Blood Feud (52 page)

“So you came here to the mountain to go to one of the family farms to . . . erm, harvest some . . . erm, crops?”

“Yes, and that’s when I noticed it.”

“Noticed
what
, Denny?” I asked with increasing impatience.

“The path and then . . . it. I’ve wanted to show you for days, but didn’t know how to make you come with me up here. But then I saw the police car in the carpark and followed you. Please, please, come and look.” He looked over at the Sarge. “He can come too.”

I glanced at the Sarge again, not sure what to say or do.

“Wait here,” he said to Denny, and pulled me aside, his face serious. “I don’t trust any of them, Tess. It could be an ambush. I mean, Red’s just been banged up again and they must be pretty pissed off at us about that. I don’t think we should go with him. It’s risky.”

“You think they’re using Denny as a decoy? But what about his story? It’s strange enough to sound true. And Denny never speaks to me much, Sarge. Something must have rattled him to make him approach me.”

“Yeah, something like Red being recaptured has rattled him. They’re probably waiting for us to walk into their trap like a couple of patsies.”

“We have weapons. Denny’s never been violent with me, apart from that one time and I was the one who started that.”

“I just don’t like it, Tess. What about the hikers? That’s why we’re supposed to be here, remember?”

“We’re not going to find them today, Sarge. Why don’t we see what Denny has to show us?”

“Because these Bycrafts can’t be trusted.”

“You think I don’t know that? But didn’t you tell me to trust my instincts when it comes to them? I don’t believe Denny means me any harm now when he never has before. I’ll go alone if you won’t come.”

Our eyes clashed. “You’re far too much of a risk-taker for my liking, woman,” he grumbled. “As if I’m going to let you go off with him by yourself.”

I was thankful for that. “One advantage is that he might take us near one of those family farms. We might have the opportunity to at least shut one of them down and maybe even charge some of the Bycrafts with something.”

We looked over to where Denny stood with nervous patience.

“I’m searching him first,” decided the Sarge. He didn’t hesitate, but strode over to Denny to aggressively pat him down.

Denny took it without complaining, even when the Sarge pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket – the map he’d told us about. He spread it open on a nearby rock and the three of us studied it.

“This here is one of our paths,” Denny explained, pointing with a dirty-nailed finger to a squiggle of a line he’d drawn on the paper. “The farm is up in that direction.” He waved vaguely southward with the same finger.

“It’s a long way up the mountain,” noted the Sarge, strong scepticism in his voice.

“It’s the most distant one we have. I like it the best because there’s always a good supply. The others are too lazy to climb so high.”

“How many of these ‘farms’ do you have,” asked the Sarge.

“Um . . . about four or five,” he replied evasively.

“How long have they been in operation?” I queried.

“Forever.” We stared at him. Somehow I doubted the earliest settlers in these parts would have been growing dope. “I mean, since I was born,” he clarified.

“All right,” said the Sarge. “Where’s this other path and what’s so special about it that you need to show us?”

“Here,” he jabbed at the paper. “It’s not one of our paths.”

“So?” dismissed the Sarge. “You’ve found some kind of path made by animals. Why on earth did you think that would be of interest to us?”

Denny seemed a little thrown by the Sarge’s overt hostility. “I followed the path wanting to know where it went because it wasn’t one of ours. And that’s when I found it.”

“Found
what
, Denny?” I asked him for the second time.

“The place.”

“What place?”

His face took on an almost frightened expression as he struggled with his inarticulateness. “I don’t know what it is. Sort of rock walls reaching up high and curving over.”

The Sarge’s glance at me was loaded with frustration. “You mean, you found a cave?”

“Not a cave.”

“God, why are you wasting our time on this rubbish?” the Sarge exploded. “Do you honestly think Tess and I want to tramp through the bushland to look at some interesting rock formation you’ve found? We’re not on a bloody field trip.”

Denny cowered a little at his anger, turning his pleading eyes on me. “Please, Tessie. It’s the writing.”

“There’s writing on the rock walls?”

“Yes,” he said, relieved he was finally being understood.

The Sarge and I exchanged another silent glance and then I shrugged, picking up my backpack.

“I’m curious,” I said to him.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he reminded me sourly, donning his own backpack.

“Cats have nine lives.”

“Always the smartarse, Fuller.”

We headed off, following Denny. He kept checking behind himself as if worried we’d give up on him. The path he led us on was narrow and overgrown with bushland, testament to the fact that it was one of the lesser used Bycraft escape routes.

It was hard-going. We dripped with sweat and I didn’t know about the Sarge, but my feet already hurt from the tramp up the mountain. Now they also loudly expressed their displeasure at my insistence on further walking, especially considering we still had the walk back down the mountain ahead of us. My backpack felt like a leaden weight, my lower back protesting with every step. I began to think very fondly of having a long, bubbly bath.

After about ten minutes, Denny turned into the bush following what was only the barest hint of a pathway.

“This is the other path. The one that’s not ours,” he said, picking up his pace. At some point since we’d started, the Sarge had slipped his gun from its holster, the set of his shoulders showing his tenseness. He was expecting an ambush at any minute. Deferring to his lead, I unsheathed my knife as well.

Denny stopped suddenly and turned back to us, his finger to his lips. “We need to be quiet now,” he warned, walking stealthily through the bushland.

After clambering over yet another pile of rocks, our final destination came into view in front of us. Denny had been right – it was not a cave. A natural rock wave on either side of a flat space reached up to almost meet at the top, a slither of sunlight filtering through the gap, brightening the roomy space. It was an impressive structure, but it became immediately apparent that Denny had not begged us to come here solely to admire the majesty of nature.

“Oh my God,” said the Sarge in a muted tone as he looked around, reholstering his gun.

My heart began to hammer uncontrollably as I did the same, sliding my knife back into its sheath.

Every spare centimetre of the rock walls that could possibly be reached by a tall human was covered in brightly coloured writing. The cheerfulness of the varying paint colours (orange, yellow, white, several different shades of blue and green) belied the nature of the messages, all of which were written in block capitals that bleed into one another in a blinding kaleidoscope.

I spun around, eyes assaulted by the colours. Discarded tubes of paint littered the floor.

“I think we now finally know what happened to Mr Whittaker’s stolen paints,” I said in a hushed voice.

“Someone’s been camping here,” noted the Sarge, crouching down next to where a couple of blankets formed a rough bed.

“Young Kenny’s blanket,” I guessed.

“And Mrs Villier’s too, if I’m not mistaken.”

Food scraps were carelessly strewn over the rock floor, bringing an unpleasant rotting smell to the space. Cigarette butts and matches were scattered on the floor in untidy heaps. Young Kenny’s jacket was thrown across the blankets, smelling of sweat and something else very nasty.

I walked around the space reading the writing on the walls. On one wall, phrases such as, “Redeem the demon”; “Evil must be beaten”; “Blood gives purity”; “Peace has been promised” were overlaid with angry black writing that slashed across the colourful words with ugly darkness: “Angels lie”; “Stop telling me what to do”; “Am I the demon?”; “False angels”; and an ominous, “Get out of my head”.

“Dylan’s bolthole?” asked the Sarge, joining me in my reading task.

“Most definitely, but maybe he has a couple of them?”

“Some of the food scraps look reasonably fresh.”

I walked over to a small pile of ash near one of the walls and reached out a tentative couple of fingers. “Still warm, Sarge. From either last night or this morning.”

“He’s around here somewhere then,” he murmured, absorbed in reading the rantings on the walls. “Maybe even close by.”

A second later he exclaimed in disgust, bending over to examine something lying on the floor.

“What is it?” I asked and both Denny and I moved closer.

“Dead possum. God, the stench!”

“It’s been warm lately,” I observed.

“This place smells like a charnel house.”

“I know. It’s foul. It’s making me feel sick.”

“Oh, there’s another one.” He crouched down next to the other poor little body. “It looks ravaged or something.”

“Maybe he’s been eating them?”

“Or practising on them.”

“Sarge, what a horrible thought.”

He rummaged in his backpack and brought out the smallest of his three expensive cameras. When I raised my eyebrows at him, he shrugged sheepishly.

“I thought I might take some snaps while we were up here.”

I rolled my eyes. “Right, because that’s what you do when you’re on a search. You stop for a pic for your photo album, just for the memory.”

“I would appreciate less sarcasm thanks, Fuller. This camera is going to come in handy, so I was right to bring it,” he said. He began to take snaps of the walls and the stolen items.

When a wave of stink wafted over to me with the breeze, I decided I couldn’t stand another second in the malodorous space, my stomach churning. I walked back outside to the path to breathe in some fresh air. With my hands on my hips, I scanned the surrounding bushland. Dylan was out there somewhere.

I wondered about his current mental and physical state and whether we’d ever be able to find him in this often unfriendly environment. The brutal fact was that we were running out of time today to do anything. It was already past three o’clock and we needed a good couple of hours to get back down the mountain before the sun set on us. We soon would have to abandon Dylan’s hideout and tip off the dee team for a return visit tomorrow, probably with forensics in tow.
And oh boy, wasn’t everyone going to be pleased with that
, I thought, not without a little smirk.

A rustling behind me had me spinning around, my hand automatically on my knife. A man stood in front of me, a combined expression of fear and distrust on his face. The knife he held tightly in his right hand was wickedly serrated – some kind of fishing knife. I slid my own knife out of its sheath again and we faced off, neither of us moving.

It was Dylan.

Chapter 34

He was filthy, his hair matted and tangled, his facial hair sparse and straggly. Open sores festered on his bare feet and his arms, neck and face were covered in scratches, some deep, presumably from his ventures through the bush. He smelt bad, like rotting meat, just as Phoebe had said. His odour hung as thick as a cloud, a repulsive combination of sweat and something organic decomposing in the heat.

He still wore the t-shirt and jeans Kevin and I had seen him in all those nights ago. They were begrimed and crumpled, a dark stain covering his t-shirt and caking his jeans. I choked in air when I realised it was most probably Miss G’s blood and one of the sources of his awful reek.

“Dylan,” I said, holding my free palm up in conciliation. He flinched at that small action, so I was careful not to move more than necessary. “My name’s Tess. I don’t mean you any harm. You’re going to be okay, I promise. I’ve come to find you and take you back home. Your great-uncle is very concerned about you. We’re all concerned about you.”

I heard his sharp intake of breath even from where I stood.

“Deceiving angel,” he whispered hoarsely, slashing his knife hand upwards, his fear swiftly turning to anger. But he didn’t step forward.

“I’m not an angel.” I kept my palm up and my voice as calm as possible, but it alarmed me that he’d called me that.

His face twisted. “No. No, you’re no angel. You’re a false angel. A lying angel. A demon in disguise.”

“No, Dylan –”

“
Don’t say my name!
Don’t
ever
say my name. When you say it, I know you’re tricking me. I know you’re a demon.”

“I’m sorry.” My heart thudded, my mouth so dry I could barely swallow. Calling me a demon was even worse than him calling me an angel.

I’d met plenty of irrational people and people strung out on booze and drugs in my life, but I’d never come in contact with someone in the middle of a severe psychotic episode. I didn’t know what to say or do, except to reassure him I posed no danger and somehow try to alert the Sarge without freaking out Dylan.