The Bluffs : A Novel (2020)

by Perry, Kyle

  All she could think about was Madison Mason.

  Madison had convinced the girls to disappear. Madison had convinced Denni to kill herself. Madison had to pay.

  ‘This place is so creepy,’ said Gabriella.

  ‘The most haunted forest in Australia, according to MMMMadison,’ said Eliza. ‘Don’t forget to like, comment and subscribe.’

  Gabriella stepped a bit closer to her, looking up ahead over the trail that curved through shoulder-high ferns. Eliza led the way, feet crashing through the growth.

  A noise growled in the path beside them: a shrieking howl, an unholy beast.

  Gabriella screamed, clutching Eliza’s arm.

  ‘Just a Tassie devil,’ said Eliza. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  ‘That was a devil?’ hissed Gabriella. ‘It sounded like . . .’

  ‘How do you think they got their name?’

  It didn’t take long until they had joined the main trail, which was wider and straighter, red soil and rocks showing the path in the twilight. More Tasmanian devils growled in the night around them, mixing with the sound of insects and the cussik-cussik call of a green rosella. Candlebark and swamp peppermint reached over their heads, deeper darkness, a perfect corridor.

  Emotion – so many deep and heavy emotions, one after the other for days – had sapped all her energy. But they were close now. She switched on her torch against the building dark. There, just ahead, was the craggy clearing, dotted with fern-like clubmoss, in which that ancient King Billy Pine known as the Hanging Tree stood alone.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Gabriella suddenly, her voice strained. When Eliza stopped to listen, she could hear voices from behind them.

  Through the trees, back down the trail towards the school, in the gloom, were little lights, bobbing through the trees. Eliza’s blood chilled, until she heard the music coming from a portable speaker. They weren’t ghosts: they were people. A lot of them.

  ‘Another search party?’ said Eliza.

  ‘What’s with the candles?’ said Gabriella. ‘Should we wait for them to catch up?’

  ‘Those are cameras.’ Fury filled Eliza – how dare people intrude on this moment of mourning and grief. She strode ahead, towards the tree, and Gabriella scrambled to keep up.

  The next moment they were beneath the branches of the Hanging Tree. Eliza’s shoulders were tense: a great weight of sadness. Her torch beam lit the cut flowers and memorials around the trunk, some of them left by her.

  ‘Oh no,’ choked Gabriella.

  Eliza’s torchlight followed the trunk, until it landed on something hanging from one of the branches.

  Eliza screamed.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ said Gabriella.

  The mass of people with the candles and music and cameras stampeded towards them, drawn by Eliza’s scream, until the space around the tree was full of more screaming, and candlelight, and music, and cameras – TV crews and newspaper photographers and YouTubers and Instagram influencers.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘She’s dead! She’s hung herself!’

  ‘It’s Bree. Oh God, it’s Bree Wilkins.’

  ‘Someone call the cops!’

  ‘They’re here! Where are they? Police! Call an ambulance!’

  Eliza backed further away, her torch knocked from her fingers.

  ‘What’s that thing? Is it tied to her wrist?’

  ‘It’s a wooden statue.’

  ‘It’s voodoo! It’s voodoo!’

  ‘Everyone! Police! Don’t touch anything!’ Con Badenhorst’s voice boomed as he stepped through the crowd.

  Gabriella let go of Eliza, running to him.

  Suddenly Murphy appeared in front of Eliza. ‘Don’t look at her, Eliza. Look at me.’ He put his big hands on either side of her face to drag her eyes away from Bree’s body.

  ‘Why are all these people here?’ Eliza struggled to focus her vision.

  ‘Madison’s vigil. Weren’t you with us?’

  ‘Madison is here?’ Eliza spun around. ‘Where?’

  It was chaos. People swarming around the clearing, voices mingling, screams and sobs. Children and adults, teenagers and the elderly, locals and strangers, people everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

  ‘Where are you, Madison?’ screamed Eliza, her voice lost in the cacophony. ‘Are you happy? Are you happy?’

  But Madison was nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER 38

  CON

  It was a long night up at the Hanging Tree.

  Con watched as the forensics team went to work, the clearing lit up by their floodlights, casting everything into high relief and drawing biting insects to the scene. And always, the devils howled in the night.

  Finally, Bree’s body was lowered out of the tree. He had vomited twice already, back in the trees where nobody could see, but he still shook uncontrollably.

  Pull it together, Cornelius, he told himself, digging his nails into his palms to force the images of the Jaguar girls out of his head. There’s nothing you could’ve done.

  He asked to inspect the wooden statue that had been tied to her wrist before Forensics bagged it. The statue had baling twine in a noose around its neck and chips of bone that had been hammered into its eyes. They hadn’t tested it yet, but everyone felt sure they were animal bones. Forensics continued to do their job, their team leader speaking to the recently arrived commander and Melinda Tran.

  ‘It was part of that ritual Yani told us about,’ said Murphy, crouching next to Con at the edge of the clearing. ‘Blind its eyes, hang a girl from a tree to die.’

  Con didn’t reply. He suspected Gabriella wanted to tell him the same thing – she’d been calling his phone on repeat ever since he’d dismissed her. Finding her in the crowd at the tree had been a blow – she was one of the few people who understood what seeing Bree’s body would do to him, triggered in him. It was always worse when someone knew. He’d avoided her and she had eventually left, presumably to take Eliza home, with the teacher in a serious state.

  Gabriella was calling again. He knew, deep down, he should answer. But not with another dead girl lying on a tarp, hidden from view by a tent. Not with so many of the vigil walkers still hovering at the edges of the police tape, watching with curiosity and eager cameras. Not with the commander so close, able to overhear.

  Even when he wasn’t looking at the body, his mind’s eye saw the bloated corpse of Bree Wilkins, her lank blonde hair such a stark contrast to her purple face. She had been dead for days.

  This was not a ritual killing. There was nothing I could’ve done. She killed herself.

  She simply killed herself.

  Except, how has no one found her until now? That body is old.

  Agatha finished talking to Forensics and walked over to Con.

  ‘Cornelius,’ she said, ‘why are you shaking?’

  ‘It’s cold,’ he said.

  ‘Then why are you sweating?’ She shone her torch in his face. ‘Good Lord, man.’

  He raised his arm to shade his eyes and she grabbed his hand, her fingers pressed around his wrist. She pulled him closer.

  ‘Go back to the Inn, Cornelius,’ she said firmly. ‘Everything can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘But —’ he began.

  ‘Do not argue with me.’

  ‘I don’t —’

  ‘Go,’ she snapped. ‘Before I have one of the other officers take you home. You,’ she pointed at Murphy. ‘You came with him?’

  Murphy rose to his feet and nodded warily.

  ‘Cornelius, give him your keys: he can drive you back. There shouldn’t be any civilians this side of the tape.’

  Con straightened. ‘I’m fine, commander —’

  ‘We’ll talk about this later. Go.’

  ‘Commander, Gabriella was here tonight, with the vigil. She said she had something important to tell me, about the statue. Maybe you should speak with her.’

  ‘Gabriella Pakinga is not a part of this investigation anymore,�
� said Agatha. ‘Anything she has to tell me can come through the appropriate channels.’

  Con hesitated, glancing back towards Bree’s body, then turned towards the trail.

  Suddenly Agatha caught his arm and spun him around to face her. With surprising strength she nudged his foot outward, putting him off balance. ‘Are you having bad flashbacks?’ she asked fiercely, directly into his face.

  Con, keeping hold of her to regain his stance, nodded, then grew angry, both at himself and at her dirty trick – she had dislodged the truth by physically throwing him off balance, forcing him to lean on her.

  He pulled himself away from her grip. ‘No,’ he said, too late.

  ‘Get a good night’s rest, Badenhorst,’ said the commander, the ferocity leaving her as fast as it had come. She sounded as tired as Con felt. ‘I’m sorry for not taking better care of you.’

  Con walked off down the path, ignoring the questions of the civilians still watching, the media who swarmed towards him. Murphy walked alongside him, big loping steps, glowering at anyone who approached.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Con.

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ said Murphy.

  ‘What do you make of this?’

  ‘If Bree’s killed herself, that makes it more likely the other girls are safe too, right? It means Bree was never taken.’

  ‘She looks like she’s been dead for days. And her bag was still at the Fisherman’s Hut,’ said Con. ‘But what are the odds that Madison would organise a massive vigil that just happened to walk past the place where Bree was hanging?’

  ‘Madison knows where Jasmine is. I’m sure of it.’ There was almost a bounce in Murphy’s step. ‘How long until we know how long Bree’s been hanging there for?’

  ‘At least an hour to get her to the hospital for the autopsy,’ said Con. ‘If they do it tonight.’

  ‘Can we go ask Madison about it?’ said Murphy.

  ‘Tomorrow? Definitely.’

  ‘Can I come?’ said Murphy.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Con.

  Murphy nodded, as though he’d expected that answer. Their footsteps crunched through the red soil and stone, Tasmanian devils in the bush around them, a masked owl watching from the branch of an ancient pencil pine.

  And still, Con struggled to get his shaking under control.

  It’s normal: you’re only human. It’s the shock of finding Bree. You tried hard to find her, to save her, and yet she killed herself. Sudden weariness. What’s even the point?

  Murphy said, ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Con.

  Murphy explained the USB drive Madison had given him via Carmen. He said he’d only had time to watch two of the videos Jasmine had made, and was very sparse on the details of what they contained.

  ‘Can I see them?’ said Con.

  ‘They’re a bit private . . . maybe once I’ve finished them all . . .’

  ‘I need to see them, Murphy. Two girls dead. Two girls missing. One of them your daughter.’

  ‘Piss off.’ Murphy rose himself up to his fullest height, but after a moment he deflated, sighed. ‘I mean, maybe. But not yet.’

  Con thought about pushing him, but he just didn’t have the energy for more conflict. He’d do it tomorrow.

  That made him feel ashamed. He was the worst detective in the world. All he wanted to do was to get back to his room at the Inn: better yet, back to his house in Launceston. Even better again, back to Sydney, his mates, a city he understood, a state that wasn’t wild Tasmania. His mum and dad.

  By now they had reached the school car park, and were heading towards the BMW. Another wave of exhaustion rolled through him and he tripped on a stone.

  Murphy grabbed his shoulder, steadying him. ‘Want me to drive, mate?’

  Con glared at him. ‘I’m bloody fine.’

  Murphy shrugged, still keeping hold of his shoulder, and flashing the car keys he’d just lifted from Con’s pocket. ‘Your boss lady told me I should drive, and honestly, I’m more scared of her than I am of you.’

  Con thought about fighting. Then he just nodded and let Murphy help him back to the car.

  CHAPTER 39

  MURPHY

  Con fell asleep the moment Murphy started the BMW. He drove back to his own house, the detective occasionally shifting in his sleep.

  When they arrived, Murphy saw that Butch’s Hilux wasn’t in the drive. He roused Con from his nap. There was a feral glint in his eyes before he oriented himself to where he was. ‘Thanks for waking me,’ he said, back to hiding the hint of pain that had briefly been on display.

  Murphy felt a sudden protectiveness. ‘Do you want to crash here? You can have my bed, I’ll sleep in Jasmine’s.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. But I appreciate the offer.’

  As they parted, Con clasped Murphy’s hand and gripped his shoulder.

  Inside, Murphy stopped by the fridge to grab a six-pack of beer. He sat on his bed, back against the headboard, and opened the laptop.

  He cracked open a bottle and drank as he played the third video.

  Jasmine was in Madison’s room again, a different day. She picked at the hem of her sleeve.

  ‘I was thirteen when I discovered that my dad is not my biological father.’

  Murphy choked on his beer, spitting it over the screen.

  ‘It’s Dad’s brother, Butch. He raped my mum. That was how I came to be.’

  ‘No,’ said Murphy aloud. He leaned forward.

  ‘Mum told me the whole story. She was dating my dad, but then she and Butch got drunk. He came on to her, she couldn’t stop him . . . nine months later, there I was. They had the DNA test not long after.

  ‘So Butch knows, but Mum made me swear never to tell Dad. My real dad, Jordan Murphy. She didn’t want him thinking less of her, or less of Butch . . . or less of me . . .’

  The video ended.

  That was it, the entire file.

  Murphy clicked on the next video, his finger trembling. He couldn’t even feel the rage yet, but it was coming from a distance, like the rumble of the railroad when a train is coming.

  Jasmine’s make-up was done more sharply this time, eyeliner and thick foundation and red lipstick. This video began even worse.

  ‘Dad . . . if you’re seeing this, then you know. Uncle Butch is my biological father.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And that means you also know me and the others planned to disappear. I know it’s hard for you to believe this, but I’m doing this for us. For you and me.

  ‘Now that I’ve taken this step, what I need you to do is . . .

  ‘Move out of Butch’s house. Cut all ties with him, including that horrible job, and move far away from Limestone Creek. Far, far away. Go to Port Douglas, like you always talk about.

  ‘Once you’ve done that . . . once you’ve cut Butch out of our lives . . . I might just meet you there.’

  The video ended.

  Murphy was barely aware of himself as he left his room. The Glock was in his hands. Where had it even come from? Had he had it with him all day? Wasn’t it beside his bed?

  The anger had arrived, but it wasn’t burning.

  It was cold, hard, and lonely.

  Butch.

  Butch had raped his wife.

  Butch was Jasmine’s biological dad.

  He thought of him in his singlet and shorts, his goofy grin. Cuddling Jasmine, doting on her, a good uncle.

  A criminal. A rapist. How many times have I left him alone with my daughter?

  Butch knew. He knew all along.

  So did Sara.

  Jasmine never let on. She’d never mentioned anything to Murphy. She’d never treated Butch as anything but an uncle, and Murphy had never even been jealous.

  Butch is the reason Jasmine ran away. Jasmine wants Murphy to have nothing to do with him. My father raped my mum.

  The white noise hit him. Burning ice. The fury like a locomotive, in his face, his teeth, his stomach – uncontrollable
rage.

  He thought of Bree’s body. How easily that could have been Jasmine, swinging there.

  Get rid of Butch and Jasmine will come back.

  He held the Glock in one hand and another bottle of beer in the other.

  Where was Butch? He’d have to track him down.

  What else did Jasmine ask him to do? ‘Move out of Butch’s house. Cut all ties with him, including that horrible job, and move far away from Limestone Creek.’

  Yes, he’d move out of the house. That could be done right now. Already he’d punched several holes in the walls. He wasn’t aware of doing it, but there were holes there now and his knuckles were bleeding.

  ‘. . . including that horrible job.’

  He kicked the back door open and stopped by the shed. Tucking the Glock into the back of his jeans, he picked up a headtorch, a cigarette lighter, and the can of petrol for the lawnmower. Where did the beer go? He must have drunk it.

  Murphy’s feet seemed to know the path without effort, crunching through the bush and over rocks, even in the darkness. The bushland welcomed him, the damp and the deep smell of wilderness. He felt no fear, the beam of the torch lighting his way. A wallaby thumped off into the trees nearby, a possum scurried up a tree – his torchlight caught its eyes, reflected like tiny yellow lanterns in its ancient face.

  He arrived at the two dolomite boulders leaning against each other. He triggered the fishing-line. The sledgehammer swung down. He walked past it, into the small forest of marijuana plants. They towered over him, casting wild skinny shadows in the torchlight, whispering in the darkness.

  Avoiding the bear-traps, he doused each plant with petrol. He knew the fire wouldn’t spread – all the rain the last few days had dampened the bush, the King Billy Pines too ancient and tough – but the marijuana crop would be no more.

  Moving back to the tunnel between the boulders, he picked a leaf and lit it with the cigarette lighter. It caught easily. He dropped it at the base of the closest plant. It caught with a whoof.

  He watched the flames spread, mixing with the pine needles and marijuana.

  He headed home, so drunk on rage that time was malleable. One moment he was walking away from the blaze, the next he was at the house.