Watch out for the Hoodoo, buddy had been the warning to Sampson when he left the bar that night. Ferguson remembered it clearly. He raised the rifle. His finger touched the trigger, ready to squeeze. ‘Okay,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s do this.’
Each move forwards filled him with new confidence, swelling, buoyant. The broken clay crunched underfoot, each step making him feel taller. A twig snapped beneath his boot, but he didn’t care, the winds themselves would stifle his passage. I have the gun, not you. Ferguson stood between the two Kenworths beside the sign where he had seen the figure, the torch beam carving through the night, cast upon the empty trailers and the back of the cab’s broad step. And there he saw it, staring up at him with its one button eye – a Raggedy Ann doll. His memory stirred. Suddenly he could smell stale piss and a musty mattress, the past washing over him into the present. Then came the pain …
It shot up from his left heel, the slice of a blade cutting deeply with a swift, firm stroke. Instinctively he tried to run, but when his left foot bore his weight, the pain exploded and he collapsed. The rifle slipped from his grasp, firing into the air with a crack when it hit the ground, the sound whipped away by the squall. But not his cry. His head filled with his own scream; a hurricane’s roar couldn’t stifle it. Ferguson’s eyes clenched shut and the fireflies returned. He composed himself, jaw clenched, trembling and … waited.
Rage blazed where the knot in his belly had nested. Dust blew across his face, catching in the tear tracks that were forming on his cheeks. It was like he was one with the storm now, could feel it breaking him down. He rolled towards the truck where the Hoodoo had been lying in wait, and could feel warm blood filling his shoe. The rifle was within reach, the torch extinguished. He grasped it like a crutch, then dragged himself to the truck’s front wheel to sit using the Ruger to prop himself up. The pain was draining his strength, his confidence; he was just a tired cripple with a gun.
Ferguson fired into the air three times. ‘Come and get me!’ he cried, then fired again. ‘You think you can outrun a bullet?’
The torch would not switch back on. Jesus fucking Christ! He gave it a slap, and it blinked to life. The rifle felt so much heavier now, his body cold. Ferguson looked down at the blood pooling around his foot. There was no mistaking his position. ‘You’re fucked,’ he muttered as he scanned the space between the two trucks; his whole world now.
Laughter circled on the wind. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from.
He held the rifle to his shoulder, whipping the torch beam around. ‘Where are you?’
The laughter was coming from above.
By the time he trained the rifle scope towards the sound, the arrow was in the air. Before he could pull the trigger, it had buried itself in his heart. But he did glimpse the silhouette, standing on the opposite truck’s hood, coat trailing in the wind, bow still raised for the kill. The Hoodoo.
16
The community hall’s front doors clattered, the weather like a giant at the gates. Taylor watched Everett applying his homemade fingerprint powder to the arrow. The wind’s force against the walls made the trestle table he was working on shudder, one of the lanterns capering a little too close to the edge. Taylor grabbed the handle and dragged it back.
‘Where’d you learn that trick?’ he asked Everett.
The detective carefully dusted the black powder onto the arrow’s nock. He smiled. ‘Criminal investigation 101, school of DC.’
‘DC?’
‘DC Comics,’ he said. ‘I was one of those nerdy kids who sent away for the junior detective kit they advertised on the back.’
Taylor shrugged, felt his lip curl in a reminiscent smile. ‘I sent away for the Bug Catcher. Guess those old comics set us both on our career paths, huh?’
‘Looks like it.’ Everett was focused on the task.
‘Well, your purchase paid off.’ Taylor watched as Everett laid a film of clear adhesive tape across the nock. A spark of satisfaction beamed on the detective’s face as he peeled it away and fixed it to a plain piece of white paper.
‘We’ve got a partial print,’ Everett said. ‘Faint … a thumb, I think.’
‘Does it match the prints on Sampson’s fuel tank?’
‘Hard to say.’ Everett took one of the motorcycle samples from the case file and held them beside each other close to the lantern, shuffling the arrow sample until they were the same orientation. He squinted in the low light. ‘Wish I had a magnifying glass.’
‘You mean there wasn’t one in your junior detective kit?’
Everett looked up at him, still in the zone. ‘No, but I’ve got the next best thing,’ he said as he laid down the two sheets. He took his phone from next to his laptop, turned on the camera and zoomed in on the closest arrow print, moving from one sample to the next. ‘There!’ he said, and took a picture of one, then the other. He selected the close-up of the arrow nock and showed it to Taylor.
It looked like any other print to the ranger. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for.’
Everett used the end of the dusting brush to point to one of the features near the centre. ‘They’re the same, Taylor,’ he said, tapping on the screen. ‘Right here where the Y-shaped island grows left of the delta portion. The two are the same.’
Taylor looked from the arrow on the table to the Harley motorcycle against the wall. ‘Not a surprise, I guess.’
‘It’s evidence. And I’ll take that over surprises any day.’
‘Anything in the pattern to determine the sex? Age?’ Taylor asked. ‘Anything to narrow the field?’
‘Afraid not,’ Everett said. ‘But it’s definitely the same person who had contact with Sampson’s Harley … and possible involvement with his death. Can’t second-guess these things, though.’ He looked closer. ‘I’ll send the images through to State Crime Command as soon as we get power back. For now, I want to save any battery power I have before we’re plunged into the eighteen hundreds. The process of running a match through the AFIS database is pretty quick these days. It can wait until tomorrow.’ He yawned, stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders. ‘I’d rather follow the evidence than a hunch.’
The front doors rattled but it didn’t sound like the usual wind clatter this time. There was silence for a moment, then a knock; light at first, but then heavier and more impatient. Taylor glanced at his watch. Midnight.
Everett shot a look at the ranger, his boyish face suddenly sombre. He stared down at the Glock sitting on the table beside his jacket. The detective picked it up, slipped it in his pocket and kept his hand there. He nodded towards the door. ‘You open it,’ he said. ‘I’ll do the greeting.’
It occurred to Taylor that, for a detective, Everett always looked a little awkward when handling his weapon. ‘You okay?’ Taylor asked. He stepped over to the door, his hand pausing on the handle.
Everett straightened his stance. ‘Consummate professional,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s see who’s calling at this hour.’
Taylor opened the door to an onslaught of cold wind and driving rain, which stabbed at his face like a thousand needles. The figure wore a long, hooded coat, billowing in the wind, and had a bundle cradled in its arms. Taylor took a step back, as much from the force of the wind as the dark figure in the doorway. He saw Everett pull out his Glock, and raise it high, clenched in both hands, as the figure stepped inside.
‘I swear that wind is gonna blow this town off the map.’
The plastic raincoat’s hood slipped back to reveal Heather Starling’s face in the flickering lantern light. The coat was red, reminding Taylor of Little Red Riding Hood, and that there was a wolf out there somewhere. She turned and pressed the door closed, resting against it a moment.
Everett lowered the gun. ‘What the hell, Heather?’
She gestured to the hotbox cradled under her arm. ‘I saw the light in the window. Thought you two could do with something to eat.’ She nodded at the gun in Everett’s hand. ‘Come now, Detective, my food
isn’t that bad.’
Everett pocketed his weapon. ‘I swear, Heather.’ But his attention turned to the food.
‘You want it or not?’
It was evident he did, and Taylor was glad.
‘Bring it over to the table,’ Everett said, resigned.
Heather’s heart’s in the right place, Taylor thought. He sat opposite Everett at the trestle table, savouring the coffee poured from a tartan-patterned flask as Heather laid out the food and utensils. She’s got the vitality of a woman half her age. He recalled the pageant photo hanging in the Brown Sugar Café, and could see that youthful beauty in her face beneath the soft hue of the lantern light. The water pipes hammered behind him. Heather slid portions of steaming lasagne towards both men, Taylor’s serving noticeably larger. This pleased his empty stomach, which rumbled loudly in anticipation. Everett, about to scoop up a forkful, glanced at the two portions, obviously disappointed with his. Taylor couldn’t help noticing and smiled as he took his own first mouthful.
Heather observed Everett’s boyish discontent as well, and shook her head, a wry smile curling the edge of her mouth. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from, Detective.’ She spooned another portion onto his plate. ‘And, besides, the ranger here could do with a little more meat on his bones.’ Taylor shuffled across the bench to make room for Heather beside him, her red raincoat dripping over the seat. Heather eyed Everett up and down. ‘You, on the other hand, could use a little exercise.’ She poked his stomach.
Taylor laughed and enjoyed his next mouthful. He looked around at their island of lantern light. Under the circumstances, this was as close to normal as he could hope for right now.
Everett glanced down at his small paunch and frowned. ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said.
Heather seemed quietly content as she watched them eat, that smile of hers just below the surface. Taylor couldn’t help wondering why Heather was so open with them when the rest of the town was so closed off to strangers. She sipped her coffee, her gaze falling on the arrow. ‘So, what’s the gossip on Cupid’s barb?’ she asked.
‘You know we can’t say, Heather,’ said Taylor as he wiped his lips with a napkin. ‘It’s nothing personal.’
‘Then maybe it should be,’ she said, including Everett in her gaze.
‘Why’s that?’ the detective asked.
‘Seems to me like it’s you two against the Reach right now,’ she said. ‘Three, if you count that constable of yours. The way I figure things, you could do with a little inside help. After all, we can’t all be suspects.’
Taylor again thought how open Heather was, and wondered why Everett wasn’t taking advantage of it. He placed his fork beside his plate, took a quick sip of coffee and patted his lips with a napkin. ‘Maybe you can help,’ he said. He reached across to the police car’s GoPro beside Everett’s plate. ‘We should show Heather the vehicle pursuit footage,’ he said to Everett. ‘Maybe she can shed some light on the vehicle and its owner.’
Everett paused; his expression a distinct no. But then his countenance softened. He stared at the GoPro, then at Taylor, and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said cautiously. ‘Why not make it four against the Reach.’
Taylor fast-forwarded the recording to the chase. He passed the GoPro to Heather and she clutched it with newfound glee. But, right away, the ranger saw she looked unsettled; recognition dissolving her delight at being allowed a glimpse of the footage. She watched it a moment longer, then placed the GoPro facedown on the table.
‘Heather?’ queried Everett. He looked across at Taylor, his brow furrowed.
The ranger rested his hand on her arm in an act of reassurance. ‘Do you know who that is, Heather?’
She nodded, eyes fixed on the GoPro, jaw clenched, lips pursed; then said, ‘I know the car, but unless ghosts can drive it can’t be the owner behind the wheel.’
‘Who’s that?’ Everett asked.
‘That’s Walter Dench’s old Cherokee … I’d know it anywhere.’
Taylor recognised the name Dench from the interview with Sister Moore. ‘But he died in the cabin fire.’
‘Yeah, and the cabin and his body were never found,’ Everett added.
Heather looked away from the camera. ‘That piece of junk hasn’t been seen around here since that poor little girl walked out of those woods.’
‘Alison?’
Heather seemed stunned at the sound of the name, taking a moment to compose herself. ‘Yeah – Alison.’
Taylor turned his attention to Everett. ‘Alison disappears off the face of the earth, and Dench’s lost Jeep reappears out of nowhere … Somehow, it must be all connected.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Heather as she stood up from her chair. ‘I never should have pushed to see that.’ She gathered her raincoat to her chest, clearly distressed. ‘Be careful what you wish for, right?’
There was an awkward silence before Everett piped up. ‘I’ll follow any lead I can unearth,’ he said calmly, then gestured to the remains of the meal. ‘Thanks for the food, Heather,’ he added, politely dismissive.
*
Taylor stood with Heather at the top of the community hall steps. ‘The rain has stopped,’ he said as he helped her on with her raincoat. ‘For now,’ he added, scanning the ink-black sky.
They walked in darkness to the Brown Sugar, through rain-glassed streets, the town fading into its own shadows.
The unyielding squall billowed the coat around Heather’s legs in a persistent flutter. Head down, body pressed to the wind, she linked her arm with his. Taylor felt uncomfortable and she, no doubt, felt his sudden tension. She patted his hand teasingly.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Bridges,’ she said over the wind. ‘It’s just that it’s been a long time since a man walked me home … and I intend to enjoy it.’
He felt a little sorry for Heather, sensing the sadness beneath her confident bantering, and did his best to shield her from the wind. Why Heather stayed in this place when it was evident she wanted out was a mystery. She had no children or other family keeping her there; just the little café, with its apartment out back and rental place above it.
‘Why are all the good ones married?’ she asked.
Taylor didn’t answer, but liked the idea of being considered a good one. He thought, with a little ache in his heart, of Maggie and Erin back home and changed the subject. ‘You’ll have to forgive Detective Everett’s secretive attitude, Heather,’ he said. ‘He just wants the best for this town … I think he’s a good one too.’
‘I know,’ said Heather, ‘but he needs to understand something about Devlins Reach and its people.’
Taylor felt on his face the rain begin again and pulled his lapel closed around his neck with his free hand. ‘What’s that?’
‘I was here when all that mess with Alison and Paris happened – a lot of these people were – and it doesn’t take a genius to realise that these recent events have something to do with what happened to those girls. The Reach’s history is ours to own, Mr Bridges; it’s not Detective Everett’s.’ She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘But it doesn’t matter. History is all about truth.’ Heather turned towards the levee bank. The sound of the rushing water beyond it was louder than the wind. ‘The truth always rises to the surface,’ she said. ‘And the truth is all we have to cling to.’
She appeared distant.
‘I think I get it, Heather,’ he said. ‘I really do. But you might have to be a little patient with Everett. His focus is also on the truth.’
She raised her face to the wind, back in the present, and pulled Taylor a little closer as they neared the Brown Sugar. ‘You want to talk about the truth?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’
‘The truth is, it’s easy to get bored here on the Reach. So, you’ll just have to excuse my curiosity with something like this happening.’
‘Okay,’ Taylor said non-committally.
‘I was just a child when my father moved us here from Blackwater. He said it was a new beginning, and rem
inded me that the world is my oyster and anything was possible.’
They had reached the Brown Sugar’s awning, and stopped in the doorway’s sheltered atrium, out of the wind. ‘Sounds like good fatherly advice,’ Taylor offered.
Heather slipped her arm from his and waved the statement off. ‘I don’t even like oysters,’ she mumbled under her breath as she searched her coat pockets for her keys. ‘When I won that pageant in eighty-five, I thought I was on my way, that Daddy was right.’ She inserted the key into the lock, and jiggled it until the door opened. ‘I even met a nice boy right here, from the camps.’ She flicked the light switch out of habit, then realised there was no power. ‘Oh, great,’ she said.
Taylor stood half inside the doorway, sheltered from the worst of the weather. ‘So, whatever happened to that nice boy you met?’
She fell silent for a moment, the same distant look in her eyes as she scanned the wet streets and the ravenous night beyond. ‘It seems nice can be skin-deep, Mr Bridges. Nice boys can see a pretty girl as a possession. Take what they want – when they want it – and leave you with nothing but a belly full of arms and legs.’
Taylor hadn’t seen that coming. He searched for words and, in the end, said, ‘I’m sorry.’ He continued, ‘The baby … Did you—?’
‘Keep it?’ she said abruptly.
Sadness welled in her eyes. There wasn’t quite a tear, but Taylor thought it wouldn’t take much to draw one out.
‘It was the mid-eighties,’ she continued, ‘and I wasn’t about to take up the single-mother mantle.’
‘Adoption?’
Heather found her phone, turned on the flashlight, and looked into Taylor’s eyes. Any possible tears had gone, dried by the wind or perhaps by the will that had got her this far in life. She shook her head. ‘No. I’d seen the look in those kids’ eyes up there at the children’s home … I couldn’t do that to my child.’ The sadness was replaced by a colder expression. ‘In the end, it was nothing that a bottle of Scotch and a cheap clothes hanger couldn’t fix, Mr Bridges.’
The Reach Page 17