The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(87)

It was now.





37


“How did Whitlam get to the Hadlers’ farm?” Barnes asked, leaning forward between the front seats. “We turned our eyes square watching that school CCTV footage, and I thought his car didn’t move from the school parking lot the whole afternoon.”

Falk found the photos of Luke’s body sprawled in his truck’s cargo tray. He pulled up the close-cropped shot of the four horizontal streaks on the tray’s interior. He passed it to Barnes, along with his phone showing the photos he’d taken of his own car trunk the night before. On the trunk’s felt upholstery were two long stripes.

Barnes looked from one to the other.

“The marks are the same,” he said. “What are they?”

“The ones in my trunk are new,” Falk said. “They’re tire streaks. He rode there on his bloody bike.”

Whitlam didn’t tell anyone in the front office he was going. He slipped out of the fire door unseen, leaving his jacket on his chair and his computer switched on—the universal symbol for “on the premises, back in a tick.”

He nipped out to the sheds, avoiding the limited range of the two cameras. Thank God for lack of funding, he caught himself thinking, then almost laughed at the irony. Within minutes, Whitlam had unlocked the ammunition store and pocketed a handful of shots. The school had a single shotgun for rabbit control, which he placed in a sports bag and slung over his shoulder. He would only use that as a last resort. Luke Hadler would have his own gun, Whitlam begged silently. He’d been shooting with Sullivan. But ammunition? No idea.

Whitlam jogged to the bike sheds. He’d driven in early that morning and parked in a quiet street near the school. Pulling his bike from the trunk, he’d cycled the short rest of the journey. He’d chained his bike up where he knew it would soon be surrounded by others. Hidden in plain sight. Then he’d walked back to his car and driven it into the school parking lot, choosing a prime spot well within the camera’s range.

Now, he unlocked his waiting bike and moments later was cycling along deserted country roads toward the Hadlers’ property. It wasn’t far, and he made good time. He stopped a kilometer from the farm and picked an overgrown spot by the side of the road. He pushed his way into the bushes and waited, whispering a silent, feverish prayer that he’d timed it right.

After twenty-five minutes he was sweating, convinced he’d missed his chance. Not a single vehicle had come along. Eight more minutes ticked by, nine. Then, just as Whitlam was sliding his eyes sideways toward the end of the shotgun and wondering if there wasn’t in fact another way out for him, he heard it.

A truck engine rumbled in the distance. Whitlam peered out. It was the one he needed. He felt light-headed as he sent up a silent prayer of thanks. He stepped out onto the side of the road, dumping his bike at his feet. He stood next to it and put out his arms, waving wide and wretchedly, like the drowning man that he was.

It looked for a terrible moment like the truck wasn’t going to stop. Then, as it drew closer it slowed, pulling to a halt where he stood. The driver’s window rolled down.

“Looks like you’ve got some trouble here.”

Luke Hadler leaned out.

Whitlam’s elbow jarred painfully as he brought the sock packed with stones crashing down on the back of Luke’s skull. It connected with the top of his neck with a gritty crunch, and Luke crumpled face-first into the dirt and settled with a dead weight.

Whitlam pulled on rubber gloves pocketed from the school science lab and opened the truck’s cargo tray. With the speed of an athlete he shoved his hands under Luke’s armpits and hauled him clumsily into the back.

He listened. Luke’s breathing was shallow and ragged. Whitlam raised the sock and brought it crashing down twice more. Felt the skull crunch. There was blood now. Whitlam ignored it. He covered Luke loosely with a tarpaulin he found in the tray and flung his bike on top. The dirt-caked wheels came to rest against the side panel.

Luke’s shotgun was in the passenger seat. Whitlam felt dizzy with relief and leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a full minute while the sensation passed. The weapon was unloaded. Fine. Whitlam took the school’s Remington ammunition from his pockets and loaded Luke’s gun.

The die was cast.





38


Morning break time had been over for thirty minutes, and all was still. The playground in the distance was deserted, and Falk was stifling a yawn when his cell phone rang. Raco and Barnes jumped as it trilled loudly in the silence of the car.

“Federal Agent Falk?” a voice said as he answered. “It’s Peter Dunn here, Crossley Educational Trust director. We spoke this morning.”

“Yes,” Falk said, sitting up a little straighter. “What is it?”

“Look, it’s a bit awkward, but that claim you asked about, for Kiewarra Primary?”

“Yes.” Falk wished the man would get to the point.

“I know you said it needed to be hush-hush, but I’ve discovered that my assistant—she’s new, still trying to find her feet—it seems she passed it on to another team member who didn’t quite grasp the confidential nature and—”

“And what?”

“And she appears to have contacted the school in question about twenty minutes ago to check—”