The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(45)

“Why does he always get away with it?” he asked.

“There was no proof it was him,” Gerry said again. “But—” He held up a hand as Barb went to interrupt. “But you know what it’s like here, mate. It takes a lot for people to be willing to stand up and rock the boat. It was the same then as it is now. We all needed each other to get by. Mal Deacon did business with a lot of us, and we all did business with him. And he collected favors, let the odd payment slide so he had a hold over people. If you fell out with Deacon, it wasn’t only him you fell out with. Suddenly doing business and having a peaceful beer in your own town become a hell of a lot harder. Life was already hard enough.”

Barb stared at him.

“The girl was so unhappy she drowned herself, Gerry.” She gathered their empty mugs together with a clash of ceramic. “Stuff the business and the beer. We should all have done more. I’ll see you inside. There are a thousand jobs waiting when you’re ready.”

She turned and stalked off toward the house, wiping her face with her sleeve as she went.

“She’s right,” Gerry said, watching her go. “Whatever happened, Ellie deserved far better.” He turned to Falk, his eyes drained of emotion. Like he’d burned through a lifetime’s supply in the past few weeks. “Thanks for sticking around. We heard you’d been asking questions about Luke.”

“Started to.”

“Can I ask what you think? Did Luke kill Karen and Billy?”

“I think,” Falk said carefully, “there is a possibility he didn’t.”

“Jesus, are you sure?”

“No. I said possibility.”

“But you do think someone else might be involved.”

“Maybe, yes.”

“Is it connected with what happened with Ellie?”

“I honestly don’t know, Gerry.”

“But maybe?”

“Maybe.”

A silence. “Christ. Listen, there’s something I should have told you from the start.”

Gerry Hadler was hot but not unhappy about it. He tapped a light rhythm on the steering wheel, whistling to himself. The evening sun warmed his forearm through the window as he drove along the empty road. They’d had a solid rainfall that year, and out on the farm these days he liked what he was seeing.

Gerry glanced at the bottle of sparkling wine lying on the passenger seat. He’d popped into town to pick up some supplies and had spontaneously nipped into the liquor shop. He was taking it home to surprise Barb, who he hoped at this moment was making her Friday night lamb casserole. Gerry turned on the radio. It was a song he didn’t recognize, but it had a deep jazz beat he liked. He nodded in time and pressed his foot to the brake as a crossroad appeared ahead.

“I knew you and Luke were lying about your alibis for the day Ellie Deacon died.” Gerry’s voice was now so quiet Falk had to strain to hear it. “The thing is, I think someone else knew it too.”

Gerry was still twenty meters from the crossroads when the familiar figure flashed across on a bike. His son’s head was down, and he was pedaling furiously. From that distance, Luke’s hair looked slicked back and shiny in the low sunlight. It was a change from his usually floppy style, Gerry noticed vaguely. It didn’t really suit him.

Luke sped through the crossroads without as much as a glance in either direction. Gerry tutted under his breath. He’d have to have a word with that boy. Fair enough, the roads were usually empty, but that didn’t automatically mean it was safe. Behaving like that, Luke would get himself killed.

“He was coming from the south, from the direction of the river. Nowhere near the fields you boys said you were in. You weren’t with him. He didn’t have his shotgun.”

“The river’s not the only thing to the south,” Falk said. “There are farms, for one. The bike trails for another.”

Gerry shook his head. “Luke hadn’t been on any bike trail. He was wearing that gray shirt he loved at the time. You know, that awful shiny button-down one he always saved for best. My impression was that he looked pretty fancy that afternoon. Like he was dressed for a date or something. His hair was slicked back. I told myself at the time he was trying a new style.” Gerry put his hand over his eyes for a long moment. “But I always knew his hair was wet.”

Luke was well through the crossroads by the time Gerry pulled up. As if to prove a point, Gerry brought his truck to a complete stop and checked both ways. To the right, his son’s shadowy figure grew smaller. To the left, he could see only as far as a bend in the road. All clear. Gerry eased his foot onto the accelerator and moved through. As he cleared the crossroads and pulled away, he glanced in his rearview mirror.

The image in the reflection was there and gone in less than a second. It had disappeared almost as soon as he saw it: a white truck flashing through the crossroads. From the left. Following in the direction of his son.

Falk was silent for a long moment.

“You didn’t see who was driving?” Falk watched him closely.

“No. I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t paying attention, and it went by so fast I couldn’t see. But whoever it was, I bet they saw Luke.” Gerry wouldn’t look at Falk. “They pulled that girl’s body out of the river three days later, and it was the worst day of my life.” He gave a small strange laugh. “Well, until recently. Her photo was everywhere—do you remember?”