Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
SAWYER
When Inspector Hadeom had said Tenebrae Cove was small and remote, he wasn’t kidding.
The main street fronted the bay and was lined with a row of Federation-style, or maybe Colonial, buildings, a fuelling station at the far end, what looked like a convenience store, and one or two shops that appeared to be businesses, but Sawyer couldn’t be sure without further investigating.
And there was an antiques store, which was odd, given there was likely zero tourism or passing foot traffic.
The police station, which included his small flat at the back of said station, was an old sandstone building, with white painted frames and shutters on the windows, which softened the harsh metal bars adorned on each one.
Inside the station, on the right side, was one desk and computer, a filing cabinet, and on the left was a holding cell.
An actual cell. Floor-to ceiling metal bars and a cot along the far wall with a blanket neatly folded at the foot. The large old key dangled idly from the lock in the cell door.
Christ, Sawyer thought. This was definitely Colonial era, probably built when this state was a penal colony. It made the ancient computer on the desk look positively space-age.
The place was cold, unused, and smelled musty and dusty. Sawyer quickly deduced he’d be spending his first day on the job cleaning.
His small flat at the back of the station hadn’t fared much better in the dusty-and-old sense, but it was perfectly adequate.
There was a modest living area with a TV that was tiny by today’s standards and a small kitchenette along the far wall.
There was a bedroom with a double bed—just as well he liked a hard mattress, because it felt like slate—and the bathroom was possibly updated in the 1950s, but the showerhead was the type with awesome water pressure, unlike the water saving ones of today.
There was even an old washer and dryer in the bathroom too.
He could hardly complain. He didn’t need anything more than this.
The fridge was one of those old, rounded Westinghouse fridges that must be at least fifty years old. He opened the fridge, surprised to see it had been running all this time. It would need a good clean, though, and the freezer needed defrosting, but Sawyer didn’t mind.
He had nothing but time.
Five years, to be exact.
He sorted out his clothes, which took all of two minutes, found some old cleaning products under the sink, and put himself to work scrubbing every surface in his flat and the station.
He opened the windows to air the place out, and once he had the place set to rights, he thought he’d best go in search of food and supplies.
He headed for the convenience store, regretting not bringing anything with him from Hobart. Inspector Hadeom probably could have worded him up on perhaps bringing some groceries with him. He surely doubted anyone in this town had even heard of Uber Eats.
He’d have to get used to the lack of city conveniences, that was for sure.
He walked past the antiques store, spotting one of the guys from the jetty now inside at the counter. He glanced up at Sawyer and gave him a sneer as he walked past the glass storefront.
Not a fan of newcomers, I see.
Or maybe he just hated cops.
The guy had been on the jetty this morning, wearing nothing but board shorts, his ripped body dripping wet, with what looked like red flame tattoos up his right arm. His drenched dark brown hair falling into his eyes hadn’t done much to hide the glare he’d aimed Sawyer’s way.
Much like he was doing now.
It made Sawyer smirk.
The two businesses he walked past surprised him.
One was a doctor’s office, currently closed, the other a café.
Only when he went into the convenience store could he see that the café was part of the store.
It was bigger than Sawyer had been expecting.
The café side had a service counter and five or six old tables and chairs that could have been a time capsule from 1950.
There was a man sitting at one table, coffee in hand as he read some papers.
Possibly mid-thirties, sandy-coloured floppy hair, glasses.
The store had two aisles, and, to Sawyer’s utter surprise, a larger selection of foods than he’d anticipated. There was also a hot food section, offering what looked like fish and chips, and Sawyer had to admit, he was impressed.
He noticed Tobin, the man from the boat, was behind the counter with another guy—a tall man who appeared to be an islander, perhaps Māori.
Tobin seemed pleasant enough. Brown hair and sharp eyes, polite, courteous, and could handle the boat like a pro.
Sawyer now realised all the crates he had noticed earlier aboard the boat contained supplies Tobin had brought to the town.
“Hello again,” Tobin said, greeting him.
Sawyer gave him a nod, and, figuring he better start trying to be nice, he headed toward the two of them. “Thanks again for bringing me down,” he said, then looked at the taller guy. “Name’s Sawyer. It’s a great little store you have here. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.”
“Otis,” the big guy said with a cautious smile.
“And thank you. It’s not like the big supermarkets you’re probably used to, but it does us fine.
” Then, after seeming to think twice about saying it, he added, “If you need or want anything in particular that we don’t have, just let us know.
Tobin does a town run twice a week, and we can order it in.
” Then he pointed his thumb at an Australia Post sign on the wall behind him.
“Mail drop-off and pickup Mondays and Fridays, and hot food from twelve to two and five till seven.”
Wow.
“Great, thanks. Good to know,” Sawyer said. It wasn’t what he’d expected, but it wasn’t all that bad at all. “I’ll just grab a few things, but the hot food is handy, thanks.”
Otis grinned. “Hope you like fish.”
Tobin snorted, and when Sawyer looked at him, he cleared his throat and gave Otis a nod. “Ah, he bought some fishing rods with him.”
Otis grinned like it was an inside joke. “Oh. Fishing, right.”
Sawyer wasn’t sure what to make of that, and he was almost certain there was something they weren’t telling him. It was an old fishing village, after all. “Yeah,” he replied. “I just brought the essentials. Fishing rods and my coffee machine. Don’t suppose I’ll be needing much else.”
“How long is your stint here?” Tobin asked. His tone was conversational, but Sawyer knew they wanted details. “Is it a contract thing?”
“Or did you piss your boss off?” Otis asked with the grin Sawyer assumed he wore most of the time. “To get posted here. Think that’s what the last guy did, anyway.”
“I actually put my hand up for this job,” Sawyer replied. Not entirely a lie; according to the Tasmanian Police paperwork, he’d requested the transfer. “I’ll be here five years.”
A loud clanging of something hitting the floor made them all turn and look. The guy from the jetty, from the antiques store, was in the café, talking to the other guy who’d been having a coffee. He’d dropped the stainless-steel sugar container, the sachets now all over the floor.
The guy who’d been drinking coffee was quickly on his feet and whispered something to the guy who’d made the mess. The guy then shot Sawyer a filthy glare before stalking out of the café, the door banging in his wake.
Tobin and Otis were clearly stunned. They’d tried to act like it was nothing out of the ordinary, but Sawyer was adept enough at reading people to know they were surprised.
The man in the café collected the sugar sachets and sat them on the table. Then Tobin went over, and they had a whispered conversation about whatever the hell had just happened.
“Were you after anything in particular today?” Otis asked, diverting Sawyer’s attention.
Right.
Groceries.
“Ah, yeah. I should get back,” Sawyer replied, quickly grabbing a few things to get him through the first few days: some bread and butter, pasta, cheese, milk, and his favourite brand of peanut butter.
He put everything on the counter, and Otis rang it up.
“So,” Sawyer said, trying to sound casual. “That guy doesn’t like newcomers in general, or cops, maybe?”
Otis laughed. “Who, Ciaran? Nah. He’s fine.”
Hm. Ciaran.
Didn’t seem fine, but okay.
Otis said nothing else, and Sawyer didn’t push. He paid for his items, thanked Otis for being so welcoming, and went back home.
He walked past the antiques store, but it now had the Closed sign on the door, and it made Sawyer smirk.
That guy definitely had a problem with him.
He’d glared at him from the jetty earlier this morning, the same way he’d glared at him just now.
Sawyer had thought it was a bit odd for people to be swimming early morning in the freezing cold water while wearing just swimming trunks and not thermal wetsuits, but what did he know?
Maybe that’s what people did these days.
Maybe it was some invigorating fitness thing.
But the tattoos up his right forearm weren’t flames as Sawyer had mistaken them for from a distance. They were tentacles. Red tentacles from his wrist up toward his elbow. They kinda matched his hair, which, now dry, looked more copper than brown.
And now he had a name.
Ciaran.
Sawyer had to wonder what that guy’s story was.
Why he’d despised Sawyer on sight.
Probably just the usual cop-hating guy. Though, Sawyer reasoned, the only people who had issues with cops were those who didn’t like rules, who believed that laws were an oppression and not an institution to keep the peace and civic order.
Maybe Ciaran had a crop of weed in the national park. Maybe he ran a meth lab. Maybe Tobin delivered the goods to Southport or Strahan twice a week. Maybe they ran a huge distribution ring.
Afterall, people didn’t live in such remote towns for no good reason.
They were usually running or hiding from something. Trying to fly under the radar, go unnoticed.
But an antiquities store? In Tenebrae Cove?
Something didn’t add up.
Sawyer tried to let it slide for now—he had nothing but time to look into things—and he put his groceries away, then set about cleaning the fridge and defrosting the small freezer compartment.
There was ice build-up and a funky stale water smell, so, not wanting to turn it off lest the fifty-year-old fridge never start again, he put a plate of hot water in the bottom, then took a butter knife and began to gently pry the caked-up ice from the ice tray.
He was making some progress when he noticed something stuck to the roof of the freezer, embedded in the ice.
Was that plastic?
What the hell?
Not knowing what it was and not wanting to damage it, he carefully chipped away and pried at the ice before he could finally make out what the plastic was.
A Ziploc bag.
Someone had stuck a Ziploc bag to the roof of the freezer. Had whoever hid it assumed that people would go through the police station and accommodation searching for… what? What the hell needed to be hidden in a police station?
After more careful extraction, he finally freed the plastic sleeve and could see what was inside it.
Two pages of handwritten notes giving detailed account of the residents of Tenebrae Cove. Notes left specifically for the next police officer to find, and Sawyer couldn’t believe what he read:
They call themselves “the consortium.” They don’t know I heard that. I’m hiding this analysis because they will search this place when I go. They don’t need keys to any building. They will get rid of any evidence.
Ciaran Brenner
Consortium leader
Antiques store: a front for what?
Temper
Fraser Gorman
Ciaran’s 2iC
Mechanic – fuel station
Well-liked, and Ciaran will listen to him
Tobin Tiller
Boat skipper
Amicable, but something’s off. Don’t send anything by mail you don’t want them to know
Kellan Marius
Doctor
Placid, peacekeeper. Nicest one of the lot
Otikoro (Otis) Mitchell
Māori
Store owner/operator
Funny – but do not piss off because holy fuck
Aurin Gyllen
Works store and café
Too nice, too sweet
Dylan Delmore
Works café
Skittish, nervous, high anxiety
Hendrix Brenner
Ciaran’s cousin
Has tattoo license. Does freelance work, I think
Comes and goes but never seen him arrive or leave
Time is strange here.
And most importantly, stay away from the water. Things lurk in there. Shapes and shadows. It’s called Tenebrae for a reason. The consortium swim in there, almost like they have to. They disappear in there, said they free-dive, but I’m not convinced. There are no women here. Not one. Don’t know why.
Read the town history. Talk to Mr Brown. Don’t go in the water.
Signed, Senior Constable Ricky Carpenter
And there, down the bottom of the page, in a different coloured ink, as if he’d added it sometime later.
Salem - Be careful what you do and say in front of him
I wish I was kidding
Leave while you can
Sawyer read it and read it again, not sure what to make of any of it. Senior Constable Ricky Carpenter was the man Sawyer had replaced. Carpenter hadn’t just quit Tenebrae Cove. He’d quit the police force, and he’d quit Tasmania, and then he’d moved to the mainland, apparently.
Whatever he’d encountered here had sent him into a spiral. His comms and reports back to Hobart, which Hadeom had given Sawyer to read, had started out very proficient, succinct, and detailed. Typical police reports.
A month into his tenure, his reports started to decline. They’d gotten worse by month two and three, and by the fourth month, it was like reading the journal of a madman.
When Sawyer had asked what had happened to the last police officer posted to Tenebrae Cove, Hadeom had said Carpenter hadn’t adjusted to the isolation, and Sawyer could see why he’d think that.
But now, after Sawyer had been here and met some of the inhabitants, he would also agree with Hadeom’s initial statement that Tenebrae Cove was “weird.”
Something in Tenebrae was off. There was an unsettling feeling, something under the surface that didn’t feel right. Something that pinged on Sawyer’s radar.
Not forgetting his encounter in Hobart with the guy who’d “shimmered” before he disappeared into the water and Hadeom’s Special Unit, Division Thirteen. That was the catalyst for Sawyer’s being here, after all.
They had to be related.
Sawyer was determined to find out, and he was going to start with the first name on the list. The man who, for reasons not yet known, couldn’t stand the sight of him. And for reasons also unknown, Sawyer liked that he rankled him. He liked that he got a reaction out of him.
Consortium leader Ciaran Brenner.