‘Ground zero, Brian. Hey, I need some info on one of your people there at HQ. An R. Anne. The email address was CCed on one of your correspondences.’
There was a long pause on the other end. ‘Well, that just can’t be, Taylor.’
‘Oh?’
‘No. We had a Raymond Anne here a while back. He was with one of our Rapid Aerial Response Teams, but we lost him in the Black Saturday fires.’
Taylor paused. ‘RART … Are you sure?’
‘Never surer … Are you okay there, Taylor?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, looking at Everett. ‘Thanks, Brian. I’ll touch base again soon.’ He hung up. ‘R. Anne is a ghost,’ he told Everett. ‘Deceased since Black Saturday.’
‘I don’t know how digitally savvy Paris is,’ Everett offered, ‘but if she can reopen an old Parks and Wildlife account and attach it to the correspondence, she could have followed the email chain and learned about your role in this.’
The revelation hit Taylor hard. She could also have been looking at his Facebook and Twitter, enough to have got a profile of him … Maggie … and Erin. He suddenly felt cold to the bone. Don’t bring it home. But that was exactly what he had done, long before he even realised it. Then something else hit him with the force of a hurricane. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he muttered.
‘What is it?’
‘Of all the defunct email accounts Paris could have picked, why R. Anne?’
Everett shrugged.
‘Raggedy Ann, Everett. Raggedy fucking Ann. The dolls handed out by Sister Moore when the kids were sent to their new homes.’
‘This whole thing is beginning to look bigger than just the one perp. There are a lot of things pointing to Parks and Wildlife, if only as a portal for intel.’ The detective looked away briefly, then returned his attention to Taylor. ‘I think we need to talk to Jaimie, don’t you?’
As much as Taylor didn’t want to believe Jaimie had anything to do with this, he knew Everett was right. It was no longer plausible that these crimes were committed without some kind of network. And, besides, what did he really know about Jaimie? Taylor took a moment to stare out the window. A solid gust belted the side of the building with a groan of old timbers, a squat branch flying past the glass. And there was a storm seething in his heart as much as there was one raging outside. Taylor still couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for Paris. Who could totally blame her for what she’s done? And where does Jaimie fit into all this?
He silently revisited everything he knew, until he reached the boys’ description of the lone woman on the ferry. Did Jaimie know her? Or … The description didn’t sound like Jaimie but then …
‘This might sound crazy,’ said Taylor, ‘but, in view of Paris’s ability to change her identity, do you think she and Jaimie could be the same person?’
Everett went pale. Then he gathered himself and spoke: ‘It would explain Jaimie’s initial reluctance to lead us to the old camp, and why she claimed she knew nothing about it.’
‘But, in the end, she led me right to it.’ It doesn’t make sense. Too many contradictions.
Everett considered Jaimie’s turnaround. ‘Maybe her work is done,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps she’s smart enough to have known that the focus was turning to her and that she needed to rectify the situation.’
Taylor still couldn’t quite believe it, as he considered how comfortable he’d felt with the woman he’d thought was a fellow ranger, who felt the same connection with the wilderness he did. And that had only been enhanced by the way she reminded him of Maggie. Little things, like her choice of glasses. She’d claimed she couldn’t see without them – then forgot to use them to drive. He shook his head and bit his lower lip in contemplation.
Then he recalled their conversation about Maggie’s eye surgery. I tell you what, if Maggie does it, I’ll do it, she had told him.
The bile that had been churning in his stomach turned to acid. ‘I never told her my wife’s name,’ Taylor whispered. He turned back to Everett, who simply raised his eyebrows in response.
Taylor decided to save the explanation for later. ‘What if I spoke to her?’ he suggested. ‘If she doesn’t see me as a threat, then surely I’d have a chance of making her stop what she’s doing. Maybe I could convince her to turn herself in. I could offer to help her through this.’
‘I don’t know, Taylor.’ Everett stood, paced a little, then stopped to stare up at the evidence boards on the stage. ‘It’s all just speculation. We don’t have enough to successfully accuse her of anything. And if it goes belly up, we’re still here alone. Maybe we should hold tight until tactical arrive. The weather bureau’s advising that the storm will break tomorrow, with winds dropping down to eight knots. I think it would be better to pursue it then.’
‘All we have to do is survive the night,’ Taylor said with faint sarcasm.
Everett’s expression turned stony cold, his frustration clearly mounting. ‘There’s nothing to indicate that we are targets, Taylor,’ he said. ‘Paris – Alison – Jaimie – that damned Hoodoo … Whoever she is, it’s obviously about revenge.’
‘Then, if we’re not targets, I have nothing to lose,’ Taylor reminded him. ‘Jaimie should be at the ranger’s station. Let me test the water. It’s worth a try.’
‘To tell you the truth, Taylor, right now I’m more concerned about Charlie Lawson’s missing dynamite. We know what Paris can do with a knife and bow. God knows what she’s planning with that much TNT.’
‘Then let me stop that happening.’
Taylor could see by the softening of his expression that Everett had come around to the idea. ‘Okay, go,’ he said. ‘After my visit from Sister Moore today, I believe she may be a potential victim too.’ He searched the table, then his pockets, for his car keys. ‘I should have detained her for her own safety.’ He glanced down at his working watch. ‘I’ll head up to the convent.’ He fixed his gaze on Taylor. ‘Any sign that Jaimie and Paris are the same person, you get out of there and contact me right away, okay?’
Taylor nodded, and they both headed out, not knowing what kind of storm was waiting.
24
The kettle’s whistle drowned out Ginger’s contented purring. Adeline Moore lifted her feline companion to the floor, and the cat stretched her legs with every step she took to the fireplace, where she settled on her haunches, tail flicking, watching Adeline pour hot water into the teapot. The scent of the drawing tea-leaves drifted up into Adeline’s nose.
The pot felt heavy to her arthritic hands and, even in the soft light of the fire, her fingers appeared frail, reminding her of her seventy-two years. She gave a slight groan as she took the pot back to the side table by her chair, then glanced around at the library’s interior, feeling the theological weight of each volume.
The leather chair seemed to wrap her in its contours as she sat. Cats aside, Adeline felt very much alone. Not just here in the quiet depths, where the torrential weather’s breath could not be heard, but in life itself. Her brother was gone, her church had abandoned her, and even the town below had ostracised her because of what happened to those girls under her care. Loneliness was a curse, inviting regrets and thoughts of what if? What she did, she did for her brother, and yet he had still died, still left her, adding to that loneliness and inviting more what ifs … A bitter circle.
A cluster of three candles sat beside her Bible and teapot. ‘Come, puss,’ she said as she patted her knee, but Ginger was far too content by the fire to choose her lap.
‘Suit yourself,’ she said as she poured her tea and sipped it. The leaves were a little stale, like the half pack of cigarettes she’d found in her bedroom. On the floor below the side table was an open bottle of Scotch. She poured a nip into the tea, sipped again, and rested back in her chair. Much better.
She took stock of her cats, each in their favourite spots: pressed between books on the shelves, joining Ginger at the fireplace, stretched out beneath the furniture, and … Where is Gilligan?
The
cats had free rein of the building and often roamed around it, but would always gather in the library this close to dinnertime. She stood with the groan that she didn’t even hear anymore, walked to the door and opened it, glancing down each end of the hall, thinking Gilligan might have been shut out. But no. It isn’t the first time slow Gilligan has gone missing overnight, and it won’t be the last. Poor special Gilligan, with his oversized tongue perpetually breaching the side of his lips. She left the door open a crack and sauntered back to her chair.
The candlelight played across the leather-bound Bible beside her, casting flittering shadows from the embossed title. It was a beautifully bound book, given to her by the administrator when she had commenced her placement at the convent and its children’s home, a lifetime ago. She lifted it from the table, but found no comfort there. The texture of its rippled leather cover and the scent of aged paper evoked memories of Walter Dench and her deal with the devil. She opened it with reluctance, and gasped when she saw the phrase scratched beneath the gilded words Holy Bible on the inside cover page: And Great Shall be the Peace of your Children.
She closed the book and dropped it into her lap, letting it slip from her knees to the floor. It wasn’t the words themselves … or that they appeared to be written in blood … it was that the bloodied text smeared to the touch, leaving a stain on her thumb.
Adeline hurried to the corner cabinet, ignoring the pangs of arthritis from each step, and rummaged through the drawer where she kept several flashlights, her heart beating against her chest. Two of the three torches worked, one better than the other. She walked hesitantly to the library door and scanned the hallway in each direction. Before the light beam could reach the end of the hall, it was consumed by the darkness before it. She had always noticed how hungry the darkness was in this place.
Humanity, on the whole, will seek the light, she reminded herself. But not Paris. She had always made the darkness her friend … Sneaking around at night, stepping stealthily on the nail holes, so as not to make the floorboards creak. And, again, she remembered little Paris’s words: ‘I cut his heels clear through to the bone.’ That’s when she felt something against her ankle. She flinched, fumbling with the flashlight, almost dropping it, before its beam found Ginger’s inquisitive face.
Adeline knew she needed to get out of the building. She patted her sweater pocket, ensuring that once she reached the car she wouldn’t waste time looking for the keys. She gathered up Ginger, wanting to bring the others but knowing she couldn’t take the time. Her breathing, her heartbeat, seemed incredibly loud, threatening to give her away. She ran the length of the hall, glancing over her shoulder, listening for sounds of movement.
Near the front doors, where the stairs wound up to the old dormitory, she paused to catch her breath. The tempest rumbled outside, the glass in the window frames shaking. A blaze of lightning lit the vestibule, and something on the stairwell caught her eye. It was writing; broad brush strokes screaming at her. She swung the flashlight beam around to it …
SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN UNTO ME
And it was written, most assuredly, in blood, still trickling in places from the letterings, gleaming fresh and wet.
She let Ginger slip from her grasp and ascended to the landing. The thought of escape had abandoned her. Not due to her feeling some sudden current of bravery, but her resolve. The darkness is my friend … Adeline knew what Paris was capable of – and knew that she had no intention of letting her go. This moment would have been planned meticulously, but to what end?
Adeline heard a rumble of thunder reverberate through the dormitory.
‘I’m coming up, Paris!’ she called. She could feel the chill of each stone step through the thin soles of her shoes.
She had managed to avoid the empty dormitory for years. During the climb, she felt the ghosts in every corner, chattering in voices stolen by the wind’s song beyond the windows. She recalled walking the halls after lights out in her first week at the convent. The recently arrived children would cry themselves to sleep. It was heartbreaking, and she could hear them still.
Adeline stood at the top landing, catching her breath. There was another flash of lightning, which cast her shadow the full length of the hall. All the doors were closed except one. She focused the torch on it, the brass room number reflective in the light – 19 flashed at her. Paris and Alison’s room.
Adeline stepped inside. ‘Oh …’ she gasped pressing her hand to her mouth. The blood smelled like old pennies. Her throat constricted and she swallowed, barely holding the nausea at bay. The flashlight beam circled a single word on the far wall. She stepped into the centre of the room, letting the word engulf her as another flash of lightning cast her shadow across the message.
SUFFER!
On the bed to her right lay poor Gilligan, his familiar pink tongue between his wilted lips. He lay prone on his back, his black coat slit open at his belly where a paintbrush protruded, like some macabre artist’s palette. Adeline felt the touch of Ginger’s fur at her ankle again, but did not startle this time. She watched the cat step closer to her feline companion, sniff the air, and raise her head to the ceiling in a drawn-out yowl of grief.
Adeline’s arthritic knuckles ached as she clenched her fists by her side, tears – more of rage than sorrow – spilling over. Then dread washed over her as she saw Ginger’s face staring past her … the cat’s expression fierce. Ears back, eyes wide, claws extended and her back arched, she let out an extended hiss.
‘Hello, Sister,’ came a voice from the doorway.
Adeline’s fists fell open at her sides. ‘Are you here to kill me, Paris?’
The pause was encouraging. Perhaps that’s it … Kill the cat … learn the lesson, but …
‘Yes,’ Paris said coldly.
Adeline sighed. ‘Then you must find the courage to do it behind my back.’
‘There’s no hurry, Sister,’ Paris said. ‘You once had such an interest in my welfare, after the fire; though you did believe me to be poor Alison at the time.’
It was the warmth in Paris’s voice that chilled Adeline the most; how she sounded so calm and engaging. ‘Who have you become to reap such vengeance, Paris?’
‘I’ve become whoever I had to, Sister. Like I have before, and like I will again.’ She laughed, but without humour. ‘Don’t tell me this thing you have created has lost its appeal? After all, I am the prodigal son returned, am I not? Frankenstein’s monster seeking its creator; Grendel, come to face Beowulf at the mead hall.’
‘More fairytales?’ Adeline asked. ‘More play-acting?’
‘What you sent us to was no fairytale, Sister … No morals or happy endings there.’
Adeline noted the slight tremble in Paris’s voice. ‘I didn’t know,’ she said. ‘You and Alison were supposed to go to Dench’s sister …’ The tears ran freely now, cold on her face, ‘… to a loving family.’
She felt the breath on the back of her neck before Paris’s words drifted out like warm molasses: ‘You delivered us to the devil, Sister.’
25
The rain drummed against the windshield, Everett’s heart beating with the wipers. Sister Moore should not be up there alone tonight. He would bring her down the mountain – perhaps the Royal would have a spare room for the night.
The Ford was unsteady in the wet conditions, the clay surface affording little traction. On more than one occasion, he had to wipe condensation from the windscreen to be able to see. He slowed to a crawl, the rain pitching across the road in sheets, the driving winds battering the Ford with scattered leaves and twigs.
He wondered how the tactical unit was coping out there in this turmoil, glancing at his working watch – nearly seven – and how close to the Reach they might be right now. LAC had warned that there was no phone coverage in the shadow of the pass, but said they would make contact as soon as they had a signal. It’ll be a nightmare out there. Everett wiped the windshield again and saw …
‘Holy shit!’
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br /> The headlights captured a form in the middle of the road, standing defiantly, the rain giving a halo effect in the bright light. Everett swung away, the Ford fishtailing in the clay before coming to a stop.
He glanced over his shoulder, squinting through the beaded rear window, and saw the deer in his brake lights as it bounded into the forest. Everett took a moment to breathe, eased back in the seat and released his tense grip on the steering wheel, studying the mild tremor he had in each hand. The tactical team can’t get here soon enough.
A shudder of thunder rolled through the woodlands, resonating through the car. He eased the Ford ahead, wheels spinning momentarily until the tyres gripped. A flash of lightning illuminated the road, and his shoulders dropped with relief when he saw the arch of the convent gates ahead. Once Sister Moore was safely back in town, he could relax, wait out the storm and hold tight until the cavalry arrived. But then, he had Taylor heading over to the ranger’s station. Is that a mistake? Everett began doubting every decision he’d made.
‘Oh, Archie,’ he whispered. ‘Give me strength.’
The headlights caught the archaic wrought-iron gateway. Surely it could never have appeared welcoming to anyone. He imagined many a homeless child cringing as they passed beneath the gates, seeing the grey building looming ahead.
The next burst of lightning illuminated the structure, and with it two vehicles in the compound. Everett gasped, bringing the Ford to a stop. Sister Moore’s VW, and the beat-up Jeep Cherokee were parked at the base of the stairs. He took his Glock from the glovebox and eased off the safety. Then the Cherokee’s headlights exploded into high-beam.
He recognised the growling roar of the Jeep’s V8 over the chaos of the storm. It lurched forwards, right at him. Everett planted the Ford’s accelerator and wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right as gravel clattered up into the wheel wells. Spots danced in his vision as the Cherokee scraped down the side of his car and wrenched off the side mirror with a metallic crunch. The Ford careened into one of the outbuildings, the airbag deploying with explosive force. Everett pressed his arms and body against the bag to deflate it, a white powder lingering in the air.
The Reach Page 23