The Dry (36 page)

“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—”

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.

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.”

Falk wanted to tell her she was wrong, but knew she was too smart for that.