Sunlight spilled in a glaring rectangle on the dusty concrete floor of the shed. The HiLux was on the grass outside. The off-white hatchback had its bonnet up, innards exposed. Jack knew nothing about cars, but it looked like something was missing. The dirt bike was unmoved. A ride-on mower sat up the back. There were black stains on the floor, which had a long crack down the middle of the slab. A workbench on the left was covered in debris and scattered tools. Lauren was over by it, picking things up and throwing them to the floor. A heavy wrench sparked off the concrete.
‘Fuck,’ she said, hair in clumps, the tips narrowed and dark with sweat, waxed ends of cut rope. ‘Fucking. Just. Fuck.’ She saw him standing in the doorway. ‘Help me look.’
Jack wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Anything really. Lauren had interrupted them before they could properly plant the axe, but who knew what else they’d managed to hide. Lauren had chased someone out from the shed, so if anything was to be found it was here. It wasn’t an overstuffed garage, so there weren’t many hiding places. He walked around the car, bent behind the mower. Lauren was now laying into a red-metal tool cabinet, pulling out drawers in desperation. She buried her shoulder into the side of the chest, pivoted it out from the wall. Jack checked under the hatchback. While he was stooped, the light in the room changed. Someone was standing in the doorway.
‘Is he here?’ Curtis said.
‘Curtis, I need you to tell me —’
‘Is he here?’
‘Jack,’ Lauren said loudly, clearing her throat.
Jack stood, dusting the front of his suit, registering that he hadn’t changed from the funeral. At least if things went south, he was dressed for his own. Curtis was a silhouette against the cube of daylight.
‘Where was the axe before Alexis died, Curtis?’ Lauren asked.
‘Are you kidding me? It should have been in here.’
‘Jack thinks that —’ Jack coughed in protest as if to say don’t pin this on me, so she restarted. ‘We’ve discovered the forensics match Alexis’s wounds. To your axe.’
‘My axe?’
‘We’re ahead of the police.’
‘Why are you all so fucking dressed up? Are there cameras? There’s a very good explanation, and that is that someone took it two nights ago. Come on.’
‘Alexis died a week ago, Curtis.’
‘I don’t bloody know where it was a week ago, Lauren.’ He spoke her name through his teeth as he stepped into the room, materialising out of the dimness. ‘Someone took it. I don’t know. I am not in possession of any weapon,’ he said, as if he were testifying in court.
‘How’d they get in here?’ Lauren said.
‘You on his side now?’
‘I should call the police,’ said Jack.
‘Do it,’ said Curtis.
‘Don’t,’ said Lauren, holding out her palm. ‘Curtis, if we call the police, they might find something else in here. Even if it is planted, they won’t believe you. It’s better that we search first. Think about it.’
Curtis breathed out through his nose. ‘Even if it’s planted?’ Jack saw Lauren’s face fall at her badly chosen phrasing. ‘Even. If?’
‘No one’s saying —’ Lauren started.
‘Everyone’s saying a lot.’ Curtis’s voice rose. ‘First, if Alexis was killed with my axe, how are you ahead of the police forensics?’
‘Jack’s research —’
‘Jack’s research, as we’re calling it, has no one checking it, no one to answer to.’ He shook his head (Jack wasn’t sure if it was genuine frustration, or his surprise that after all his insistence of framing, he actually might be right for once). Then he turned to Jack: ‘You say what you want, you put it on TV and everyone believes it. I’m glad you got me out of jail but it’s bullshit that put me in and bullshit that got me out. I don’t trust your research. Fuck that.’
Curtis canvassed the two of them, decided it wasn’t worth it. He turned and left. The light came back in from the doorway, scarring the concrete. Jack could hear him crunching down the driveway.
‘My research isn’t flimsy.’ Jack found his voice.
‘I’m so confused,’ Lauren said, mostly to herself as she started rifling through the tool cabinet again. ‘This fucks your boyfriend theory.’
True. Whoever murdered Alexis had to have planned to kill her. They’d come to the winery, broken into the shed, headed back into the city, weapon in the boot. Premeditated.
‘Is this shed locked?’ Jack said.
‘Sometimes.’
‘So the police now know the axe is the murder weapon. We can tell them what we think, but I doubt it’ll help,’ Jack said. ‘Your problem is when the police come out here and don’t find the murder weapon. It’ll look like Curtis got rid of it.’
Jack went to check behind sheets of plywood on the far wall. A wooden handle excited him, an irrational flicker inside him that it might be the axe returned, but it was just a stiff-brushed broom. From across the shed, Lauren said: ‘Oh fuck.’ Then a puttering of repetition, an engine kicking into gear. ‘Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck.’
By the time Jack looked up, Lauren was sprinting to the door, the drawers of the tool cabinet left hanging open. ‘Curtis! Curtis!’
Jack followed her outside, but she was already on the verandah. Something small and black was in her hand. She banged on the door, flat-palmed, then wrestled with the knob. Curtis must have locked it from the inside.
‘Open the door!’ she yelled.
It swung inwards so suddenly she almost fell over the threshold. Curtis looked uninterested, until Lauren showed him what was in her hand, and his mouth seemed to cave inwards. He asked her a question, and then guided her into the house. Jack was only a few steps behind; he followed through the still-open door. He could hear them arguing in the lounge room, Curtis protesting something. The curtains were still all closed, the walls tinged mould-yellow by the setting sun.
‘I haven’t seen that before. I swear,’ Jack heard clearly, louder than the rest. Then Lauren said something about ‘charge’. Settle down, no one’s going to charge you with murder.
When he got to the lounge room he propped himself against the doorframe, where Lauren had stood two days ago. Lauren was pacing back and forth in front of the window, while Curtis was standing beside the bookcase, the butt of the rifle visible on the shelf above, running his hands through his hair.
‘I don’t know what to tell you, Loz.’ Jack knew he was begging because he’d never heard Lauren’s nickname before. ‘But I don’t know where it came from.’
‘It’s planted, is it? Everything’s fucking planted with you, Curtis.’ She stepped up to him, paused on the balls of her feet, and Jack thought she might be about to hit him, but she changed her mind and dropped back on her heels. ‘The sheer absurdity of the conspiracy behind this . . . This is literally your last chance. Just own up to something.’
‘Lauren. This is what they want. Alexis’s killer knows that it’s not sticking to me. They’re getting desperate.’ Lauren crinkled her nose. Curtis kept up his impassioned defence. ‘Why would I keep it? And why would I keep it in my own toolbox? I was in prison for four years. I’ve mopped floors with people who’ve jacked off to things that this . . . this fucking Nailbiter killer . . . couldn’t stomach. Jim Harrison, fuck, he’d tell you some stories. Amputated fingers, ha, that’s fucking cute. Trust me, this is shop talk. It’s all you get inside, I spent four years listening to people talk about how they got busted. Little things. And you found this in my goddamn shed? This isn’t the work of an ex-con. This is the work of someone who wants to get caught.’
‘It must be ready,’ Lauren said.
Jack still didn’t know what they were talking about. Then he saw the coffee table. It still had the Lions footy mugs on it, a skin of milk on top of both half-finished teas. But it was what was between them that caught his eye. A thin black cable squirreled its way up one of the coffee table legs from a plug into the wall. It was plugged int
o a touch-screen phone. Its screen cracked.
Lauren hadn’t been talking about Curtis being charged with murder. They’d been talking about charging a phone.
‘Is that —’ Jack said from the door, and both of them looked up. Curtis looked like he wanted to pile-drive Jack through the drywall, but then there was a faint distracting bell noise.
Alexis’s second phone had turned on.
‘No passcode,’ said Lauren, picking it up and looking at it.
‘Go to messages,’ said Curtis.
‘Go to calls,’ said Jack.
‘Shut up.’
Lauren scrolled through the phone for what felt like an eternity. Curtis peered over her shoulder. Jack couldn’t see anything.
‘Interesting,’ Curtis said.
‘What is it?’ Jack said.
Lauren unplugged the phone and tossed it to him. Midway through the air he had a panic about fingerprints and tried to pull his jacket sleeve over his hand, but that led to a clumsy fumble and it landed in his bare hands. Fuck it, he thought, Lauren had touched it too, at least they were in it together now. Besides, now wasn’t the time to take a stance on evidence tampering. He went to calls first. All the same contact – saved as HUSH with a small emoji, a yellow face with a finger to its lips. The last one, the night of her murder. Just after midnight. There was only one contact saved: HUSH. Jack checked the messages. Again, only the one contact. Some messages. Some pictures. Some sent: Alexis, undressed, the flash warping her face in a bedroom mirror, but unmistakeably her. Some received: A penis, close up, hotel bathroom. Boyfriend, definitely.
‘This is her phone,’ Jack said quietly. ‘Why do you have it?’
‘We think it’s planted.’ Curtis spoke over her.
‘Of course you do,’ muttered Jack.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I do believe you, Curtis, but, if literally everything is planted, whoever’s doing this to you must be some kind of’ – Jack was about to say ‘mastermind’, but then remembered Lauren hated that – ‘very lucky.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Curtis to Lauren, though he tilted his head at Jack like he was sizing up a meal. ‘Things got a whole lot worse when you started hanging around with him.’
‘Stop it, Curtis,’ Lauren said.
‘Was he in the shed with you?’
‘Stop. You know he was.’
‘Did you bring this with you?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Jack.
‘Wouldn’t ya? What’d you say to me in prison. About words?’
‘I told you words will make you famous.’
‘Do text messages count?’
‘I guess.’
‘That’s enough.’ Curtis patted the top of the bookcase, dragged something from the top. By the time Jack realised it was the rifle, it was already aimed at him. Lauren screamed.
‘You want me to be a murderer. I’ll be a fucking murderer.’
‘Curtis —’
‘SHUT UP, LAUREN.’ Curtis had been loud before but he’d never cut into a full, booming yell, and it shocked both of them. ‘The way you’ve been acting. You’ve got no respect for this family. Sneaking around with him. This is my property, Jack, you know what that means?’
The gun was shaking slightly in Curtis’s hand, the tip tracing a jagged circle in the air with his breathing. He might miss, thought Jack. He wasn’t keen to take that chance.
‘It means you’re trespassing. I’ve been clear. No journalists.’
‘I’m not a journalist.’
‘Not for too much longer, anyway,’ Curtis said. Then he took one hand off the stock, dug around in his pocket. He pulled out his phone. Held it out.
‘You can’t —’
‘This is my property. I can do what I want.’
Jack didn’t want to get into the legalities of Australian property and trespass law with a man with a gun, but he was pretty sure Curtis watched far too much American television. He figured it was hard to be smug about a technicality while trying to stop his guts dripping on Curtis’s carpet though, so he kept his mouth shut.
‘Let’s prove this once and for all. Call the number. Call Hush,’ Curtis said, shaking his phone in his hand.
‘Why?’
‘If my phone rings, I’m Hush. I’m guilty.’
‘No, Curtis,’ Lauren was shaking.
‘If it rings?’ said Jack.
‘I’ll turn myself in. But I’ll shoot you first. May as well.’
‘Stop —’ said Lauren.
‘Dial it.’
Lauren looked over at Jack and gave him a slight nod. His hands were shaking as he pulled up Alexis’s contacts.
‘You better hope I’m innocent, Jack.’
Jack pressed dial. There were a few seconds of silence where Jack was sure he was about to die, that the last thing he’d hear was a ringing from Curtis’s hand. And then a bang so loud it would expand around him, fold him into it, until there was nothing but quiet. But there was nothing. Then a small burring noise from Alexis’s speakers. But the room stayed quiet. The house stayed quiet. No reciprocal ring. Jack put the call on speaker. The phone rang out. There was no voicemail. Click.
‘Damn,’ said Curtis, ‘I almost convinced myself.’ He hadn’t lowered the gun.
‘Okay, Curtis, put it down,’ said Lauren.
‘Did you plant the phone?’ Curtis said.
Jack shook his head.
‘Get on your knees.’
Jack obeyed. He put his hands behind his head. Curtis hadn’t asked him to. It just happened. A reflex. A doctor taps you on the knee, your leg kicks. A man with a gun asks you to kneel and your elbows rise right-angled to your ears.
‘Did you plant this?’
‘You’re scaring him.’ Lauren’s voice was high, pleading.
‘I should be.’
Jack shook his head again. Lauren was frozen. Watching Curtis. She didn’t seem to fully understand. Curtis had his little fictional avatars in the people around him. The world in black and white. With him or against him. Jack had shown him doubt, and that meant he was against him now. Did that mean he deserved to die? The gun was now only moving up and down with Curtis’s breathing. He was calmer. More confident. He wouldn’t miss from this distance.
‘I think you killed her,’ Curtis said. ‘What do you think about that? You need a second series. Gotta make it juicy, huh? That’s how TV goes. God. You reminded me that I missed out on Alexis. I’m jealous of whoever did it. I’m not a killer, but deep down, you know. Seems like it might be up my alley. Imagine the press if I did just pop you one? Right here.’
No one said anything. Jack could feel his heart pulsing in his throat. His feet had gone numb. His hair felt greasy under his knotted fingers. Your life’s supposed to flash before your eyes, Jack thought. But for him there was no montage of the past, instead the opposite – everything reduced to this exact moment and nothing more. Nothing existed in the universe except this room. It was as if it had broken off from the earth and was floating in a vacuum. Nothing held Jack’s attention except the slow, hypnotic rise and fall of the gun barrel. Jack even imagined he saw the exact moment that Curtis made up his mind. Decided to kill him.
‘Words will make you famous,’ said Curtis, his finger feathering the trigger, ‘but guns will make you famous too. Faster.’
A loud ding cut through the room.
Everyone stopped. It had come from Jack’s hand. He looked down. Something was glowing in his tightly squeezed fist. Alexis’s phone. He’d almost forgotten he was holding it. Curtis lowered the gun. If he’d psyched himself into a murderous trance, the noise had broken it. Jack slowly brought the phone up.
A text message. From HUSH.
WHO IS THIS?
He lifted the phone so Curtis and Lauren could read it.
Two seconds later, another ding.
YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
Exhibit D:
Steel-headed axe with a hickory
handle. Retrieved from the Wade property garage on second search. Head is red-painted, chipped to silver on the blade. Handle is two-toned, maroon fading into light brown. Fingerprints: Curtis Wade, Lauren Wade, Vincent Wade, several unmatched, see Exhibits M–O. Blood: Not found.
Markings on the victim’s finger wounds do not match axe head.
PREVIOUSLY
Eliza sat on the bed and watched the wine run down the walls.
After her initial panic wore off and the fruity, fermented smell worked its way through her synapses, the scene had transformed from nightmarish to absurd. She actually wondered for a second if the place might fill up and mercifully drown her, but the flood had tapered off to a steady drip. A droplet had sizzled on the single swinging light globe.
She’d lifted her mouth skywards to catch a few drips, to prove to herself it wasn’t a delusion. The first few droplets shocked her with taste and delight. He fed her, but it was plain. Once he brought a pizza, slid the cardboard box across to her, but she’d been too scared to eat it (Why pizza now? Had he put something in it?) and he must have taken offence because she hadn’t been given anything special since. She didn’t actually know if he fed her regularly or well, because of the way time came to her down here. Some days she was convinced he’d forgotten, that she’d gone weeks without food, but then he’d come with a piece of toast and a bottle of water and she wondered if it was only a few hours after all.
The pizza had come a few days after he stopped asking her what she knew. She’d told him everything. He hadn’t killed her yet, but he hadn’t let her go yet either. A survivalist stalemate. A single powerless pawn dancing a lone king around a board.
She put one of her shoes under the heaviest drip and watched as it slowly filled up. It sloshed as she brought it back to her bed. It was the only vessel she had in here. There were droplets on the floor in an odd, almost rigid, pattern.
Some days she wished he would hurry up. Others, she was thankful for the tiniest events. The rush of fresh air when he opened the door. A vivid dream, a memory, of her friends or family. A glass of wine.
Greenlight Page 19