Chapter 1
One
Present Day—Elsie Creek, Northern Territory
Taryn Hayes stepped off the tiny plane with her large suitcase, her chunky workbag, and the unshakable feeling that the sun had a personal vendetta against her. Especially when the heat hit like a wall that was thick, dry, and horrifically hostile.
She adjusted her sunglasses, scanning the bare patch of asphalt they called an airport. They didn’t even have a terminal.
But it had an uninterrupted view of the surrounding outback, and a cranky old man in a pair of grease-stained grey coveralls, squinting at her like a geriatric Popeye having a bad day.
‘Taxi?’ she asked.
‘Where d’ya think you landed, eh? New York?’
‘How about some directions—’
‘I’m not your tour guide, lady. I don’t do tourists.’
‘I’m trying to get to Elsie Creek Police Station.’
He barked a laugh. ‘Foot falcon it is, then.’
‘Huh?’
‘You’re hoofin’ it. Road’s that way. Unless you can climb a fence. The cop shop’s there.’ He pointed across the tarmac to where a cluster of buildings sat.
There was a gigantic red cross covering the roof of what she assumed was the hospital.
A painted Dalmatian, cocking its leg at a red fire hydrant, lived on another roof.
The building next to it, had a masked burglar carrying a sack held back by a very muscular arm, in what could only be described as a comic book scene that covered the entire roof. ‘What is that?’
‘Strong arm of the law.’
‘That’s the police station?’
‘Yeah, it’s good advertising, I reckon. The Sarge put floodlights on it so you can see it for miles.’
‘He paid for that painting on the roof?’
‘Nah. It just showed up one day, like all the other roofs that got painted in town. Didn’t you see it from the sky?’
‘I was looking out the other side of the plane.’
‘Tourists. Just what this world needs, more bloody tourists.’ He rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his small hand towel, the same colour as his coveralls.
‘I’m not here as a tourist, but to work at the police station.’ She pointed to the building.
‘Well, then, you’ll have to take the long way round, won’t ya? Coz no one walks on my airstrip, especially tourists in a city suit asking twenty-thousand questions.’ He grumbled, disappearing around the side of a plane.
With a silent curse, Taryn grabbed the handle of her suitcase and trudged forward. Her heels immediately sank into the red dirt. It didn’t take much for the blisters to start forming where the powdery dirt created friction inside her shoes, and that was before she’d even hit the main road.
And then she saw it.
A water buffalo.
Not just any buffalo…
This one had flowers and ribbons twisted through his horns like he was off to a wedding. Someone had scrawled SUPERMARKET SPECIAL: 50% OFF BAKED BEANS & BULK BOG ROLLS in white chalk across his black coat.
Taryn froze, unsure what the protocol was for approaching water buffaloes.
He snorted at her, only to turn around, ribbons fluttering in the breeze as he strolled past the sign:
Welcome to Elsie Creek
Behind her, the highway stretched out like a long strip of liquorice left to roast under the sun and disappear on the horizon. The odd dusty ute or two shifted ahead on the haze of heat that shimmered to distort the town.
Twin railway lines ran alongside the road in perfect unison, making up the boundary line for the stockyards. Although empty now, the yards were a ghost town of chaotic rails and troughs, bigger than the small outback town that was home to the Federal Stock Squad.
The wheels of her suitcase struggled on the road, her heels faring just as badly, as she kept walking the airport’s outer perimeter. Along a highway that had no cars.
Suddenly, the ground shook beneath her heels like an earth tremor, as a deep rumble swelled to a roar. Taryn turned, eyes wide, heart in her throat, as a wall of red dust exploded skyward, led by a mountain of metal hurtling straight toward her.
It was a truck. Technically. But nothing like the semi-trailers she’d seen back in the city. This thing was a monster—three trailers long, and full of diesel fury.
It thundered past her, sending the wind to slap at her sideways, as a fresh wave of red dirt blasted into her hair, down the collar of her blouse, even into her bra. Leaving her neatly pressed suit streaked in outback grime, to look like she’d just wrestled a dust devil and lost.
‘Seriously!’
Dusting off what she could—although the red dirt seemed part of her DNA now—Taryn resumed dragging her suitcase in a one-woman wrestling match against dirt, rubble, and a supposed road.
On the corner stood a cluster of sun-bleached signs that pointed this way and that: Hospital, Park Rangers, Aged Care—The Lodge, The First Responders…
On the right, stood the quaintest firehouse she’d ever seen. It looked like a dollhouse. Now she understood why the cartoon of a Dalmatian, mid-pee on a fire hydrant, was painted on its roof. Even if it was utterly ridiculous, it did give a certain quaint charm and unique character to the building.
So the other painted roofs she’d seen from the air—a cracked spanner, a vintage 50s styled woman in curlers, a snail racing with envelopes in its mouth, and the Mad Hatter’s tea party—had her curious to see which business matched which painted roof.
When a puff of warm breath hit the back of her neck.
Slowly—very slowly—she turned around.
A really big buffalo stared at her. Ribbons tangled around one horn, and a daisy stuck to his ear, with the supermarket specials smeared in chalk across one side. His big black shiny nose sniffed at her neck, her ear, her hair.
It was enough for Taryn’s breath to catch somewhere between a scream and a prayer.
If she moved, would he chase her?
If she moved too fast, would he jab her?
Even though the ribbons and flowers made him look friendly, that didn’t change the fact his wide horns could skewer a watermelon without breaking a sweat.
But there were no cars, and no one to help her. Just her suitcase, and a walking billboard made out of a buffalo with the body of a tank and the manners of a Labrador.
She eyed the police station just down the street—so close.
‘Alright, buddy,’ she whispered, as if negotiating with a hostile hostage taker. ‘I’m going to walk. Slowly. And respectfully. And you can just keep on advertising that toilet paper special like a good boy.’
She stepped sideways, one inch at a time, with her eyes locked on the buffalo.
He just watched her through long black lashes, tail swooshing with ribbons, as one ear flicked away a fly.
‘Okay now, we’re doing this…’ Closing her eyes, Taryn turned her back on the beast, and resumed dragging her suitcase while walking on nails, ready to run at the first sign of attack.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
He was right behind her shoulder, breathing heavily in a way that was going to give her nightmares for a week.
How did he sneak up on her like this?
And who in their right mind allowed a water buffalo to roam the streets?
Almost there.
The Police sign glowed like a beacon of hope ahead. The car park held a sleek patrol car.
One step onto the bitumen. Then another.
The buffalo followed.
She didn’t dare look back. Not now.
Just a few more steps and she’d be safe—or at least indoors and out of this scorching heat.
But as she neared the entrance, her reflection in the glass doors stopped her in her tracks. There she was, a walking dust storm in a suit, hair like a bird’s nest as if coming off a big booze-bender… and behind her, a buffalo.
How did she end up like a tourist in a wildlife documentary gone wrong? When it was meant to be a simple trek to the office.
All she needed now was a David Attenborough voiceover: Here we see the unsuspecting city woman moments before she realises she’s wildly out of her depth…
Finally, she reached the entrance, the door slid back, and the cool air hit her in a wave.
But the buffalo kept on coming.
‘Out, Cecil! You know the rules.’ The Aboriginal officer behind the high counter clapped her hands. The buffalo huffed, as he walked backwards out the doors, which thankfully slid shut.
Taryn could breathe again.
‘So, you’ve met Cecil.’
‘I’m assuming that’s the creature with flowers on his horns?’
‘Water buffalo. Big sook. Cecil wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless you try to shoot him, that is.’
‘Naturally…’ WTF!
The police officer, with perfectly groomed eyebrows and long lashes, blinked once. Twice. ‘Can I help you?’
Taryn straightened her suit, wincing at the gritty rub of dust that was like sandpaper beneath her shirt, sticking to every patch of sweat. She smoothed her hair—or tried to—dislodging a fresh sprinkle of red dust that rained down around her shoes like confetti at a very unfortunate wedding.
Not exactly the impression she’d been aiming for. Still, Taryn lifted her chin, cleared her throat, and announced, ‘Good morning. I’m looking for a Sergeant Finn Wilde.’
‘And you are?’
‘Oh, um…’ She rummaged through her workbag, sending up a puff of red dust like she’d just upended a chalkboard eraser.
‘I’m a federal investigator…’ She dragged out her laminated ID card with the flair of someone trying to pretend she hadn’t just face-planted into the outback.
‘Here for the Stock Squad.’ She gave a tight smile.
The receptionist’s name badge read Tanisha, the letters for Aboriginal Community Police Officer half-obscured by fun stickers of tiny glittery cactuses and cocktail glasses. It gave the impression of someone cheerful. Yet, the receptionist’s gaze raked over Taryn like she was scanning a barcode.
‘Heard you were coming.’ Like a queen ruling her kingdom from behind the front counter, Tanisha buzzed her through the security door.