to its clients. Maybe the security alarms went off last night and Max had gone out there. Maybe thatâs what he was telling her in the text last night. Luv u b back soon. But if thatâs where he went, where was he now?
Let me know either way , she texted back.
She started a wider search of the car park, working her way down one side of the parking lane and up the other, then retraced the path sheâd taken with Terry in the dark along the back of the shops, looking over the fences into the courtyards behind. There were chocolate wrappers, empty chip packets and drink bottles. A five-dollar note, a dog collar, three pens and a small screwdriver. Nothing that told her anything about Max. What had she expected? Clues to a scavenger hunt? She ran a hand through her hair as she eyed off the far lane. It was probably pointless to look over there, just as pointless as the rest of the search. But she couldnât not check it.
She walked along the rear of the cars that faced the pub, turned at the top and headed down the row pointing into the middle. Potholes, shiny pieces of glass, a soft toy dinosaur that looked like the victim of a hit-and-run. Halfway down, overlapping the white line between two parking spaces, was a mark that drew her attention.
It wasnât an oil stain. It was an uneven, ragged-edged splat of dark liquid. About the size of a large hand with half-a-dozen smaller satellite drops like a spill from a cup. Except the substance that had congealed in the gravel wasnât milky or coffee-like. It was . . . rust coloured. She knelt, held a finger over it then pulled it back as realisation pitched in her gut.
Blood.
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8
Rennie shot to her feet, eyes flicking around the car park, instinctively alert. She glanced down the laneway beside the hotel, automatically registering it as the best escape route: out to the street and across the road to the path sheâd run hundreds of times. She turned back to the blood, searched the tarmac and under the car next to it. There was no more, just the one large splat and the tight gathering of drips.
It wasnât a nose bleed; there was too much of it for that. She remembered the blood from wounds sheâd inflicted, spilling as a hand slipped from a gaping wound, dripping from red fingers. No, there wasnât enough here for a gunshot wound. Not nearly enough. It had to be from an injury, though. The position suggested a fight beside a parked car or in the roadway. A slash from a knife maybe, or a gushing head wound. She lifted her gaze to where theyâd parked last night. Two rows over, six spaces further up the line. Would Max walk over here to have it out with the kid in the four-wheel drive?
Did it matter? The fact was, Max was missing and there was blood in the last place he was known to have been. She pulled out her phone and dialled the police again.
Half an hour later, Rennie was still waiting for the cops to arrive â annoyed it was taking so long, wondering if Hayden would ignore the phone if he was in bed, worried that Max might try to call while she was using the mobile. Unsettled, too, knowing the discovery of blood at another time, in any other place, and she wouldnât have waited. Would already be on the expressway driving fast.
Sheâd reversed Maxâs car into a parking spot opposite the blood so she could keep an eye on it, making sure no one ran over it before the police got there. She used the time to google hospitals on her phone, finding pen and paper in the glove box to write down contact numbers and names of people she spoke to. There were three public ones in the region â Belmont, on the other side of the lake; Wyong, to the south; and John Hunter in Newcastle. The closest was a thirty-minute drive, even late at night. She called them all and was put on hold for minutes at a time while she waited to speak to someone in Emergency. As she sat, staring at the stain in the roadway,
Let me know either way , she texted back.
She started a wider search of the car park, working her way down one side of the parking lane and up the other, then retraced the path sheâd taken with Terry in the dark along the back of the shops, looking over the fences into the courtyards behind. There were chocolate wrappers, empty chip packets and drink bottles. A five-dollar note, a dog collar, three pens and a small screwdriver. Nothing that told her anything about Max. What had she expected? Clues to a scavenger hunt? She ran a hand through her hair as she eyed off the far lane. It was probably pointless to look over there, just as pointless as the rest of the search. But she couldnât not check it.
She walked along the rear of the cars that faced the pub, turned at the top and headed down the row pointing into the middle. Potholes, shiny pieces of glass, a soft toy dinosaur that looked like the victim of a hit-and-run. Halfway down, overlapping the white line between two parking spaces, was a mark that drew her attention.
It wasnât an oil stain. It was an uneven, ragged-edged splat of dark liquid. About the size of a large hand with half-a-dozen smaller satellite drops like a spill from a cup. Except the substance that had congealed in the gravel wasnât milky or coffee-like. It was . . . rust coloured. She knelt, held a finger over it then pulled it back as realisation pitched in her gut.
Blood.
Â
Â
8
Rennie shot to her feet, eyes flicking around the car park, instinctively alert. She glanced down the laneway beside the hotel, automatically registering it as the best escape route: out to the street and across the road to the path sheâd run hundreds of times. She turned back to the blood, searched the tarmac and under the car next to it. There was no more, just the one large splat and the tight gathering of drips.
It wasnât a nose bleed; there was too much of it for that. She remembered the blood from wounds sheâd inflicted, spilling as a hand slipped from a gaping wound, dripping from red fingers. No, there wasnât enough here for a gunshot wound. Not nearly enough. It had to be from an injury, though. The position suggested a fight beside a parked car or in the roadway. A slash from a knife maybe, or a gushing head wound. She lifted her gaze to where theyâd parked last night. Two rows over, six spaces further up the line. Would Max walk over here to have it out with the kid in the four-wheel drive?
Did it matter? The fact was, Max was missing and there was blood in the last place he was known to have been. She pulled out her phone and dialled the police again.
Half an hour later, Rennie was still waiting for the cops to arrive â annoyed it was taking so long, wondering if Hayden would ignore the phone if he was in bed, worried that Max might try to call while she was using the mobile. Unsettled, too, knowing the discovery of blood at another time, in any other place, and she wouldnât have waited. Would already be on the expressway driving fast.
Sheâd reversed Maxâs car into a parking spot opposite the blood so she could keep an eye on it, making sure no one ran over it before the police got there. She used the time to google hospitals on her phone, finding pen and paper in the glove box to write down contact numbers and names of people she spoke to. There were three public ones in the region â Belmont, on the other side of the lake; Wyong, to the south; and John Hunter in Newcastle. The closest was a thirty-minute drive, even late at night. She called them all and was put on hold for minutes at a time while she waited to speak to someone in Emergency. As she sat, staring at the stain in the roadway,