by Perry, Kyle
‘You think Eliza’s involved?’
‘She handcuffed Butch to a bed and hit you with a cricket bat,’ said Con. ‘Obviously she’s involved.’
They drove through the centre of Limestone Creek to Monica’s house. There were people everywhere: walking their dogs, chatting over low fences, actual lemonade stands set up by kids capitalising on the carnival of people who had flocked to the town these past few days. Spring had drawn out the red waratahs, riots of yellow daffodils and multicoloured tulips in the garden beds. TV crews from all over the world were interviewing people on street corners. It was like a sick festival.
Con felt he was the only one who could put a stop to it. He had to find Eliza. He had to solve this puzzle.
Finally they reached Monica’s house, and before Con could even pull the handbrake Murphy stepped out of the BMW and headed towards the front door.
‘Wait, Murphy,’ said Con, running to catch up. He could hear Sarge’s great, booming barks.
Murphy didn’t knock, he just pushed the door open. ‘Monica? Are you in here?’ he roared.
‘You can’t just walk into someone’s house,’ said Con. Then he froze.
A glass vase lay shattered on the tiles, tulips in a puddle of water, and Monica on the floor in the middle of it all. Her hands were bound in front of her with a cable tie and her mouth gagged with a tea towel. Her face was bleeding and her amber eyes were wide and wild.
‘Monica!’ shouted Con, falling to his knees beside her and unknotting the gag. Her bound wrists were already bruising and her arms scraped against the shards of the vase.
‘She’s taken Wren!’ she screamed the moment he had the gag out.
‘Easy,’ said Con. ‘Murphy, grab a knife from the kitchen.’
‘Eliza came here and attacked me,’ said Monica. ‘She took Wren. She said they have a boat waiting for them in Launceston!’
Murphy returned with the knife and broke the cable ties.
Monica was lapsing into hysterics: it was hard to make out her words. ‘Eliza . . . Tom and Eliza . . . Eliza can’t have kids, so wanted Wren and now she’s . . . gone.’ She rose shakily to her feet, grasping at the hooks on the wall where the keys hung, searching for balance. She held her stomach and vomited onto the tiles.
‘Murphy, give me your phone,’ said Con. He typed in a number and a moment later the commander answered. As quickly as he could, he explained everything that had transpired since he had called Marcus Wilkins. ‘We believe Eliza may be headed towards Launceston with Wren.’
‘I’ll make the calls,’ said Agatha. ‘You stay there. I’ll call you right back on this number. Don’t think this gets you off the hook for disobeying my direct order.’
She ended the call and Con relayed the information to both Murphy and Monica. ‘Do you need us to take you to hospital?’ said Con.
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Monica shakily. She touched her face, grimacing at the pain. ‘I . . . I think I should just stay here. I have a friend who’s a doctor. I’ll call her around.’
‘Okay, great idea,’ said Con. He put his concern about Monica into the box labelled People Who I Don’t Need To Worry About Right Now and focused his mental energy on the immediate issue: Eliza had kidnapped her niece and was fleeing.
Monica lurched, again holding her stomach. ‘I’ll go lie down in my room and call her.’ She wandered off upstairs, shivering.
Outside, Sarge kept barking, working himself into a frenzy.
‘I need a drink,’ said Murphy. ‘Do you want a drink?’
Without waiting for Con’s answer, he walked into the kitchen and began rummaging around. Murphy took a bottle of whisky off a high shelf and poured himself a glass.
‘You can’t just —’ said Con.
‘I think I’ve earned it, mate.’ Murphy pawed through their freezer, pulling out a tray of ice cubes. He dropped some into his glass, then pressed the tray against the side of his head.
‘Did you know Eliza couldn’t have kids?’ said Con.
‘No,’ said Murphy. ‘But that would explain it, right? Why she took Jasmine and Cierra.’
‘How the hell does that explain anything?’ said Con.
‘I dunno,’ said Murphy in a tired voice. ‘I’m just trying to make sense of it, mate. She was really attached to Denni. Maybe she’s trying to replace Denni?’ He drank his whisky. ‘Either way, I’m believing she took Jasmine and we’re about to find her.’
Murphy’s phone rang in Con’s hand. The commander was calling. Con put it on speaker.
‘Well, we’ve sent the word out,’ said Agatha. ‘We’ve got everyone from Limestone Creek to Launceston out on the roads. From the sounds of your timeline, she can’t have gone far.’
‘Good,’ said Con.
‘There’s something else you should know,’ said the commander. ‘This probably isn’t the best time to tell you, but I don’t want you to hear it from one of the other officers.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve had a call from the commissioner. He asked whether I felt you were fit for service.’
‘Why would he ask that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you punched Sergeant Doble?’
‘Doble? I didn’t punch him. I just . . . put him on the ground.’
Murphy shot Con a look of surprise. ‘You punched that prick?’
Con waved him off.
‘Con . . . why did you continue today, after I made it very clear you needed to take a break?’
‘Because I got new information – Eliza was at the Hanging Tree the day Bree killed herself!’
She sighed. ‘You’ve left me with no choice.’
‘What?’
‘I need you off the case.’
‘Right now? When we’re just about to find Eliza?’
‘Yes, Badenhorst, right now. You have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve solved it, but neither of us is getting into deeper trouble than we’re already in. I should’ve taken you off the case days ago . . . Don’t deny your PTS symptoms have been getting in the way.’
‘What you’re saying is I’ve done all the hard work but will get none of the recognition?’
‘Physically assaulting Sergeant Doble, Badenhorst?’ she said.
‘He tried to punch me! I didn’t even hurt him.’
‘Listen . . . post-traumatic stress is nothing to laugh at —’
‘I do not have PTS,’ Con shouted. He ended the call.
‘You punched Doble?’ asked Murphy again, sounding impressed. He poured a whisky for Con and slid it across the counter.
It smelled like exactly what Con needed. He watched it for a moment, then took it. ‘It’s fine, they’ll find Eliza,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘We’ll get answers. We’ll save the girls. That’s all that matters.’
Outside, Sarge kept barking.
CHAPTER 49
ELIZA
Leaving Con and Murphy in the kitchen, Eliza headed towards the upstairs bathroom and locked the door behind her. Her rough new haircut tickled the back of her neck.
She put her glasses back on and allowed her bloody reflection a brief smile.
Next she took down the first-aid kit, dabbing cream on her cuts and then covering them with plastic plasters. She wiped the remaining blood from her face and applied some of Monica’s gold lipstick, gold eyeshadow. Then she put in some big gold hoop earrings.
Tom’s car key was already safely stowed in her dress pocket: she’d taken it off the hook when she’d vomited. It was time to go for a drive. She had time to go over what happened, and to plan her next steps. Permission to do whatever it takes.
Finally, she’d had some good luck.
She hadn’t expected to find Butch at her house that morning, although of course she was on his side – she had never believed Jasmine’s lies about him raping Sara. Jasmine was a two-faced, double-crossing, murderous bitch.
Butch had been begging for help, but he’d been so drunk he hadn’t even remembered the letter from Sara, even though he was the one who�
�d told Eliza about it, years ago. When she offered to retrieve it from his house, since he was obviously too drunk to drive, he took her up on the offer immediately.
And so she’d driven to Butch’s house. She’d killed one of their cats, the fat black-and-white one, and spread its blood and guts all over Jasmine’s bed. Then she’d written the message on the wall – 3 down, 1 to go – and cut up some of Jasmine’s clothes, ending it all with her tribute to Denni: one of her Hungry Man warding statues. She had several of them hidden in the spare tyre compartment of her car.
When she got back to her house, it was easy to trick the drunken Butch into lying down on her bed, handcuff him with Gabriella’s handcuffs, tie up his feet and gag him, cut all his clothes off, and then hit him a few times with the cricket bat for effect.
Her hope was that Murphy would burst through the door and, in shock and unable to regulate the overwhelming emotion, kill Butch. With Butch out of the picture, unable to defend himself, it’d be all the easier for the cops to suspect him of taking the girls.
If it came to the worst, she’d thought she could probably kill both brothers – make it look like a murder–suicide.
But it hadn’t worked. Murphy hadn’t killed Butch, and she hadn’t been able to take him out with the cricket bat. That had made her angry. Now she’d had to resort to her next plan. Poor little Wren.
She left the bathroom and headed to Monica and Tom’s room, putting on one of Monica’s dresses, a sleeveless long white summer dress with prints of blue and pink butterflies – the only one that had pockets. She transferred her permission slip, the handcuffs and Tom’s keys.
Her armour; her inventory. It was time to go to war. Her final plan.
Giving herself a once-over in the full-length mirror, even spraying some of Monica’s perfume on her wrists, she took her glasses off and walked downstairs and out the back door.
Sarge stopped barking when he saw her. Whimpering, he licked her fingers.
She patted him, then walked down the side path, through the gate, and out to Tom’s Landcruiser.
Putting her glasses back on, the drive to Madison’s house went by in full technicolour glory. Spring flowers and birds, the afternoon sky a brilliant blue. Helicopters overhead, police cars in the streets, media everywhere. The population of Limestone Creek had doubled overnight. There were SALE flags everywhere, pennants hanging from trees, MISSING posters of all four girls, the disrespect of Georgia’s face still being on display apparently lost on those who had put them up.
This is all for you, Denni.
She pulled up at Madison’s house. The last time Eliza had come here had been two days ago, after being released from custody. Before going home she’d climbed into the Masons’ house through Cierra’s window – the same way Tom always had, thanks to the broken latch on Cierra’s window – and left one of Denni’s dolls in Madison’s room.
She took her glasses off once again and left the Landcruiser running. She pounded on the front door, working herself up into a flurry, letting the tears flow.
A moment later, Madison answered the door. She was wearing her school uniform – she must have been filming a video.
She had her iPhone in her hand, brandished like a sword. Her weapon.
Her weapon, against Eliza’s new armour.
‘Uh . . . Eliza?’ Madison said, thrown off balance by Eliza’s transformation.
‘It’s me, Monica . . .’ Eliza said hurriedly. ‘Eliza is in the hospital. Butch attacked her.’
Madison swayed, holding the door. ‘So it’s true?’ she whispered. ‘Butch took the girls?’
‘Yes, and I think I know where they might be. I need someone they trust: will you come with me?’ Eliza spoke in a hurry. ‘Please, before it’s too late – you’re the only one who can help me. Quick, come with me.’ Again, she used her teacher’s voice, direct short commands.
Madison hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’ll grab my jacket.’
‘We don’t have time!’ Eliza turned and ran to the four-wheel drive. ‘Quickly!’
As Eliza knew she would, Madison followed, a few steps behind, climbing up into the passenger seat. ‘What happened to your face?’ she said.
She took a shaky breath. ‘Butch is . . . scary when he’s angry.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Madison. Her face was flushed. Her phone was in her hand, but she didn’t call the police.
Of course Madison wants to be there before anyone else, she wants to film the whole thing, thought Eliza.
It was hard to drive without her glasses. She squinted from the effort. She was so close to the end! The end of everything she’d set out to do.
‘Did Butch say anything about Bree?’ said Madison.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Eliza.
‘Detective Badenhorst said Bree had been dead for three days when we found her, but . . .’
‘But what?’ said Eliza.
‘She texted me, yesterday morning. She was about to do it. She was really going to kill herself. She told me what time she’d do it and everything! So I could organise the vigil.’
‘You’ve been in contact with the girls?’
‘Not really . . . Georgia was the one who had the phone. We all agreed she’d be the one who’d use it most wisely, the only one who wouldn’t get cold feet. When they found her body, I assumed the phone had been lost . . . but they must have switched the phone, because Bree texted me with it yesterday morning . . .’ She stomped her shoe in the footwell. ‘I don’t know where Jasmine and Cierra are.’
Eliza’s hands on the steering wheel were starting to ache from how tight she held them there. Suddenly all she could think about was killing Jasmine’s cat. Who knew cat blood could be so warm?
And why had she done it? It was stupid. The police would know it was cat’s blood. If anything, it’d direct suspicion away from Butch.
She was making mistakes. Like a stupid little girl. Making mistakes.
Soon. Soon it would all be over. Justice. And strength. Both would be hers.
Warm blood, and the feeling of Wren’s arm breaking in her hands.
I have permission to do what it takes!
The Landcruiser bumped along over the haunted bridge and through the outskirts of Limestone Creek, until oak trees and poplars gave way to the white gums and candlebarks and paddocks full of bracken fern, and above it all the stepped outline of the hazy blue Great Western Tiers. All of them were up there. Projection Bluff, Liffey Bluff, Drys Bluff, Billopp Bluff . . .
Eliza pulled off the main road and onto the bumpy four-wheel-drive track of a forestry road. She slowed right down, driving to the conditions, and rolled down the windows – the cussik-cussik of green rosellas, the harsh cry of a cockatoo.
‘Do you know where you’re going, Monica?’ said Madison, as the Landcruiser pitched from side to side. Doubt had crept into her voice.
‘I know exactly where . . .’ said Eliza. ‘Tom showed me. Butch wouldn’t have had any difficulty getting Jasmine to follow him.’ She said it firmly, allowing no argument.
The gradient grew steeper, in a series of undulations through rocky soil and red dirt. Eliza pulled over at a rocky outcrop – a clearing in the canopy – that offered a view of Limestone Creek.
‘I think this might be close. Can you help me?’ Without waiting for Madison’s reply, she climbed out of the ute and then up into the tray. ‘Come up and help me.’
‘What is it?’ said Madison, climbing out of the car. ‘Is this where they are?’
Madison screamed as a wombat, heavy and broad, snuffled off into the undergrowth of ferns and grasses. Then she laughed at herself, shakily smoothing out the skirt of her school dress.
Eliza stood upright on the tray of the Landcruiser, her white dress billowing in the breeze, weighed down by the contents of her pocket. ‘Come up here.’
Madison followed, reaching out for Eliza’s hand for help.
Eliza allowed Madison one final view of Limestone Creek. Her little kingdom, a
nd the chaos she had caused. She could hear the helicopters, the hum of traffic, thumping music from the paddock beside the community hall.
Madison looked out over the town, her deep red hair catching the wind, her shoulders rising and falling with excited breath.
‘Can you see that?’ Eliza said softly, leaning over the cab of the Landcruiser, pointing into the bush some distance away. Her other hand was in the pocket of Monica’s dress, on the cold metal of the handcuffs.
Madison shuffled to stand beside her. ‘What is it? All I see is the bush.’
‘Maybe if you lean forward . . . put your hands here,’ said Eliza, pointing at the black steel of the cab guard.
Madison put her hands where Eliza wanted them and Eliza moved quickly, slamming Madison’s head down on top of the cab, bloodying her nose, dazing her. Quick as a snake, she cuffed Madison’s wrist to the cab guard.
Madison groaned, tried to feel her nose, then realised her wrist was cuffed. She tried to yank away, but the cuffs shackled her to the cab guard. ‘What are you doing?’ she screamed.
Eliza pulled Madison’s phone from the pocket of her school dress and stepped back, out of reach. She weighed the phone in her hand, before taking a photo of Madison.
Madison’s eyes widened, blood dripping out of her nose. ‘You took them, Monica?’
Eliza took her glasses out of her pocket and slid them onto her nose. Now she could see Madison in sharper focus: the terror, the blood running from her nose, the panicked breathing.
‘Eliza! You’re Eliza!’
‘Where are Jasmine and Cierra?’ said Eliza. ‘You know where they are.’
‘I don’t! I don’t!’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’ll tell me soon.’
Eliza jumped off the tray of the Landcruiser, climbed back into the driver’s seat. She turned on the ignition.
She drove higher into the mountains, Madison handcuffed to the tray, pounding on the cab with her other hand, screaming for Eliza to let her go.
If a helicopter flew overhead now, they might see the white Landcruiser, through gaps in the eucalypt canopy. And the schoolgirl thrashing and trying to break free of the handcuffs in the tray. But the whole search party was still focused on Lake Mackenzie.