“I made a mistake.”
“I knew you were up to something. You’re not very good at lying.”
“And you’re an expert.”
“You’re not leaving.” His face was implacable.
She knew then, even as she tried to ride past him. Even as he caught her reins and grabbed her arm, hauling her from her saddle. She knew he was going to hurt her.
The following morning Gabe and Claire met as usual in the café to discuss upcoming stories for the Bugle.
As soon as she sat down Claire became aware of the weariness in her body, and at the edges of her mind. She hadn’t slept well. There had been the usual nightmares, of course. The faceless stranger watching her. An endless fall into darkness.
Perhaps the nightmare was symbolic of her coma, or perhaps it really had happened, perhaps someone had hurt her deliberately and left her for dead. The police had said her head injuries could have been sustained in a fall, and there were other bruises, old and new. But they couldn’t tell her for certain and she could not remember, so how could she ever really know?
As well as lack of sleep from the nightmares, Claire now found herself replaying in her head, over and over again, the moment out in the reservoir when she had slipped and fallen. It was like a clip from a bizarre movie, only this wasn’t a movie. Real or fantasy? A figment of her imagination or an actual happening? No wonder she was tired.
They had fallen quiet, Gabe reading and Claire eating her breakfast. She didn’t know she was going to ask the question until the words came out.
“Tell me what you know about Niall McEwen?”
Gabe seemed startled, although he took his time putting down his paper and looking up at her. “Probably as much as you.”
“Oh, come on, you’ve lived here all your life. I’ve only been here for four years. You must know more than me.”
Gabe seemed to be gathering his thoughts.
“Niall’s grandfather was the younger son of an aristocratic family in Scotland, and there’s some debate whether he came to Australia to make his fortune or because he was being disinherited for some misdemeanor. Anyway, it hardly mattered, because he struck it rich on the goldfields and used the money to buy land. Set himself up, and formed a dynasty.
“Niall was the favored grandson. He was a bit of a scoundrel, with plenty of money and a handsome face and probably no one in his entire life had ever said no to him. So when he set eyes on Helen he wanted her, and for Niall that was it, really. He wanted her and so he had her.”
“Gabe, you make him sound appalling,” she laughed.
“Helen wasn’t as well bred as Niall, but far more respectable. She held out for marriage, and eventually he proposed. It was a big wedding.”
“You sound as if you didn’t like Helen,” Claire said.
Gabe looked down at his coffee cup. “Do I? My grandfather had a photograph of her in his desk drawer—I think he was half in love with her despite the fact she was long gone before he was born. She was beautiful, and she used her looks to get what she wanted. Abit like Niall used his charm. It made them well suited.”
“Was it a happy marriage?”
“Niall was a womanizer but despite that he always insisted he loved his wife. Then Helen disappeared. Vanished completely.”
“They searched?”
“Oh yes. Looked everywhere. The police believed she’d run off with a lover—although who that lover was was never discovered. But the people around here thought differently. A rumor started that Niall had murdered Helen and hid the body. The rumor was never substantiated but it was enough to make Niall’s life unbearable. He sold up and left the district. The valley was flooded and that was that.”
Claire was quiet, mulling over his words. She knew the basic story, of course, but somehow Gabe’s blunt retelling of it made it all more real to her. “What do you think happened to Helen?”
“I don’t know, Claire.” He was frowning, and now he pushed his coffee cup aside. “Why this sudden interest?”
Something stirred in her mind but she couldn’t grasp it. Tantalizingly it remained just out of reach. And there was that niggling feeling in her stomach again, that urge to find out what really happened. That sense that something wasn’t quite right.
Claire met Gabe’s intelligent eyes and for a moment she was strongly tempted to tell him what had happened last night, but almost immediately she knew she wouldn’t. Gabe was a rational man and what Claire had experienced, if it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, wasn’t rational.
“Last night I walked across the reservoir, closer to the homestead, and took some photos,” she admitted.
“By yourself?” Gabe’s frown deepened. “Claire, it’s dangerous out there!”
“I was alone.”
He shook his head. “That’s my point. You were alone and the ground is treacherous. You could have fallen . . . been hurt . . . anything.”
“I was fine,” Claire said firmly.
Gabe seemed to know it was time to back off. He rearranged his teaspoon. “Are they good?”
“The photos? I think so. I haven’t developed them yet.”
“Why don’t you use one for the front cover on Thursday?” A peace offering.
“Thanks. I will.”
Gabe nodded, and then his mouth quirked up into a smile. Claire smiled back. I do love him, she thought. That’s why I don’t want to burden him with any more of my problems.
“Do you still have your grandfather’s photo of Helen?” she said.
Gabe hesitated. “Somewhere.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“I’ll look it out,” he said casually.
Helen’s body was one long ache where she’d landed on the ground when he pulled her from the horse. She opened her mouth to scream but he was already onto her, hand covering her face, dragging her toward the barn. She kicked and struggled, but then he raised his fist and struck her hard on the jaw, and everything went quiet. When she came around she was lying on the ground just inside the barn, her head throbbing and her vision woozy.
Was he gone?
But no, even as the hopeful thought entered her head she heard his steps as he made his preparations. Helen knew she was going to die and anger and regrets filled her. A single foolish mistake had brought her to this violent end.
“Niall . . .” she groaned.
He laughed. “Too late to be sorry,” he mocked. “Far too late for that.”
Claire had an assignment with a local farm machinery supplier, taking details for a paid promotion. Afterwards, on a whim, she drove out to the town cemetery, where the gravestones spoke of past joys and sorrows, good times and bad.
The iron gate clanged shut behind her. Heat shimmered from the ground and the smell of eucalyptus filled her nostrils and cleared her head. High among the drooping leaves a bird rustled and then flew off with a slow, lazy flapping of its wings.
The McEwen graves were in the older, pioneer section. Her gaze slid over Niall’s grandparents and parents, but there was no stone for Niall. Wherever he’d died it wasn’t here. There was nothing for Helen, either.
It would be impossible to bury someone whose body had never been found, but there could be a memorial with her name and a brief rehash of her the circumstances of her disappearance.
No body, no memorial, and no way to put Helen to rest.
The heat was getting worse, the air so still and hot Claire found it difficult to breath. Still no hint of rain. Sometimes Claire wondered if it was ever going to rain again. Drought, with its accompanying water restrictions and daily worries and irritations, had become a way of life. Nothing stirred, nothing moved, and yet there was that sense of watching.
Hastily Claire turned back.
It was late by the time she got to transfer her photos onto her computer. They were good, especially those where the homestead sat lonely within its moat, the water reflecting the first dawn light. Claire began to set aside the ones she thought would made a good f
ront page for the newspaper, turning her full attention to each new shot.
One of them puzzled her until she realized that the camera must have gone off when she fell over. A dark, confusing shot, with a partial view of the front of the homestead, some of the sky, and the gleam of light on the water. All shadows and angles.
She was about to move on when something else caught her eye. Reaching for the zoom button, she leaned closer to the computer screen. Her heart seemed to stop.
There was a face, barely visible within the gloom of the doorway. Had there been a door? Claire didn’t remember. The face was only half a face, the gleam of an eye, the shine of cheek and lips, but it was a face. Surely she could not be mistaken?
No, she wasn’t. Something or someone had been there. Watching her. She hadn’t been alone out there after all! Some stranger had been waiting, observing her, hiding from her. Then the voice, the word ‘Helen’, had been spoken by a real man and not a ghostly presence?
She felt relief fight through her fear. Claire peered more closely at her photo, but it was impossible to accurately make out the features in the dark and light smudges that mingled to make the man’s face. She could show Gabe, see if he recognized anything about the man, but Gabe was protective enough. If he thought she was in any sort of danger he’d be here, babysitting her. Better if she kept it to herself, at least until she knew what she was dealing with.
It was probably nothing to worry about.
Helen could hear Moppet barking. A warm wet tongue woke her from her half conscious state. She murmured reassurance, but when she tried to take the little dog in her arms she found her ankles and wrists were bound with cord. The barn door was closed, too, and it was dark inside.
At least she was still alive. For now.
Moppet barked again and she tried to hush him, discovering that her mouth was also bound with some sort of cloth gag. But now he’d accomplished his task of waking her he seemed content to be quiet.
Helen wriggled onto her back, wincing, and sat up. He’d tied her hands in front of her and it only took a moment for her to find a pitchfork among the bales of hay, rubbing the cord against the prongs until they frayed enough for her to break them. Even so, her skin was raw and bleeding. Hurriedly she removed the gag and then the cord about her ankles, staggering to her feet.
Moppet ran to the back wall and Helen followed, realizing there was a gap in the boards, half hidden behind a barrel. The little dog darted through and Helen began to follow, ignoring the stabbing pain behind her eyes and the queasiness in her stomach.
Behind her the barn door opened.
Angus had once been a big man but age had bowed and shrunk him down into something less formidable. Angus ran a small museum in an old house in the main street.
Claire knew she should be working but she still had that squirmy feeling in her stomach and she needed distraction. It was more than that, though. The idea of solving the mystery of Helen and Niall had taken hold of her. It wouldn’t restore her own lost self, but it would help. It would give her the self-confidence she needed to tell Gabe she was in love with him.
“Do you have any photos of Niall McEwen’s homestead?”
“I do have a few photos. Why do you want to see them, Claire?”
“I thought I’d do a story on Niall. Now you can see the homestead again people are interested.”
“Are they?” Angus looked skeptical. “There was always something nasty about that whole Helen thing.”
Nevertheless he went and found the photos, packed in a cardboard box. When Claire asked if she could take them with her he gave her a hard stare.
“I’ll be very careful,” she promised.
Reluctantly he put the box in her arms and she carried it out to the car, closing the trunk just as her cell phone rang.
“Claire? Merv here, how you doing?”
Merv was her neighbor further along the reservoir toward the spillway.
“You haven’t lost a dog, have you Claire?”
“A dog? I heard one barking one night in the res. I thought it might be yours.”
“Well it’s here but it’s not mine. Not yours either then?”
“No.”
“Just turned up in the middle of the night. Strange thing was it was covered in mud and all wet. Must have been in the water, I reckon.”
Claire felt a prickle of unease. What about the man who had been in the homestead, the man in the photo? Was the dog his? And if so, why had he left it behind?
“Claire?”
She realized she’d fallen silent, standing by her car, the phone pressed hard to her ear. “How about I come over and take a look at it now? I’m about to drive home anyway.”
“See you then.”
Merv, man of few words, hung up. Claire climbed into the car, telling herself that it was probably just a stray dog, dumped on the highway further out of town. Animals could smell water for miles, couldn’t they?
Merv was waiting for her, his shock of white hair even wilder than usual. Inside a dog was barking. Short, sharp yaps. It sounded like the dog she’d heard the other night. As Merv opened a door a small bundle of newly washed white fur ran past him and straight at Claire. Before she could stop it, the small dog was jumping at her, blunt claws scrabbling at her legs as it barked hysterically.
“Whoa there, boy!” Merv caught the sturdy little animal up, holding it away from her, but it continued to bark. Bright eyes peered at her through a mop of white fringe, and a pink tongue lolled as it fought to catch its breath. Merv looked at Claire. “You sure you haven’t met before? He seems to think you’re his.”
She shook her head, laughing, and reached out to rub the dog’s head. It was white and woolly. This wasn’t the sort of dog that an owner dumped on a highway; this was a pet, healthy and well-fed.
“I wonder where he came from?” she asked, smiling as the animal licked at her hand, little tail wagging so violently his whole body shook in Merv’s arms.
“Your guess is as good as mine. He’s an intelligent little fellow, and friendly.”
Claire gave the woolly head another pat. “I’ll put something in the paper for Thursday. Perhaps we can find his owners.”
The dog seemed calmer now, and Merv put it down. It trotted over to Claire and sat, gazing up at her with adoring eyes.
“Love at first sight,” Merv quipped.
“I’ve never had a dog,” she said, stooping to tickle the animal under the chin. “Well, not that I can remember, anyway.”
Merv leaned against the doorjamb. “Nothing’s come back to you then?”
Claire grimaced. “Nothing. It’s as if I never existed. As if I’m nobody.”
“You’re somebody in this town, Claire,” Merv reminded her levelly.
It was nice of him to say so, and Claire smiled.
“I hear you’re digging into Helen’s disappearance.” The lurking smile had gone from Merv’s eyes.
“Yes, I am. Do you think Niall killed Helen? Is that what everyone thinks?”
He shrugged. The little dog barked, breaking the tension.
“Do you want to take him? Might be company for you until his owner’s found.”
The dog was watching her, panting, and she nodded. Why not?
But as she drove away, the dog sitting proudly in the back seat, questions began to fill her head. If the dog belonged to the man in the homestead then why had it run away? Could . . . could the man have fallen? Claire’s heart began to pound. Was he still out there, inside, too hurt to call out? Trapped and injured and expecting her help.
Guilt swamped her. The other night all she had wanted to do was get away from the place, and it hadn’t occurred to her that the man might need her help, that she was running from an injured man and not a ghost.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself, and pressed down hard on the accelerator.
He was coming closer. She heard him throwing aside hay and tools and empty crates, anything in his way. Helen reached through the
gap in the wall, fingers like claws in the earth, and pulled herself through. A moment later she was on her feet and running toward the homestead. There were people there. She could get help. Someone would help her.
The water had receded some more, leaving a line of newly formed crusts over the mud around the edge of the moat. It was still too deep for Claire to wade across despite her gumboots, but she could see the bottom now and from the feel of the sun scorching her back, it wouldn’t be long before it had dried up enough.
She shaded her eyes and squinted up the slope toward the homestead. The barns and other buildings that must once have encircled the main homestead were long gone, either rotted into the mud or dismantled before the water covered them. In daylight the homestead had lost its poignancy and looked forlorn, with one wall leaning dangerously, the boards buckled and warped, and the window frames empty dark squares staring inward.
“Hello!”
The word seemed to stop, as if it came up against something solid. No echo, no carry. She called again. There was still no real sense that anyone who might be in the structure would be able to hear her, or that she could hear them. Especially if they were injured and unable to answer loudly.
She should have gone back for Merv. But she admitted that she wasn’t sure enough to risk making a fool of herself—the amnesiac who imagined ghostly voices. Claire would just love for that rumor to begin to circulate.
Cautiously she stepped closer, her gumboots sinking into the mud with an evil squelching sound. The heat of the sun stung her skin and perspiration dripped down her back. Everything was so still, the air wavering like steam from a kettle, but it was an uncomfortable tranquility. And the sense of being watched was back, and with it a feeling of menace.
Ignoring her unease, Claire focused her gaze on the ground leading up to the homestead. No footprints that she could see, nothing to show that anyone had ever walked or crawled up there. Not even the little dog.
And yet they must have. She had proof in the photo.
“Hello! Are you all right?”
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