Thirty
Late that night, Ryder took the night shift, kicking his brothers out to spend time with their partners. With his boots resting on the boardroom table, he kept one eye on the monitors, making a record of any activity happening on Leo’s property. On the other side of him stood the creation of string lines showing the trajectory of the shot, with the murder file spread out before him, next to his bottle of bourbon and glass.
‘Don’t you sleep?’ Bree stood in the doorway, carrying a jug of ice that he’d bet was filled with her homemade gin.
‘Is this where I tell you off for sneaking around?’ He tilted his head to admire the way she slinked into the room to peer at the wall of television monitors. Still in that pretty dress and boots that showed off her legs from town.
‘Much happening?’
‘Nope. But we worked out they do sentry rounds every hour—if they remember. I doubt they’ll do much tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Leo is away, back tomorrow. Left his—what do you call them?’
‘Balding gorillas.’
He gave a quick grin. ‘They’re in charge, drinking beer, watching the football, tucked up inside the air-conditioned demountable they’ve got.’ He pointed to the screen on the left. ‘There’s only four of them.’
‘What’s Marcus doing?’
‘Trying to get search warrants as quietly as possible, which means getting the okay for our highly illegal surveillance footage, without anyone tipping Leo off.’
Of course, the outlaw would grin at that. ‘Leo could have connections in the government, the courts, police, anywhere.’
‘I know. But I promised Marcus I’d keep him updated.’ Ryder sipped on his bourbon, his eyes following the length of that dress, the way it curved on her hips he itched to grip. ‘Where’s Charlie?’
‘Asleep.’
‘What brings you out here?’
‘This does.’ She dropped a scrap of material on the table.
He plucked it up, warm from being in her hand. ‘Elastic? Is this why you went into the sewing shop today?’
Putting her jug of gin on the table, she shuffled through the many images of the original crime scene. ‘It’s been playing on my mind ever since I spotted it in the crime scene photos, yesterday. Mrs Sternston gave me the complete history of that type of elastic. Do want to hear it?’ Her grin matched the shine in her eyes he’d come to recognise when she was being playful. And he liked her being playful. ‘I promise to give you the hard and fast version.’
He preferred long and slow, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, while pleased that she’d made the effort to come and talk to him. ‘Hit me.’
‘This is what they call braided elastic. It’s used on waistlines, sleeve hems, or necklines commonly found in women’s clothing, like the hem of a bodice. See?’ She flicked over the curved edge of her top, giving him a beautiful flash of her hot pink lacy bra. Pinching the elastic between her fingers, she stretched it slightly. ‘It has issues, like it will perish over time and lose its elasticity.’
‘And?’ Was he going to get another peek at that bra?
‘It shouldn’t be part of a murder scene, tucked into the far corner of a tack room.’ She tapped on the image showing the elastic lying in the dust in the corner of the room.
‘Maybe someone dropped it during the investigation? The cop was a rookie. Who knows who else walked through the crime scene before the police arrived?’
‘I get that. But still…’ She shrugged.
‘What did you see?’ Because Bree had a knack of looking at things differently.
‘I looked at the elastic band among the other evidence at the police station, to get an idea of how long it was, then bought some for our crime scene. And another thing, that chalk found in Price’s hand…’ Again, she shuffled through the images of the sixty-year-old crime scene. ‘It’s not chalk. The police report says it’s calcite mixed with limestone and sandstone.’
‘I’m not a geologist, Bree.’
‘That’s the kind of rock that makes up the Stoneys.’ She rolled a white rock across the table.
He sat up in his seat to catch it in his hand.
‘How did Price, who’d been shot, happen to have that rock in his hand? There was no blackboard to write orders on the wall in this room. The photos also showed there were no other footprints, no blood trails, nothing to say he’d gone in search of something to write with. I’ve seen movies where the victim has written their killer’s name in blood. But this…’
She was right.
Ryder scooped up the photo of Jack Price, holding the chalk as he lay on the ground. He stood to compare it to the drawing on the floor where Bree had written: Harry Splint did this .
‘If you were shot in the back, bleeding to death, would you write that neatly?’ She sounded so cold.
‘The adrenaline could’ve kicked in.’
She arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Been shot before, have we?’
‘I know you’ve shot someone.’
‘In the bum. He was hurting Charlie.’ The fire in her eyes was both attractive and deadly. ‘And I’d do it again, without blinking.’
‘Okay, Bree,’ he said, holding his hand up to calm her down. ‘I’m not the enemy… Hey, how many were there that day?’
‘Two. The one I shot had Charlie in a headlock over the bonnet of the car. I could hear the pain in my grandfather’s voice.’
He gave her hand a tender squeeze. ‘I’d do the same if anyone hurt my family.’
‘Well, that idiot I shot wailed like a banshee. It was enough to scare away a flock of galahs grazing in the nearby paddock.’ She pulled her hand free, to walk around the string line set-up. ‘That guy was spilling blood through his fingers, with the help of his mate carrying him to the car. He was in no condition to write my name in the dirt out front of the homestead.’ She pointed at her drawing of the body spread out on the floor.
She was right.
‘What about you? I’m sure you have plenty of war stories about wounded people, considering you made weapons for them.’
‘I’m not sharing them.’ He scowled heavily, hands on hips. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘But—’
‘Bree.’ His voice low, his teeth gritted. ‘Don’t.’
‘I have one question.’
He closed his eyes, knowing it wouldn’t be one question, because it’d lead to a dozen questions and so on.
‘Jonathan told me it took ten years for you and your brothers to get back together, and that was due to you being in the Army for work.’
He barely nodded.
‘But the Army would have given you leave. So why did you stay away from your brothers for that long? Then, when you finally do catch up, you end up buying them a station so you could all live and work together.’
He exhaled, not expecting that question. But when he gazed at Bree, there was no snarkiness, no playfulness, just concern of a different kind. ‘I don’t know.’
She tilted her head at him as if she didn’t believe him. Yet, she never broke eye contact, as if to crack open his bones to the place where he kept his secrets. Some he never wanted to share because he didn’t want to remember.
He raked fingers through his hair. ‘With the patents, I had the means to support my family. I was investing it anyway, I just saw this place as an investment.’
‘You might have at first, but…’ She playfully poked at his chest, but he held her hand there.
‘I needed my family more than they needed me.’
She double blinked at him, just like he couldn’t believe he’d spilled that himself. Only this time it was his turn to step away from the redhead to take a deep swig of his bourbon.
‘Go on.’
Of course she’d keep digging. Dex said she’d dig, Ash and Cap too. That Bree had a knack of digging for what hurt you the most. Great, now it was his turn.
If he told her, would she think differently of him?
‘I needed to feel again.’
‘Eh?’
‘I was designing weapons, focusing on the damage they could do to armour plating, or through other obstacles. I wasn’t looking at people and the destruction they could create. I’d lost my ability to be empathetic, or have any sympathy, and lost my trust in people.’
‘Hey, I was a people person too, until people ruined it for me.’ Her smile was gentle, soft even, and so was her tender squeeze as she held his hand. ‘When did you realise this?’
‘I didn’t. My superior officer did. He told me to get out, get a life, and that any weapons I designed in the future should have patents on them before I shared them with anyone. Which I did—but waiting on patents to come through takes time.’
‘So that’s why you went to the mines?’
‘A short stint at a diamond mine, until I got onto the oil rigs.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they offered food, accommodation, in a place filled with other hard men, especially on a rig in the middle of the ocean.’ He raked fingers through his hair, admitting this more to himself. ‘I had to take the time to assimilate back into the real world, or I’d have ended up like Laurel’s brother, Clyde, on the streets.’
‘Ryder…’ The way she said his actual name, it sounded like heaven spilling across her lips. ‘I know all about those silent wounds that torment the mind and how they’re the hardest to heal. I’ve also noticed how much you’ve changed since you first arrived.’ She stepped forward to cradle his face in her warm hands, staring deeper into his soul than anyone had ever dared. And with her voice like soft rain falling from a lonely sky he fell for her all over again, with three little words: ‘I get it.’
And he believed her.
He wanted to hold her, but she stepped back, her eyes dropping to his hands.
They were in tight fists.
He hadn’t realised how wound up he was.
But it did nothing to scare the redhead standing before him. ‘You may not have trusted people, but you knew you could trust your family—your brothers, who knew you back before you had money and would treat you that same way. You needed them to…’
‘Defrost,’ said the guy with ice in his veins.
‘And to not hate the world but to see it as place of good. Elsie Creek Station has the gift of being the perfect grown-up’s playground.’
‘I thought it would be a world without enemies.’
They glanced in the easterly direction of Leo’s property, the moment gone. Dammit.
‘I have to ask. In your time in the Army, and with your experience dealing with weapons, is it normal for someone to move around after being shot—like in the movies, leaving a blood trail?’
Ryder nodded, realising where she was heading with her questioning. She was trying to figure out if the scene had somehow been staged. ‘I’ve seen wounded soldiers do amazing things when filled with adrenaline. It’s quite possible for Price to write that message.’
‘He died with the stone in his hand, that wasn’t chalk, and this…’ She held up the elastic. ‘This is part of it, too. Somehow. I know I might not be making sense—’
‘It’s okay, Bree. I’m listening.’ After all, she’d listened to him without judgement. ‘I’m open to any theory at this stage.’ He took the elastic from her hand.
Bree tapped on the photo. ‘Look at the end. You can’t see it clearly in the photo, but when I checked it out today at the police station there’s a loop, like this…’ She knotted one end over into a loop then let the elastic dangle from her fingers. ‘What would you use that for? Specifically this length, and with a loop at the end. It had to be attached to something.’
A creeping sensation ran over his scalp. ‘Hold this end of the elastic and stay right there.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To test it against the model.’
‘You really got into the details of this crime scene, didn’t you? I’m impressed. It’s something I would do.’
‘I’m impressed at your doggedness over the elastic and chalk.’ But he had yet to digest the other part of sharing his soul with her. ‘Keep holding it, I’m going to pull on it.’
She pinched the end with two hands as he pulled the band past the window frame to where he had the dummy-gun balanced on the drum, and right over the trigger.
‘I’m going to let go from my end. Keep it taut. On my count… One… Two… Three.’ He let it go as if pulling on the shotgun’s trigger, the elastic band flung itself across the room, past Bree, and landed in the corner. Exactly like the murder scene’s photo.
‘The elastic was used from outside the room? But… why…’ Bree’s eyes widened. ‘Someone rigged it? Or… did he do it to himself?’
‘That’s a huge leap, don’t you think?’ Ryder raised a brow, but her question had him thinking. ‘Here, take this torch and follow me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To take a look at those oil drums. The images showed the lids were off those drums. There is nothing anywhere to say anyone did a check on those drums. And Charlie said no one touched this room in sixty years.’
‘Er, hello, I came here a few times a week when I was cooking up a new batch of gin.’
‘During that time, did you move any of those drums?’
‘Not then, no. Darcie locked it up and told everyone not to come here. And I purposely left them there as a barrier to keep this space private. I only moved them to get to the window when I did the makeover of this room.’
‘Which ones were they? I’m looking for fourteen.’ He shone his torch over the two rows of oil drums they’d inherited when they’d bought the station. He knew Cap was trying to think of a way to safely get rid of them.
‘That row near the outer wall.’ On the far side of the long shed, she flashed her torch at the drums lined against the corrugated iron wall. ‘Are you looking for a weapon or something after all this time?’
‘We don’t know. I’m just looking.’ He grabbed a tyre lever from Dex’s workbench for jemmying open the lids. The toxic fumes of the old sump oil forced them to stand back. He did not want to dig around in that gunk.
Bree rummaged around a stack of old tools inside the nearby shed and dragged out an old pitchfork. ‘Here, use this.’
With the first drum he stirred the pitchfork around in the soupy thick oil as if it was a cauldron of gunk and found nothing.
The next drum held nothing but more gunk.
Under the outdoor spotlights, Bree opened the lids on more drums, where he’d give each one a poke and stir with the pitchfork, finding nothing but smelly old sump oil long past its use-by date.
But when Ryder jammed the pitchfork into the goo of another drum, it clunked onto something halfway down. ‘I’ve hit something.’ He was able to wedge the tines of the pitchfork under the object, to drag it to the surface. It was a metal container.
‘I got it.’ Using a garbage bag she’d pinched from behind their outdoor bar, Bree picked up the box. ‘It’s heavy.’
‘Put it down there.’ Despite the passage of time and exposure to the oil, the protective seal on the metal container remained intact. However, it showed signs of corrosion, with some rust along the bottom edge.
Swapping the pitchfork for the tyre lever, he prised open the box. Inside, they found a sealed, canvas pouch that was completely dry. The durable canvas bag reminded him of something he’d used in the Army.
Inside, he found a few rolls of wax paper and carefully unrolled the package to discover a stash of thick cardboard rolls, like sticks.
‘Is that—’
‘Dynamite.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Bree, we need to move this stuff away. Considering their age, they’ll be unstable.’ Ryder went to return the dynamite to the box, only to discover the blasting caps used to ignite the explosives were at the bottom of the same box. What the hell! ‘Move away, Bree.’
‘No. You need me to help you.’
He hated her stubbornness at times like this—even if she was right. ‘We’ll put the dynamite sticks back inside the tin. But I need another container for these blasting caps. I won’t keep them together like that. It’s too dangerous.’
‘I’m on it. Don’t do anything silly.’
He shook his head at the woman known to do silly things. ‘Why? Will you miss me?’ It wasn’t his first time handling explosives, but he knew the risks that could trigger an accidental detonation.
There was an almighty crash.
‘What are you doing?’
Bree rushed back. ‘I pinched the old coffee tin Dex uses for his bolts. It’s big enough for the blasting caps and it comes with a lid.’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Is this the part where I hold my breath?’
‘You can leave and walk away.’
‘Stop that.’ She glared at him. ‘Don’t ask me that again. You just concentrate on what you’re doing, Captain Cupcake.’
Even though he hated that nickname, he was grateful for her vote of confidence in him.
Taking a deep breath, he focused on the blasting caps and secured them inside the tin. He then carefully re-wrapped the dynamite sticks in the wax paper, sliding them back into the canvas bag, and then put them into the metal box and closed the lid.
Only then did he breathe.
‘What do we do with it?’ Bree asked.
‘I’ll put the box of dynamite in one of the ringers’ rooms.’ He nodded to the dark cluster of buildings on the far side of the stables. ‘No one goes there, and it’s well away from anyone. But I need you to store those blasting caps somewhere far away from here.’
‘I’ll store them in the old well.’ Bree lightly jogged for the empty field.
‘What old well?’
As per usual Bree didn’t reply, her silhouette soon swallowed by the blanket of darkness.
That left him holding a box of dynamite.
Under a moonless sky, just after midnight, he headed for the dark buildings that stood on the far side of the stables.
He’d only peeked at these rooms once, when they’d first inspected the property. Like his brothers, he wasn’t very interested in the dwellings, just the land and what they could do with it.
Behind him came the sound of someone running towards him.
‘That’d better be you, Bree.’
‘No, it’s the billabong bunyip practising his line dancing techniques.’
‘Smart-arse.’ Even if she was cute.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘No.’
Her white teeth showed off her smile. ‘I don’t mind playing tour guide, just this once.’
‘If I knew that, I would’ve dug up some dynamite sticks a long time ago.’
Her giggle was light, defusing the heavy mood as she opened a door. ‘There is nothing in this room, and it’s the coolest one.’
‘Good.’ The temperature in the dark room dropped considerably, as he carefully placed the box on the patchy linoleum floor, then closed the door. ‘No lock?’
‘No. But we can slide this pallet piece through.’ She slid the board across the handle, successfully locking it. Then she waved her hand over the door like an interior decorator. ‘It needs a sign that says: Open and die! ’
‘You have the weirdest sense of humour.’ He slung his arm over her shoulders.
But then she sobered as they headed for the shed’s lights. ‘Charlie said earlier today that Jack Price oversaw the dynamite.’
‘I was there, remember?’
‘But you weren’t at dinner when Charlie told me that they haven’t had dynamite out here, not since they finished excavation for Starvation Dam.’
‘When was that again?’
‘They started at the tail end of 1961, but they had to stop from the wet season, turning it into a massive mud pit, and they then finished it late in 1962.’
The year of Price’s murder, and Harry’s disappearance.
Deep in thought they walked side by side towards the lights coming from the boardroom and their outdoor bar.
‘Do you think the cave-in, where we found Harry and Penelope, could have been deliberately set off with dynamite?’
Ryder gave a slow nod. ‘It’s possible, but we’ll need blasting experts to confirm that.’
‘If we tell the police we’ve found that dynamite, it might motivate them to steer their investigation in a new direction. Think about it, Harry and Penelope were trapped in that mine together. You saw that cave. It was so well reinforced, it’s still holding up after two landslides.’ She held up two fingers. ‘First one was the original landslide that trapped Harry and Penelope inside. And the second landslide exposing the cave from the—’
‘Stampede.’ Again, he hooked his arm around her shoulders and neck to give her a comforting squeeze, hating how she’d been in danger then. ‘Shall we look at the rest of the drums and see what we can find?’
‘I’m in.’
Using the pitchfork, he stirred the goo inside the drums, a lot slower than before, hoping for no more nasty surprises. He dropped the tines of the pitchfork into each drum, where it disappeared in the sump oil soup of the dirty old 44-gallon drum. Rust and sludgy grease had formed on the bottom in thick clumps that he stirred like a witch over a cauldron, and chuckled.
‘What?’
‘If Dex were here, he’d be saying something about witches, cauldrons and midnight sacrifices.’
‘Look at you, cupcake.’ Standing beside him with her hand propped on her hip. ‘Getting with the programme of finding that inner playful spirit. Or should I say, it’s good to see you getting that broomstick out of your arse, babe.’
He rolled his eyes, but it didn’t stop his grin. Bree had just called him babe .
The next six drums held nothing but more soupy muck. On the second-last drum, the pitchfork’s tines hit something tall, that thumped against the side of the drum.
‘I heard that.’ Bree’s eyes lit up.
‘I felt it.’ Whatever it was, it lay lengthways, making it hard for the pitchfork to catch. ‘Can’t get it.’
‘I’ve got it.’ With her arm wrapped inside a garbage bag, Bree reached into the black sludgy gunk. Her thick, fiery curls began to tumble forward, spilling over her shoulders in a wild cascade.
‘Bree, your hair.’ Ryder gently gathered the mass of hair, holding it back with care. To have her hair in his hands was one of those daydreams finally coming true, where the strands were heavy and soft in his grip, the red catching the shed’s light like copper.
‘Got it.’ She pulled up the object by its metal tip, to reveal a shotgun.
Ryder instantly recognised it. ‘It’s a 1960 Winchester M12.’
‘I know. I have twenty-two of these lying around the place.’
‘You said sixteen before!’
‘Only sixteen of them are working models.’ She lifted the gun higher. ‘This has to be the murder weapon, doesn’t it?’
‘It might be. But first, let’s drain the oil out of it.’ Ryder ripped the blue plastic tarp off Dex’s workbench and spread it out over the gravel under the stars. From the top shelf, he grabbed some rubber gloves and snapped them on. ‘Go get my phone, Bree. We need to document this properly for the police.’
She returned quickly, holding up the phone.
‘Don’t touch it,’ he warned, carefully lifting the grease-covered firearm from the oil drum. ‘If we’re lucky, the oil might have preserved fingerprints or DNA.’
‘After all this time?’
‘Submerging it in oil provides some protection. I’ve seen it before during investigations.’ Ryder raised the weapon on wooden blocks he’d scavenged from Dex’s workshop, setting an oil tray underneath to let it drain.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘My old unit wasn’t just about being weapons engineers. We worked like a JAG team, handling specialised investigations involving military firearms.’
Bree tilted her head, studying him with a curious expression. ‘So that’s why Marcus and Porter let you look at the case file?’
Ryder gave a short nod. ‘Get ready to videotape the next part.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m cracking the chamber to see if it’s loaded.’ Carefully, he worked the mechanism and pulled out a corroded shell casing. He held it up for the camera. ‘This shotgun doesn’t fire bullets—it uses shells loaded with pellets or slugs. These steel pellets might match what they found in the body.’
‘When will we know?’ Bree asked, keeping the phone steadily recording.
‘We’ll need a specialised forensic lab to confirm it. I can do the preliminary analysis myself, but it needs an independent review for transparency.’
‘Aren’t we technically tampering with evidence?’
‘No, we’re preserving it.’ Ryder placed the shell casing and steel pellets into separate plastic bags, like he’d seen Porter do earlier. ‘I’m not leaving a loaded firearm sitting on my property. And this will go to the police once the oil has drained.’
He washed his hands at the industrial sink, glancing at Bree as she filmed the last shot of the oil drum. ‘Good work. I’ll load these images to my PC and email them to Marcus in the morning.’
‘Can you send them to Porter, please?’
He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Why?’
‘It’s Porter’s case, and I know he’s trying really hard.’
‘Do you think he’ll get upset over us…’ Finding all the relevant evidence.
‘If you call Porter, tell him what we found, then wait for those neurons to pop behind his eyes as he works it out for himself.’
‘You know, I can’t work out if you’re being manipulative or just using the power of suggestion for good.’ Bree had a knack for it—she’d done it to his brothers with the wildlife corridor set-up and other projects. All this time, she’d been the quiet instigator behind much of the station’s management, where of course, Ryder was always the last to know.
It had irritated him to no end, even if he now understood it was for the good of the station. Still, being kept in the dark was one of the reasons he’d been angry enough to accuse Bree of cattle rustling. But she’d never explained why she did what she did. So he had to ask now. ‘Why?’
‘Porter is trying to get his detective’s certificate. And he’s been good to our family,’ she said. ‘He’s never arrested Charlie once for driving without a licence.’
‘How come Charlie hasn’t got a licence when he drives the Razorback, and your horse truck around the property just fine?’
‘Charlie got busted for drink driving, coming home from the pub one night. Porter found him parked on the side of the road, just outside of town, fast asleep behind the wheel, with the engine still running.’
‘You would have been in a panic.’
‘I was. I was in the Kombi, searching for him, when Porter flagged me down and told me what had happened. He had Charlie in the cells, sleeping it off before they could book him.’
‘Did you lose your temper?’ he asked the redhead.
‘After being so worried, I was furious. Pop knew better that that...’ She exhaled heavily, hands on hips as if to temper herself. ‘But then I found the medical notes on the front seat of his ute. It was the day Charlie was told he had a heart condition.’
‘Exactly what is wrong with his heart? Because Charlie acts like a healthy man to me.’
‘Severe aortic stenosis. It’s the narrowing of the heart’s aortic valve that significantly reduces blood flow from the heart to the rest of his body. He gets chest pain, shortness of breath, and fatigue. And he does get tired, he just hides it from you guys.’
‘Hmm...’ That didn’t sound good.
And neither was Bree’s sigh that accompanied her sad eyes. ‘They told Charlie he had a year, maybe less, if he didn’t have the valve replacement surgery. But he refused.’
‘When was that?’
‘Five years ago.’
Damn.
‘Anyway, the magistrate took into account Charlie’s age and unblemished record, suspending his licence for twelve months along with a small fine. But Charlie was told to re-sit the driving test, which, of course, the old man refused. So, no licence. Not that he cares—he likes people driving him around now.’
‘I noticed.’ Charlie had been like a kid in the front seat of Ryder’s ute today.
With her arms crossed over her belly, she stared at the gun. ‘You did it, Ryder.’
His brow creased. ‘Ryder, huh? Where’s the Captain Cupcake?’
‘Do you notice how Charlie calls you son ?’
He nodded.
‘Do you know when he switched to son ?’
‘After we found Harry. When I escorted him back from the cave, coming through Scary Forest, to call the police.’
‘Charlie respects you.’
‘I respect Charlie, too. Always have.’
‘Even when you kick him out of the driver’s seat of the Razorback that Charlie owns?’
‘I drive better than Charlie. And I didn’t hear you complaining today.’
She never sat in the passenger seat, always choosing the back. Bree never seemed entirely comfortable in his car—like she didn’t belong in the polished, high-end world of showy wealth. Not that the redhead cared about money or status, it was the person behind the wealth that mattered to her, which only made her all the more precious to him.
‘I should go.’
‘No.’ He grabbed her hand and led her to the boardroom. ‘We deserve a drink after what we’ve done.’ For a man who didn’t like to talk, he wasn’t ready to finish this conversation.