7 a.m.
Stones and Walker are back at the little cabin, Grace still asleep at the house. Walker had decided against waking her; hopefully she’ll sleep most of the morning. He’d been loath to leave her but he’d rationalised that she’d be safe enough in the house with White asleep in one of the other bedrooms. He’d written a note in case she woke and left Ginger with her for company and protection. He and Stones had left the cruiser for White and taken Walker’s ute.
They park outside the pub, then walk down towards the cabin. As they approach, the violence of the night before becomes horribly visible in the bright light of the morning – shattered glass everywhere, the yellow crime scene tape. Walker’s anger ratchets up a notch. Someone has tried to kill him and – a far worse crime in his book – would have killed Grace too.
They start by circling the cabin, eyes scouting for clues, for any indication of where the shooter came from, where he went. Walker keeps his eyes on the ground. He can see a trail of footprints from the front of the cabin leading around the side. He follows them round, in a semicircle, until they meet another set of prints at the back of the cabin, near Grace’s room. ‘Reckon those are mine,’ says Stones, lifting his foot, showing the imprint of his boots. ‘From when we checked round the cabin last night.’
Walker looks at Stones’s foot and at the print. The size and pattern is about right, far as he can tell anyway. He goes wider, focusing on the area around his bedroom window. He’d seen a shadow – the shooter can’t have been more than a couple of metres away. He moves slowly, carefully, inching along, and is rewarded with a scuff in the dust, just behind and to the left of the window. The spot offers a view into the room: he can see the foot of his bed, the wardrobe and the door to the hall. The mark is barely there, would have been invisible in the torchlight last night, and it’s not a clear imprint. Whoever was standing here had been moving around, finding the right spot to take aim, presumably. He calls Stones over.
‘Look at this,’ he says. ‘Someone was standing here.’ They crouch, staying well away from the print. Stones photographs it, taking pictures from all angles. It looks like the front quarter of a shoe, someone putting their weight forward, on their toes. Walker spots a diagonal pattern vaguely discernible in one corner. He points at it. ‘Doesn’t look like boots,’ he says. ‘Looks more like a sneaker.’ They look more closely, trying to find a distinctive mark, something that might give them a brand name or shoe type, but the print is too scuffed and indistinct. One thing that catches Walker’s eye is the size of the print – narrow and, by the looks of the toe imprint, not too large. ‘Whoever this was doesn’t have big feet,’ he says.
Stones follows Walker’s pointing finger with his eyes. ‘That’s interesting,’ he says.
Walker remembers Warren Harris’s boots in the boat yesterday, probably a size eleven or twelve at least. And boots, not sneakers. So likely not him, then.
‘Stewie Charles,’ says Walker. ‘He’s a small bloke.’ He thinks a bit longer, can’t place Stewie’s footwear, or Brett’s for that matter. ‘I think Paul Campbell wears sneakers but I don’t remember his foot size.’ He’s never seen Scott Hemmings in anything other than his work boots. ‘Maybe Dean Wilson too,’ he says, though he’s mostly seen the bloke in thongs.
Stones is taping off a wide area around the print. ‘We’ll get SOCOs here. With this and the ballistics we’ll narrow it down …’
They search carefully outside Grace’s window but the ground there is covered in tufts of grass and there are no visible prints. They spread out, taking ever-widening circles around the cabin, but find nothing more. Walker wishes Blair were here; he’d be able to read the scene so much better, would probably be able to track the direction the perpetrator had taken.
When he drops Stones back at the station, it’s still early, not yet 8 a.m. ‘You gonna pull the Charles brothers in?’ asks Walker.
‘I want SOCOs there first,’ says Stones. ‘And I want the full list of registered owners of twenty-twos in town. We’ll take it from there.’
As Walker turns the ute round, he comes to a decision. He intends to make sure Stones interviews Stewie Charles. He’s been the obvious candidate from their very first night here and he’s avoided a police interview ever since. He makes a small detour and drives past the Charles house. There’s a vehicle out front and the blinds are down. They’re at home and asleep, for now at least. He drives on, intending to go back to the cop’s house, back to Grace, but after a moment changes his mind and swings the ute round towards the pub.
The ringing of her phone wakes Grace. She lies there, confused for a second about where she is. The pretty bedroom, sun slanting in through wooden venetian blinds, is unfamiliar. It’s so quiet too, just the sounds of birdsong. Her mind drifts a little and then the memory of the night before returns, slams into her, sets her heart beating, her hands shaking. Someone had shot at them, tried to kill them.
She half sits, pulling the blankets up with her, shivering. ‘Lucas?’ she calls, but gets no answer. Slowly she sits up, then swings her legs out from under the bedding, her feet touching the soft wool of a tufted rug. She listens. Not a sound.
‘Lucas?’ she calls again, louder this time, hearing a note of panic in her voice. There’s a scratch of claws on the wooden floor outside and the door swings open; Ginger noses her way in, tail swishing softly. She pads over, rests her head against Grace’s legs. The policeman’s house, she remembers. They’d come here afterwards. She shivers again at memories of the night before. The explosive sound of gunshots, glass shattering. Her breathing quickens and Ginger whines. She leans down, strokes the soft fur, calming Ginger, calming herself. Ginger licks her fingers.
‘Are you looking after me or am I looking after you?’ she says, kneeling down and giving Ginger a hug before standing. ‘Come on, then, let’s see what’s happening.’
The house is quiet and empty. She walks down the hallway, polished-wood floorboards smooth underfoot. The other bedrooms are empty, doors standing open, beds unmade. The living room at the front is lit by morning sunshine, the kitchen, too, painted yellow and white, is bright and cheerful. A note is propped against the coffee maker.
Gone to help police, won’t be long. Lucas xx
PS Help yourself to coffee and toast
She makes herself a coffee, no appetite to eat anything. She wishes Lucas were here. She needs him. He seems to think it’s his job to solve everything, can’t leave it to the local police to handle. She wants to get out of this town. Get out now. If not home to Boston, then to Sydney or at the very least Caloodie. She’s not spending another night here, not after what’s happened.
She’s close to tears, her hands shaking, holding the warm cup of coffee as tightly as she can, when she remembers that her phone had been ringing, that’s what had woken her. Probably it was Lucas checking she’s OK. She can call him, ask him to come home. She walks back into the bedroom and picks up the phone from the bedside table. To her surprise, the missed call says Brett.
She sits on the edge of the bed, weighing her options. She doesn’t want to be alone. What she really wants is to be with Lucas, driving far away from this place, but Lucas is off somewhere and who knows how long he’ll be. She needs to hear a friendly voice. Can’t sit in this empty house alone for a second longer. Maybe she can hang out with Brett for a bit.
‘G’day,’ he answers on the second ring. ‘How ya doing?’
She starts to say ‘I’m good’ but finds she can’t get the words out. She’s struggling to breathe, struggling to speak; tears are coming, she’s crying.
‘Grace? You OK? What’s happened?’
She breathes deeply, but the tears keep coming. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I …’ Her voice breaks again.
‘No worries,’ says Brett, ‘you’re right. I’ll wait, you’re right.’
She breathes in, trying to stop the tears, the sobs flowing out of her.
‘You’re right,’ says Brett again. ‘You’re alright.’
She takes another breath, shaky but better, and then another. Finds her voice. ‘Sorry,’ she says again.
‘Nothin’ to be sorry about,’ he says. ‘You alright?’
‘Someone shot at us.’ She can feel her voice cracking again as she speaks. ‘They … they tried to kill us.’
‘What the …’ His voice trails off. ‘What do ya mean, someone shot at ya? Are youse OK? Who was it?’
She’s gulping for air, trying not to cry again. ‘I don’t know. It was the middle of the night. Someone shot through the windows of the cabin …’
‘Jesus. I can’t believe I didn’t hear anything. We’re not that far from your place. You’re OK? You’re not hurt?’
‘Yeah, we’re alright. We hid in the bathroom, Lucas called the cops.’
‘Fuck. That’s some crazy shit.’
She lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. ‘Yeah, you said it. Are you around? Do you maybe want to meet up? We could have a coffee …’
‘Yeah – the thing is, we’re not in town. We’re on our way to the camp. Soon as the water came down Stewie wanted to be back out bush. I was callin’ to see if ya wanted to come and see the mine, see the camp. But …’ He pauses. ‘I could come back, pick ya up. It’ll take me a while. I’ll drop Stewie, that’ll take maybe half an hour, then forty-five minutes more to get back. I can bring ya out here, if ya want, show you round …’
‘You don’t mind? It’s not too far?’
‘Yeah, nah, no worries at all.’
‘Alright,’ she says. ‘That would be awesome. I really don’t want to stay here on my own.’