The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(91)

Whitlam pointed the lighter at them, and Raco made a primitive sound in the back of his throat.

“Listen. Sandra had nothing to do with this, right? She knows about some of the gambling, but she didn’t know how bad it was. Or about anything else. Promise me you understand that. She didn’t know. Not about the school funds. Or the Hadlers.”

His voice stumbled at the mention of the family, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“And I’m sorry about the little boy. Billy.” Whitlam winced as he said the child’s name. He looked down and pushed the lighter lid closed. Falk felt a first flutter of hope.

“I never thought Billy would get hurt. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. I need you to believe me. I tried to keep him safe. I want Sandra to know that.”

“Scott,” Falk said. “Why don’t you come with us, mate, and we can go and find Sandra and tell her that.”

“As if she’ll have anything to do with me now. After what I’ve done.” Whitlam’s cheeks shone with tears and sweat. “I should have let her leave me years ago, when she first wanted to. Let her take Danielle and get far away from me and be safe. But I didn’t, and now it’s too late.”

He wiped his hand over his face, and Raco seized the chance to reach toward his gun.

“Oi!”

Before Raco could touch the weapon, Whitlam had set the flame dancing once more. “We had a nice arrangement going.”

“All right,” Falk said. “Just keep calm, Scott. He’s worried about his family. Same as you are.”

Raco, frozen with one hand outstretched and his face a mask of fear and fury, slowly straightened up.

“Scott, she’s pregnant,” he said, looking right at Whitlam. His voice cracked. “My wife is due in four weeks. Please. Please just close the lighter.”

Whitlam’s hand shook. “Shut up.”

“You can still turn this around, Scott,” Falk said.

“I can’t. It’s not that simple. You don’t understand.”

“Please,” Raco said. “Think about Sandra and Danielle. Close the lighter and come with us. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for your wife. For your little girl.”

Whitlam’s face twisted, and the scratches on his cheek turned an ugly shade as his color darkened. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was heaving.

“It was for them!” he screamed. “All of it! This whole mess has been for them. I wanted to protect them. What was I supposed to do? I saw the nail gun. They made me touch it. What choice did I have?”

Falk didn’t know for sure what Whitlam was talking about, but he could guess. Beneath the rising panic, he felt strangely unmoved. Whitlam might be able to justify his actions to himself, but his monstrous acts were spawned by a beast of his own creation.

“We’ll look after them, Scott. We’ll take care of Sandra and Danielle.” Falk said the names loudly and clearly. “Come with us and tell us what you know. We can make them safe.”

“You can’t! You can’t protect them forever. I can’t protect them at all.” Whitlam was sobbing now. The flame shook as his grip tightened, and Falk’s breath caught in his throat.

He tried to still the swarm in his mind and think through the danger clearly. Kiewarra, huddled behind them in the valley with its secrets and its darkness. The school, the livestock, Barb and Gerry Hadler, Gretchen, Rita, Charlotte, McMurdo. He ran frantic calculations. The distances, the number of homes, the routes out. It was no good. Fire could outrun a car, let alone a man on foot.

“Scott!” he shouted. “Please don’t do this. The kids are in still in the school. Your little girl is down there. We saw her ourselves. This whole place is a powder keg—you know that.”

Whitlam glanced in the direction of the town, and Raco and Falk took a fast step forward.

“Hey!” Whitlam barked, waving the lighter. “No. No more. Stay back. I’ll drop it.”

“Your daughter and those kids will burn to death running for their lives.” Falk tried to calm his voice. “This town—Scott, listen to me—this town and its people will burn down to the ground.”

“I should be given a bloody medal for putting Kiewarra out of its misery. This town is a shit heap.”

“Maybe so, but don’t make the kids pay.”

“They’ll save the kids. The fireys will go there first.”

“What fireys, you dickhead?” Raco yelled. He pointed to the orange jackets dotted about in the bush. “They’re all out here looking for you. We’ll all be killed with you. If you drop that lighter, we’re all lost, your wife and your daughter included. I promise you that.”

Whitlam crumpled forward like he’d been punched in the stomach, the flame wavering in his hand. His eyes flashed with pure fear as they met Falk’s, and he wailed, raw and primitive.

“I’ve lost them, anyway! I can’t save them. I never could. Better this than what’s waiting for us.”

“No, Scott, that’s not—”

“And this town. This rotten, ruined place!” Whitlam screamed as he raised his hand with the lighter. “Kiewarra can burn—”

“Now!” Falk shouted, and he charged forward with Raco, arms out, pulling the fabric of their jackets wide like a blanket, hurling their bodies on Whitlam as he threw the lighter to the ground. A flash of white heat licked up Falk’s chest as they tumbled to the earth, rolling, jackets flailing, boots hitting the dirt, ignoring the searing sensation up his calf and thigh. He had a handful of Whitlam’s hair, and he held it, his grip screaming with pain until the hair withered and his hand was raw pink and blistered and holding nothing.