field to where she’d left her kit bag. She rummaged in it and pulled out another pair of ear guards. She reached in again and pulled out a box of ammunition. Winchesters. Not the Remingtons found in the Hadlers’ bodies, Falk thought automatically. He felt relieved, then immediately guilty for noticing. Gretchen opened the barrel of the shotgun and loaded a round.

  “The warren’s over there.” She pointed, squinting in the sun. “Point when you see one.”

  Falk put his ear guards on, and everything was muffled, like being underwater. He could see the gum trees moving silently in the wind. The sounds in his head became amplified; the blood pumping through, the slight click of his teeth.

  He stared at the area around the warren. Nothing moved for a long while, then there was a twitch on the landscape. He was about to gesture to Gretchen when she steadied the gun against her shoulder, one eye squeezed shut. She centered the gun, tracking the rabbit with a smooth arc. There was a muffled boom, and a flock of galahs rose in unison from a nearby tree.

  “Good. I think we got him,” she said, pulling of her ear guards. She strode across the field and bent down, khaki shorts stretching
tight for a moment. She stood triumphantly, dangling a limp rabbit carcass.

  “Nice shot,” he said.

  “You want a go?”

  Falk didn’t particularly. He hadn’t shot rabbits since he was a teenager. But she was already holding out the gun, so he shrugged.

  “All right.”

  The weapon was warm as he took it from her.

  “You know the drill,” Gretchen said. Then she reached up and replaced his ear guards for him. Falk’s neck tingled where her fingers brushed it. He squinted down the sights toward the warren. There was blood soaked into the ground. It reminded him of the mark left by Billy Hadler, and the memory made his spine go cold. Suddenly he didn’t want to be doing this. Up ahead, there was a movement.

  Gretchen tapped his shoulder and pointed. He didn’t react. She tapped his arm again. “What’s wrong?” he saw rather than heard her say. “It’s right there.”

  He lowered the shotgun and pulled off his ear guards.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I guess it’s been too long.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

  “Fair enough.” She patted him on the arm as she took the gun off him. “You know I’m going to have to shoot it, anyway, don’t you? I can’t have them on the land.”

  She raised the gun, steadied for a brief moment, then fired.

  Falk knew before they even walked over that it was a hit.

  Back at the house, Gretchen gathered up papers that had been neatly laid out across the kitchen table.

  “Make yourself at home. Try to ignore the mess,” she said, putting a jug of ice water in a clear space. “I’ve been filling out applications for the school board to get some more funding. Charities and things. I was thinking about trying the Crossley Trust again, even though Scott reckons they’re a waste of time. See if we get further than the short list this year. The problem is, before anyone’ll give you any cash they want to know everything.”

  “Looks like a lot of paperwork.”