‘Walter Dench’s cabin?’
She turned her stare to Everett, body rigid, as if even just saying the name was a sin. ‘Yes, Dench!’ She almost spat it.
‘What can you tell us about him?’ Everett asked.
She paused. ‘What can you say about any monster?’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘Walter Dench was a cook at the mill.’ She nodded at the scrapbook. ‘There are some clippings about him in there.’ She turned back to the fire. ‘I remember that foul man … It was common knowledge he had a crop of marijuana hidden in the forest. There were rumours also that his old hound dog was trained to sniff out magic mushrooms. He sold them to the kids in Blackwater and Richmond on his days off. He knew it was too risky to do it on the Reach.’ She patted her chest, notably upset at the memory, then made the sign of the cross. ‘For two whole years, that bastard had chained those poor girls to their beds. The marks were still deep on Ali’s wrists when she got out.’
Taylor noticed a tear run down Sister Moore’s cheek. She took a crumpled handkerchief from her sweater and quickly wiped it away.
‘Paris had become so thin from malnutrition that we think she slipped the chain off her wrist one night. Maybe Dench had left their door unlocked. Maybe he was drunk, passed out somewhere. Ali thinks Paris had found his keys, freed her, and set fire to the cabin, using the man’s own hooch as an accelerant. Ali told us that Paris stayed too long, perhaps to watch him burn. The truth is, no one really knows.’
‘Are you sure she didn’t say anything else about her captivity?’ Taylor asked. ‘Maybe during her recovery?’ He noted the nun’s jaw clench, and her chin quiver.
‘Take your time, Sister,’ Everett said.
‘Although Alison never spoke of what happened at the cabin, the doctor’s report stated she had been …’ she struggled for the right word ‘… penetrated,’ she decided on. She again patted her eyes with her handkerchief, then looked at the scrapbook in Everett’s hands. ‘We … I was supposed to be those girls’ guardian. Instead, I …’ She stopped, clasped her hands together. ‘I was so pleased Ali made it out.’
Taylor glanced at Everett and frowned. Sister Moore’s reaction to Ali’s escape was slightly disturbing. He could see that Everett thought so too, but the detective’s manner didn’t change. ‘Alison,’ he said softly. ‘She was a favourite?’
Sister Moore again reached for her cigarettes. She lit one and clutched the pack in her lap with white-knuckled anguish. ‘I know how that must have sounded, Detective. But Paris … she was an unusual child from the time she could walk; more so by the time she could talk.’
‘How so?’ Everett asked.
She again inhaled deeply, blew the smoke towards the fire, and looked around at the bookcases. ‘I’ve seen a lot of children come through this institution, Detective. Mischievous kids and angels. The angels could just as easily grow up to be wicked, and the wicked to be good, and everything in between. But Paris …’ Sister Moore stared into the fire, shadows settling on her face as she recalled. ‘She was neither … and both at the same time; a constant surprise.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Taylor said.
‘No, I don’t expect you do … As the children developed, I saw their traits and personalities develop with them. I concluded that there are only so many personalities in this world. Sooner or later, those personalities would show themselves in the children; and they were a pathway, if you will. A means to help me place the children with compatible parents or foster families later.’
‘Where did Paris fit in that theory?’ Everett asked.
Sister Moore shook her head. ‘Paris didn’t follow any set pathway, Detective. She was a chameleon. She could develop a personality to suit the day, situation or person she happened to be with. At first, I thought it merely the typical theatrics coming from a child’s imagination, but there was more to it.’ She drew on her cigarette in contemplation. ‘I felt Paris possessed a desperate need to fit in, but her methods only resulted in keeping the others at a distance. Children are very intuitive, Detective, and will always seek the least path of resistance. And that pathway was to keep Paris out of their circles. The only exception was little Ali.’ She frowned at the memory. ‘As I said, those two could have been sisters, they were so alike to look at. Similar deep-brown eyes, like coffee, although Paris’s were a little darker. The same raven-black hair. Originally, Ali’s was shoulder length, while Paris preferred a shorter bob. And in the days before they disappeared, they had both cut their hair so short and ragged, they looked like two boys, and had never looked so much alike.’
‘Can you explain Alison’s attraction to Paris?’ Everett asked. ‘What was the appeal?’
‘I can only guess, Detective,’ she said. ‘But I think Paris kind of lured Ali in by acting as her big sister; creating a bond more like one of blood than of friendship. I think Paris recognised what Ali coveted most and used it to meet both her own needs and Ali’s. I found her to be most intelligent and highly observant, able to absorb information easily and use it for her own ends. I believe she made herself the protective sister, confident and strong. As for Ali, she was the nervous type, skittish. Two opposites that made a whole.’
Taylor felt a pinch of anguish. If Erin – or Claire – had ever had to survive a place like this … ‘It’s so sad,’ he offered.
‘Sadness will drown you in a place like this,’ Sister Moore said. ‘You have to learn to swim through it; keep your head above it.’
The ranger sensed the weight of that water, not wanting to swim in it with her. ‘This cabin of Dench’s,’ said Everett. ‘I don’t suppose you know where it is?’ Taylor was grateful for the switch back to business.
‘What little we know about those events came from Ali after the fire happened, and the location of the cabin was one of many things she couldn’t recall. The police couldn’t draw it out of her; doctors, psychologists, no one. She didn’t know how long she’d been walking when they found her. Hours or days. Police and volunteers looked for the place, but never found it. Probably not even the ashes would be there now.’
‘So, Dench’s body – and Paris’s body – were never recovered?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ she said.
Everett glanced at Taylor, as if he might know the answer. The ranger shrugged, aware that the two missing bodies left a glaring hole in Alison’s story.
‘I’d like to speak with Alison if I could,’ said the detective. ‘Do you know how we can contact her?’
Sister Moore shook her head. ‘Ali never returned to the children’s home. She ended up under the care of child welfare services: a string of hospitals, psychiatrists, foster homes.’ She flicked her spent cigarette into the fire. ‘I followed her progress for a little while, and she sent me a letter a few years back.’ She gestured at the scrapbook. ‘It’s in there. It was sent from Rushworth, Victoria, in 2011. But when I wrote back, the post office returned my letter marked Not at this address.’
‘What did she say in her letter?’ Taylor asked.
‘Not much,’ she replied. ‘Just that she was okay, remembered me, and that she had found her calling. And …’ She looked into Taylor’s eyes, and he noted something glimmering there; perhaps trepidation. ‘And that we would meet again.’
‘A calling?’ asked Everett. ‘Religion?’
‘I’m not sure. But she sounded different. The scared little girl was gone. Perhaps she finally found what she had sought all those years. Perhaps she found it through surviving those two years at the hands of Dench. Or perhaps it was even something passed on from Paris.’
Everett cleared his throat, catching the nun’s attention.
‘You are one of the few here in town who witnessed those events.’ The detective had an air of caution in his tone. ‘And it would stand to reason you would have a good knowledge of who the girls might have been close to before the abductions.’
‘I wasn’t aware of them being close to anyone, except of course each other. And, getting back to you
r investigation, are you asking me whether Alison could have done those terrible things to the men in the boat?’
‘No. I’m asking if there was anyone else from the children’s home, or the township, who could have done those things to avenge what happened to Alison and Paris?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Detective.’ She suddenly frowned, and stared at Everett with a newfound intensity. ‘I hope you’re not accusing me of such a thing.’
Taylor glanced around the room and saw that the cats were also staring at Everett, as if awaiting his answer.
The detective paused; perhaps a little longer than Sister Moore liked. ‘Not at all, Sister,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’
They sat in silence for an uneasy moment. Sister Moore rested back in her chair, her fingers buried in Ginger’s thick coat, the firelight dancing in her and the cat’s eyes. Everett caught Taylor’s glance and nodded to the door.
‘Well, thank you, Sister. I think we have enough for now,’ the detective said. He reached into his breast pocket, took out a generic police contact card and pen, and wrote his details on the back. ‘You can reach me directly on that number if anything else comes to mind.’
Sister Moore shuffled to a standing position. ‘Do either of you gentlemen have children?’ she asked, taking the card from Everett.
‘I do,’ said Taylor, suddenly feeling especially protective of Erin.
The nun’s expression said it all: Then you know my pain. She stepped forwards, cupped his hands in hers and patted them. ‘This way,’ she said, and walked to the door.
‘We can make our own way out,’ Everett said, scrapbook under his arm.
She stood by the wicker basket and lifted the lid. Inside was a mound of identical Raggedy Ann dolls. She reached in, selected one and, tidying its woollen strands of hair, offered it to Taylor. ‘We made them and gave them to the children when they left for their new homes. It was something to remember us by; something to comfort them in their sleep.’ She wiped away the string of tears streaking her cheek. ‘Perhaps your child would like one.’
Taylor took it, gazed into its button eyes. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ he said. But the doll’s connection with this place disturbed him.
Sister Moore stepped back into the room, and eased into her chair. ‘Make sure you pull the front door hard,’ she said. ‘The latch doesn’t always catch and the wind blows it open.’
They made their way out, leaving the dark halls behind them. Taylor was glad to leave. As they paused on the landing, he could sense the place’s despair pressing against the timber door, wanting to burst out into the day. As he and Everett walked outside, the wind brushed Taylor’s hair and the daylight washed the place from his skin. He felt he could breathe again.
13
The journey back to town seemed longer than the drive up, and somehow more isolated, but it gave Taylor the time he needed to process the conversation with Sister Moore.
‘Do you think the A symbol stands for Alison?’ he asked Everett.
‘It’s the closest link to date,’ the detective replied.
But Taylor saw an edge of doubt in his eyes. ‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘The symbol may indeed stand for Alison, but that doesn’t mean she is responsible for these murders. The MO certainly looks like revenge, but it could have been on Alison’s behalf, by a third party. A boyfriend or husband, for example. Perhaps even the parent who abandoned her to the welfare system and feels guilty. We know who Alison was, but who is she now?’
‘What about Sister Moore? She seems to be carrying a load of guilt.’
Everett shrugged. ‘Can’t rule her out. But I also can’t imagine her carrying someone like Sampson around these hills.’
‘So, why has she gone off the grid like she has? Alison, I mean.’
‘It’s not uncommon for someone who has experienced that kind of trauma to just want to fade into obscurity; reinvent themselves somehow. It’s a way of creating some kind of distance from the event.’
‘I guess,’ said Taylor, acknowledging to himself that it was all too easy to join the dots prematurely in a case like this. He admired Everett’s restraint in not doing the same.
‘And, besides,’ Everett continued, ‘every answer we uncover just seems to pose more questions.’ He patted the scrapbook on the dashboard. ‘Maybe it’s all in here, but I suspect there’s even more in the ruins of Dench’s cabin – wherever that is.’ The wind buffeted the car with a violent heave forcing Everett to grasp the wheel with both hands. ‘I could possibly find the place with air support, but PolAir won’t fly in this shitstorm.’
‘What about Google Earth?’
‘Tried it last night,’ Everett said. ‘Most of the park is low-res imaging. No chance of finding a building, or partial building, among the trees.’
Taylor looked at his watch. ‘The contrast might be clear enough to make out any marshlands, though; give us possible locations for the alligator weed.’ The ranger shrugged, feeling compelled to use what was left of the daylight. ‘I could take another look around the weir,’ he added. ‘One way or another, the cabin was within walking distance of where Alison was found on that logging road.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Everett, ‘but after what happened to Sampson, I can’t risk the same thing happening to you.’
Frustrating, but Everett was right. If a man-mountain like Sampson could be taken down by their assailant, what chance would he have?
They approached the town square in silence as Taylor’s thoughts turned to the mysterious Alison. People don’t just disappear without a trace these days. There’s always a trail.
Everett pulled up outside the Brown Sugar Café. Taylor stared up at his room window, one hand on the doorhandle, the other clutching the Raggedy Ann doll. He opened the car door and stepped outside, wondering if he wasn’t also guilty of wanting to disappear sometimes.
‘We’ll catch up later,’ he said and closed the door.
Everett wound down the window and leaned across to talk to him. ‘You okay there, Taylor?’
The ranger paused. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘It’s a lot to process.’
‘Take a page from Alison’s book,’ Everett offered. ‘Give it some distance.’
Taylor smiled. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, reminded again of Maggie’s advice. If things get too hot, you walk away. And when it’s done, leave it out there.
He climbed the steps to his room, and sat on the end of his bed, the soft doll beside him. The room had been cleaned, and fresh flowers stood in a vase on the sideboard. A mellow dusk light spilled through the curtains. He found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror; weariness evident in the bags forming under his eyes. The buffeting gale rattled the window as he rubbed his cheeks until they reddened. The weather was now as much a part of the Reach as anything else, its presence a constant influence on everything he did. It was an invisible force when he was seeking refuge indoors – pressing at the walls, rattling the windows or humming beneath the door jambs. He slipped off his jacket, and took his wallet, phone and keys from the pockets, placing them on the sideboard and laying the garment beside him.
He opened his wallet to the picture of Maggie and Erin from the previous Christmas, then slipped the one of Claire out from behind it. He could remember her honey-soft voice like he’d last heard it yesterday, then thought of her secret whispers to Erin. Why your sister? The thought had an edge of envy to it. Why not me, sweetheart? Why won’t you talk to me? A surge of wind slapped the side of the wall and rattled the glass in the windows. It startled him, the way waking from a shallow sleep and dreams of Claire did.
*
Everett drove straight to the Royal to wait for Sampson’s body to arrive. A light rain peppered the windscreen, but he didn’t bother turning on the wipers, liking the fact that the elements screened him from outside view. The weight of the past twenty-four hours pressing at his neck and shoulders, he pulled up outside the alley beside the pub, adjusting the mirro
r so he would have a clear view of Fisher’s arrival. Everett slid his seat back and rolled his head and shoulders. The engine’s gentle idle maintained a soothing background drone, the warm air from the dash vents feeling pleasant on his face as the bitter wind outside buffeted the Commodore in furious gusts.
The streets were empty … for now. But once Sampson’s body arrived, all that would change. Everett sighed. Thoughts of what lay ahead charged at him the way the wind was surging at the car. How in hell are two cops and a ranger going to handle this shitstorm? He tapped the face of Archie’s watch, searching for guidance. The bodies in the Royal’s cellar would need guarding to maintain their forensic integrity, something Fisher would have to do.
Oh, she’s going to love that, he thought.
Then there were the locals. It was highly likely that the perp – or perps – walked among them. After all, where better to hide than in plain sight? Everett glanced through the wavering sheets of water on the windscreen to see a figure standing, unmoving, by the Royal’s door. He switched on the wipers, and saw Carl Wiggins, the ferryman, standing beneath the awning. Even from this distance, Everett could see that his eyes had the varnished gleam that came from starting to drink too early in the day. Yet, his stance was as stable as a rock, his stare as piercing as a lance.
Who can I trust? Everett wondered. Without knowing the answer, it remained prudent to trust no one. He turned the wipers off, let Wiggins’ form once more be swallowed up by the distorting layers of rain. He could still make out the ferryman staggering back into the Royal; no doubt to the bar, from where his kids would later drag him home again.
Everett sank back into his seat. The label of outsider wasn’t one he relished, but as a detective, he knew he would have to get used to it. Don’t they know I’m here to help? Here to stop another one of them being killed? He hated to think what the outcome would be if they were left to their own devices. A bloodbath, he decided, of guilty and innocent alike. But who is the real perp? Even if there’s more than one, there still has to be a central figure making the calls. Their Hoodoo.
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