The Reach

by B. Michael Radburn

  Jesus! The statement was like a slap to the face – not only in its subject but its delivery. Taylor faltered, but this time found no words. Heather saved him from the awkward silence.

  ‘The truth is …’ she glanced at the portrait of herself on the wall by the window, shining the phone’s flashlight on it, ‘… the truth is, that one-hour pageant was the highlight of my life. One pathetic hour in a lifetime, which I’ve clung to all these years. A lie that led me nowhere.’ She turned back to Taylor, who held her stare firmly. ‘You just remind Detective Everett that the town’s past is mine; just as my past is the town’s. And we’ll be bound like that forever.’

  None of it made sense to Taylor, but he’d seen that small-town hold before. He shook his head solemnly. A sense of place could sometimes seduce a person into having erroneous obligations to something that was no more than bricks and mortar, an empire of dirt. ‘You owe Devlins Reach nothing, Heather. It’s just a town, like a hundred others out there that have fallen off the grid. You don’t have to stay. Take your past off that pageant coat stand and get on the next ferry out of here.’

  Heather’s expression softened. She gently bit her bottom lip and took Taylor’s hand as she tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Oh, Mr Bridges,’ she said in a wavering voice. ‘You really don’t know the Reach at all, do you?’

  She gently guided him back outside and closed the door behind him.

  17

  Everett’s eyes blinked open, not to the sound of rattling doors and windows or the haunting wail of the constant wind he’d fallen asleep to last night, but to a lone bird’s melodic chirping. Despite the events overnight, he had slept well, and wondered now if he was dreaming. He sat up on the edge of the bed to stretch out his usual morning backache from sleeping on canvas. The bird song continued, and Everett observed the blue wren on the window ledge, not a feather out of place, broad daylight reflecting off its plume. Has the storm passed? Changed direction? Diminished, somehow? He stood and slipped his pants on in a clumsy display of hops and skips across the room, then tucked in his T-shirt and opened the double doors. The Weather Bureau’s website predicted another two days of high winds. He stood barefoot on the landing, eyes closed, facing the patch of blue above, and hoped the Bureau was wrong. Blue, windless skies meant that the task force was clear to fly in and ease some of the burden from his shoulders.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by the calm, Detective.’

  Everett reluctantly opened one eye and saw Heather standing on the pathway. She was carrying a wicker basket with the same tartan-patterned coffee flask she’d brought last night, which was now accompanied by a plump French breadstick. Everett stifled a sigh, smiling. ‘I live in hope,’ he said.

  Heather looked up at the circle of blue sky, notably unimpressed. ‘The calm before the storm,’ she said, then returned her attention to Everett and smiled too, raising the basket in offering. ‘It’s yesterday’s bread, but the coffee is fresh and hot.’ She glanced skyward again. ‘The wind will come back just as fierce, I’m afraid, only in the other direction … You’ll see.’

  ‘Weather forecasting your forte, Heather?’

  ‘One of many.’ She walked to the steps and handed him the basket. ‘Enjoy,’ she said. ‘My treat.’

  Everett took the basket. ‘You’re spoiling me.’ He broke off the tip of the breadstick, still soft inside, and held it to his nose. It smelled delicious, evoking a memory of the bakery in the town where he grew up. He breathed it in and took a small bite. ‘You want to come in?’ he mumbled with a spray of crumbs.

  Heather waved him off. ‘Nah – gas is working but I need to arrange some power for the café. Charlie Lawson has got a few generators out at the mill; I’m sure he won’t mind lending a few out until the power comes back on. I can arrange one for you, if you’d like?’

  He swallowed with a hungry gulp. ‘That would be great, thanks.’ A shadow was cast slowly over the street. The temperature dropped noticeably and, with it, the slightest wisp of wind brushed at Everett’s hair. He paused before taking another bite, his shoulders dipping with the weight of disappointment.

  ‘Told you,’ Heather said.

  Everett shrugged. ‘If this café thing doesn’t work out for you, you can always try your hand as a weather girl.’

  Heather turned and walked away in the direction of the Brown Sugar. ‘My arse is too big and my tits too small,’ she cried over her shoulder.

  Everett went inside, closed the door behind him and set the bread and flask on the table beside his phone. ‘You’re something else, Heather,’ he whispered. No sooner had he poured a generous cup of coffee than the phone rang. He took a quick sip before answering, flinching at the heat.

  ‘Everett,’ he said quickly, licking his burned lip.

  He knew right away, by the thop-thop-thop in the background that he was talking to the Air Wing’s helicopter pilot. Everett felt a smile pull at his cheeks before he heard the pilot’s voice.

  ‘Detective Everett, Sergeant Verne, PolAir-2.’

  Everett noticed the tremolo effect in Verne’s voice from the vibrations. ‘Sergeant, I believe you have some reinforcements for me.’

  ‘That’s correct. Three on board, inbound to the designated LZ in approximately thirty minutes.’

  Everett heard a sudden gust of wind rattle the doors. ‘How is the weather where you are?’

  ‘We’re in a calm spot at the moment, but I can’t say I’m comfortable with the radar image ahead of us.’

  ‘Are you go for landing?’

  Everett didn’t like the prolonged silence that followed his question.

  ‘I’ll have to make that call on arrival.’

  A sigh escaped Everett, and he felt the pressure on his lungs, like a giant hand around his chest, squeezing. ‘I understand,’ Everett said. ‘I’ll pick you up on UHF radio on approach.’

  He stared at the phone in his hand, realising there were no guarantees that he would get his extra manpower, and that as the weather closed in, so too would his options. Everett looked down at the two watches on his wrist; he brushed the face of Archie’s, then tapped it twice out of habit. He wondered whether the chopper could beat the storm to the Reach. It has to!

  The next number he rang was Taylor’s.

  *

  Everett’s police car pulled up outside the Brown Sugar as Taylor descended the steps from his room. The tyres squealed to a stop in the gutter, displaying the same sense of urgency Everett had over the phone. For a moment, the ranger thought he could hear the helicopter approaching, but it was just the flutter of loose guttering clutching feebly to the eaves above. The wind was back, fiercer; it was bitter down the neck of his jacket. Heather stood in the Brown Sugar’s window, arms folded across her chest. He nodded to her, without getting a response, as he got in the Ford’s passenger seat and shut the weather out. Everett didn’t wait for him to buckle up before speeding away.

  The detective didn’t speak, just glared up through the windscreen at the gathering clouds when he should have been watching the road. But the road soon seized his attention when the Ford drifted into the gutter with a rumble and rattle. Taylor clutched the door handle and drew an anxious breath.

  ‘Shit!’ Everett exclaimed, and heaved the car back onto the blacktop and eased off the accelerator.

  ‘We’re no use to the case dead,’ Taylor said.

  Everett sank back into his seat. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Trying to beat the storm.’

  Taylor considered the density of the churning wall of clouds ahead and tried to estimate the wind speed, but there was nothing to get a reference from, just the buffeting of the car with each gust. ‘Your fight isn’t with Mother Nature,’ the ranger said. ‘You’d do better to work with her.’

  Everett looked across at him, an expression of resolve surfacing in his flushed face. ‘You’re right,’ he said, and was about to say something else when the UHF radio crackled to life.

  ‘Inbound PolAir-2 to Devlins Reach LZ. You cop
y, Detective Everett?’

  Taylor noticed Everett’s top lip flicker with a nervous twitch. The detective swallowed before he snatched the handset from its cradle on the dash. ‘Copy, PolAir,’ he said. ‘I’m approaching the landing zone now.’ They descended the hill, the dig site on their right. ‘What’s your ETA?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re about three clicks out. You should have visual in a few minutes.’

  They passed through the site gates and across the worn patch of grass inside the fence line. Taylor considered the number of entrance mounds on the open finger of land. ‘Over there.’ He pointed to the clearing between the levee bank and site nine on the eastern edge. ‘I think that’s their best choice.’

  Everett edged the Ford towards the levee. ‘Yeah, okay.’ His tone was even; uncharacteristically cold.

  Taylor understood he was distracted, but also his apprehension – there was foreboding in Everett’s eyes. The ranger knew that look – that feeling – intimately. He’d been through the same thing the detective was going through now: being an ordinary man wrapped up in an extraordinary dilemma. Worse still, Everett’s unease was beginning to rub off on Taylor. Fear could start to influence every decision; you just had to be better than it.

  Everett parked the car but kept the engine running, turning the lights to high beam before sinking back into his seat as he stared out across the open ground. ‘I’ve never guided a chopper in before, Taylor.’ He rubbed his face vigorously. ‘Two years ago, I was a general duties sergeant. I was lucky enough to be a part of investigating some pretty major crimes; lucky enough to make detective at my age. Now I’m in the middle of a cold case that just got pretty damn hot pretty damn quickly.’ He really looked at Taylor for the first time since he had stepped into the car. ‘I’m not ashamed to admit I’m in over my head.’ He nodded at the clearing. ‘Not ashamed to admit that I need that chopper to land.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Taylor said. ‘You’re better than you think.’ He pointed to the microphone handset clutched in Everett’s white-knuckled hand. ‘I’ve done dozens of these.’

  The detective raised his eyebrows and offered the mic to Taylor.

  Taylor shook his head and directed it back to Everett with a gentle nudge of his hand. ‘The pilot has the best view of the site. You’ll be guided by him. Just answer his questions. It’s his job to bring that bird in, not yours.’ He nodded encouragingly. ‘You’re doing fine.’

  The wind dominated the background noise, but soon Taylor could hear the undulating thwop of the chopper’s rotors through the din.

  ‘There,’ said the ranger, pointing downriver above the tree line.

  Everett returned the mic to its cradle and grabbed the handheld radio from the centre console, switched it on and checked the frequency. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this,’ and he stepped outside.

  The blue-and-white Squirrel followed the river from the south, raised its nose to pull up, then banked inland to hover unsteadily over the point. The altitude appeared stable, but the pitch and yaw were a battle against the rising windstorm. ‘Wait! I don’t know about this,’ Taylor said, but he couldn’t hear his own voice.

  Something is wrong.

  Taylor felt detached; an observer of events unfolding in a foreboding collage before him. He heard Erin’s voice in the back of his mind; soft, yet smothering the cacophony above. Claire said that you need to be careful. Taylor stopped, leaving Everett to walk ahead alone. The chopper’s downdraft was spilling water over the levee bank’s rim, swirling vortexes of mist and leaf matter pummelling into the air.

  Everett was walking past the number nine mound, its sign shuddering ominously. He raised the radio to his mouth, shouting over the uproar, waving the chopper away from the tree line that bordered the clearing. The machine eased closer in random drops, each time teetering a little closer to the she-oaks. The pilot peered down through the cockpit’s plexiglass, his expression cold and focused. He was close enough for them to see the sweat on his brow under the flight helmet’s brim as he struggled with the controls.

  That’s when Taylor saw it. It was a force driving the trees to bend as a barrage of strong wind swept across the canopies from the south – an invisible sledgehammer about to slam into the helicopter’s flank. The chopper drifted closer, its blades beating like a racing heart. Everett had stopped his advance to the landing zone and dropped to one knee, frantically waving away the descending Squirrel.

  Taylor ran. Time seemed to slow, and it was like he was running through treacle. He charged at Everett as the hammer of air hit the chopper, and felt the gust against his body as the machine dipped violently to the left, the tip of its blades ploughing through the heads of the she-oaks with a hacking force. Everett collapsed under the ranger’s weight as the helicopter overcorrected and tilted back towards them. Taylor pressed Everett’s face into the ground as the rotors bit into the earthen mound beside them and severed the site-nine sign that pierced the ground. He felt certain that the aircraft would come crashing down on top of them, but no. Its engine roared, the sound altering as the pitch of its rotors grabbed more air, and it miraculously rose. Taylor shielded his eyes from the downdraft and watched as the chopper banked away.

  Everett rolled onto his side and watched the Squirrel arch away from view. The handheld squawked to life with the pilot’s voice. It was over; they were in this alone until the storm passed. With a pale face, the detective turned to Taylor. ‘You okay?’ His voice was muffled by the wind.

  The ranger sat up, rested his arms on his knees and felt the adrenaline kick in when he saw just how close the gouges in the earth were. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’

  Everett took a deep, trembling breath. ‘Well,’ he said finally. ‘That went well.’

  18

  Everett closed the doors of the community hall behind him, having to nudge them the last inch against the accursed wind. The damned weather is controlling everything; fighting me all the way. An irrational thought, he knew, but there it was.

  He had dropped Taylor off at the café, relieved to be alone for a while, still coming to terms with the aborted landing. What now, Archie? The face of the motionless watch stared back at him, silent. He stepped over to the table and threw his car keys next to the laptop. There were three new emails waiting for him – no doubt, an update on the failed landing and advice from Area Command on his situation. He sat, hand cupped over the mouse, the cursor hovering over the first LAC message.

  And still the damned weather is controlling everything.

  Then it occurred to him – And not just for me.

  He turned to the evidence board. Would the conditions help or hinder the killer’s next move? Maybe I am trapped here, he thought. But so are you.

  ‘Was this weather in your plans?’ he whispered, as much to break the silence as anything else. Unlikely, he thought. Or did your plans change when you found yourself confined here too? He glanced up at the groaning roof beams.

  Everett felt a twinge of hunger and broke off a corner of Heather’s breadstick. He refrained from taking a bite as his mobile rang; he fished it out of his pocket, not recognising the number. ‘Detective Sergeant Everett,’ he answered.

  From the other end of the phone came no introductory remarks, just a tirade of nonsense. With a pang of annoyance, he did, however, recognise the voice. Charlie Lawson. Not now, he thought. The rant down the line made him forget any appetite he’d had for the bread. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said over Lawson’s thunder. ‘Slow down, man.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to slow down! My men are under siege here, Everett, and if you can’t stop it, they will!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Charlie?’

  ‘Mike Ferguson!’ Lawson spat the name. ‘He’s dead; and they made a real fucking mess of him too. You’ve gotta get out here.’

  Everett clenched his phone. ‘I …’ He could hear Lawson breathing heavily down the line and could imagine the wrath burning in the bellies of his men. ‘I’m on m
y way,’ he finally said in not much more than a mumble.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Everett. If these men go vigilante on my watch, I’m not responsible … Do you hear me?’

  The detective did hear Lawson; and felt any control he had over the situation slipping away with every syllable. Can’t let that happen. He straightened, composed himself, drawing on the fire that had sparked in his own belly. ‘And I’m telling you, Lawson. If you can’t keep a leash on those men of yours, I’ll do everything in my power to make you responsible. Why don’t you remind those loggers that all this began when their buddies decided to steal those girls to use as their playthings? They drew first blood, Lawson; not this Hoodoo they’ve conjured up.’ His counter tirade felt good, the release like steam easing from a pressure cooker, but he wasn’t done. ‘And, while we’re discussing the elephant in the room, let me remind you that this shit did indeed happen on your watch. So don’t tell me you’re not responsible.’

  He listened to Lawson’s breathing slow, waiting for a reply that never came.

  ‘I know we’re all on edge here, okay?’ Everett added. ‘You can either be a part of the problem, or a part of the solution … Your call.’

  ‘I … I just …’ Lawson eased out a long sigh. ‘I’ll make sure my guys are kept in check for as long as I can.’

  ‘Okay,’ Everett said, feeling the good ship Scared Shitless steady beneath him. ‘My suggestion is to give them some jobs to do. You know, secure the crime scene, do traffic control at the gate, that sort of thing. Make them feel like they’re contributing in some way other than a lynching.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Lawson said, sounding a little less tightly wound. ‘But you’ve got to hurry, okay? He … Mike … He’s a real mess.’