Bay of Fires (36 page)

Sarah slid fresh bait on her hook and sighed. Who cared if she did sleep with Sam? It wasn’t like she would have forced him. She poised the rod over her shoulder, whipped the line out to sea. She didn’t care what Hall Flynn, in particular, thought about it. He was not morally superior.

But while he was beside her on the rocks, she had searched Hall’s face. All she had seen was the same crinkled kindness she had recognized in him from the start.

Hall drove by the wharf, along the high road above the shacks and the sea, past the lagoon, and along the straight gravel road leading out of the national park. He was not worrying about the danger of sliding off the slippery gravel. The sign to Sloop Point caught his eye as he entered the eucalyptus shade and he signaled left. He doubted he would ever return, and he wanted to sit by the rock pool, for just five or ten minutes. Time to take a breath.

The rock pool was peaceful. Nothing disturbed its smooth, cool surface. As he peered in he could see the beautiful seaweed fronds floating languidly and the starfish and shells clinging to the rock wall. It was as tranquil as it had been the day he visited with Sarah. In the open sea, glistening twists of kelp reared with each oceanic pump. Hall leaned his back against the cold stone and watched gulls circling the white peaks of Sloop Rock. At the other end of the beach the Averys’ shack was indistinguishable from the hillside.

He thought back to the first murder story he had covered, as an earnest cadet reporter. The victim had been his age, a seventeen-year-old boy who had died in police custody. As well as horrific injuries to his face and head, the boy had severe bruising on the inside of both thighs, as though something had been held there with considerable pressure. Two years after the boy died, Hall had sat with the mother in her pretty house in Riverside. He could hear her broken voice as though it were yesterday: “I wanted to know every detail of what happened to my son. But now when I think about him, that’s the first thing that comes to mind—his final terrified minutes.”

Anja’s parents were better off thinking she drowned in the ocean than that she was chased, half naked, down the rocks by a psychopath. And Chloe’s parents were better off thinking she died accidentally stumbling into a disused mineshaft than that she was suffocated by a deranged boyfriend. Even if Hall forgot about protecting Sarah and the case went to court, the Shelleys would never tell the truth. Hall was certain of it. Roger was not a reliable witness. There was a chance that police forensics would find something on Chloe’s body to connect Sam to her, but in reality, date rape was hard to prove, let alone when the victim’s corpse had been exposed to the elements for a year.

A text message came through on his phone. It was from the HR guy. It said:
Your editor is concerned that you are not answering your phone nor have you filed any copy recently. Please make an appointment with me.

Hall reread it. He hadn’t filed anything decent for days, hadn’t returned any of Elizabeth’s calls, either. And now, obviously, she had held another meeting with that kid from HR. Hall typed:
I quit.
He pressed “send” before he could change his mind.

Without thinking, he swung his arm back and hurled the mobile phone as hard as he could. It bounced off the rock and disappeared into the ocean. That phone was company property; they could take the cost out of his last paycheck.

He sat down hard on the rock. Twenty-three years. No gold watch, no farewell lunch. Not even a bottle of cheap champagne while they stood around the desks. It wasn’t the way he wanted to go.

Waves rolled in, splashing over the rocks, not making it far enough to disturb the rock pool’s perfect blue surface. It was the same warm summer sky, the same dappled sea and circling gulls, but for the moment it held no charm.

Simone’s green Mercedes was parked in front of her holiday house. Sarah stood at the edge of the Shelleys’ garden, deliberating whether or not to go in. She had the option of not visiting Sam. She could let it go, let things run their course. There had been the same option with Jake that night at the Pineapple Hotel. In hindsight, she should have gone home well before the confrontation began. She should have refused to respond when he pretty much called her a whore, in the pub, in earshot of her entire staff. When he stood in front of her car, she should have waited until he moved rather than jumping out and confronting him. But this situation with Sam was not going to escalate. Not today. She had not had a drink for three days. Her mind was calm.

Her tentative knock echoed in the quiet afternoon. Sam came to the door. His eyes were bloodshot; either the ocean was extremely salty or he had been crying. It sounded like he deserved to. But that was not why Sarah was here. She wanted to apologize for what she had done wrong.

Sarah did not lower her voice.

“I’m not here to have a go at you. I just want to talk to you about…what you said to Hall.”

“I can’t remember.”

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his sneakers. They were laced tightly, the laces tied in neat bows, the first time she had seen his sneakers done up.

“I said something about riding in your canoe,” Sam said.

“Something about me and my canoe?”

“I’m sorry. I was trying to impress the reporter.”

“Look, what happened at Christmas was my fault. I’m dealing with the reasons behind it, just so you know.” Shame rushed over her, flushing her cheeks. “I’m sorry. For giving you beer and for everything else that happened.”

Cooking sounds came from inside the Shelleys’ house, reminding Sarah and Sam that they were not alone. Sarah could smell garlic and onions frying. Whatever anyone said about Simone, her son was well looked after. Sam stepped outside and closed the door behind him. The sun was in his eyes now and he squinted.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Sorry?”

“Christmas Day in your car. You were smashed and singing songs, but you didn’t—there was no canoe. You let me feel your tits and—”

Sarah’s face heated with embarrassment. “Shut up.”

“You told me to piss off.”

“Enough information.”

Relief coursed through her, a salve on her soul. To Sarah, his revelation was as thorough as a rushing king tide that flooded the beach and removed all debris as it sucked back to the ocean. She almost thanked him. She had no memory of doing anything sexual with Sam, but in her experience that did not necessarily mean nothing had happened. She felt like double air-punching. Instead she turned to leave, waving her hand without looking back.

“Wait.” Sam followed her up the dirt steps to the road. “What about Anja and Chloe?”

“Nothing to do with me, Sam.” Sarah felt even more relief as she uttered the words.

“It wouldn’t have happened like it did if the women hadn’t wanted to come with me. Tell Hall that. I jumped in after Anja, I tried to save her. I didn’t mean to hurt Chloe. Mom says it’s partly their fault—”

“They asked for it?”

Sam slumped his face toward the ground. Right then he didn’t look like a soon-to-be eighteen-year-old man—he was a frightened boy.

“Sam. Just tell the truth.”

Walking down the gravel road, Sarah vowed never to drink rum again. She had made the promise before, usually during the nauseous wakeful sleep, the prelude to a violent convulsive vomit. This time she was sober and she meant it.

People said when you asked for forgiveness, you felt lighter. Sarah didn’t feel lighter. She felt focused. Her mind was not convoluted with anxious kaleidoscopic emotions and nervous thoughts colliding. She was thinking straight. Sober, in control of her thoughts, and all she could think of was Hall.

U
nder a gloomy sky, far out where the continental shelf dropped away and the ocean turned from turquoise into a dark watery void, Roger caught a blue-eye trevalla. According to Don, who watched with unconcealed envy as Roger showed it off down at the boat ramp that morning, no one had come home with a trevalla that big since 1993. It had to weigh twenty-five kilograms at least.

“Where’s the press when you need them?” Don said. “This is front-page stuff.”

Hall had been gone for a week, and for a moment Sarah thought Don was talking to her. Then Roger swiveled around, his whole face squinting in the sharp morning sun. He laughed a snorting laugh. It was the first time she had seen Don speak directly to Roger.

“You nuts? You want to queue up to drop your boat in?” Sarah said.

The fish was impressive, but what escaped the pressing crowd was the fact that Roger had motored all the way out there in his tinny. He was either brave or stupid; a patch of black rain clouds boiled on the horizon. His tinny was so light that a four-foot wave could flip it. He had caught the fish on an Alvey surf rod which Sarah had lent him. She probably would not have lent it to him if she had known he was going out so far in unpredictable conditions. But then again, Roger knew the ocean. If something bad had happened to him, even if he was using her rod, it wouldn’t have been her fault.

Roger, ruddy-faced and grinning, held his catch up to the sky. It was a magnificent fish, more than a meter long, its scales shimmering in shades of bronze and turquoise. For once Roger didn’t try to conceal his deformed hand.

Hall had been home in Launceston for a week when Ann Eggerton left a message on his landline. He almost didn’t call her back. He no longer worked for the paper and had no desire to listen to her condescending condolences over his abrupt resignation. Halfway through tidying up his garage, curiosity got the better of him.

“I’ve got some news about Anja Traugott,” Ann said. “I thought you might want to know. Your replacement told me you were on gardening leave.”

“I’m listening.”

“We’re releasing the final results from the postmortem later today. I’m just waiting confirmation from the Swiss consulate that the Traugott family has been informed.”

“Yes?”

“Accidental death from drowning. Lacerations on her face and legs are consistent with having fallen from the rocks. Other injuries are consistent with decomposition from ocean predators.”

Ann explained it was difficult for a forensic pathologist to prove with complete accuracy that death by drowning had occurred. Circumstance and elimination of other causes of death were considered.

“There’s more. They excavated the mineshaft behind the tip that you told us about. They took a great deal of forensic evidence to Hobart yesterday. You’re a bit of a hero, Hall, stumbling across that.”

“No I’m not. Tell me, has anyone come forward with further information about Chloe? Any witnesses?”

“Early days, Hall.”

Hall sat down on the sunken sofa in his sunroom. He picked at the yellow daisy pattern imprinted in the worn fabric while she prattled away about the difficulties the forensics team faced in determining a cause of death for Chloe. Once the police had taken her body away, there had been a couple of interesting calls to the Crime Stoppers hotline. Ann refused to elaborate, except to predict that the police would solve this case in due time. Hall listened without interrupting. This was good news. Maybe tonight he would be able to sleep properly.

“You’re the best in the business, Ann.”

“One other thing,” Ann said. “You didn’t hear it from me, but we might be looking for a media liaison for our Burnie office soon.”

“Not a chance in hell.” He had almost said not a fucking chance in hell.

“Oh.”

“I’m joking. Thanks, Ann, but I need a break from the front line.”

“I understand.” She liked that; in her voice he could hear satisfaction with the implication that her job was as difficult and meaningful as a journalist’s.

Charred trees surrounded the tip like thin, naked survivors. Broken glass spun sunlight. Even Roger’s wrecked car had an aspect of beauty, its vintage lines evoking a bygone era. A red bauble, a Christmas decoration, lay surprisingly intact in the ash. Sarah picked it up. It looked like one from Pamela’s tree. Christmas seemed like months ago, a blur of sadness. How morose she must have seemed to her family, sitting in the armchair drinking beer after beer. She had barely spoken to anyone that day, had barely raised her stubby for any of the toasts. Things had changed a lot since.

Early this morning a television crew had been driving around the area. Don had seen unmarked police cars coming out of the tip yesterday. Pamela speculated that new evidence had turned up, suggesting that a skeleton had been discovered in the tip, or a weapon. Sarah’s father pointed out that there had been many items thrown in there over the years that could be used as a weapon. Blunt fishing knives, rusted shards of corrugated iron, cooking pots, bricks, tools; John’s list had gone on and on. Erica said she no longer believed they would find anything. Not here in the burned-out tip, not in the lagoon if Don’s idea of dredging it ever happened, not washed in by the next big storm.

Sarah listened to their predictions, keeping what knowledge she had of the facts to herself.

Last night was the first time she had slept properly since before she punched Jake. Every night since she’d left Eumundi, Sarah had woken several times from lurid dreams in which she lost control and physically hurt people she cared about—her mother, Erica, Henry the dog. Lying awake in bed she would rationalize the dreams, but reality was worse. Nothing, no justifying, could change what she had done to Jake. Her biggest fear, exacerbated by a tiny, mean voice in her head, was that she would do it to someone else. That being a man-basher was her fate.

Last night was the first time she had felt confident that this would not happen. It wasn’t a promise to herself, or a guilty reaction, it was a fact. She knew, without doubt, that the situation with Jake was a mistake she would learn from. For the first time in weeks, Sarah slept past the stifling silent early hours and woke to the now comforting sounds of her family beginning the day.

Sarah crouched down to pick up the Christmas decoration. How it survived the fire, she had no idea. Without thinking, she tossed it onto the front seat of Roger’s Valiant. It occurred to her that it might confuse the investigation, that the television crews might turn it into a story. She grinned.

Riding her mountain bike back to the shack, she noticed a glint of green metal through the trees. Parked at the top of Roger’s driveway was the Holden. Her stomach flipped. Hall Flynn, too gutless to drive down the sand trap driveway. She smiled. She peered in the window and noticed he had cleaned the car. There was a new yellow sticker on the back window.
An Alvey Reel Fills the Creel.
He must have stolen it from her tackle box. She paused for a moment then pedaled hard for home, smiling a smile so wide it made her cheeks hurt.

Hall walked toward the little blue shack with the red geraniums. Someone had been shucking abalone on the wooden picnic table; the shells were scattered on the grass. The bloated technicolored surfboard Sarah and Erica called The Pig leaned against the bunkroom wall. Wet bathing suits were spread on a banana lounge; he recognized the budgie smugglers as John’s tight-fitting racing briefs, and Flip’s red one-piece. The familial intimacy of the tangled swimsuits halted him. Perhaps he was intruding, had intruded enough already on this family’s summer holiday.

Sarah strode around the corner before he had time to rethink his plan. She carried a shovel in each hand.

“You were at Roger’s for so long I thought you must be planning to spend the night there.”

“I’m sure he’d let me camp on his veranda couch if I need to.”

“You’re dreaming. That’s the cats’ bed.”

It was important to explain to Sarah why he was here. He weighed his words. The main thing he had planned to say was that he didn’t want to leave things like they had been left. Instead, Sarah handed him a shovel.

“Come on. I need your help.”

On the beach Hall leaned on the shovel while Sarah dragged her toe through the damp sand, drawing the lines for the trench they were about to dig. She explained that the lagoon was full and washing into the edges of the dune grass. It wouldn’t take much work to dig the trench to release the pent-up tea tree–stained water into the ocean. Some people were concerned that it was environmentally bad to meddle with the lagoon. It would upset the natural ecosystem, drain the lagoon of micro fish food. They were idiots. The lagoon was pushing against the sand that lay between it and the ocean; it would break through of its own accord any day now.

He had expected questions about Anja Traugott or Chloe Crawford. But Sarah did not mention any of it. She didn’t even ask why Ned Keneally’s byline was now running under the
Bay of Fires Killer
banner.

“Let’s start work,” she said.

She jammed her shovel into the sand.

Deep down the sand was heavy. It slumped off the spade before it could be removed from the trench. Sweat stuck Sarah’s clothes to her skin. Beside her Hall panted with exertion under the harsh afternoon sun. He was too exhausted to talk, and that was a good thing. Half an hour before he’d looked like he was about to have an emotional meltdown. He’d had that thoughtful half-smile and made too much eye contact. He was back, and she was glad to see him. Hopefully, he would just accept that things would be okay without having to talk about it.

It wasn’t long before the beach became crowded. Sarah directed everyone where to work; Erica and Steve were to dig halfway between the lagoon and the sea, John and Flip halfway between there and the lagoon. Jane Taylor grunted with a shovel on her own. Several curious families who had rented some of the fishing shacks wandered along the beach to watch as progress was made. Some of them dug with their hands. A new group of people had set up tents in the campground beside the lagoon. Some of their children joined in. Simone and Sam Shelley were the only ones missing.

Hall asked Flip where they were.

“Gone, Hall,” Flip said. “She had urgent business back in the States. They left yesterday. She told Pamela they could only get business-class tickets at such late notice. I went past their place and it was all closed up like it was winter.”

“Shame,” Hall said.

“It is a shame when people have too much money to enjoy the simple things.”

Hall didn’t comment. Perhaps, as he suspected, Sam had rung the Crime Stoppers hotline. Perhaps the police had even approached Simone. Hall could imagine her feeling that there was no choice except to whisk her son away.

He studied the beach dig. Sarah had gauged the lagoon’s shape, its fullness, and plotted the most strategic spot to dig the trench. In two hours they had dug a forty-meter trench in the middle of the beach. Either side of it, fifty meters of digging remained when Don and Pamela arrived with bottles of champagne and the Weber.

Later in the afternoon only three meters remained between the trench and the lagoon. Sarah whistled and everyone stopped work. Pamela opened another bottle of champagne, and a couple of kids from the campground poised themselves with their surfboards. Knee-deep in water in what was the dry trench, Hall tugged on Sarah’s arm. The wall of sand between them and the lagoon quivered. Hall watched it nervously. Any moment now a measureless torrent of water would storm through the weak sand wall, gobbling everything in its path.

“Maybe we should stand up there with everyone else?” Hall said.

“Timing it is the challenge.”

A trickle of water oozed through the damp sand. It was tea tree brown, definitely not seawater. Hall moved down the trench and hoisted himself out. Sarah followed. They barely made it out as the pressure from the lagoon exploded. It was louder than Hall expected; the sound of sliding sand, the
slish
of mud. A cheer rose up, and parents pulled their children back as the huge water rushed forward to the ocean. It gutted the beach and surged into the sea, the azure water swamped with a tea tree stain, yellow and frothy.

Sarah whooped. Others clapped and hooted. One kid jumped in with his surfboard. He was the first person to plunge into the water, and he skillfully rode the current out into the ocean. Steve clutched a boogie board, holding on as the tormented water ripped out to sea. He was a strong guy, and he made it look difficult. Sarah rode The Pig surfboard along the rushing waves at the edge of the gutter, using her upper-body strength to steer. She had told Hall she expected him to follow.

Above the noisy rush Hall was aware of a conversation being conducted in self-conscious tones. He did not mean to eavesdrop.

“I’ve got some rubbish Felicity wants to get rid of,” John Avery was telling Jane.

“Trailer is there if you want it. Three o’clock I’ll be around.”

“Done.” John nodded curtly.

Jane watched him walk away. Not a measured glance, Hall noted, just long enough to confirm he was leaving. Dr. Avery strolled around the lagoon to where his canoe nestled in the dune. Jane met Hall’s gaze, holding it until he looked away.

“You can see that too?” Roger spoke from behind Hall. “No one else can.”

For a moment Hall contemplated feigning ignorance. Instead he said, “How do you know?”

“I’m smart.” Roger’s eyes narrowed as though he were looking into the sun. “Real smart.”

On The Pig, Sarah coasted out into the ocean. Hall did not want to follow. It wasn’t getting in that was the hard bit, it was getting out. If he rode that boogie board, he knew he would careen out to sea, marooned in the grungy water.

John’s canoe shot down the lagoon toward the entrance. Water gushed under him; he tapped the water with the paddle in a futile attempt to steer. As the canoe entered the opening, it was seized by frothing water and spun in circles toward the ocean. John frantically tried to control the canoe. Jane cackled. Flip shouted for him to be careful.