Thornwood House (55 page)

I went through the house, shining my flashlight into dark corners, calling. When the house proved as empty as her room, I hurried down the back stairs with my torch, searching her secret nooks around the garden. The last place I looked was the laundry. All bareness, just the silent concrete basins, a line strung with damp T-shirts, an empty peg basket, and the shelf with Bronwyn’s silkworm trays.

But no bike.

I rushed upstairs to the kitchen, intending to check the house a second time. She knew better than to venture off without telling me first, but my palms had turned moist and I was teetering on the threshold of panic. It was dark outside, and I kept thinking about the Minolta on the end of my bed and Tony’s old Polaroid tucked into the case, and the musty smell that had tainted the air.

The squatter had been here.

He’d used the laundry key and let himself into our house – and though he’d returned my camera and otherwise done no harm, his trespass had shaken me. I’d been planning to drive over to Corey’s so we could spend the night there, and then sort out what to do in the morning when my head cleared. Only now . . .

A pink sticky note clung to the coffee maker.

Mum, I’ve gone to Grandy’s, please don’t come after me, I’ll ring you when I’m ready to come home. I’m sorry I said I hate you, I don’t really, I just need some time away.

Love, Bron.

I crumpled the note, already calculating. How long would it take her to ride to Luella’s? An hour, forty minutes? How long had she already been gone?

I picked up the phone to dial Luella’s number, but the connection was dead; the storm still rumbled in the distance, it must have shorted the line. Grabbing my car keys, I headed for the door, cursing myself for sitting under the jacaranda all this time, nursing my own private worries while Bronwyn was packing her carryall, writing her note, getting on her bike and heading off into the night.

God. She must have been so distressed. I imagined her now, riding along the dark road, gripping the handlebars against the potholed bitumen, her face streaked with tears, her skinny legs pedalling for all she was worth.

And
him
out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting . . .

I stopped dead.

Retracing my steps down the hall, I went into Samuel’s room, retrieved the key from the wardrobe, unlocked the dressing table drawer.

And stared into the empty cavity.

Samuel’s handgun was gone.

The quaking began in my stomach, worked its way up and outwards until my entire body was cold with sweat. Whoever had broken into my house had obviously searched the place after all. He’d found the dresser key and known what to look for.

Meanwhile, my daughter was riding her bicycle through the dark night, alone and unprotected as she pedalled towards her grandmother’s house. The two images collided in my mind and filled me with a brew of emotions I’d never before experienced.
The raw urge to protect, to fight; to sacrifice anything to keep her safe.

In the kitchen I took Aylish’s letters from my tote and jammed them in my back pocket. They were the real reason the squatter had been here. Not to return my camera, but to steal back the letters. The Minolta and the Polaroid were mere calling cards.

As I rushed to the door, the torch-beam flared and I glimpsed myself in the entryway mirror. My face was ashen, my expression fixed. Only my eyes betrayed what I was feeling. They were large and luminous, violently golden, almost feral.

Not a mouse after all.

Luella’s house crouched in darkness beneath the bunya pine. Her LandCruiser sat in the driveway, but no glimmer of light seeped through any of her windows. The place looked empty, abandoned.

As I pulled onto the verge, a familiar object appeared in my headlight beam: Bronwyn’s bike.

Cutting the motor, I dived out and ran towards the house. Taking the stairs two at a time, I hammered on Luella’s front door. It swung open under the force of my knuckles, and I went in.

‘Luella? Bron, are you here?’

The house was echoey and cool inside, a den of shadows. I noticed the same smell that had tainted my own house earlier that day – a hint of unwashed skin and nervous sweat, a trace of wood-smoke – and it followed me along the hallway.

Navigating by the moonlight that shone through a doorway at the far end, I found my way to the kitchen. I flicked a light switch several times but nothing happened. All I could hear was the wind in the trees outside, the distant grumble of thunder. The sunray clock ticked eerily, racing in time to my heart.

Hastening to the verandah doors, I located another light switch, but that failed too. Outside, the yard was sunk in darkness. An inky purple sky revolved around the axis of the old bunya pine, making cloud-shadows scurry over the roof of Luella’s glasshouse. Moonlight shed tiger stripes on the lawn under the black fronds of the pandanus palm.

I tensed, checking over my shoulder. Hairs stood up on my arms. I sensed I was being watched. Movement in the doorway snagged the corner of my eye. Darkness closed back around the shape I thought I’d seen. Shadows reassembled into harmless emptiness. The doorway was vacant, but the after-image of the figure was locked to my retina.

‘Luella? Is that you?’

I moved to the bench. Not wanting to take any chances, I slid Aylish’s letters from my pocket and placed them silently into one of Luella’s retro cannisters. Then I crept to the doorway, stood a moment to find my centre. I rocked forward, sending furtive glances up and down the hall. Holding my breath, struggling to hear above the roar of my pulse, I moved into the dimness.

The smell was stronger, the air in the hall was almost unbreathable.

Bypassing the bathroom, I elbowed into Luella’s room but found it empty. Halfway along the hall I peered into the study with the blue wardrobe. Moonlight pierced the darkness, but that room was empty too. As was Tony’s.

Glenda’s room looked different. At first I thought it must be the dim light; the drapes had been dragged aside, the moon’s face shone through the window, oily-bright on the iron security grille. Then my heart leapt.

Bronwyn lay on Glenda’s bed, asleep on the coverlet, her fair hair arranged across the pillow in a silky fan around her head. She looked small and vulnerable, her thin arms draped across her chest, her face a smudge in the gloom. I rushed over, relief making me weak-kneed. Grabbing her arm, I gave her a shake.

‘Bronny, it’s Mum. Wake up, we’re going home.’

She didn’t stir, her eyelids didn’t flutter. I bent to scoop her into my arms, detecting a faint chemical smell. A shockwave of fear went through me. What had Luella done to her? She was in a deep sleep. Had she been drugged?

The air was suddenly rank.

I heard a shuffle behind me. Loosening my grip on Bronwyn, I let her roll back on the bed. I registered a presence behind me in the dark, glimpsed a moonlit figure blurred in motion. Arm raised, it came at me swinging. I lurched out of the way and the first blow took me on the shoulder, knocking me sideways.

Throwing myself in front of the bed, I tried to shield my sleeping daughter. The next strike caught me on the side of the head. Shards of light exploded behind my eyes, blinding me. The room listed. My hands shot out, rubbery and useless. My body pitched forward, then buckled beneath me. I fought a wave of blackness, trying to twist out of its path, groping for my daughter, wedging myself between the bed and my attacker. Seeing for an instant the face illuminated by moonlight – a face I almost recognised, big and pale and nightmarish. A face I somehow understood I had reason to fear.

‘W
ake up! Please, Audrey . . . wake up – ’

Blinking, I saw fluttering light. A candle. I was sitting on the floor in a darkened room. There were yellow roses on the wallpaper and ragged toys along the window seat – bears and a knitted ragdoll. Pop posters behind the door.

A face appeared before me, a woman’s broad face, grey and clammy with sweat. The eye staring at me was wide and green. The other one was blackened shut. Her plump cheeks were smeared with what looked like blood.

‘Luella? What . . .’ I tried to sit forward. My eyes blurred and a wave of nausea swamped me. My head was pounding, but through the pain came glimmers of recall. A figure in the darkness. A rankness in the air. An arm swinging up, and lights exploding in my eyes. Then I remembered Bronwyn asleep on top of the covers, serene as an angel, her hair crimped over the pillow, her thin arms crossed on her chest.

My attention flew to the bed. It was empty.

Lurching up, I glared into the blood-smeared face of the woman beside me.

‘Where is she . . . ?’

‘I’m sorry, Audrey, I’m so terribly sorry . . .’

Awake now despite my ringing ears and double vision, despite the thunderous pounding in my head, I grabbed Luella’s shoulders. ‘For God’s sake, Luella, where’s my daughter?’

Luella was sobbing, but managed to choke out a single word. ‘Taken.’

Terror flashed hot across my skin. The candle sputtered, sending timid washes of light up the walls, turning the yellow roses to gold. I got to my feet, fighting to control the dizzying roar in my head.

Luella clutched me with cold fingers. ‘I tried to call the police, but the phone line’s been cut. The cars too, neither of them working. The keys are in yours, but the motor won’t start. It’s a couple of hours into town by foot, and the closest neighbours are the Millers and they’re just over an hour away. Oh Audrey, I’m afraid for her, terribly afraid!’ Her voice broke on the last word and her panic infected me. My joints were frozen, I could barely draw breath. I kept getting flashes of my daughter on Glenda’s bed, so still, so heavily drugged in sleep. I remembered the chemical smell lifting off her . . . and then the man I’d glimpsed in the doorway.

I forced myself to calm. ‘Luella, you’re not making sense. Slow down. I can’t find her unless I know exactly what happened. So tell me slowly, from the beginning.’

Luella nodded. ‘Bronwyn arrived about six o’clock. She was upset. She told me about your argument, and that you’d decided to leave Magpie Creek. I made her Milo and a sandwich, but before she’d taken a bite there was a knock on the door. She thought it must be you, so I told her I’d talk to you. Only there was no one there. I stepped outside to see if your car was parked in the drive, but it wasn’t. I heard a sound and noticed this dreadful smell, then . . .’

Luella touched the back of her head, showed me the blood glistening wetly on her fingers. ‘I came to my senses downstairs in the laundry. Gruffy woke me, he’d dug in under the door. I rushed up into the house, but Bronwyn was gone. I searched everywhere, found you lying here. And now she’s been taken, and it’s all my fault.’

I’d been pacing the room while she talked, going from the window to the door and back, only half-listening, trying to think. But now I took notice.

‘What do you mean, your fault?’

She got to her feet, gripping my arm with cold fingers to steady herself. I could smell the coppery scent of blood lifting from her skin.

‘I didn’t tell you everything,’ she said. ‘The night Glenda died, after Tony shot his father . . . later, at the dam, Tony thought he saw something.’

‘What?’

‘After disengaging the handbrake, we rolled the Holden down the slope until it gained its own momentum. Just as we released it, Tony let out a cry. He started running after it as it rattled down the embankment. I thought in his grief and shock that he intended to throw himself into the water. The car nose-dived into the dam and quickly began to sink, but Tony kept insisting he’d seen his father’s eyes open. So we waited. Half an hour, maybe more. Watching for bubbles, signs of life. I kept my eyes on that spot for ever so long. But Cleve . . . well, he never resurfaced.’

‘But he could’ve survived?’

Luella let go my arm. ‘It’s possible.’

I felt myself sliding into hopeless panic. ‘God. Bronwyn’s out there with him.’

Shutting my eyes, I weighed up. No phones. And no cars. I couldn’t waste time footing it into town, not when Bronwyn might still be nearby. The Millers were an hour. By then it’d be too late. I needed to act now.

‘Go to the Millers,’ I told Luella. ‘Don’t risk cutting through Thornwood, go via the road. Hobe’ll know what to do.’

Luella stared. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m going after them.’ I crossed the room, but as I reached the doorway a booming crack of sound shattered the night.

Gunshot.

Luella cried out. Her face turned slowly, like a sunflower tracking the hypnotic progress of the sun. My own gaze followed hers to the window, and together we stared at the moonlit landscape beyond. The hill behind the garden was dark, the dirt trail that wound up the embankment obscured by trees.

‘The gully,’ I whispered.

Running out to the kitchen, I retrieved the bundle of letters from the canister and returned it to my pocket. Then I flung open the back door and scanned the night. The moon shone between a convoy of purple stormclouds that made the sky writhe and roll in torment. The air was bitter with the smell of ozone, and the trees high on the hillside lashed from side to side like angry cats’ tails.