Poison Bay Read online

  Contents

  Title page

  Publishing information

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

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  8

  9

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Poison Bay

  by Belinda Pollard

  Small Blue Dog Publishing

  Copyright © Belinda Pollard 2014

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  First published in Australia in 2014 by Small Blue Dog Publishing,

  PO Box 310, Lawnton, Queensland 4501, Australia

  ISBN

  Paperback: 978-0-9942098-0-1

  Epub: 978-0-9942098-1-8

  Mobi: 978-0-9942098-2-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organizations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the

  National Library of Australia http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

  The characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typeset in 12/17.5 pt Adobe Garamond Pro

  Cover images via Bigstock copyright © fcarucci, nhm1, Mr. Alliance, yuran-78, © lg0rZh – Fotolia and © Solomin Viktor – Deposit Photos

  For my parents Jim and Barbara,

  who taught me to love both Creation

  and the One who made it

  1

  Callie Brown was first to see the shotgun and the fragile hands that held it, framed in the viewfinder of her ancient second-hand film camera.

  The gang had gathered to celebrate the end of high school with one last pool party, on a Brisbane night so humid it felt like February instead of November.

  Tomorrow, they would scatter to universities and apprenticeships. Tonight, they seized one final opportunity for the boisterous to bomb-dive, the beautiful to preen near-naked, and the diffident to camouflage the physical consequences of too much junk food and too little exercise.

  Callie gave a self-conscious tweak to her faded sarong, straightened to her full considerable height, and tried to look like a photojournalist, not a stalker. She lined up a shot of Jack and Kain attempting to be pleasant to each other. Jack slouched, his butt propped against the armrest of the leather sofa.

  Kain stood straight, arms crossed, lord of his square meter of floor.

  Tonight she would finally tell him how she felt. What did she have to lose?

  The shout went up, “Pizza’s here!” and both guys looked towards the voice, changing the composition of the shot. Nice. She snapped the shutter, advanced the film and waited, eye to viewfinder, for them to turn back.

  Someone jolted her arm. When Callie’s left hand rotated to refocus the lens, she saw it. Crystal clear, yet impossible. Instinctively, she pressed the shutter.

  And lowered the camera and stared.

  Jack must have been next to see. “Liana, what are you doing?” His voice was sharp over the laughter. Others jostled for pizza, oblivious to the girl with the gun.

  The room became still, as each noticed others staring.

  Pizza slices dangled from limp hands.

  A mosquito buzzed its way up the wall.

  Liana said, “No, keep eating. I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important.”

  Callie’s stomach squirmed like it was full of spiders. Was this another of Liana’s games? It wasn’t funny.

  “Liana, put that down at once.” The voice sounded so strangled Callie had to glance aside to be sure who’d said it. Bryan, Liana’s boyfriend.

  “I don’t take orders from you anymore.” Liana’s lips barely moved.

  Bryan took a step towards her. Across the room Kain moved too, wearing a look so desperate it told Callie more than she could bear to know. Liana raised the weapon and pointed it from one to the other. Both hesitated, then fell back.

  Callie tried to speak clearly around a tongue suddenly thick. “What’s wrong, Liana? Let’s talk about it.” She found herself looking down the double barrels of the gun, and into eyes alight with fury.

  “Oh, you’ve got time to talk now, have you Callie? Well, I haven’t.”

  She turned the weapon towards herself.

  ***

  Nine years, eleven months and two weeks later

  Callie tried to ignore the feeling that something was not quite right.

  The squeak of her hiking boots on the tiles at Christchurch International unnerved her. Her usual soundtrack on an airport concourse was the click-clack of the high heels she hated but had learned to endure. The plastic “beauty” required for television work was a curse to a closet tomboy, and yet it seemed this was going to be one of those moments when she couldn’t bear to be without it. My version of Stockholm syndrome, she thought.

  Her big wheeled suitcase was also absent. As instructed, she had only a cabin bag containing a few items of kit, and her camera gear. Bryan would supply everything else.

  She felt ill-equipped to meet a bunch of people she’d avoided ever since that awful funeral a decade ago.

  When the invitation arrived, it had seemed like a solution—something dramatic to talk about with the ruthless gossips at work, taking the focus off William Green’s holiday to Italy. The whole newsroom knew he’d booked that holiday with Callie, but taken a cute little blonde instead. While she’d been indulging the fantasy of a lifetime of jokes about a couple named Green & Brown, he’d been making other plans.

  Well, anyone could go to Italy. To rouse the curiosity of a bunch of hardened hacks, trek Middle Earth instead.

  She’d discovered years ago that drawing attention to herself was the best way to hide, and the scheme had certainly eased her passage through the past six weeks. But today she faced the ominous reality. Ten days in remote New Zealand, far from phone signals and baristas. A deranged place for a high school reunion. Why can’t Bryan organize a dinner party like normal people?

  “Callie!” Advancing towards her, arms wide, was the only bright spot in her gathering gloom. Rachel Carpenter had been her best friend since they were pig-tailed six year olds.

  After a hug, Rachel stood back and looked her up and down. “That’s a nice look for our glamorous television reporter.”

  Callie wore trousers that zipped off into shorts, but they were only the beginning of the horror. “Wait till you see my rain jacket. It’s fluorescent orange.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “At forty perc
ent off, how could I resist? Besides, it matches my hair.”

  As they linked arms and walked, Rachel said, “I’m still in shock that you decided to come. Even Mum was laughing at the thought of Callie Brown having to carry her own bag any further than the nearest taxi.”

  “I’m not that lazy.” They exchanged a glance. “Oh, all right, I am. But on the plus side, I’ve got an excuse to look a mess for days on end.”

  “I see you made an effort this morning though. I wonder why?” Rachel’s mouth curved into an impish smile.

  Callie had risen uncomfortably early to straighten her frizzy strawberry curls into a glossy curtain, and even applied a touch of makeup, but found it best to answer: “How’s your Mum?”

  Rachel grimaced. “She’s fine, but I hated leaving her. It’s my first time away since Dad died.”

  Before Callie could think of a comforting reply, they reached the food-court, where people were standing from a table, moving towards them.

  Her glance skittered across faces she hadn’t seen since high school. Too many, all at once. She didn’t know whether to offer a handshake or a hug or a hula dance.

  The two blonde women were first to approach. Dumpy, kind Sharon alongside the slender and petite Erica, who had always made Callie feel like a lurching giant. She exchanged a warm hug with Sharon and a less-sincere embrace with Erica.

  Next, the men. Kain was as gorgeous and self-assured as she remembered, although his smile seemed, if possible, a little whiter. She fumbled in her portfolio of facial expressions for one that might say Pleased To See You, But Not To Any Foolish Extent. His quick, relaxed hug left an after-image of hard chest and expensive cologne.

  Finally, there was Jack. Good old Jack. Not very tall, not very good-looking, not very anything. They’d studied journalism together, long ago and far away. He tripped on someone’s bag, and his hug became a collision. “Nice to bump into you again,” she said, and he laughed, his face red.

  She had just worked out who was missing when she saw Adam walking towards the table, obviously just arrived on a separate flight. His lanky frame looked at home in the hiking paraphernalia.

  “Hey team!” he bellowed, grinning. He made a boisterous round of greetings, collapsed into a chair, and launched into the tale of the beautiful “Scottish lassie” who ran hunting safaris in the Northern Territory with him—and the engagement ring that had two payments to go. The previous awkwardness round the table dissipated as he blathered.

  Callie returned with coffee just in time to hear Adam ask Jack, “So what are you reporting on these days, Scoop?”

  Kain said, “He isn’t reporting on anything. He’s at Bible college, studying how to be better than us. We’re calling him the Reverend now.”

  Callie was stunned. So, Jack hasn’t grown out of the religion thing.

  Adam hooted with laughter, but unlike Kain’s his teasing showed no malice. He shoved Jack’s shoulder. “Ripper, mate! You can be Team Chaplain.” He pointed at Kain. “Team Lawyer, if we need to sue each other, or Team Lifeguard if we fall in the drink. Erica: Team Nurse, for when we scrape our knees. Sharon: Team Hairdresser, to keep us gorgeous. Callie: Team Reporter, because we’re superstars.” He paused at Rachel, losing traction. “Rachel…?”

  She said, “I doubt we’ll need a scientist.”

  “Team Sweetheart!”

  Callie said, “What about you, Adam?”

  Kain answered for him. “Team Navigator, if Attila gets us lost in the mountains.” Needless to say, their old nickname for Bryan was not one they used to his face.

  Sharon said, “Don’t you think it’s amazing that every last one of us came?” She beamed.

  People smiled, but Callie noticed that no one said anything. Most of us are not hiking fanatics, so why are we here?

  2

  In the pre-dawn grayness, Sergeant Peter Hubble watched the tow-truck pull away, dragging a mangled car, then took a moment to gaze out over the silent water. After eight years in Te Anau, the mighty lake still had the power to move him.

  He heard muted voices, and saw a tourist boat being prepped. There wasn’t much point returning to his empty house, so he wandered over. It would be someone he knew; it always was, in this tiny town.

  He was surprised, however, to see one of his constables aboard.

  Tom Granton raised a hand in greeting. “Just helping get the boat ready. Don’t worry, I’m still coming to work today.” Tom was always helping people at odd hours.

  The man’s big grin seemed a few watts dimmer than usual. I hope he wasn’t up in the night with the child. I must remember to check if Lily is still in remission.

  “Fishing party?”

  “Trampers. Bunch of Aussies heading for the track to George Sound.”

  Peter heard voices approaching and turned. Even in the half-light, there was no mistaking Bryan Smithton’s dreadlocks and wiry physique. His walk was distinctive too, with the slightly flexed knees of a man ready to respond to a flash flood or a charging wapiti bull. His biggest challenge at the moment, however, was the asphalt roadway.

  The young Australian man had lived in Te Anau longer than Peter, and was probably as familiar to the locals. Well-known didn’t necessarily mean well-liked, however.

  Behind him trailed a gaggle of young people. Peter automatically did a head count: eight, counting Bryan—four women, four men.

  Peter greeted Bryan with a nod. “So you’re off to George Sound?”

  One of the party answered, “Nah, Milford!” Peter glanced at the speaker: tall, around six foot, blond, athletic build. The national park contained only a handful of marked trails, and the George and Milford Tracks were in vastly different sections. Peter mentally filed the contradiction in case it turned out to be important later.

  The man received a quelling look from Bryan, who said to Peter, “Yes, George Sound.” So the lad was probably just confused because Milford was the more famous track.

  Peter said, “Good weather today.”

  “Yes.”

  The atmosphere was uncomfortable—probably the Smithton-factor. Peter decided it would be more fun to go to his cold, empty office and write his report on the car accident.

  3

  Jack Metcalf watched his old friends react to their first view of the Fiordland mountains, as the launch chuntered its way across the lake. They didn’t say much, but they stared. Maybe it was dawning on them what they were getting themselves into. To be frank, he felt a twinge of concern himself.

  These were professional mountains. If they were buildings, they’d be at least four hundred stories high. They were impossibly steep, rising suddenly from ground level; sharp-topped, crowding close together.

  Jack had expected immunity to the scale of Fiordland. He’d seen it before, on a visit years ago when he’d helped Bryan bury his parents. They’d even taken a day hike on one of the popular trails. And yet these peaks astonished him all over again. “An astonishment of mountains.” Perhaps he should offer that to Callie. She liked to invent collective nouns.

  He’d managed to score a seat beside her on the boat, without even trying. At least, he was pretty sure he hadn’t tried. It hardly mattered, since he now had the dubious pleasure of watching her watching Kain, opposite them.

  He returned his attention to the view through his little video camera. No photo could capture the scale of this place, but he was going to give it a shot. Only two weeks till summer, and there was still snow on the jagged mountain tops, which perforated both sky and lake, their reflection so perfect a man needed gravity to tell him which way was up. The breeze teasing the back of his neck came from the momentum of the launch. The morning air wouldn’t have been moving at all if it didn’t have to get out of their way. Perhaps it was half-asleep like the rest of them.

  Yesterday, they’d endured a nine-hour drive from Christchurch, crammed into a rattly mini-bus, and followed it with a hard night on a hard floor at Bryan’s tiny house. They had been brusquely woken in the dark, and ord
ered to eat oatmeal and toast, which they’d had to do standing because there were no chairs. What a weird house Bryan had chosen. It had shocked his old friends; they’d been expecting something more like the riverside mansion that had been their playground as teenagers.

  Jack panned the camera back towards the town they’d just left, squatting on the south eastern shore. Sunrise tickled the tops of the taller trees. To the north, the lake disappeared into misty distance. Sixty-five kilometers long, according to Bryan, their guide, leader and protector. And completely uninhabited on the side they were heading for, a national park of 12,500 square kilometers. No roads. No phone signal. They would be like ants out there.

  “This lake is twelve degrees Celsius,” announced Bryan over the chugging of the engine. “If you fall overboard, you can only survive a few minutes. It’s half a kilometer deep—the bottom is below sea level and covered in ice. No one will ever see you again.”

  Jack noticed Callie, beside him, flinch at the strident voice. A Botticelli-angel smile appeared on her face and just as quickly dissolved. When he caught her eye, she flushed. Whatever amusing thoughts Bryan’s words had prompted, they probably weren’t kind.

  “Hey,” she said in a stage whisper camouflaged by the engine noise, “what do you make of his hair? Are you tempted to try dreads yourself?”

  Jack surveyed the dreadlocks protruding through the gap on the back of Bryan’s cap. “I think I liked his old short-back-and-sides better.”

  “Me too. It wasn’t pretty, but you at least knew where you were with that haircut. The new do is too whimsical for his head. Like his hair is having a party on a tombstone.” She paused and grimaced. “An insensitive thing to say about someone who’s been to so many funerals, I guess. Is this where his parents died?”

  “Yep. They’re in a little cemetery south of town.”

  “I remember when you took time off uni to fly over for the funeral.”

  “At the time I wondered why he didn’t take their bodies home to Brisbane, but afterwards when he moved here to live, it made sense. Sort of.”

  “He worshiped the ground they walked on. Weird that he doesn’t have any photos of them in his house.”