The Reach

by B. Michael Radburn

  They climbed the steps into the daylight, the air fresh and clean, the scent of the pine forests noticeable after the stale air below.

  ‘Do you need a ride into town?’ Everett asked.

  Taylor noticed Jaimie with Clayborn by the Land Rover. ‘No, I’ll get Jaimie to take me back to my car at the ranger’s station.’ He reached into his breast pocket and slipped out his card. ‘My details,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’ Everett glanced at the card and slipped it into his phone cover. ‘I’m camped in the community hall,’ he said. ‘That’s where the command centre will be set up. You can find me there in the morning.’

  Taylor nodded his farewell and walked across the clearing to meet Jaimie. A poplar tree towered over the Rover, where a flash of powder blue caught his attention. It was a fairy wren, perching beside its plainer brown mate in a perfectly cupped nest.

  ‘If only they could speak,’ said Jaimie.

  Taylor looked around at the strange scene, thought about the legion of silent witnesses the wilderness possessed. ‘Amen,’ he said.

  *

  Everett opened the coveralls and wriggled his arms free, then tied the loose sleeves around his waist. He watched the others drive away, leaving only the uniformed cop, who was standing beside her patrol car by the barricade. He didn’t even know her name. Everett nodded as he looked at her, thinking that it wasn’t all that long ago he was wearing the same uniform, standing on the outside, watching the detectives work the inside. But then, that’s how a lot of Ds liked to run the show, keeping the uniforms in their place. That’s a need to know, Constable … And you don’t need to know. Yep, that’s when he promised himself he would never be like them.

  The uniformed cop looked a little bewildered at his attention; she hesitantly waved her acknowledgement and fidgeted awkwardly. Funny, but the constable didn’t carry herself like a cop, Everett thought. She was too green to possess much in the way of confidence, but also seemed to lack the usual hunger for that confidence. Everett let her be, but made a note to learn her name.

  His mouth was dry, and his head swam with case details – said case having just grown even more complex, thanks to Taylor’s weather prediction. He examined the sky, searching for any sign of the approaching storm. Time was always the investigator’s enemy, and now the clock seemed to be ticking even faster. He glanced at the two watches on his arm. One of them, a ten-dollar special that kept good time. The other, Sergeant Archie Stone’s black-faced Seiko, perpetually stuck on a minute to midnight. ‘Miss you, Sarge.’ The words seemed to scratch his dry throat. He remembered the bottle of water he’d left at the entrance, and took a long drink, noticing a slight tremble in the hand that held the bottle.

  Everett needed to take stock, because tomorrow he was going to be in the spotlight. He took a deep, steadying breath and thought about Archie, his first station commander out of the academy. A tall man, carrying a little too much weight around the belly, with red cheeks and a fading ginger crew cut with a bald patch on the crown, he was the classic iron fist in a velvet glove.

  ‘Some cops are made, and some are born,’ Archie told him once, his voice a gravel rasp from the cigars he liked so much. ‘If you’re a born cop, then you’ll be an observer by nature – you can’t just switch it off.’ For a moment, Everett thought he could smell cigar smoke in the air.

  He smiled. That was Everett to a T … the chronic observer. He had been since the day he made his own detective kit when he was a kid and solved his first case. The scene, Richmond Primary School; the case, the missing jelly-bean jar.

  ‘Observe, be patient, and the truth will make itself known,’ Archie had also told him. Everett then recalled the three wise monkeys ashtray on the commander’s desk: one monkey, a cigar cutter; another, a clip; and the third, a lighter.

  ‘Thanks, boss,’ Everett whispered, and took another mouthful of water. He bowed his head, remembering Archie’s funeral, with full police honours. The last time he’d seen him was the day Everett left for his first city posting, no longer a wet-eared recruit. ‘You are what you are, kid,’ Archie had said. ‘Now, go show ’em what a born cop can do.’

  Everett took out his phone, anchoring himself in the moment. Opting for the earbuds, he scrolled down the music list, choosing hip-hop duo Bad Meets Evil. ‘Hit me, Slim,’ he said, and made his way back down into the dig, a rhythmic beat building in his ears.

  4

  In the pale evening light, Taylor climbed the steps that scaled the Brown Sugar Café. He almost dropped the key to his room when he placed his bag at the door. The young waitress who’d given him the key had advised there was a porch light on the landing. Taylor guessed the café was her after-school job. The name tag on her shirt read Beck, and her shoulder-length hair was the colour of midnight; darker still against her Goth-pale skin, with a shadowed spot on her nose where Taylor guessed a ring usually perched. Despite her efforts to appear grim, her manner was welcoming, perhaps because she recognised a kindred spirit in Taylor, a fellow outsider.

  The landing outside his room was precariously narrow. The key needed to be jiggled in the slot before the door opened with a gentle kick, but Beck had warned him about that. Taylor located the switch and flicked the light on, the single clear bulb a little harsh on his eyes.

  He stepped inside, and saw a raked ceiling of exposed timbers supporting the angled walls. Nice, he decided. A faint scent from the pine forest in the hills filtered down through the thin curtains that swayed across the open attic window. He checked out the room on his left: a small bathroom, dated, but neat as a pin. The room’s colours were lively, sky blue with clean white trimmings – refreshing after the long day Taylor had had. A floral doona was across the double bed.

  Maggie would like this, he thought.

  He placed his bag on the bed and walked to the window, opening the curtains to see a planter box of orange dahlias. He sniffed their red hearts, but could still only smell the pine forest. The window had a clear view of the river over the levee bank, the water shimmering in the dusk. The remnants of a jetty reached out over the rippled surface, its timbers crooked and broken, waiting for riverboats that would never come. Taylor stepped across to the second window, which had a small writing desk before it, a phone and a notepad beside a copy of the café’s menu. He flicked through it, the chicken parmigiana wetting his appetite.

  The phone rang, startling him. He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Bridges, it’s Heather Starling, your host.’ Her voice had a cheerful inflection to it, although it sounded almost forced. ‘I missed you when you checked in this afternoon, so I just wanted to make sure everything is okay.’

  Taylor looked around at the room, like a picture from the pages of Town & Country. ‘It’s perfect, Heather, thank you.’

  ‘Well, please call if there’s anything you need, okay?’

  ‘Café still open? The chicken parmigiana sounds good.’

  She laughed. ‘I tell you what – you freshen up, and I’ll prepare a parmigiana that you’ll remember for the rest of your life.’

  Taylor smiled. ‘That’s quite a claim.’

  ‘It’s quite a parmy,’ she said. There was a dry playfulness in her voice that Taylor liked.

  He took Heather’s advice, and shaved and washed his face with cold water. That woke him from his lethargy, and he went down to the café.

  The temperature had dropped considerably since sunset. A loud motorcycle, a black Harley-Davidson, approached, all headlights and rumble until it passed. The burly rider, bearded, with a tattered leather jacket, rode past and turned into the alley beside the bar. Taylor noted the large emblem across his back: an eagle encircled by the words Live to Ride, Ride to Live. When the rider cut the engine, Taylor could hear the hubbub from the bar drift out into the street. His stomach grumbled and he stepped into the café with a tinkle of the bell above the door. The aromas from the kitchen were comforting as they mixed with the underlying smell of brewed coffee. The door cl
osed behind him, shutting out the sound of the pub.

  He could hear a clatter from the kitchen out back, but the café was empty, with Beck the Goth nowhere to be seen. Hard to compete against the pub in a town like this, Taylor supposed. He grabbed a menu from beside the register and took it to a table by the window. Keen to see the desserts, he flicked to the back page, where a folded pamphlet slipped out onto the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. WELCOME TO THE HAWKESBURY was the heading. The brochure, a listing of local towns and activities, was dog-eared. Taylor ran his finger down the list, stopped at Devlins Reach:

  Just 45 minutes off the M1 and a short ferry crossing away, historical Devlins Reach offers a quaint experience of the way life once was along the Hawkesbury’s many tributaries.

  The accompanying picture was of the Brown Sugar Café. He smiled at the café’s faded fifteen minutes of fame. When he looked back up, two boys were walking past the window. One had his head bowed and was shrouded in a grey hoodie; the other was wearing a faded red windcheater that had seen better days, fair hair whipping across his eyes. The boy brushed the strands aside, and glanced at Taylor as the pair walked on towards the hotel. And there it was – the sensation that someone was clutching Taylor’s heart. Claire’s teenage journey, with all its boredom, danger and adventure … wiped away, swallowed by the earth. He clenched his eyes shut, counted to three, opened them again. The boys were gone, and with them the hand slipped from his heart.

  But memories of Claire always invoked thoughts of Erin, the little girl who talks to her dead sister … He didn’t begrudge Erin’s relationship with Claire, real or imagined. Truth be known, he was jealous of it. Taylor realised that his fingernails were digging into the plastic tablecloth. He balled his hands together, placed them in his lap, and looked for a distraction.

  A photograph on the wall beside him caught his attention. The picture was from the mid eighties, he guessed, by the teased hair, garish makeup, and shoulder pads on the frilly gold dress. The young woman was beautiful; blond, with piercing green eyes. She was holding a bouquet of roses, and a royal-blue sash crossed her breasts: Miss Devlins Reach 1985.

  Taylor heard the kitchen door swing open and turned to see the same woman, with the same piercing eyes, but older, carrying his chicken dish. She smiled warmly, though with an edge of weariness. Her hair was a little blonder, tied back in a ribbon, with a slender border of greying roots. She wore her apron low, with a touch of cleavage displayed.

  ‘Hi.’ She placed the dish before him. ‘You must be Mr Bridges. I’m Heather.’ She glanced at the pamphlet, then wiped her hand down her apron and offered it. ‘Welcome to the Reach.’

  Taylor dropped the brochure back into the menu, and shook her hand delicately, suddenly aware of Heather’s perfume as it cut through the kitchen smells. He turned his gaze to the photograph. ‘That you, Heather?’

  She beamed proudly, then promptly put a check on her vanity. ‘Yeah, that’s me. Young and dumb.’ She chuckled to herself. ‘Now I’m old and smart. What a trade-off, huh?’ She pointed to the dress she wore in the photo. ‘My gown was an original Romeo Gigli; it cost me two months’ wages back then.’

  ‘Gigli,’ Taylor repeated, eyebrows raised. He’d never heard of the label in his life. ‘Impressive,’ he lied.

  ‘I’d like to believe that dress won me the pageant.’ She shrugged, seemingly lost in her memories. ‘Whatever it takes, right?’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ Taylor agreed. He glanced back at the photo, and it occurred to him that Heather had probably lived in the shadow of that pageant for all these years. It was a little sad, in its way. He sliced off a corner of chicken and scooped up the sauce. It was delicious but his enjoyment didn’t discourage Heather from chatting. She sat in the opposite chair and watched him eat. This wouldn’t happen back home, he thought.

  She pointed to the Parks Victoria emblem on his sleeve. ‘You’re a long way from home, Mr Bridges.’

  He swallowed. ‘I hear that a lot.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘It’s an exchange program.’ The easiest explanation, under the circumstances.

  Heather huffed. ‘Well, you’ve come at a hell of a time, what with those three dead men in the old diggings.’ She shook her head, her expression sober. ‘It must be murder. So, these are dark days.’

  Taylor forked another slice of chicken and paused before taking a bite. He suspected that Heather was fishing for information, rather than sharing any. ‘I would have thought that if three men go missing in a town this size, someone would have noticed.’

  ‘Then you don’t know the Reach.’ There was an edge of humour in her tone. ‘The majority of our population are loggers, Mr Bridges. Drifters, mostly. They come into the camps, stay awhile, and often move on without so much as a goodbye.’ Taylor noticed a softening in her eyes; a melancholy, like that evinced by a morning mist. Maybe the beauty queen had loved one of those drifters once.

  He pointed with his fork to the photo. ‘So, I guess you’re one of the few locals.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Heather sighed as if it was a burden. ‘My parents moved us here from Blackwater when I was six. Been here ever since.’ She glanced at his meal, and her smile returned. ‘Well, look at me talking away while you’re trying to eat.’ She patted his arm and stood. ‘Eat up, Mr Bridges.’ She turned back to the kitchen. ‘I’ll close up when you’re done. You can get a nightcap at the Royal, if you fancy it. Georgina Emery is the publican there. Locals call her Georgie. Tell her I sent you.’

  Taylor watched her walk through the kitchen door, as he thought about the three bodies in the dig. No man is an island, he decided. Even a drifter has a family, friends, someone who would notice they were missing. He ate the rest of his chicken and stared out the window. Heather’s perfume lingered. The moon was rising above the pine-crested hills. It was a hunter’s moon.

  *

  Detective Sergeant Ryan Everett sat alone at a table in the pub’s bistro. A half-eaten portion of soggy shepherd’s pie lay on his plate, while the remainder rested heavily in his stomach. Everett pushed the plate away, his mind on the case, his finger drawing circles on the face of Archie’s watch. He shook it, held it to his ear – nothing. The sound from the bar drifted in. He glanced around at the empty bistro; he’d never felt more like an outsider than he did in this town, but he was better off alone.

  Everett closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling tension on the cusp of a headache creeping in behind his eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of the three bodies in the boat hulks. What is it that binds them? He pulled his notebook from his breast pocket to add to his growing list of loose ends.

  After he paid and left, the evening dragged on, the residue of the fatty pie lingering in his mouth. Back at the community hall, he tried to relax by reading a John Grisham book on his tablet, but found himself drifting to the internet to dig a little deeper into the practice of cutting the Achilles tendon that Taylor had mentioned. He discovered the park ranger was right about hunters doing it to keep their prey alive before slaughter, denying them the ability to run away. However, it was also widely used in abattoirs up until the early nineteen hundreds. Either way, the outcome was the same. Around eight pm, he tried to get to sleep in the canvas camp bed set up in the corner, but by eight-fifteen, he was dressed and driving the unmarked Commodore back to the crime scene.

  The placement of the three bodies from left to right played on his mind. Going by the state of decomposition, the man in the centre was killed and his body placed there first. Then the man on the left and, finally, the one on the right. If you’re a born cop, then you’ll be an observer by nature – you can’t switch it off. His disposition was beginning to feel like a curse.

  A yellow moon climbed above the hills, heavy and bright, glaring down over the dig site. Everett crested the hill, and could hear the generator that was feeding the arc lights and pumps as he approached. He pulled up beside the uniformed cop, who had stepped out of her patrol car to greet him. The con
stable’s cap was on the dashboard beside a hardcover book; her light-blue shirt crumpled after a long day, the epaulet with the single constable’s stripe twisted. Everett guessed she was probably trying to catch some sleep, as evidenced by the hint of embarrassment in her expression as she scrambled for her cap.

  She leaned down to Everett’s open window. ‘Back already, sir?’

  Everett noticed just how young the constable looked. A highly coloured complexion bordered her brandy coloured eyes, which were heavy and looked impatient for sleep. She hastily adjusted her utility belt and tightened the hair band around her chestnut-brown ponytail, placed her cap on her head.

  ‘Can’t help myself,’ Everett said. He looked at the name tag – Fisher. ‘What’s your first name, Fisher?’

  ‘Neve, sir.’

  ‘Well, I think we can dispense with formalities out here, Neve. No need for sir. When does your replacement arrive?’

  ‘He’s been delayed. Missed the last ferry.’ She shrugged. ‘Looks like I’m here until morning.’

  The constable was hiding her frustration well, but it was still evident she didn’t want to be here, guarding a hole in the ground; at least not alone.

  ‘Are you gonna be okay out here?’ Everett asked.

  ‘It’s just one night.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve got something to read. I’ll be fine.’

  Everett gestured to the hardcover on the dashboard. ‘Good book?’

  The constable flushed and hesitated before replying, ‘Australian Native Plants.’ She shrugged and seemed a little embarrassed. ‘The sixth edition,’ she added. ‘It’s kind of a hobby.’

  Everett noted her self-consciousness, wondering why she displayed it over something as innocent as a horticulture book. ‘A hobby you wished was a career, maybe?’

  She stared at the book, suddenly a little distant. ‘My father and older brother are both cops. Seemed the right decision at the time.’