The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(89)

As he rode away, the blowflies were already starting to circle.





39


Whitlam’s office was empty. His wallet was gone, along with his keys and phone. His jacket still hung from the back of the chair.

“Perhaps he’s popped out,” said a nervous secretary. “His car’s still here.”

“He hasn’t,” said Falk. “Barnes, you get to his house. If his wife’s there, detain her.” He thought for a moment. Turned back to the secretary.

“Is Whitlam’s daughter still in class?”

“Yes, I believe s—”

“Show me. Now.”

The secretary was forced to jog down the corridor to keep pace with Falk and Raco.

“Here,” she said breathlessly at a classroom door. “She’s in here.”

“Which one?” Falk said, searching through the small window for the child he’d seen in Whitlam’s family photo.

“There.” She pointed. “Blond girl, second row.”

Falk turned to Raco.

“Would he leave town without his child?”

“Hard to say. But I don’t think so. Not if he could help it.”

“I agree. I think he’s close.” Falk paused. “Call Clyde. They must be nearly here. Get roadblocks out, then gather everyone we can get with search-and-rescue experience.”

Raco followed Falk’s gaze out of the window. Behind the school the bushland sprawled dense and heavy. It seemed to shiver in the heat. It gave nothing away.

“Going to be some bloody hunt,” Raco said, putting the phone to his ear. “Best hiding place in the world out there.”




The search-and-rescue crews formed up shoulder to shoulder, a splash of high-vis orange along the bushland track. The gums were whispering and rattling overhead as the wind tore through. Gusts whipped up the dust and grit, forcing them to squint and shield their eyes. At their backs, Kiewarra sprawled out, squat and shimmering under its heat haze.

Falk took his place in the line. It was midday, and already he could feel the sweat pooling under his reflective vest. To his side, Raco was grim-faced.

“Radios on, ladies and gents,” the search-and-rescue crew leader called through a megaphone. “And it’s tiger snake territory here, so watch your feet.”

Overhead, a chopper whapped hot air down. The leader gave the word, and the orange line stepped forward almost as one. The bushland closed behind them, swallowing them tight. Towering gums and thick scrub growth separated the team as they delved deeper, and within a few paces Falk could see only Raco to his left and one orange jacket in the distance to his right.

Probe searching, the leader had explained to them with definite impatience. Good for dense bush. The searchers would line up and each walk directly into the bush ahead, checking along their own lines until their paths were blocked.

“Theory is if we can’t get through, your principal’s not about to either. You get blocked, you turn around and come back to the path,” the leader had said, thrusting a jacket at Falk. “Just keep your eyes open. It can get hairy in there.”

Falk pushed onward. It was strangely silent apart from the crackle of dry twigs underfoot and the wind whipping through the branches. The sun was high and white, forcing its way through occasional gaps in the trees like a searchlight. Even the noise of the chopper seemed muffled as it swooped high overhead like a bird of prey.

Falk stepped cautiously, the patchy sunlight playing tricks on the ground. He wasn’t completely sure what signs he should be looking for and felt sick at the thought of missing them. He hadn’t done a full-scale bush search since his police training, but all hands were needed in these woods. He’d spent enough time among these same trees when he was younger to know they dragged you in far more easily than they let you go.

A heavy bead of sweat stung the corner of his eye, and he wiped at it impatiently. The minutes ticked on. Around him, the trees seemed to get closer together with every step, and Falk found himself having to lift his feet higher as he waded through the tall grass. Straight ahead, he could see a thicket, sprawling and overgrown. Even from that distance it looked tangled and impassable. He was nearly at the end of his line. No Whitlam.

He took his hat off and ran a hand over his head. No shouts of success had made their way along the row of searchers. The radio on his belt was silent. Had they missed him? The image of Luke lying flat on his back in his truck flashed in Falk’s head. He put his hat back on and pushed forward, forcing a path through the overgrowth toward the thicket. The going was slow, and he’d gained only a few meters when he felt a stick bounce off his jacket.

Falk looked up in surprise. Some distance to his left and a few paces ahead, Raco had stopped and turned toward him. He was holding his finger to his lips.

“Whitlam?” Falk mouthed silently.

“Maybe,” Raco mouthed back, raising one hand in a not-certain gesture. He lifted his radio to his lips and murmured something.

Falk scanned the surroundings for any other splash of orange. The nearest searcher was a distant spot behind a curtain of trees. Falk crept toward Raco, wincing as his footsteps crunched loudly against the undergrowth.

He looked to where his friend was pointing. A fallen log had created a hollow in front of the thicket. Barely visible but so very out of place against the backdrop, something pink and fleshy peeped out. Fingertips. Raco pulled out his police-issue pistol.