The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(90)

“I wouldn’t.” Whitlam’s voice floated out from the log. He sounded oddly calm.

“Scott, mate, it’s us.” Falk forced himself to match the tone. “Time to give it up. There are fifty people in here looking for you. Only one way out.”

Whitlam’s laugh floated up.

“There’s always more than one way out,” he said. “Jesus, you cops lack imagination. Tell your mate to pocket his weapon. Then he can get back on that radio and tell the others to back off.”

“Not going to happen,” Raco said. His pistol was aimed at the log, steady in his hands.

“It is.” Whitlam stood up suddenly. He was filthy and sweaty, with a web of fine scratches standing out purple against his ruddy cheek. “Steady there,” he said. “You’re on camera.”

He pointed one finger overhead to where the police chopper loomed against the cloudless sky. It appeared and disappeared against the gaps in the treetops as it circled in a wide arc. Falk wasn’t sure if it had seen them. He hoped so.

Whitlam suddenly thrust his arm out straight in front of him like a low Nazi salute and took a step away from the log. He was clutching something in his fist.

“Stay back,” he said, rotating his hand. Falk caught a first glint of metal and his brain screamed gun, while a deeper part flitted frantically, trying to process what he was seeing. Raco tensed next to him. Whitlam unfolded his hand finger by finger, and Falk’s breath left his chest. He heard Raco groan long and deep. A thousand times worse than a gun.

It was a lighter.





40


Whitlam flicked the lighter open, and the flame danced dazzling white against the dull bushland. It was the stuff of nightmares. It was a tangled parachute, failed brakes on the motorway. It was a premonition, and Falk felt the fear flood from his core until it prickled against his skin.

“Scott—” Falk started, but Whitlam held up a single finger in warning. It was an expensive lighter, the kind that stayed lit until it was closed manually. The flame shivered and danced in the wind.

In one movement, Whitlam reached down and whipped a small flask out of his pocket. He flipped off the cap and took a sip. His eyes never leaving theirs, he tilted the flask and poured a trickle of the amber liquid on the ground around him. The whiskey vapors hit Falk a moment later.

“Call it an insurance policy!” Whitlam shouted over. The spark fluttered as his outstretched arm shook.

“Scott!” Raco yelled. “You stupid bastard. You’ll have us all with that. You included.”

“Then shoot me, if you’re going to. But I’ll drop it.”

Falk shifted his weight, and the leaves and branches under his feet cracked and snapped. Two years without decent rainfall and now doused in alcohol. They were standing on a matchbox. Somewhere behind them, invisible but linked by an unbroken chain of gums and grass, lay the school and the town. Fire would barrel along that chain like a bullet train, he knew. It surged and jumped and gorged itself. It raced like an animal. It ravaged with inhuman efficiency.

Raco’s arms were shaking as he trained the pistol on Whitlam. He turned his head a fraction toward Falk.

“Rita’s somewhere down there.” His voice was low and his teeth clenched. “I will shoot him dead before I let him light this place up.”

Falk thought of Raco’s vivacious wife, weighed down by her pregnancy, and raised his voice.

“Scott. There’s no chance of you getting out of here if that flame hits the ground. You know that. You’ll be burned alive.”

Whitlam’s head jerked in a tiny spasm at the suggestion, and the lighter jolted in his hand. Falk sucked in a sharp breath, and Raco took half a step back and swore.

“Christ, bloody watch that thing, will you?” Raco shouted.

“Just stay back,” Whitlam said, regaining control. “Put your gun down.”

“No.”

“You haven’t got a choice. I’ll drop it.”

“Close the lighter.”

“You first. Gun down.”

Raco wavered, his finger white on the trigger. He glanced at Falk, then reluctantly bent and placed his gun on the ground. Falk didn’t blame him. He’d seen what bushfires could do. A neighbor had lost his home and forty sheep one summer when a controlled burn had gotten out of hand. Falk and his father had tied rags across their faces and armed themselves with hoses and buckets as the noon sky turned red and black. The sheep had squealed until they hadn’t anymore. The fire had screamed and roared like a banshee. It was terrifying. It was a flash of hell. The land was drier now than it had been then. This would be no slow burn.

In front of them, Whitlam was flipping the lighter open and closed like a toy. Raco followed the action in mesmerized horror, fists clenched. The helicopter hovered directly overhead, and in his peripheral vision Falk could see a handful of orange vests dotted in the trees. They’d been warned to keep their distance, no doubt.

“So you worked it out, then?” Whitlam sounded more interested than angry. “The trust money.”

He flicked the lighter open and this time left it burning. Falk’s heart sank. He tried not to look at the flame.

“Yes,” he said. “I should’ve seen it before. But you hid the gambling well.”

Whitlam sniggered, an odd, sinister little noise whipped away by the wind. “I’ve had a lot of practice at that. Sandra warned me. She said I’d pay for it one day. Hey—”