The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(24)
“It’s in here.”
There was a pocket of eerie silence as invisible birds were momentarily stilled by the sound of his voice. The gap opened into a small space, big enough for a vehicle to drive in but not turn around. Falk stood in the center. It was fractionally cooler here, shaded on all sides by a sentry line of ghost gums. The road was completely hidden by the thick growth. Something in the bush rustled and scurried away. The yellow earth was baked solid. No tracks or wheel marks.
Directly beneath Falk’s feet, in the center of the clearing, lay a dusting of loose sand. He realized what it had been put down to cover and hastily stepped off. The area had been trampled over by dozens of boots recently, but other than that it looked ill-used.
“Pretty miserable place to spend your last moments,” Falk said. “Was this spot supposed to mean anything to Luke?”
Raco shrugged. “Hoping you might have some idea about that.”
Falk searched his memory for old camping trips, boyhood adventures. Nothing came to mind.
“He definitely died here? In the back of the truck?” Falk said. “No chance he was shot somewhere else and moved?”
“None at all. Blood pattern was definitive.”
Falk tried to organize the timeline in his head. Luke had left Jamie Sullivan’s around 4:30 P.M. Luke’s truck was on camera at the Hadlers’ farm about thirty minutes later. Longer than it had taken Falk and Raco to drive the same distance. Two gunshots, four minutes, and the truck had driven away.
“It’s fairly straightforward if Luke shot his family,” Falk said. “He drove himself to the house, taking the scenic route for whatever reason, killed them, then drove himself here.”
“Yeah. Gets a lot more complicated if it was someone else, though,” Raco said. “The killer had to be inside Luke’s truck at some point soon after he left Sullivan’s, because Luke had the murder weapon with him. So who drove it to the farmhouse?”
“And if it wasn’t Luke behind the wheel, where the hell was he while his family was being murdered? Sitting in the passenger seat watching it happen?” Falk said.
Raco shrugged. “Maybe he was. I mean, it’s a possible scenario. Depending on who the other person was, what kind of hold they might have had over him.” They looked at each other, and Falk knew Raco was also thinking about Sullivan.
“Or the killer could have physically overpowered him,” Raco said. “Might have taken a bit of effort, but some people could do it. You saw Sullivan’s arms. Like walnuts packed into a sock.”
Falk nodded and thought back to the report on Luke’s body. He was a decent-sized bloke. A healthy male, other than the gunshot wound. No defensive marks on his hands. No sign of ligature marks or other restraints. He pictured Luke’s corpse lying flat on its back in the truck’s cargo tray. The blood pooled around him and the four unexplained streaks on the side of the metal tray.
“‘Bloody women,’” Falk said out loud. “What do you think he meant by that?”
“I dunno,” Raco said, glancing at his watch. “But we’re set to meet someone who might later this afternoon. I thought it could be worth seeing what Karen Hadler kept in her desk drawer.”
11
The wattle sapling looked a little less sickly once it was in the ground, but not much. Uniformed schoolchildren looked on in bewilderment as mulch was shoveled around its base. Teachers and parents stood in loose groups, some crying openly.
A handful of the wattle’s fuzzy yellow buds gave up the fight immediately and fluttered to the ground. They settled near a plaque with the fresh engraving:
In memory of Billy Hadler and Karen Hadler.
Much loved and missed by our school family.
The sapling didn’t stand a chance, Falk thought. He could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes.
Back on the grounds of his old primary school, Falk was again struck by the feeling that he could be thirty years in the past. The asphalt playground was a miniature version of the one he remembered, and the water fountains seemed absurdly low. But it was instantly familiar, sparking half-remembered flashes of faces and events he’d long forgotten.
Luke had been a good ally to have back then. He was one of those kids with an easy smile and a sharp wit who could navigate the jungle law of the playground effortlessly. Charismatic would have been the word, if they’d known it at that age. He was generous with his time, his jokes, his belongings. His parents. Everyone was welcome at the Hadler household. He was loyal almost to a fault. When Falk had once taken a stray football in the face, he’d had to drag Luke off the kid who’d kicked it. Falk, tall and awkward then, was always aware he was lucky to have Luke on his side.
Falk shifted uncomfortably as the ceremony came to a close.
“Scott Whitlam, principal,” Raco said, nodding as a fit-looking man in a tie politely extracted himself from a crowd of parents.
Whitlam came over, one hand extended. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said after Raco introduced Falk. “Everyone wants to talk at a time like this.”
Whitlam was in his early forties and moved with the easy energy of a retired athlete. He had a broad chest and a wide smile. Half an inch of clean brown hair was visible under the bottom of his hat.
“It was a nice service,” Falk said, and Whitlam glanced back at the sapling.