The Reach

by B. Michael Radburn

  ‘I’ll be there soon,’ Everett said, and hung up.

  He took a rushed sip of coffee. It tasted bitter now, like the day itself. The blue wren from this morning had gone, the eaves recommencing their turbulent lament as the elements continued to stir. He thought of Heather. The calm before the storm, she’d called it.

  ‘Amen,’ he whispered, then scrolled down to Taylor’s number.

  *

  The nine o’clock news had just finished the weather report confirming the severity of the central coast storm front and the level of flooding upriver. Taylor switched off the radio and considered the strength of the ageing weir and the thickness of the levee bank between Devlins Reach and the river. A wall of water’s heading this way like a runaway freight train.

  Taylor noted the mill entrance ahead, glad of the distraction from the forces of nature. High walls of rust-streaked corrugated iron ran the length of the road on either side of the broad gates that accommodated the logging trucks. The place looked like a fortress. The weathered sign out front – Big River Logging Co. – was small and unassuming in comparison, partially obscured by the curtain of balloon vine hanging from it. He turned into the compound and drove past a row of faded white demountable buildings, then parked outside the one with a sign saying Office above the door. He recognised Everett’s car and Charlie Lawson’s grey Bronco. Across the compound he saw the mass of blue jeans and flannelette shirts that had gathered between one of the parked trucks and the log stacks. He forced the Camry’s door open against a shuddering wind gust and felt a dusting of light rain against his face.

  One of the men looked over his shoulder at the sound of Taylor’s door closing and helped part the way for him. As the others stepped aside, the ranger saw Everett tying off a makeshift barricade of caution tape around the scene. Taylor stepped closer and placed his hand on Everett’s shoulder. ‘I came as fast as I could,’ he said.

  Everett turned abruptly, startled, but relaxed when he recognised Taylor. His face was pallid, perhaps from the biting weather, but more likely because of Ferguson’s body sitting against the truck’s wheel. ‘Our Hoodoo has stepped it up a notch,’ the detective said, shaking his head as he paused to take it all in again. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

  Taylor scanned the secured area between the truck and the log pile. Within the taped-off portion, Everett had marked clean footprints with small flags of wooden dowel and white paper ribbon. Taylor noticed that the footprints disappeared on the way to and from the log stacks. A timber board – no shortage of lumber here – was suspended over several bricks, allowing passage to the body with minimum impact on any ground evidence.

  But it was Ferguson who was the star of this show.

  The scent of death was already prevalent, and would only get worse. Taylor considered the other men. He had expected an angry mob, but their expressions were empty; they stood in a stunned silence broken only by the odd murmur. That’s when Taylor realised he was avoiding having his own personal moment with the deceased. He looked down, barely recognising the small-statured, vocal man from the bar last night. The ranger’s head spun with the possibilities. Was Ferguson’s outburst last night the reason for his murder? If so, the killer must have been among us, to witness his rant. Taylor bit his lip in contemplation. But the arrow came from outside the pub … He rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe Everett was right about the possibility of there being multiple perpetrators after all.

  He returned his attention to the body, which was no longer the man. It’s just a body, he told himself. It was difficult to determine where the red shirt stopped and the bloodstains began. Taylor closed his eyes for a moment: a moment to prepare for this realm of death; a moment to think of something good in the world he was in – a balance. He thought of Erin, then opened his eyes.

  A crude teardrop had been carved deep into Ferguson’s cheek below the left eye, and the words cry baby had been sliced into his forehead. The lack of blood from the wounds meant that they were inflicted after death. The bowie knife – Ferguson’s own – had been used to make the statement and was now clenched between the dead man’s teeth, his jaw clasped tightly by the leather belt drawn tautly from chin to hairline. There were the three familiar arrows, buried deep in his chest, the white quivers bristling in the wind. And there, scratched into the truck’s door above Ferguson’s head, was the A symbol.

  Taylor felt his jaw clench as he thought of Erin again. How much does she know? How much of this does she see? Claire said that I need to be careful. Erin was just a child. But the question remained: How much does Claire share with her? Feeling sick, he gasped for a lungful of sobering air.

  ‘What do you think the cry baby tag means?’ Taylor asked.

  ‘A message.’

  ‘Who to?’

  Everett gave Taylor an Isn’t it obvious? look. ‘To Ferguson,’ he said, ‘and he heard it loud and clear.’ He gestured to the men around him, some making their way slowly back to their quarters. ‘But, ultimately, the message is for all of us. Whoever this Hoodoo is knows full well that we’re isolated here. And our perp certainly has turned this weather to their advantage … A perfect environment for the task at hand, wouldn’t you say?’ He hung the roll of caution tape over the nearest star picket and slapped dirt from his hands. ‘What I need to know is where our Hoodoo is operating from. His sanctuary is out there somewhere, Taylor. It can’t be too far from town or the camp, but nevertheless well hidden and secure. How else could he just steal in and out without a trace?’

  ‘There’s always a trace,’ Taylor said. ‘No one hides the past better than Mother Nature herself, but, come what may, there’s always a trace.’

  Everett sighed. ‘Then I’m relying on you to find that trace.’

  They both turned at the sound of the office door slamming shut. Charlie Lawson marched down the steps and across the compound, the loggers parting like the Red Sea at his approach. ‘I have those maps you wanted in my office, Detective.’ He spoke louder than he needed to over the wind, perhaps as a small gesture of authority. After all, they were on Lawson’s turf now.

  Everett turned to greet him, forcing a smile. ‘Great. Thank you.’

  Lawson nodded to Ferguson’s body. ‘I can’t leave him like that,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ the detective agreed. ‘I’ve taken my photos and marked items of interest, so we can move the body down to the pub with the others. But this truck and the area have to stay untouched until the forensic team arrives.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. All the trucks are grounded.’ The site manager looked up at the churning clouds, squinting against the wind. ‘The mill won’t be cutting anything until we can ship it out.’

  ‘I’ll need your help to transport the body.’

  Lawson glanced at Taylor, then back to Everett. ‘Sadly, we’re getting used to that job.’ He shook his head. ‘We don’t have any body bags left.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Never thought I’d need so many.’

  ‘A blanket will do,’ Everett said, recognising Lawson’s comment as a swipe at his policing. ‘And I could do with a generator back at the hall, if you can spare one.’

  ‘Yeah, Heather called me about that,’ Lawson said, then stared down at the body, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘He was here, you know,’ said Lawson, more softly than seemed possible from someone with his rugged looks, the sting gone from his demeanour. ‘In ninety-four … Ferguson was working at the camp.’ He turned away abruptly. ‘Come up to the office,’ he said. ‘We can talk better there.’

  *

  Taylor turned his face to the sky, staring at the strange rings around the sun amid the sea of grey. He held back for a moment as Everett and Lawson stepped up into the office ahead of him. Damned thing looks like an eye, he thought. He then let his attention fall on the horizon of pines, a jagged brim of the woodland’s canopy against the backdrop of swirling clouds. And, suddenly, he could sense the forest staring back at him. He returned his gaze to the god-like eye in the sky, but it was fa
ding, closing; the gods growing bored with the events on the ground.

  Taylor walked inside the demountable, which was warm from the two wall-mounted heater bars, although the building occasionally shuddered from the wind. Lawson and Everett were standing at an inclined draftsman’s table, the site manager unfurling an area chart and weighing down the curling corners with magnets. ‘This covers the entire Big River Logging lease,’ he said.

  Taylor sidled between them, studied the diagram until he was familiar with its orientation, then noted the printing date: 1972. ‘This map is pretty old,’ he said. ‘I don’t see the mill.’ He tapped his finger on a heavily wooded ridgeline. ‘Should be here.’

  Lawson leaned closer. ‘This mill wasn’t built until eighty-nine.’ His finger traced the map as he looked for something specific. ‘There,’ he said, and circled an open area west of their location with a pencil. ‘That’s where the original mill was established, before they moved it closer to town and the ferry access.’

  Taylor looked closer, recognising the topographical icons that indicated a marshland where the old access road ran. ‘And look at this,’ he said to Everett. ‘Perfect place for alligator weed to thrive.’ The ranger retrieved his phone, pulled up Google Earth and waited for it to load.

  ‘Dench’s cabin,’ said Everett. ‘Is it possible that’s where it is?’

  ‘It’s very possible,’ Lawson broke in. He traced the track leading to it. ‘But this trail is overgrown now. No one’s been in there for decades. It’s all regeneration forest now. No-man’s-land.’

  Taylor and Everett glanced at each other, acknowledging the possibilities. Once the Google map was on the screen, the ranger zoomed in as close as he could to where the marshlands were on the paper map. ‘Low resolution,’ he said with an edge of disappointment. ‘Looks like the open marshland is still there, though.’ He held the screen closer, trying to make out a number of uniform blotches amid the tree line. ‘These dark patches could be some of the old buildings.’

  Everett turned to Lawson as he slipped out his own phone and pulled up the GoPro footage of the runaway Jeep Cherokee. ‘Walter Dench’s?’ he asked bluntly.

  ‘Shit,’ breathed Lawson. ‘I’d know it anywhere.’ He stepped over to a tall filing cabinet with an outdated nudie calendar hanging from the side, and opened a drawer, flicking through the files until he found what he was looking for. He took out a photograph and laid it on the map. ‘There,’ he said.

  The photograph was of a short man in a dirty white singlet with a stumpy cigar pinched between his teeth. He might be smiling, Taylor thought, but his eyes aren’t. They were dark slits, squinting against the light. The tan-coloured Cherokee he was leaning against only emphasised his short stature.

  ‘That rat of a man was a jockey in his youth. Word is, he was easily bought. Lost his riding licence after some race-fixing incident down in Victoria. I tell you, that man was born bad.’

  Taylor felt a cold blade run down his spine at the phrase, Erin’s sleepy words coming back to haunt him. Can a person be born bad? Dench’s photograph was drawing him into the past, its residue sticking like molasses. It felt dirty. Don’t bring this home. His eyes focused on the man’s hands, small but with long fingers. Just like the fingerprints on the Harley and the arrow.

  ‘What is it?’ Everett asked.

  ‘The petite fingerprints and footprints,’ Taylor said. ‘Sightings of a small-statured figure they call the Hoodoo.’

  ‘Are you thinking that Dench may still be alive?’ Everett stared into Taylor’s eyes, as he raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘What’s his motive for killing?’

  ‘To cover up the sins of his past, perhaps,’ Taylor said, then paused in contemplation. ‘Take out the witnesses. Maybe hide behind the rumours of his death while he does it.’ He turned to Lawson. ‘Or maybe it’s like you say … Some men are just born bad.’

  Lawson seemed to withdraw from the comment, and Taylor wondered what had triggered his reaction. ‘I think we should check out the old camp site,’ the ranger added. ‘If what Alison said is true, Dench’s and Paris’s bodies will be up there in the burned-out cabin.’

  ‘Yeah … maybe,’ said Everett. He was obviously distracted, his attention on the map. Something told Taylor he was disappointed that he hadn’t come up with the Dench scenario himself.

  ‘That’s crazy!’ burst out Lawson. He picked up the photo, stormed over to the cabinet and slammed the drawer home. ‘You telling me that Dench has been the one killing my men?’

  Everett intervened. ‘Taylor is suggesting that we can’t rule anyone out just yet.’ He fixed his eyes on Lawson’s.

  Taylor was glad to have Everett jump in.

  ‘I might also suggest that whoever is doing this has clearly targeted anyone involved with the girls’ abduction. So, any of your men who were here during that time might want to consider clearing their conscience and taking every precaution – within the law – until we nail this killer.’

  Lawson held Everett’s stare a moment longer. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ he said with a hint of frustration. He zipped up his jacket. ‘I’m not trying to be difficult, Detective.’ He sighed. ‘That’s just the way it is around here.’ He walked to the door. ‘The way it’s always been.’

  Taylor watched him pass and felt the wind’s vigour on his face as Lawson closed the door and left. ‘Looks like they’re circling the wagons on this one,’ he said to Everett.

  ‘To their detriment,’ the detective replied. He turned back to the map. ‘How long do you think it would take to trek into the original logging camp from here?’

  Taylor reviewed the map again, and considered how far he could drive before going in on foot. ‘Little over an hour or more,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Jaimie. She knows the park, and her Land Rover will get us in pretty close.’

  ‘Okay. Head out as soon as you can. Same deal as before … reconnaissance only – sneak and peek. You see Dench, that Cherokee or anything that could be the primary crime scene, you pull back and call it in, okay?’

  ‘No problem. I’ll phone Jaimie now.’

  19

  Jaimie drove the Parks Land Rover with skill and strength. Taylor wasn’t completely surprised – driver training was a part of the job – but Jaimie hadn’t been in the post long, and demonstrated the confidence of a veteran. The dirt roads had grown slippery from the intermittent rain, clods of sticky clay pounding the wheel arches. The rain was falling steadily now, the windscreen wipers beating rhythmically.

  Reading the map while in motion was stirring a nauseating soup in Taylor’s stomach. He winced at the sting of bile in his throat and laid the map down across his legs, staring ahead. Better. He cracked the window an inch for some fresh air, his side of the Rover shielded from the rain. The lashing wind had cast an array of brush and branches across the road, and a number of minor trees had been uprooted from the softened ground, their prone trunks either avoided or pounded over by Jaimie.

  A tree branch as thick as Taylor’s wrist fell across the bonnet with a thud and scraped along the car as it slid to one side. Jaimie didn’t flinch. That’s when he noticed the black-rimmed glasses clasped over her uniform’s breast pocket. ‘Your glasses,’ he gestured to them, ‘you see okay without them?’

  She glanced down, flushing a little. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Long distance isn’t too bad.’ She fumbled the glasses open, slipped them on and looked at him with a smile. ‘Never underestimate a woman’s vanity.’

  The heavy Rover drifted a little on the bend, and Taylor gripped the door handle until the vehicle gained traction again.

  ‘My wife was thinking of having laser surgery,’ he said. He could see Constable Fisher’s beat-up police car in the roadside ditch ahead.

  ‘Lasers in the eye, huh?’ Jaimie said with a wince. ‘Kind of scary.’

  They passed the wreck, and it looked worse than Taylor remembered.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she added. ‘If Maggie does it, I’ll do it.’
>
  Taylor smiled, knowing Maggie had the same reservations.

  He looked at his watch. Although Jaimie was driving as fast as the conditions would allow, the going was slower than he had anticipated. ‘How deep do you think we can penetrate the old camp track before having to go on foot?’

  ‘The challenge will be getting across to that high ridge,’ she said. ‘That’s why I didn’t opt for the causeway below the weir. The water level there will be way too high now.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I recommend we continue up to the bluff and cross Wilson’s Bridge at the pass. We can pick up the camp road further north, but how far we can continue from there is anyone’s guess.’

  Taylor risked the churn in his stomach and returned to the map, finding the bridge. Jaimie’s plan made sense. ‘At this rate, we should arrive a little after noon,’ he said.

  ‘If the bridge is still standing,’ she offered.

  Taylor tapped his fingers on the map where the bridge was marked. ‘If the abandoned camp is the primary crime scene then our Hoodoo is getting in and out of there in Walter Dench’s Cherokee.’

  Taylor looked back at the road and could see the ridge up ahead, its rolling peaks shrouded in wisps of cloud. He could feel the wind dropping with every kilometre they climbed; a relief after its persistence over the past few days.

  Jaimie nodded to the pass. ‘That’s no-man’s-land. Officially off-limits, due to Parks and Wildlife’s workplace health and safety policy. I’ve never been beyond it, so I’m not going to be much of a guide past this point I’m afraid.’ She frowned, her focus on the road as she slowed to a stop and pointed through the rain-speckled windscreen. ‘There she is.’

  Taylor got his first look at Wilson’s Bridge. The old timbers glistened charcoal grey from the rain, its substantial beams split in places, the reinforced metal braces scabbed red with rust. ‘Jes-us,’ Taylor whispered. He opened the door.

  ‘Here,’ said Jaimie, tossing him a hi-vis orange raincoat from the back seat.