In a time when many publishers are reducing their outlay in the editorial process, Pantera continues to invest in the process, the proof displayed within the pages of this very book. To my senior editor Lucy Bell, copyeditor Sarina Rowell and proofreader Anna Blackie, this author remains eternally in your debt.
And for taking my books to the world in its many forms, my undying gratitude goes to Pantera’s rights manager, Katy McEwen. While my publisher gives me my voice, Katy keeps it loud and prominent out there in the world.
It’s easy these days to Google your research, but nothing comes close to building a network of those who have lived the lives I attempt to put into words. To Sergeant Matt Thomson and retired detective Kerry Rogerson, you continue to add credibility to my law enforcement characters (even when you don’t know it), and to the many staff of Parks Victoria and Parks and Wildlife NSW for helping me bring Taylor Bridges and the vast wilderness locations in this series to life.
As a writer, only family realises that when I’m quiet and somewhat elusive that I’m probably working. To my daughters, Macey and Erin, thank you for your love, and for keeping me young at heart. To my beloved wife and muse, Mel, thank you for keeping the threads tight whenever they start to unravel, and for reminding me what’s truly important.
And to you, dear reader. If I am the heart of these books, then you are truly the soul.
BMR 2021
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
1.What role does nature play in the story?
2.How does the weather in Devlins Reach affect the story?
3.Do you believe places can be haunted?
4.Do you agree that a person can be born bad? Discuss why/why not.
5.Why do you think the residents of Devlins Reach were reluctant to help with Detective Everett’s investigation?
6.What made Taylor and Everett a good team?
7.What is the significance of Detective Everett’s two watches? Why do you think the broken one started working again?
8.Do you think Paris’s revenge was justified?
9.Do you feel sorry for Paris? Do you believe she felt any remorse?
10.How did you feel about Sister Moore’s secret?
11.At what point did you begin to suspect the identities of the killers? What made you suspicious?
12.Do you think Taylor should have gone back to his wife and daughter when the case got dangerous, like he promised? Explain why/why not.
13.Would you be mad or brave enough to drive across the condemned Wilson’s Bridge?
14.Do you think Detective Everett handled the case well? Should he have done anything differently?
15.How do you think Heather knew so much about the murder case? Do you think it was all town gossip, or inside information?
16.Do you think Paris will return for revenge? What do you think she will do?
About the Author
B. Michael Radburn is an award-winning writer of short stories, novels and screen plays. He is also the founder of Dark Press Publications and the former editor of the Australian Horror and Fantasy Magazine. He is the author of Blackwater Moon, The Falls and The Crossing, which is being made into a film by Chris Haywood. He lives in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales with his family
B. Michael Radburn’s new book The Reach will be released in September 2020.
CHAPTER 1
A Sunday morning, 1987
It’s the smell of incense that always takes me back.
That smoky, burnt odour in my nostrils every Sunday morning sent my body into overdrive. The priest carried the large silver canister on a chain, swinging it back and forth, grey fumes floating out in a thin haze around us.
Sweat popped on my skin, small beads appearing on my top lip, my forehead, the palms of my hands. Struggling to hold onto the candle, I walked down the central aisle. Rivulets of moisture ran down my spine, pooling under my tunic right where the elastic waistband of my shorts dug into the small of my back.
I was only ten years old.
My best friend Benjamin walked beside me holding the shining gold cross aloft. He was trying not to laugh, like always. I was jealous of Ben – his ability to just carry on.
We approached the altar and separated to stand either side of it. The sound of our shoes on the carpet, the soft, almost imperceptible swish of rubber soles on tightly woven pile, served as another reminder of where I was; of exactly what the morning would bring. As I placed the candle on the patterned silk cloth covering the wooden table, my hands trembled; the size of the congregation was only partly to blame for my nervousness. As I took my place by the raised platform, on one of the seats provided for us, I looked out at the sea of people, my eyes wandering through the crowd, searching.
I found them. Mum and Dad, perched three rows from the front, faces raised expectantly, waiting with bated breath for their next instalment of spiritual enlightenment. Dad caught me glancing their way and winked, a smile breaking across his weathered face, pride in his eyes.
I smiled back, knowing that was what he wanted. Inside though, my guts churned like a cement mixer.
‘Welcome, my friends – God’s chosen ones – to another day where we give thanks to the Lord our Saviour by coming together in this way, to celebrate His life and all that He sacrificed in our honour.’ Father’s voice boomed out, the amplification from the microphone hardly necessary. As someone who had been on the end of one of his tirades, I could attest this was always the case. He was a large man, slightly hunched, with a voice that seemed to well up from the ground itself. He wasn’t as old as some of the priests I’d seen around, but he wasn’t as young as our second priest either. Somewhere in the middle. He was the boss though. Everyone knew that when it came to the parish, what Father said went. Simple as that. ‘We gather here today to offer thanks for what He has given us, to pray that we may live up to the expectations He has set for us, and to attempt to gain meaning from the struggles and battles we come up against in this world each and every day. Issues of family, of relationships, of work and, of course, of religion …’
As Father’s voice droned on, Ben’s hand reached out across the small gap between our seats. His fingers closed over mine as I grasped the metal edge of my chair. I was sure he’d feel my heart thumping in my hands like I’d sometimes seen on the cartoons when Daffy Duck smashed his thumb with a hammer.
As the service carried on and we performed the duties expected of us, the tension inside my small frame increased. Ben would sneak a cheeky grin at me whenever he got the chance, and in those split seconds, I would be a child again – happy and carefree. The briefest of moments that shone like stars in a very dark sky.
‘… And so it is with friendship and humility that we offer each other a sign of God’s peace.’ Father’s words rang across his flock, and they turned to each other, extending their hands and smiling; total strangers wishing each other the peace of God. Ben and I stood, waiting patiently for Father to come and share that peace with us – his public display of support for all to see.
He walked towards us, his robes flowing behind him. Ben was first, and I felt him recoil slightly at the contact. His arm hung out limply. ‘Peace be with you, Father,’ he said, his voice barely audible.
‘And with you, my son,’ Father said, teeth bright against his olive skin. He turned to me then, reaching out with his right hand while his left hand cupped my shoulder, holding me in place. ‘And peace be with you also.’ His eyes bore right through me, into that dark place where my soul lived, a plaster smile stuck to his face. His fingers wrapped around mine, skin damp, and he shook my hand forcefully.
Then he let me go and spun on his heel, his robes like a superhero’s cape behind him. It was time for Holy Communion. Ben and I shared a glance before we headed back into the spotlight. We produced the ornate chalice and the decanter of wine, and placed them carefully on the altar, then stole ourselves away again.
‘… Breaking the bread, he gave it to his disciples and said: “Take this, all of y
ou, and eat it. This is my body, which will be given up for you …”’ Father raised the bread above his head, gazing upwards and blessing the offerings that his congregation were about to receive.
At that precise moment every week, I wondered if God actually was watching. Was it true that he was looking down on our church and everyone in it, shining his light onto us, and into our hearts and minds? Did he see everything that happened in here?
The worshippers came forward one by one, many blessing themselves as they returned to their seats, their place in heaven secure for at least another week.
Ben and I tidied up the altar, returning it to its pristine condition while Father sat, quietly contemplating his farewell message. He rose and stood at the lectern. The congregation rose with him.
‘And so, we come to the end of another celebration of God’s work. But before we leave, I feel the need to share with you all the theme of this week’s liturgical groups – that of forgiveness. Just as we will be forgiven our sins when we appear before God, so must we be mindful of exercising forgiveness to those we feel have wronged against us in the community. Doing this allows us to bring a small piece of God into our world on a daily basis – and that is the highest honour we can engage in. In parting, I challenge you all to focus on forgiveness this week, and in turn pray that those you have wronged will find it in their hearts to forgive you also.’ He raised his hands, reaching towards the crowd. ‘Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord.’ His words rang out, the Mass complete, and my blood freezing in my veins.
Ben and I followed Father out to the church’s back rooms, our small procession coming to a halt as we entered Father’s preparation room. ‘Well done, boys,’ he said, his godly facade left behind at the altar. He grabbed us both, his robust arms wedging us together, ensuring we had no wriggle room whatsoever. ‘It’s good to see my A-team performing to their usual standards – that’s the way I like it.’ He let us go, and then extricated himself from his thick purple-and-white silk robes, pulling them over his head, before folding them neatly and placing them in the wardrobe. As usual, he was dressed smartly underneath – black pants, a black short-sleeved shirt and the traditional clerical collar. ‘I’ll be back shortly, boys,’ he said, winking at us. ‘You know the drill. Father will join us, and we’ll have our usual discussion from there.’
There they were – the words that sent a shiver down my spine.
We’ll have our usual discussion from there.
He spoke them so openly, safe in the knowledge that in his world, at least, things operated precisely as he wanted them to, no questions asked. Ever.
Our parents were proud as punch that we had been chosen to perform such important roles in the functioning of the parish. How could they not swell with delight at the rituals we had been hand-picked for?
I knew they trusted Father implicitly, as we all did – indeed, his word was the Word of God.
CHAPTER 2
Present Day
‘That’ll be for you, Charlotte.’
The chorus of voices rang out as one. They always did whenever the phone rang in the Criminal Investigation Unit office. It was an ongoing joke: one that was starting to wear a little thin on the only female detective in the region. Theirs was an office strength of four – well, a sergeant and four, to be exact. As the lone female, Charlotte Callaghan copped the brunt of everything from an excessive workload to sexist jokes. It was pretty simple – if she was the only one to answer the phone, she was the only one who got all the work. That was their theory anyway, and they were sticking to it.
Charlotte flung her long red hair back from her face, grabbed the ringlets at the base of her neck and adroitly secured the bunch in a ponytail before answering the phone. She wasn’t afraid of work – not now, not ever. That was part of the reason why everyone loved her – especially her colleagues.
‘CIU, Charlotte Callaghan speaking,’ she said, rolling her eyes at her workmates, who were laughing in the background like a bunch of hyenas. Immature pack of bastards, she thought, only half concentrating on the call.
‘Charlotte, it’s Tom here. Have you been monitoring the radio?’
Tom was a uniformed copper who Charlotte had worked side by side with for years. She knew she could trust anything he said, not like some of the new members coming through. Some of them didn’t seem to know their arses from their elbows. Right now, Tom was on the divisional van.
‘No, mate, I’ve been a little busy here,’ Charlotte said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You’ve been a little busy?’ Tom said. ‘Try working the van – we’ve been absolutely belted and now there’s this doozy. We’ve got a body, and we’re going to need you guys out here asap – looks like someone’s had a bit of fun with this one.’ Tom had begun whispering, a sign that Charlotte read immediately: there were people there who didn’t need to overhear this conversation. Media, witnesses, family?
A fire started in her veins, her heart pumping a little faster – the familiar adrenalin rush that was one of the main reasons she did this shit. God knew it wasn’t for the money.
‘Right,’ she said, her mind flicking into gear. ‘You don’t need me to tell you how to suck eggs. Keep any witnesses separated, secure the scene and … has the coroner been notified yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Tom replied in the same hushed tone. ‘We haven’t been here long ourselves, and the scene’s a little chaotic.’
‘Okay. Try to get on that as soon as you can. We’ll come out straight away.’ As she spoke, Charlotte was already motioning to the other detectives, trying to make sure at least someone would be ready to hit the road with her. Unfortunately, her usual partner was on a rest day, meaning she would be forced to work with one of the two remaining Neanderthals – the duo she always tried to avoid. Sometimes working here was like watching a glacier move.
Still, all she could do was do her job properly. Or at least try.
‘What details have you got?’ she asked, grabbing her day book and flipping to a fresh page – always a bad sign. A fresh page meant a new start, a new job, a new round of victims, witnesses and offenders. In a case like this, the notes she took now, and the manner in which she conducted the investigation, might be brought before a jury a year or two down the track. And she didn’t want to cost the department a conviction through sheer carelessness – she had enough on her plate without having to deal with that type of guilt.
She scribbled away as Tom spoke, taking down as much information as she could. Experience had taught her that it was far better to get the details right the first time than to try to revisit them later on to cover up initial poor work.
‘You know that girl who went missing yesterday?’ Tom said, his voice scratchy in her ear. ‘The one Robbo took the reports for. Christie Dalgleish?’
Charlotte nodded, the phone banging against her ear, before she realised Tom couldn’t see her. Idiot. She didn’t know where her head was at lately. ‘Yeah, I heard a little bit about it,’ she answered, chewing on her pen. She’d glanced at the reports earlier that morning during their daily read-out, but not thought much of it. People went missing fairly regularly, even in a small town like Gull Bay. Usually the reason was nothing more sinister than a drained mobile phone battery. ‘Is that the one who never made it home from the gym?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ Tom said. ‘It’s her we’ve got here. Her handbag’s been left with her ID still in it. She’s in a bad way, Charls. We covered her up, but not before she was seen by quite a few people, all of whom are still here and in shock. No leads at all on an offender. We’re not even sure how long she’s been here, to tell you the truth. It’s a little out of the way so she could’ve been here nearly twenty-four hours and no one’s noticed until now.’
Tom continued with as much detail as he could, and Charlotte felt her heart sink as she wrote. A family out there would soon be receiving the most devastating news imaginable: their daughter was never coming home.
She jotted down the tim
e the van had arrived, when they’d been notified of the job, who had found the body; the list of puzzle pieces ticked off one by one. She’d been doing this long enough that the questions sprang off her tongue without her thinking. For a fleeting second, she pondered how sad it was that she’d been involved in so much of other people’s misery that dealing with it was now habitual. They never taught her how to deal with that realisation at the academy almost thirty years ago.
‘I take it her family doesn’t know yet?’ she asked, dreading the answer.
‘Nup. As I said, we haven’t been here long, and to be honest that’s been the least of our worries,’ Tom said. ‘Besides, we thought we’d leave that up to you – that’s what you get paid the big bucks for, isn’t it?’
Charlotte barked out a laugh. Normally black humour was right up her alley, but not today.
After getting all the answers she needed from Tom, she put down her pen. ‘Righto mate, we’ll get our shit together and head out. I’ll give the homicide squad a ring too; give them a bit of a heads up on what we’ve got. See you shortly.’
She hung up the phone and glanced back over the page of scribbled notes she’d taken without even getting to the scene yet. Her right hand ached dully – something that never seemed to ease. She took a deep breath; a physical preparation for what was to come.
It was going to be another one of those days.
The pot-holed bitumen road curved through the parkland, morning mist still rising up through the shrubbery as Charlotte drove. Her partner Wally – thrust upon her more because of availability than choice – chewed gum loudly in the seat beside her, each smack of his lips setting her teeth on edge.
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