The Dry (32 page)

Over his wife's head, Luke Hadler was looking straight at Gretchen. She was looking back with the same little witchy smile that she'd just flashed at Falk. He turned to the photo of Luke with Gretchen's baby son. The son who, with his dark hair and brown eyes and sharp nose, had grown up to look nothing like his mother. Falk jumped as Gretchen spoke behind him.

“It was nothing,” she said. Falk spun around. She smiled, put down her cell phone, and picked up her wineglass. “Lachie just needed to hear my voice—”

Her smile faded as she saw the look on his face and the photo album open in his hand. She looked back at him, her expression a mask.

“Do Gerry and Barb Hadler know?” Falk heard the edge in his own voice and didn't like it. “Did Karen?”

“There's nothing to know.” She bristled, instantly defensive.

“Gretchen—”

“I told you. Lachie's dad's not around. Luke was an old friend. So he visited. Spent a couple of hours with Lachie now and again. So what? What's wrong with that? It was a male role model thing. It was nothing.” Gretchen was babbling. She stopped. She took a deep breath. Looked at Falk. “Luke's not his father.”

Falk said nothing.

“He's not,” she snapped.

“What does it say on Lachie's birth certificate?”

“It's blank. Not that it's any of your business.”

“Have you got a single photo of Lachie's dad? One picture you can show me?”

She met the question with silence.

“Have you?” he said.

“I don't have to show you anything.”

“It can't have been easy for you. When Luke met Karen.” Falk didn't recognize his own tone. It sounded distant and cold.

“For God's sake, Aaron, he's not Lachie's father.” Gretchen's face and neck were flushed. She took a slug of wine. A pleading note had crept into her voice. “We hadn't slept together for—Jesus, it had been years.”

“What happened? Luke didn't want to settle down with you, has one eye on the road. Then he meets Karen and—”

“Yeah, and what?” she interrupted. The wine sloshed against the side of her glass. She blinked back tears, and any earlier tenderness was gone. “OK, yes, it pissed me off when he chose her. It hurt me. Luke hurt me. But that's life, isn't it? That's love.”

She stopped. Bit the tip of her tongue between her front teeth.

“I wondered why you didn't like Karen,” Falk said. “But that would well and truly do it, wouldn't it?”

“So? I don't have to be her best friend—”

“She had all the things you wanted. Luke, the security, the money, at least what there was of it. You were here on you own. Your child's father had moved on. Left town allegedly. Or was he actually down the road playing dad and husband to other people?”

Gretchen rounded on him, tears spilling over now. “How can you ask me this? If I had an affair with Luke while he was married? If he's the father of my son?”

Falk stared at her. She had always been the beautiful one. Almost ethereal. Then he remembered the stain in Billy Hadler's room. He remembered Gretchen raising her gun and shooting those rabbits down.

“I'm asking because I have to ask.”

“Jesus, what is wrong with you?” Her face had hardened. Her teeth were stained from the wine. “Are you jealous? That for a while I chose Luke and he chose me? That's probably half the reason you're here now, isn't it? Thought you might finally manage to get one up on Luke now he's gone.”

“Don't be stupid,” he said.

“I'm stupid? God, look at you,” she said, louder now. “Always following him around when we were younger like a lapdog. And now,
even now,
you're hanging round in a town you hate because of him. It's pathetic. What kind of hold has he got over you? It's like you're obsessed.”

Falk could almost feel the eyes of his dead friend watching them from that album.

“Jesus, Gretchen, I'm here because three people were killed. All right? So I hope for your son's sake that lying about your relationship with Luke is the worst thing you've done to that family.”

She pushed past him, knocking his wineglass off the table as she went. The stain seeped like blood into the carpet. She flung open the front door, and a gust of hot wind blew in a flurry of leaves.

“Get out.” Her eyes were like shadows. Her face was flushed an ugly red. On the doorstep she took a half breath as though she was about to say something more, then stopped. Her mouth twitched up in a cold little smile.

“Aaron. Wait. Before you do anything rash—I've got something to tell you.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “
I know
.”

“Know what?”

She leaned in so her lips were almost at his ear. He could smell the wine on her breath.

“I know your alibi for the day Ellie Deacon died was bullshit. Because I know where Luke was. And it wasn't with you.”

“Wait, Gretchen—”

She gave him a shove.

“Looks like we've all got our secrets, Aaron.”

The door slammed.

34

It was a long walk back to town. Falk felt every step ricochet from the soles of his feet up to his pounding head. His thoughts swarmed like flies. He relived conversations he'd had with Gretchen, holding them up under this new stark light, examining them, seeking out the flaws. He phoned Raco. No answer. Perhaps he was still angry. Falk left a message, asked him to call.

It was near closing time when he finally reached the Fleece. Scott Whitlam was on the pub steps, fastening his bike helmet. His injured nose looked better than it had the other night. Whitlam took one look at Falk's face and stopped.

“You all right, mate?”

“Rough night.”

“Looks like it.” Whitlam took his helmet off. “Come on, I'll buy you a quick one.”

Falk wanted nothing more than to crawl up the staircase to bed, but didn't have the energy to argue. He followed Whitlam inside. The bar was nearly empty, and McMurdo was wiping the counter. He paused when they walked in and reached for two beer glasses without asking. Whitlam put his helmet on the counter.

“I'll get these. Put them on the tab, mate?” he said to McMurdo.

The barman frowned. “No tab.”

“Come on. For a regular?”

“Don't make me say it again, my friend.”

“OK. Fine.” Whitlam pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it. “I might be a bit—I might have to put it on the card—”

“I'll get it.” Falk cut across him and put a twenty on the counter, waving away Whitlam's protestations. “It's fine. Forget it. Cheers.”

Falk took a deep swallow. The sooner it was drunk, the sooner he could call it a night.

“What's happened, then?” Whitlam asked.

“Nothing. I'm just sick to death of this place.”

It hurt me. Luke hurt me.

“Any progress?”

Falk thought for a wild moment about telling him. McMurdo had stopped cleaning and was listening from behind the bar. In the end, he shrugged.

“I'll just be glad to get out of here.” Whatever happened, he was due back in Melbourne on Monday. Sooner, if Raco got his way.

Whitlam nodded. “Half your luck. Although—” He held up a hand and crossed his fingers. “I might be following your lead sooner than I thought.”

“You're leaving Kiewarra?”

“Hopefully. I've got to do something soon for Sandra. She's had it up to here. I've been looking at a new place, a school up north maybe. Bit of a change.”

“Weather's hotter up north.”

“At least they get the rains,” Whitlam said. “It's the lack of water here. Makes the whole town crazy.”

“I'll drink to that,” Falk said, draining his glass. His head felt heavy. Wine, beer, emotion.

Whitlam took the hint and followed suit.

“All right, better run. It's a school night, after all.” Whitlam offered his hand. “Hopefully I'll see you before you leave, but if not, good luck.”

Falk shook it. “Thanks. You too. Up north.”

Whitlam left with a cheery wave, and Falk handed the empty glasses to McMurdo.

“Did I hear you say you're heading out soon?”

“Probably,” Falk said.

“Well, I'll be sorry to see you go, believe it or not,” McMurdo said. “You're the only one who reliably pays. Which reminds me—” He opened the cash register and gave Falk back his twenty-dollar bill. “I put the drinks on your room tab. Thought it would be easier to claim them on expenses or whatever you cops do.”

Falk took the twenty, surprised.

“Oh, right. Thanks. I thought you said no tabs.”

“I only said that to Whitlam. You're all right, though.”

Falk frowned. “But not Whitlam? You must know him well enough.”

McMurdo gave a short laugh. “Oh yeah. I know him well enough. That's why I also know where he keeps his money.” He nodded to the slot machines flashing in the back room.

“Whitlam's a fan of the slots?” Falk asked.

McMurdo nodded. “And the rest. Horses, dogs. Always got one eye on the racing channel, the other on those apps on his phone.”

“You're kidding.” Falk was taken aback, but at the same time not surprised. He thought about the sports books in Whitlam's house. He'd come across a lot of gamblers in his career. There was no single type. The only thing they had in common was delusion and misery.

“He's subtle about it, but you see all sorts of things from behind a bar,” McMurdo said. “Especially when it comes to being able to pay for drinks. And I don't think he actually likes the slots much.”

“No?”

“Nah, I get a sense they're small fry for him. Still, doesn't stop him feeding his weight in gold coins into them every time he's here. That's what he was doing when he accidentally got clobbered the other night. When Jamie and Grant had their punch-up.”

“Is that right?”

“Anyway, I shouldn't be telling tales out of school,” McMurdo said. “There's nothing illegal about pissing your cash away. Thank God. Otherwise I'd be out of business.”

“So would a lot of people.” Falk managed a smile.

“These gambling types are fair old suckers, though. Always looking for strategies and loopholes. End of the day, it only works if you back the right horse.”

 

 

Falk's room had never felt so much like a cell. He brushed his teeth without turning on the light and collapsed into bed. Despite the chaos in his head, he felt overwhelmed by exhaustion. Sleep was close.

Out in the street a tin can rolled along, its metallic clatter rattling in the quiet. Through his drowsiness, it reminded Falk of the artificial clang of the slot machines. He closed his eyes. McMurdo was right about gambling. Like this case. Sometimes all the strategies in the world couldn't help.

It only works if you back the right horse.

A cog turned deep in Falk's brain. Lazily, because it was an ingrained one. Crusted over and tough to shift. It reluctantly clunked one move over then stopped, settled.

Falk opened his eyes slowly. It was too dark to see anything, but he stared into the inky blackness, thinking.

He pictured Kiewarra laid out in three dimensions. He imagined himself climbing, up to the lookout maybe, the scene below growing smaller the higher he went. When he reached the top he looked down. Over the town, the drought, the Hadlers. Noticing, for the first time, how things looked from a very different perspective.

Falk thought about that, with his eyes open, staring at the nothingness for long minutes. Testing the cog in its new position. Finally, he sat up, fully awake now. He pulled on a T-shirt and slipped his feet into his sneakers. He grabbed his flashlight and an old newspaper and crept downstairs and into the parking lot.

His car was right where he'd left it. The stench of shit made his eyes water, but he barely noticed it. He peeled back the tarpaulin and, using the newspaper as a makeshift glove, popped open the trunk. It was kept separate from the body of the car by the backseats and had been protected from the shit storm.

Falk clicked on the flashlight and shone it into the empty trunk. He stood there for a long time. Then he pulled out his cell phone and took a photo.

Back in his room, sleep took a long time to come. When morning broke, he woke and dressed early, then waited impatiently. The moment the clock ticked over to nine o'clock, Falk picked up the phone and made a single call.

Luke Hadler's palms were sweating on the steering wheel. The air conditioner was on overdrive but had barely made a dent since he'd left Jamie Sullivan's place. His throat was dry, and he wished he had a bottle of water to hand. He made himself focus on the road ahead. He was nearly home. Just get there.

He had turned onto the final stretch when he saw the figure up ahead. Standing by the road all alone. Waving.

35

Falk clattered into the station, panting. He had hung up the phone and run all the way from the pub.

“It was a smoke screen.”

Raco looked up from his desk. His eyes were bloodshot, and he still had sleep in the corner of one.

“What was?”

“The whole thing, mate. It was never about Luke.”

“Great,” Luke muttered as he drove closer, his heart sinking as he was able to make out who was waving. For a moment, he wondered if he could keep going, but it was a scorching day. It had to have topped a hundred degrees earlier, he reckoned.

He hesitated a moment longer, then touched the brake and brought the truck to a stop. He wound down the window and leaned out.

Falk opened the Hadlers' file with shaking fingers, both excited and frustrated with himself.

“We've been tying ourselves in knots trying to find connections to Luke—what was he hiding, who wanted him dead? And what have we ended up with? Nothing. Well, nothing substantial. Lots of minor motives, but not enough. And you were right.”