The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(70)

“Oh yeah, real knight in shining armor, you are. Always here for a shoulder to cry on, dripping poison in her ear. Talk her into leaving and talk her into bed while you’re at it, eh?”

Erik Falk’s eyebrows shot up. He laughed, a pure genuine burst of amusement.

“Mal, I didn’t shag your missus, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, mate, it’s not bullshit at all. It’s the truth. OK, so she’d pop round for a cup of tea and a bit of a cry when she’d had enough. Needed a bit of time away from you. But that’s it. She was nice enough, don’t get me wrong, but she was nearly as mad on the booze as you. Maybe if you took better care of things—your sheep, your own wife—they wouldn’t bloody wander off on you.” Erik Falk shook his head. “Honestly, I’ve no time for you or your missus. It’s your daughter I feel sorry for.”

Mal Deacon’s punch came like a dog out of a kennel but caught Erik in a lucky blow above his left eye. He staggered and fell backward, his skull landing with a sharp crack against the ground.

Aaron ran outside with a shout and bent over his father, who was staring at the sky with a dazed expression. Blood was trickling from a cut in his hairline. Aaron heard Deacon laughing, and he sprang toward the older man, ramming his chest. Deacon was forced to take a step backward, but his large frame kept him grounded and steady on his feet. In an instant, Deacon reached out and grabbed Aaron’s upper arm in an iron grip, pinching the skin as he twisted it, and dragged Aaron’s face close to his own.

“Listen here. When your old man gets up from the dirt, you tell him that’ll seem like a pat on the head compared with what’s coming if I find him—find either of you—messing around with what’s mine.”

He shoved Aaron to the ground, then turned and strode across the yard, whistling through his teeth.

“He begged me, you know?” Deacon said. “Your dad. After you did what you did to my Ellie. He came to me. Wasn’t trying to tell me you didn’t do it. That you couldn’t have done it. Nothin’ like that. He wanted me to tell everyone else in the town to back off until the police made up their minds. As if I’d give him the steam off my piss.”

Falk took a deep breath and made himself turn and start walking away.

“You knew that, did you?” Deacon’s words came floating behind him. “That he thought you might have done it? Your own dad. Course you knew. Must be a God-awful thing, to have your old man think that little of you.”

Falk stopped. He was almost out of earshot. Keep walking, he told himself. Instead he looked back. Deacon’s mouth curled up at each side.

“What?” Deacon called. “You can’t tell me he bought that bullshit story you and the Hadler kid cooked up. Your dad may have been a fool and a coward, but he wasn’t stupid. You ever manage to make things right with him? Or did he suspect it until the day he died?”

Falk didn’t answer.

“Thought so.” Deacon grinned.

No, Falk wanted to shout at him, they had never made things right. He took a long look at the old man, then, with a physical effort, forced himself to turn and walk away. Step by step, weaving through the long-forgotten headstones. At his back, he could hear Mal Deacon laughing as he stood with his feet firmly planted on his own daughter’s grave.





29


The shot bellowed across the distant field, the echo rippling through the hot air. Before silence could settle, another crashed out. Falk froze in the driveway of Gretchen’s farm, one hand stilled mid-motion as he went to slam his car door.

His thoughts fled to the Hadlers’ raw scrubbed hallway, the stained carpet. He imagined a blond woman lying bleeding on the ground, only this time not Karen but Gretchen.

Another blast rang out, and Falk was off, running across the fields toward the noise. He tried to follow the sound, but it bounced and echoed off the hard ground, leaving him disoriented. He scanned the horizon frantically, eyes watering against the blinding sun, looking everywhere, seeing nothing.

At last he spotted her, her khaki shorts and yellow shirt almost invisible against the bleached fields. He stopped dead, feeling a rush of relief followed by a wave of embarrassment. Gretchen turned her head and stared at him for a moment, then propped the shotgun on her shoulder and raised her hand in a wave. He hoped she hadn’t seen him running. She started over the field toward him.

“Hey, you got here fast,” she called out. Pink ear guards hung around her neck.

“I hope that’s OK.” He’d phoned from outside the cemetery. “I felt like I needed to see a friendly face.”

“It’s fine. It’s good to see you. I’ve got an hour before I need to pick up Lachie from school.”

Falk looked around, buying a moment while his breathing steadied. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks. The rabbits seem to think so too.” She nodded over her shoulder. “I need to get a few more before I call it a day. Come on, you can be my spotter.”

He followed her across the field to where she’d left her kit bag. She rummaged in it and pulled out another pair of ear guards. She reached in again and pulled out a box of ammunition. Winchesters. Not the Remingtons found in the Hadlers’ bodies, Falk thought automatically. He felt relieved, then immediately guilty for noticing. Gretchen opened the barrel of the shotgun and loaded a round.