Deep Water

by Sarah Epstein

  ‘And you never saw Henry at any stage while you were out?’ I say. ‘Not even when you drove to the train station?’

  Mason glances up. ‘I never drove to the train station.’

  ‘Yes, you did. Rina saw you.’ I pull out my phone and click open my Notes file, scrolling to the details Rina gave us in Hyde Park. ‘Around one-thirty to one forty-five she saw your car drive along Railway Parade and pull into the station. It stayed there for a while and then came back out onto Railway Parade and continued south.’

  Mason frowns. ‘I was in bed. I didn’t go out again. Rina must’ve seen a different car.’

  ‘She was pretty certain it was yours.’

  ‘Yeah, she told me she saw my car that night, but I denied it because I had to stick to my mother’s story. I thought she meant earlier though, before the storm, when I drove to the graveyard.’

  I shove my phone back into my pocket. ‘Your mother then. If she’s not opposed to pinching your car—’ I gesture towards the carport, ‘—maybe she took it that night as well.’

  ‘Nup. She was well and truly passed out. Believe me, I know how her drinking habits play out. I’ve had plenty of experience.’

  ‘So Rina’s mistaken?’ I say. She’d seemed so certain, especially since she’d been making her own mental notes in order to confront Mason.

  ‘I mean, the only other person—’ Mason stops. He stares past me at a spot outside in the darkness, as if something’s coming back to him.

  ‘Mason?’

  He suddenly clutches his stomach. ‘Oh my god.’

  The storm

  Henry was relieved to find the motel laundry open. He watched on through the doorway as the gutters overflowed and the wind got beneath the shade sail, shaking it loose from its bolts and shredding it to ribbons. At one point the wind and rain blasted sideways like someone had dropped a huge water bomb from the sky. The storm was as bad as the weatherwoman had said it would be.

  Wherever Chloe was, it didn’t seem like she’d be back anytime soon. She said she was going to bed early but now she wasn’t even home. Henry had knocked on her window, then at the back door and even at the motel office. If Chloe was staying at Sabeen’s or something, she could have told him. She didn’t have to lie.

  Henry had a lot of time to think in the laundry while the storm did somersaults outside. He decided it was time to tell Chloe that he was looking for his dad, and maybe ask for her help. He’d talk to her about it tomorrow before she headed back to Sydney. And he wanted to meet Missy in person, he decided. She’d become a good friend and she listened whenever he needed to vent about Mason. It was nice having someone else to talk to when Chloe wasn’t around.

  Henry wondered if Mason had calmed down yet. He’d never seen his brother explode like that before. He’d wanted to explain about the money but Mason had been too angry to listen. Henry only took it so he could delay Mason from leaving, until he had a chance to track down his father and make his own escape plans. He had to get away from her. He couldn’t be left alone in that house with their mother.

  Henry felt inside the zippered pocket on his backpack to double-check the blue envelope was still safely tucked inside. It wasn’t a good idea for Mason to keep it taped to his drawer anyway, not after Henry had caught Ivy going through their wardrobes last week, searching through their jacket pockets. He slung the backpack onto his shoulders and pulled his green cap down tighter, ready to face the weather. There was still some thunder, but the hail and lightning had moved on, and the rain was nowhere near as heavy as before. It might linger for hours and Henry couldn’t stay here all night. He had a numb backside from sitting on the laundry floor.

  He grabbed his bike and pedalled up the driveway, cutting across the soggy lawn to the path running down the far side of the motel. Dodging the dripping gutters, he used both hands to shove Chloe’s window open. He slipped the note out of his pocket that he’d written earlier, folded it small, then pushed back the curtain and tossed it towards the bed. It was a bad throw and Chloe’s room was dark, but he was pretty sure it landed on the bed. She’d find it. She was like a detective, always spotting things that were out of place.

  When Henry reached the street and rode on towards Railway Parade, he noticed a number of large trees were down. There were leaves and broken branches all over the road, and water gushed along gutters like rivers. At the dip in Railway Parade, a huge lake of brown water covered the road and footpaths, the nearby drains bubbling and overflowing. If it’s flooded, forget it, he thought, recalling the slogan he’d seen on TV. He doubled back to Bridge Road to find another way, weaving his way through tree branches and garbage scattered all over the street.

  The road out of town was even trickier, with masses of debris washed over the bitumen. Cutler Bend was a slog to ride at the best of times, the way it curved around the mountain, some parts uphill, others steep dips, and a couple of risky blind bends. With so much mud on the road’s shoulder and rain hitting him in the face, it was even slower going than usual. For the millionth time, Henry wished his family didn’t live on the outskirts of town.

  As he neared the section of Cutler Bend where the bushfire came through last year, a flash of lightning revealed the ghostly tree trunks, all skinny and limbless, some fluffy with new leafy growth. Halfway home, he thought. He couldn’t wait to get out of the rain. He rounded the bend and leaned into the decline until his bike light picked up movement on the road ahead. Squeezing the brakes, his back wheel almost skidded out beneath him as he struggled to keep the bike upright. Fast-flowing water was over the road, gushing down off the mountain and sloshing across both lanes. It was thick and muddy brown, swirling and foamy in places, clogged with sticks and tree branches. He paused, one foot on the pedal, the other on the road. Could he go through it? Too flooded. He was starting to think he should have stayed at the motel.

  Suddenly, the road lit up. A car was coming around the bend. It was hard to hear it approaching over the sound of the floodwater. Would they see the water in time? Henry hadn’t. He’d barely been able to stop his bike, so he didn’t like a car’s chances. He climbed off his bike and left it by the side of the road before moving to the edge of the water. He took off his hat, using it like a flag as he waved his arms to signal the car.

  The driver took the bend too wide. Too fast. Henry had barely raised his arms before he realised the headlights were on the wrong side of the road – the side he was standing on. The wheels locked up at the last minute but the car kept coming, skidding along the road’s slick surface until it hit him. He heard the bump rather than felt it, and then he was airborne, flying backwards over the water he’d been trying to avoid. His backpack cracked into the steel guardrail, his body landing like a bag of sand on the road’s shoulder.

  The shock of the water in his face made him gulp. The gushing flow pressed him into the guardrail, tossing and tumbling his limbs like a ragdoll. He could make out headlights. A silhouette. Somebody had climbed out of the car. Henry tried to yell. There was water in his mouth, his eyes, his ears. A smaller light swept back and forth over the water, and then it found him, shining directly in his eyes. It must be Mason. His brother had come searching for him.

  I’m here! Henry thought. Hurry, Mason. Hurry up and save me.

  Now

  I step into the shed. Mason is still staring at something I can’t see, as though he’s watching a scene play out in his mind. His focus slides back to me. His breath is quick, his voice floaty and strange. ‘What if he took the car out again after he dropped me home?’

  ‘Who?’

  He continues as if he hasn’t heard me. ‘He said we ran into a tree that had fallen into the road. He even got out to check.’

  I crouch in front of him. ‘Who, Mason? Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Tom,’ he says simply. ‘Tom was driving my car.’

  Pushing myself to my feet again, I back away. He’s clearly confused. Sabeen hit him too hard with the shovel. ‘No.’

&nbs
p; ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Tom was with me up at the graveyard. Tom drove me home.’

  ‘No,’ I say again. ‘He told us all he was home that night.’

  ‘Because I begged him not to tell anyone about it. When he dropped me home I told him to pretend it never happened.’

  ‘What never happened?’

  Mason looks away. ‘It’s private. I don’t want to talk about it, especially to you.’

  ‘Mason.’

  He attempts to stand and then winces, returning to his backside and touching his head. ‘None of that has to do with Henry. On the car ride back from the graveyard, Tom was driving.’

  ‘Tom doesn’t even have a licence.’

  ‘That’s why I didn’t want to say anything to Sergeant Doherty.’

  I can’t get my head around this, and that’s before I even let myself consider what Mason’s suggesting.

  ‘We hit something,’ he says. ‘On the way back from the graveyard, Tom hit something with the car.’

  I bring my hands to my mouth and shake my head quickly. Mason swallows, slightly dazed.

  ‘He told me it was a tree that had blown over. He didn’t see it until the last second and he slammed on the brakes. The road was too slippery. I heard the bump and it didn’t seem major. Tom jumped out to look but I didn’t bother. I just wanted to get home.’

  ‘Where?’ I whisper, my throat closing up.

  Mason’s expression is apologetic. ‘I don’t know. I was kinda out of it. Tom and I had had a … disagreement, so I closed my eyes with my head against the window for the whole car ride. I don’t know where it happened. The windows were steamed up and it was raining, I was drunk. I just don’t know.’

  I don’t want to believe Mason. But as soon as he says the words I hear one of those true crime detectives in my head: When you find out what the truth is, all the clues fit. I think about that documentary again, the way every guilty person has their ‘rock’, something from the crime scene they struggle to have in their presence. For Tom, it’s Mason’s car. He could barely look at it.

  ‘Tom’s struggling at uni,’ I say. ‘He’s lost so much weight and he has heartburn all the time.’

  Mason nods slowly. ‘He won’t look me in the eye. I thought it was because I’d … because of our disagreement.’

  The postcard from Manly. Sabeen never blabbed to Tom about it; he knew where it came from because he sent it. He was in Sydney eating burgers with me the week before it turned up in the motel’s PO Box.

  ‘Henry’s bike,’ Mason says. ‘Was it really in the basement of Bernie’s shop?’

  I think of the day Mason overheard me talking to Doherty at the police station. ‘I thought it was you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I thought you set the fire at Shallow Vintage Wares. To dispose of the evidence.’

  Mason gives a short, bitter laugh. ‘Jesus, Chloe. You really don’t think much of me, do you?’

  I crouch in front of him again. ‘I’m sorry, Mason. I really am. I knew in my gut Henry’s disappearance was suspicious, but I had the wrong person.’

  ‘Who would ever suspect Tom?’ Mason says. ‘I don’t think I know who he is anymore.’

  ‘Except we do know him. He’s clever and resourceful. He’s the smartest person we know. And he hates confrontation and will avoid it at all costs. He would never admit what he’s done, especially not to you or me.’

  ‘Where’s Henry?’ Mason says, his voice breaking. ‘If Tom planted Henry’s bike at the train station to make it look like he caught a train, what did he do with …’

  He can’t bring himself to say it, and I’m struggling to let my mind go there. I feel like I’m on the verge of falling apart. Keep it together. Keep it together.

  ‘I don’t know. We need to find out fast, though,’ I say. ‘If he burned down his grandpa’s shop he’s getting desperate. Do you think it was Tom who took your car earlier?’

  Mason shrugs despondently. ‘It could’ve been. He knows where I keep my keys. But why would he?’

  I think of the fire in Bernie’s shop. My ransacked bedroom. The missing car.

  ‘He’s getting rid of the evidence,’ I say.

  Mason struggles to his feet, swaying slightly. I reach a hand out to steady him; he might have a concussion.

  ‘You think he’s gonna torch my car?’ he says anxiously.

  ‘Maybe …’

  I’m more worried about Tom leaving town in it. If he takes off, we’ll never find out where Henry is.

  And something else is niggling at me, a detail I’m missing. I move over to the shed door and peer out across the backyard for Sabeen. There’s enough moonlight to see all the way up to the house, but I can’t spot anybody moving around. How far did Sabeen have to go to get a signal?

  Wait.

  Moonlight.

  My eyes are drawn to the bright three-quarter moon. Waxing gibbous. At this very minute Raf will be trying to photograph it. He told us all last night he would be, and he’ll have his backpack with him. The vault.

  ‘He couldn’t find it in my room,’ I say.

  Mason’s head turns. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Henry’s Lucky-7 cap. It’s evidence. Tom turned my bedroom over searching for it.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Raf has it,’ I say, pulling out my phone.

  Mason moves to my side, watching me dial Raf ’s number. I press the phone to my ear.

  Silence.

  ‘There’s no signal,’ I say, my pulse quickening.

  ‘It’s patchy as hell here in the valley.’

  ‘I’ve gotta go,’ I say, starting to run away from the shed. ‘I need to get to Devil’s Rock.’

  Mason attempts to run with me, then stumbles, nearly falling over. I stop and double back. He takes another wobbly step.

  ‘Mason, stop. You probably have a concussion. You need to sit down and wait for Sabeen.’

  ‘No, I’m coming with you. Just give me a sec.’ He presses a hand to his stomach like he might throw up.

  ‘Please, Mason. I have to go. Wait here for Sabeen to come back. She’s bringing Sergeant Doherty.’

  He nods, doubled over. ‘Okay, go. Go.’

  I run straight up the dirt driveway towards the carport.

  ‘Don’t let him leave, Chloe!’ Mason calls after me. ‘Don’t let him disappear!’

  I hear how Mason’s voice breaks on that last word and I pump my legs faster.

  * * *

  It’s just me and the soles of my sneakers slapping against bitumen. A smear of purple-blue haze marks the horizon, black trees punching jagged holes in the clear night sky. It’s almost too beautiful, too serene here in the valley. It’s hard to believe anything bad happens here.

  I know it does.

  I know it will if I don’t get there in time.

  I fumble for my phone again, the bright screen a floating spectre in the darkness. As I dial Raf ’s number with trembling fingers, my shoe slips onto the road’s shoulder, skidding along the gravel. It almost shakes the phone from my hand, but I manage to press it against my ear and hear it ringing. My eyes scour for a gap in the trees, for a wooden sign marking the reservoir trail. When it appears, I lurch towards it, low tree branches whipping me in the face.

  Pick up.

  My feet pound the dirt track. I listen for a voice over my ragged breathing.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up.

  Five rings and a lifetime later the call connects.

  ‘Hi.’

  My legs almost buckle with relief. ‘Oh, thank god. You—’

  ‘Kinda busy right now, so leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘No!’ I yell. There’s a shrill beep in my ear, and an expectant silence stretches. ‘It’s me,’ I blurt. ‘As soon as you get this—’

  My foot rolls into a hole and I pitch forwards. I’m going over before I can stop myself, throwing my hands out in front of me to break my fall. I land awkwardly, my ribs finding a large tree root, pain tea
ring up my left side. Both hands scrape across the coarse earth as my phone smacks down hard.

  Air is forced from my lungs and I struggle to draw any in. Part of me wants to stay down, crumple in the dirt and surrender to the pain.

  Come on, Chloe! Move!

  Clawing my way to my feet, I wince at the tenderness in my ribs. My phone’s screen is now a spider web of cracks. I try it anyway, but it stays dark.

  I will my legs to move faster until my thigh muscles burn and my shins feel like glass about to shatter. I wrap my arms around my middle to keep from falling apart.

  Only a little further.

  Too far.

  I just need to get there.

  Too late.

  Please.

  Please let me get there in time.

  I’m not used to approaching the reservoir from the north; the track is unfamiliar, and I’m disorientated and panicked, unsure of exactly how much further I have to go. I spot a small wooden post indicating the public toilets are nearby, which means I’m close to the reservoir’s northern car park. Is this the way Tom came? I round a bend in the track and the trees open to a clearing. A lone station wagon is parked at one end of the gravel parking area. Mason’s car.

  The last stretch of my run is the most painful because I have to slow down to a creep as I’m nearing Devil’s Rock. Everything in my body screams for me to run flat out, but I need to step quietly on the sandy path. If Tom thinks he’s cornered, he’ll run. I press a hand to my ribs and try to calm my breathing. I’m so winded I feel perilously close to throwing up.

  Voices.

  I hold my breath and listen. Devil’s Rock is up ahead, jutting out over the water like a stone wave about to break. Tom’s hard words punch the still night air, leaving ugly bruises on the silence. I creep closer, all the way up to the edge of the rock, and stay low behind a thick clump of ferns.

  ‘There’s nothing suss about it!’ Tom is saying. ‘I’m doing what Chloe asked, okay? I’ve just come from her place. She said you’d be here.’