The Dry (Aaron Falk #1)(92)

They rolled and burned for a thousand hours until a pair of thick gloved hands reached down and hauled Falk back by the shoulders. He gave an animal screech as his raw skin hummed and crackled.

A heavy blanket engulfed him, and he choked and gulped as water was splashed over his head and face. A second pair of hands dragged him away. He collapsed onto his back, and a water bottle was pushed to his lips, but he couldn’t swallow. He tried to twist away from the agony until someone held him down gently, and he cried out as the pain licked his limbs. The stench of burned flesh hung in his nostrils, and he blinked and snorted, eyes watering and nose running.

He turned his head to one side, pressing his wet cheek against the earth. Raco was hidden as a wall of vests crouched around him. Falk could see only his boots clearly. He was lying perfectly still. A third group had surrounded a hunched and screaming form.

“Raco,” Falk tried to say, but someone was pressing the bottle to his lips again. He struggled to turn his head away. “Raco, mate. You OK?” No answer. “Help him.” Why weren’t they moving faster? “Jesus, help him.”

“Shh,” a woman in a reflective vest said as he was strapped to a gurney. “We’re doing everything we can.”





41


He would live, the doctors told him when he woke up in the Clyde hospital burns unit. But his days as a hand model were over. When he was allowed to see the damage, he’d been both fascinated and revolted by his own body. The pale milky skin had given way to glistening red tissue, weeping and fresh. They bandaged up his hand, arm, and leg, and he hadn’t looked again.

Bed-bound, he had a stream of visitors. Gerry and Barb brought Charlotte, McMurdo smuggled in a beer, and Barnes sat by his side for long stretches without saying much. Gretchen didn’t visit. Falk didn’t blame her. Once allowed up, Falk spent most of his time by Raco’s bed as he slept, sedated while they treated major burns on his torso and back.

He would also live, the doctors said. But they didn’t make any jokes as they had with Falk.

Rita Raco pressed one palm to her belly while the other held Falk’s good hand as they sat silently by her husband’s side. Falk told her that Raco had been brave. Rita just nodded and asked the doctor once more when he would wake up. Raco’s brothers arrived from South Australia one by one. They looked like variations of the same person. They shook Falk’s hand, and even as they threw bossy orders at their sleeping brother to get out of bed, he could tell they were terrified.

Raco eventually opened his eyes, and the doctors ushered Falk out for a full day. Family only. When he was allowed back in, he found Raco flashing a weak but familiar grin beneath his bandages.

“Real baptism of fire, eh?”

Falk managed a laugh. “Something like that. You did well.”

“I had Rita to look out for. But tell me the truth.” Raco beckoned him closer. “Weren’t you a tiny bit tempted to let Kiewarra burn to the ground after everything it’s done to you?”

Falk smiled, properly this time. “I couldn’t do that, mate. My house keys were back at the pub.”

Whitlam had been transferred to the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne, where he was under police custody for a string of charges, including the murders of Luke, Karen, and Billy Hadler.

He was almost unrecognizable, Falk was told. The fire had caught his hair. He was lucky to be alive. Not so lucky, Falk thought privately. Prison wouldn’t be easy for him.

When Falk was discharged, he was sent to recuperate under the Hadlers’ grateful watch. Barb fussed, and Gerry was unable to pass him by without shaking his hand. They insisted Falk spend as much time with Charlotte as possible. They told her how he had helped her daddy. Brought her real daddy—the good man, the loving husband—back from the dead.

Gerry and Barb’s son was still gone, but they were lighter somehow. They could look people in the eye again, Falk noticed. Falk went with them to the cemetery. Luke’s grave in particular could now barely be seen for fresh flowers.

While Barb showed the cards and bouquets to Charlotte, Gerry stood off to one side with Falk.

“Thank God it had nothing to do with the Deacon girl,” Gerry said. “I want you to know, I never really thought—I mean, Luke would never have—”

“I know, Gerry. Don’t worry.”

“Any idea what happened to her?”

Falk made a noncommittal noise as Barb wandered back.




As soon as Falk felt strong enough, he walked all the way to Gretchen’s place. She was out the back shooting again, and as he approached, she turned the gun on him and held it for a couple of beats longer than necessary.

“Gretchen. I’m sorry,” Falk called across the field. He held out his hands. “That’s all I want to say.” She looked at his bandages and lowered the gun. She sighed and came closer.

“I didn’t visit you in hospital.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to, but—”

“It’s OK. Are you OK?”

She shrugged, and they stood in silence, listening to the cockatoos in the trees. She wouldn’t look at him.

“Luke loved Karen,” she said eventually. “He really did. And before that, Ellie.” As she looked around the field, her eyes were wet. “I don’t think I was ever his first choice.”