by Finn Bell
Angus Wu looks like she’s had a long night too as she nods to us when we take the same places in the off-road ambulance as before.
“You two look bad,” she says as we buckle ourselves in.
“Thanks Doc, it’s our busy social life you know, after hours when we can get away from the joys of heavy lifting in the mud,” I reply.
“Any idea how much longer they’re planning on keeping this up?” Angus asks.
“There are concerns that it may snow soon. Things may end abruptly,” Tobe comments from the back.
“I’ve heard. It’s strange too, snow at Easter,” Angus remarks as we head out of town. “At least this early in the year it should only be a light dusting at best.”
* * *
THE TWO MEN IN THE DARK
I’m still willing myself onwards, numbly praying for the promise of sunrise, when it happens.
“There you are,” he suddenly says right next to me, completely without warning in a calm, loud voice. I’m so startled, so completely unprepared and exhausted, that my only response is to immediately stumble mid-step, falling down to my hands and knees.
I start to get up but am stopped midway when he presses the gun into the back of my neck, the metal so cold it burns into my skin.
It’s been so long I had begun to believe I’d actually gotten away from him.
It feels like my heart wants to beat itself out of my chest and I’m forced to swallow down the hard lump of regret rising in my throat. Oh god, my family. I failed them.
“Hope and fear,” he says in that same calm, conversational tone as he pulls my hands behind my back again, one by one. For a moment I consider trying to attack him but the gun remains a steady, unwavering pressure in the soft spot just below my skull and I know he’ll use it. I’ve already seen what he can do. And I’m so exhausted and weak I can barely hold myself upright. My only hope now is to be rescued, I realise with a sinking feeling.
“They are funny things. My dad gave me this book once, by a man named Frankl who said that without time, hope and fear would be impossible because they are both just forms of belief, of faith,” he says as the knots around my wrists tighten.
“It makes sense. Because they’re not really feelings, they’re expectations. Things you experience now but that are about the future. You believe good things will happen and you believe bad things will happen. Hope and fear. Simple,” he says as he leans down to help me back to my feet.
“But I think Frankl missed something about hope and fear. You also need something to care about. You need love. Without it hope and fear don’t mean anything. We only care about what’s going to happen if we care about who it’s going to happen to.
“I think you’re beginning to understand that,” he says. “But to make sure I want you to see something before we go.”
Then he slowly turns me around, keeping himself behind me until we are facing the way I just came. From behind he rests his chin on my shoulder and says with unwelcome intimacy, “Look.”
And there I see it, so beautiful and tragic that my eyes brim with tears just as he tightens the rope around my neck.
Over the black, frozen horizon, the sun is rising.
* * *
THE STORM
After the very first snowflakes fall there comes a moment of pause. The air stills to a completely windless chill and a brooding, heavy quiet descends as the insects hide, the animals burrow down and the birds seek shelter. In the near-perfect silence the sounds of seething humanity below seem wrong now, unnatural, loud and harsh.
After hours of steadily tightening cold, darkening skies and growing winds, this moment of stillness seems almost calming, a reprieve from the inevitable, but it is a false peace. Then it passes, slowly at first, as if some huge but finely-balanced equilibrium is finally breached, as in ones and twos more flakes float down. Then the fall becomes heavier. And faster.
* * *
TOBE AND NICK
The alarm makes me jump momentarily, seeming far too loud as it wails in the still morning air without warning.
“That’s us,” Angus Wu says over her shoulder as we lift the empty stretcher back into the van that’s parked in front of the first aid tent. “It’s the snow alarm. It means it’s gonna be a bad one. Good luck. I’ve got to get going while I can.”
As we make our way into the main tent we can already see snow floating down as Martin is finishing an announcement on the loud speaker.
“That’s you guys as well,” Maud says as he comes up to us through the dispersing crowds. “The weather guys are saying it’s looking a lot worse than they predicted. We need to get all non-essential personnel back to the city while the road stays open or we risk getting snowed in. So get going. Oh, and there was a message for you from a Father Ress. I took it down and emailed it to you. He said he tried calling you directly but you must have been out of the reception area.”
“What about all this?” I call out as Maud heads away.
“Done for now,” Maud replies with a wave.
Tobe checks the messages as I slowly edge the car into the stream of traffic leaving Lawrence. The fall already seems heavier and I can see the first white clumps forming at the bottom edge of the windscreen. If this gets bad enough and they’re still out there it could kill both James Chen and Remu Black regardless of all their plans or ours. But as soon as I think that I realise it’s an unfounded fear because it’s built on a fool’s hope. Tobe was right, despite all the busy chaos here today everything is already long over. None of this really matters.
“The weather warning says we have about two hours before they’re likely to close the roads. Should be more than enough time,” Tobe says.
“What’s the message from Father Ress say?” I ask.
“It may be something, may be nothing,” Tobe replies. “Father Ress thinks he knows where Sam Black may have gone and I stress the ‘may’ in that statement. He says he used to talk about an old hunting hut his grandfather built in the forest near Waipori Falls. Sam spent his summers there as a boy. Took his own kids there too, it’s where he taught them to hunt. He says he once told him that’s the one place he’d want to see again before he died. Says Sam gave him a picture he painted of it a while ago. He only remembered the conversation last night when he got home and saw the painting.”
“Waipori Falls isn’t actually too far from here,” I say as an inkling of a thought stirs. “It’s about halfway back to the city as the crow flies. We could pass by there on the way back. If we take the old forest road from here, we could be there and gone ahead of the snow,” I say as an inkling of a thought stirs.
“That’s even rougher country than here,” Tobe replies doubtfully. “And the road is mostly mud. There’s a reason it’s not on the map, it’s only used by logging trucks.”
“Yup, which means it’s wide with easy turns and likely to be empty now the snow warning has gone out. We could make good time if we push it,” I say.
“You believe it’s worth the risk of getting stuck out in the snow?” Tobe asks.
“Come on old man. We’ve still got the rescue gear in the back. What’s the worst that could happen? So maybe we spend the night in the car. It’s not like either of us is getting any sleep at home. What if Father Ress is right and that’s where Sam Black went? Remember what Nurse Miha said: given the timing, if he’s out there, chances are he’s still alive. And he has to know something about this,” I say.
“You’re reaching Nick. Yesterday you thought he’d be trying to reach Remu. Waipori Falls is in exactly the wrong direction for that. Plus, we still don’t have any proof that he knows anything. The timing of his disappearance may just be a coincidence. And he wouldn’t be the first old man who’s run away from the hospital to go off and die on his own. It’s not uncommon among old hunters and especially those who are also Māori. I do agree that it’s worth investigating, but we could put it on the task sheet and Tom’s team can check it out,” Tobe says.
“You k
now it will go to the bottom of the pile. Tom’s not going to send cops out to look at some old hunting hut above known gang locations just because Sam Black gave Father Ress a painting. Besides, his people will be scattered all over the south by now. We’re here. By the time they get to it the roads may already be snowed in and Sam Black could already be dead. And if he knows anything worthwhile it’s worth our time. What else is there for us to do? Go home and hide Easter eggs?” I say.
“I’ll call Father Ress. You call Martin,” Tobe says, sighing.
* * *
“What did he say?” I ask as Tobe finishes his call.
“I’m afraid there’s not much more he could add. There’s an old walking track out in the wild that leads from Waipori Falls to Nicols Falls; the hut is on a side track halfway between them. He doesn’t know if the hut even still exists. It’s remote and it will be quite a distance for us to cover on foot, especially if the snow sets in,” Tobe answers.
“Yeah but we have whistles and daffodil hats and we’re making good time,” I reply as I check the GPS on the computer screen.
“What did Martin say?” Tobe asks.
“He swore a bit but he said ok. Maud’s logging it. Said we’re not the only people asking to go off chasing thin leads,” I answer, and as I follow the curves in the road I feel like I’m getting my second wind back despite all the doubts.
I don’t know why we’re built this way. There’s a cold, rational part of me that agrees with Tobe and knows the odds are incredibly low of us finding anything out there, and that when we do find nothing I’ll immediately feel the sense of failure come back twice as strong, but right now the rest of me doesn’t care. Too much hope can make you stupid.
It’s like that thing I do sometimes to stop my hands from shaking, when I imagine I can go back in time knowing what I know now and imagine doing something different, fix a mistake.
I know it’s pure make believe and in reality it doesn’t change a thing.
But it still works anyway.
Even if it only lasts for a little while.
I’m startled out of my thoughts by my phone ringing in my coat pocket, which Tobe fishes out in response to my nod as I’m going too fast to risk taking my eyes off the road.
“Hey Nick, can you guys get me in? The gate Nazis won’t give me a pass,” I hear Becca Patrick say as Tobe puts the phone on speaker between us.
“Get you in where?” I ask.
“Duh, I’m right outside. Please. It would just be me and my camera guy, only for a few minutes. You won’t even need to do any air time, I just want to be able to start the piece with, ‘Coming to you live from inside the centre of operations.’ Come on, budge,” Becca says.
“We’re not in Lawrence, Becca,” I say.
“Everyone is here, this place is like a circus,” Becca counters, clearly suspecting that I’m lying to her.
“A circus that’s going to get snowed in soon. We’re almost back in the city,” I say.
“Ah, bugger,” Becca says, then covers the phone as we hear the muffled sounds of her talking to someone else, saying things we’re not allowed to hear. She comes back on the line and continues. “But hey, there’s something you guys can do for me, and you have to admit this thing we’ve got going has been good for all of us today and you know it.”
“What do you want Becca?” Tobe says.
“Let’s say that through no fault of my own I came into possession of a police events log, dated about 18 months ago, which lists a report for a missing person made out by James and Andrea Chen for one William Chen. That’s only five months before he died. I really want to see that report. I’m even willing to totally forgive you for not telling me about it earlier,” Becca says in her best fake pleading voice.
“You got hold of a police event log? That kind of thing could get you arrested Becca, by, oh I don’t know, us cops,” I say, stalling for time.
“Yeah right, as if you guys could afford more bad publicity right now. Besides, it’s not illegal if I obtained it from a confidential source inside the investigation, is it? And you guys can be that,” she finishes.
“Things to do right now Becca, I’ll get back to you later. Don’t break any more laws in the meantime, or at least stop telling me about it,” I say.
“You better, and don’t make me wait,” Becca replies before ending the call.
“How come we don’t know about this report? And don’t you just feel the burning need to have someone find it for us right this minute?” I say.
“Martin?” I then ask Tobe, who is already dialling.
“Not Martin. Maud. We need someone who can work fast with the database,” Tobe replies before Maud answers.
“Maud. I need you to check something for me. Pull up the events log for the year before last, all stations, about 18 months ago. We’re looking for anything on a missing person’s report filed for William Chen,” Tobe says.
“Ok, hang on,” Maud says, then takes several minutes before he continues. “Got it. Just pulling it now. Ah, I can see why we missed it before. Yeah there’s an event log entry. Missing person, William Chen, listed by James and Andrea Chen. Dated 5 November. But there’s no case file and no report,” he finishes.
“Why not?” Tobe asks.
“Because there was no crime. The event log shows it was closed the next day. Says William Chen was found safe and sound. There’s a medical report from a Doctor Wu attached, stating that the kid became confused after a bad reaction to some pain medication and got lost in the forest. Just parents panicking, understandable after the whole cancer thing I guess. Nothing to it,” Maud says.
“Thank you Maud,” Tobe says as he ends the call.
“Every time I feel we’re on to something it just melts away into nothing. Like we’re just out here doing things for the sake of it,” I say.
“I agree, but it’s bigger than us. There’s constant activity everywhere. Everyone’s busy but none of us are really accomplishing anything,” Tobe says.
* * *
The area of Waipori Falls is unique in that it manages to be truly unspoilt and remote while at the same time being really close to everywhere else. It has managed to keep most of civilisation out by dint of cruel and unusual geography. Guarded by Lake Mahinerangi to the north, it immediately clashes with the fractured shoreline as high, unpredictable hills, steep gorges and dark valleys of dense, old forest. Water owns this land, with lakes, dams, ponds, streams and waterfalls carving their own ongoing arguments across the seasons. It has made a mockery of attempts to tame it with roads.
In summer, if you’re allowed to make it all the way up here, it is a place of striking beauty. The air vibrates with constant bird song and the rush of water. The scent of foxglove flowers and manuka tree blossoms hang heavy in the crisp air as riots of vibrant colour confront the eye at every turn. The rest of the year unfortunately, it’s a complete bastard. It’s wet and dark and even colder than Lawrence. It’s hard to get to, hard to cross and tries to keep you there if you try. Like many places that were probably a bad idea, it started because of gold. Like Lawrence, the gold ran out long ago, but here nature won, driving everyone out again.
Today only a smattering of houses still cling here and there to the unforgiving high hills. It’s not really a place, it’s a piece of nature with some stubborn people who haven’t given up yet. We don’t see a single person as we head up from the lake; people are already hiding from the snow.
By the time we set foot on the track leading away from Waipori Falls, white flakes are already collecting in small drifts on the path. The earth is too cold now to melt them. But we’re sweating regardless, wearing our heavy, waterproof emergency coats over our normal clothes, and gumboots on our feet.
“We need to pick up the pace,” Tobe says, limping ahead of me. “If we do get snowed in for the night I’d like it to at least be back in the car. That’s if we can’t make it down to the nearest houses in the valley.”
“We’ll be f
ine. So it’s snowing at Easter. This early in the year we’ll get a light dusting at worst and this track’s not too rough either,” I say.
Under a steady fall of snow, it takes almost an hour for us to reach the steep side track that leads down to the hut; the track is little more than a small tunnel in the vegetation. From the curve of the land you can guess that the valley below is wide but that it draws together, funnelling into a gorge close to where we are. While we take a moment to pause here I check my cell phone, but there’s no new messages and I’m unsurprised to find that there’s now also no reception. Then I see Tobe un-holster his gun, take off the safety and put it in his outer coat pocket.
“You never know,” he says as he leads the way ahead while I do the same with my weapon. High-vis coats, gumboots and daffodil hats, yeah, we’re real scary, I think to myself.
The side track is much harder going and soon becomes a dark, muddy, overgrown mess as it falls sharply into a gorge where water rushes so loudly we can’t hear our own footfall.
We’re near the bottom, ducking our way through vegetation so dense you can’t see more than a few steps either side of the path, when Tobe stops in front of me and silently points ahead of him.
There, where a rare break in the dense canopy above allows some second-hand light to sneak through, lies a fresh foot print already sprinkled with snow.
I point to myself then point to the left of the track and Tobe nods his agreement. Slower now, with guns drawn, we make our way down, Tobe still on the path itself and me flanking him as I try to move quietly through the dense bush at the base of the trees.
Soon the track opens out into a small clearing hemmed in by a bubbling stream. On the far side facing us is the remains of an old, overgrown hut that seems long abandoned. Sun-bleached wood and frayed rope warps away from each other, etching slivers of the darkness within. It feels old and empty, a memory of a place, but it’s not.