The Dry (29 page)

Gretchen gave a sad shrug. “I don't know. Maybe she didn't trust herself with alcohol. Wasn't sure what she might do. And I hate to say it, but Luke had a point, that night when we had that big argument at the lookout.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don't mean he was right to trick us,” she said hastily. “That was a horrible move. But what he said about Ellie not being able to take a joke anymore. He shouldn't have said it, but it was true. She really couldn't. She didn't have to laugh at that stupid stunt, obviously, but by then she wasn't laughing at anything. She was always sober and serious and disappearing off on her own. You remember.”

Falk sat in silence. He did.

“And I think—” Gretchen stopped.

“Think what?”

“I think if you're honest with yourself, you've suspected for a long time now that Ellie Deacon was abused.”

Ellie pulled her arm out of Luke's grip and rubbed the mark. He didn't seem to notice.

“Where are you racing off to? You want to go into town and get a Coke or something?” Luke's voice was overly casual. Ellie had lost count of the number of times he'd tried to engineer one-on-one time with her since the fight at the lookout. So far she'd always brushed him off. It had occurred to her that he might be trying to apologize, but she couldn't summon the energy or interest to find out. That was Luke through and through, she thought. You had to put yourself out even to get an apology from the guy. Anyway, even if she wasn't still pissed off with him, today was never going to be his lucky day.

“I can't. Not now.”

She deliberately didn't apologize. She did wonder briefly if she should try to bury the hatchet, for old times' sake. They'd known each other for years. There was history there. Then his face clouded, and by the sulky way he looked at her she knew it wasn't worth the effort. Ellie Deacon had had enough men in her life who wanted more from her than they gave back. She didn't need another. She turned away. Better to forget it. Luke Hadler was who he was, and that would never change.

Falk looked down as guilt and regret swelled in his chest. Gretchen reached out and touched his arm.

“I know it's not easy to admit,” she said. “But the signs were there. We were just too young and self-centered to read them.”

“Why didn't she tell us?” Falk said.

“Maybe she was scared. Or felt a bit embarrassed, even.”

“Or maybe she felt no one cared.”

Gretchen looked at him. “She knew you cared, Aaron. That's why she was drawn to you over Luke.”

Falk shook his head, but Gretchen nodded.

“It's true. You were so stable. Someone she could rely on. You would have listened if she'd tried to talk. OK, yes, Luke was flashier and smoother than you. But that's not always a good thing. Luke was the star, but most people don't like just being the afterthought in their own lives. It's not like that with you. You've always cared more about other people than yourself. Otherwise you wouldn't still be here in Kiewarra.”

“Hey, Ellie.”

She was halfway down the hall, feeling Luke's eyes on the back of her neck, when she heard the voice from an empty classroom. Inside, Aaron Falk was packing labeled potted plants into a large cardboard box. She smiled to herself and went in.

“How'd the presentation go? More top marks?” she said, curling an escaping fern tendril around her finger and tucking it back into the box.

Aaron shrugged modestly. “I don't know. OK. Plants aren't really my thing.” He wouldn't say it, Ellie knew, but he would have aced it. When it came to all things academic, Aaron barely had to lift a finger. She'd also been barely lifting a finger this past year, but with markedly different results. The teachers had stopped bothering her about it a while ago.

He closed the box and hoisted it up, awkwardly balancing it in his long arms. “This is going to be a pain to get home. Fancy giving me a hand? There's a Coke in it for you.”

His voice was as casual as Luke's had been, but he colored slightly and avoided her eyes. Things had been a little weird ever since they'd kissed at the rock tree. The fight at the lookout hadn't helped. She felt an urge to explain herself but couldn't think of the words. Instead, she wanted to take his face in her hands, kiss him again, and tell him he had done everything he could.

He was still waiting, and she wavered. She could go with him. It wouldn't take long. But no, she told herself firmly. She had made her decision. She had somewhere else to be.

“I can't. I'm sorry,” she said, meaning it.

“No worries.” His smile was genuine, and she felt a pang of deep regret. Aaron was one of the good guys. He always made her feel safe.

You should tell him.

The idea popped into her head, unbidden. She shook her head once. No. She couldn't tell him. That was stupid. It was too late. He'd only try to stop her now. But then, when she looked at his open face, she felt her insides wrench with a loneliness that made her wonder if maybe, in fact, that was exactly what she wanted.

“Poor Ellie,” Falk said. “Christ, we were supposed to be her friends, and we all let her down.”

Gretchen looked at her hands. “I know. I feel guilty about it too. But try not to beat yourself up too much. Other people must have suspected and turned a blind eye. You were a kid. You did the best you could. And you were always good to her.”

“Not good enough, though. Whatever she felt she was going through, it was happening right under our noses, and we barely even noticed.”

The kitchen was comfortable and quiet, and Falk felt like he would never have the energy to drag his heavy limbs up and leave. Gretchen gave a small shrug and put her hand on his. Her palm was warm.

“It's a lesson we've all had to learn the hard way. There was a lot going on back then. It wasn't all about Luke.”

Ellie looked up at Aaron, and he smiled. Tell him, the little voice in her head whispered, but she shut it down. Stop. It was decided. She would tell nobody.

“I've got to go.” Ellie started to move away, then paused. The thought of what was to come sent a wave of recklessness crashing over her. Before she really knew what she was doing she stepped in, leaned over his box of plants, and kissed Aaron lightly on the lips. They felt dry and warm. She stepped back, bumping her hip painfully on a desk in her rush.

“OK. See you round.” Her voice sounded false to her own ears, and she didn't wait for his response.

As Ellie spun around to the classroom door, she nearly jumped in fright. Leaning up against the doorframe, watching on without making a sound, stood Luke Hadler. His face was unreadable. Ellie took a breath and forced her features into a smile.

“See you, Luke,” she said as she edged passed him.

He didn't smile back.

30

Falk sat on his bed with a dozen sheets of paper spread out in front of him. Below, the pub was quiet. The last patrons had left hours ago. Falk stared at his notes on the case. He scrawled connecting lines back and forth until he ended up with a tangled cobweb and a bunch of dead ends. He took a fresh sheet of paper and tried again. Same result. He picked up his cell phone and dialed.

“I think Ellie Deacon was being abused by her father,” he said when Raco answered.

“What's that? Hang on.” The voice on the other end was sleepy. The line went muffled, and Falk could hear a muted conversation. Rita, Falk guessed. He looked at his watch. It was later than he'd thought.

A minute passed before Raco's voice came back on. “You still there?”

“Sorry, I didn't notice the time.”

“Never mind. What was that about Ellie?”

“Just something Gretchen I were talking about before. About Ellie being unhappy. Not just unhappy, miserable. I'm sure Mal Deacon was abusive.”

“Physically? Sexually?”

“I don't know. Maybe both.”

“Right,” Raco said. There was silence.

“Deacon doesn't have an alibi for the afternoon the Hadlers were killed.”

Raco sighed heavily down the line. “Mate, he's in his seventies with mental problems. He may be a bastard, but he's a doddery old one.”

“So? He can still hold a shotgun.”

“So,” Raco snapped, “I think your view on Deacon is colored by the fact you hate his guts for what happened to you over twenty years ago.”

Falk didn't reply.

“Sorry,” Raco said. He yawned. “I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow.” He paused. “Rita says hello.”

“Hello back. And sorry. Night.”

The line went dead.

It felt like only minutes later when the room's landline woke Falk with a sharp plastic trill. He prized open one eye. It was barely seven. He lay with his forearm over his face, struggling to make himself respond. He'd looked at his notes until falling into a clammy disturbed sleep, and now his head was pounding in protest. Unable to bear the noise, he summoned the energy to reach out and pick up the receiver.

“Jesus. At last,” McMurdo said. “Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever, my friend, it doesn't matter. Listen, you need to come down right now.”

“I'm not dressed—”

“Trust me,” McMurdo said. “I'll meet you round the back. I'll give you a hand as best I can.”

 

 

Falk's car was awash with shit. Streaks and smears covered the paintwork, pooling around the wheels and under the windscreen wipers. The mess was already dry in the early morning sun and had settled into the words scratched into Falk's car.
SKIN YOU
, spelled out in shit rather than silver.

Falk ran over. He had to hold his shirt over his nose before he got anywhere near. The smell was almost solid in his mouth. The flies were in a frenzy, and he swatted them away in disgust as they landed on his face and hair.

The inside was worse. A funnel or hose had been wedged into the tiny gap of window Falk tended to leave open on the driver's side to let heat escape overnight. The revolting sludge was splattered across the steering wheel and radio and collected in murky pools in the seats and footwell. None of the other cars in the lot had been touched. McMurdo was standing off to the side with his forearm pressed across his mouth and nose. He shook his head.

“Bloody hell, mate. I'm so sorry. I was bringing the empties out and found it. They must have come in the night.” McMurdo paused. “At least it's animal. Mostly. I think.”

Still holding his shirt over his nose, Falk walked around the car silently. His poor car. Scratched and now destroyed. He felt a surge of rage course through him. He peered through the streaked windows, holding his breath. Careful not to get too close. Through the grime, he could see there was something else inside the car. He stepped back, not trusting himself to speak.

Plastered to the seats and smeared with shit and stench were hundreds of fliers appealing for information about the death of Ellie Deacon.

 

 

The mood at the station was bleak.

“I'll read Dow and his uncle the riot act, mate,” Raco had said to Falk before picking up the phone. “You know what the car's worth? Could be some compensation.”

Falk had shrugged distractedly as he sat at a desk looking blankly at the Hadler files. Across the room Raco now hung up the phone and put his head in his hands for a moment.

“Looks like Deacon's making a preemptive strike,” Raco called over to Falk. “He's put in a complaint. Against you.”

“Really.” Falk crossed his arms and looked out of the police station window. “And yet my car's the one covered in shit.”

“He says you've been harassing him. Tampering with his daughter's grave or something? He's coming in with a lawyer.”

“Right.” Falk didn't look around.

“Do I need to ask—?”

“I wasn't, but there were no witnesses. So it'll be his word against mine. And I do have an axe to grind, so…” Falk gave a shrug.

“You not bothered about it? It's serious, mate. I'll have to process it, but it'll go to someone independent. Career could take a hit.”

Falk looked over.

“Of course I'm bothered. But that's Deacon all over, isn't it?” Falk's voice was so quiet Raco had to lean forward to hear him. “Leaving a trail of destruction and misery. He used to smack his wife around; probably did the same to his daughter. He had a hold over this town and used it to drive me and my dad away. His nephew's done God knows what to make Karen Hadler write down his name days before she died. That pair are dirty. And no one ever calls them on it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I don't know what to suggest. I'm just saying Deacon deserves to be strung up by his balls. Getting him on a vandalism charge is too good for him. He's as guilty as sin for something bigger. The Hadlers, his daughter. Something. I know it.”

In the front office they heard the station door slam. Deacon and his lawyer had arrived.

“Mate, listen to me now,” Raco said. “You don't know it. You get caught saying stuff like that outside of this station and that harassment charge is going to stick, so watch your mouth. There's nothing linking Deacon to the Hadlers' murders, no matter how much you want there to be.”

“Ask him.”

“Tunnel vision is a dangerous route.”

“Just ask him.”

 

 

The lawyer was young and infused with a deep passion for her client's rights. Raco listened to her patiently as he escorted them both into the interview room. Falk watched them go, then leaned back in his chair, frustrated. Deborah came out from behind the reception desk and handed him a cold bottle of water.