other side of the stream.”
“Hope so, if we’re not on a wild goose chase. Be nice if we are, though. This game used to be fun.” She walked on, talking into the wind, without turning to Elinda. “I haven’t had much time for it here, but back home, we used to go out in the bush every chance we got, Rick and I . . .”
The stream glittered in front of them, frothing around the stepping stones. A silver-blue bird-like creature on the far bank squawked and fluttered into a tree. . . .
Elinda realised she had hardly listened to what the woman had just said. She stopped and looked at her. “You had a son? I mean—I didn’t realise. What happened?”
“The sort of thing that happens to a cop’s kid sometimes.” They walked a few paces in silence. “Then I reckoned I’d learned enough about that world, and maybe it was time to try somewhere else.”
Elinda was standing on the first stone, with the rush of the stream filling her ears. “I’m sorry,” she said, too loudly. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.” The glare from the water stabbed at her eyes.
Charley shrugged. “It’s as much a part of what I am as any of the good times.” Her voice was almost drowned by the sound of the stream. “It doesn’t do to pretend things never happened.”
“Let’s go on,” Elinda said. “It’s colder near the water, isn’t it?”
They crossed to the far bank. Here the ground was steeper; it sloped up ahead and to the left. Snow lay in the shaded side of every hollow. None was marked by footprints. Outcrops of grey limestone pushed through the soil, with dead leaves silted up against them. An insect whirred, another avian drifted from branch to branch across the path. Something scurried in the undergrowth.
Charley pointed. “Looks like someone came this far, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t have spotted those. Can you follow them?”
“Sure. They’re really quite clear, but they’re closely spaced. Whoever made them was still following the path, but going slowly. Maybe it was too dark to see, or maybe she was looking for something.”
She,
Elinda, thought; they had both accepted that the tracks were Barbara’s.
Maybe she was looking for something.
And—what? Got lost? Twisted an ankle? Found what she was looking for?
“The ground’s drier here,” Charley said. “The traces are getting hard to follow. I’m not a professional at this, you understand.”
“What’s that? It looks like something broke through the scrub down there.”
“Right.”
The path was fading among bare brown undergrowth and rocky scree. To their left an outcropping of grey rock rose almost sheer; to the right the ground fell away at almost forty-five degrees. Ten metres below them, a couple of leafless birdcatcher bushes had been broken down. If there was any more indication of what had happened, it was hidden by trees and another outcrop of rock.
They edged diagonally down the slope, the scree threatening to slide under their boots. Elinda found herself icily calm. She let Charley go first and examine the broken bushes.
“Just broken,” Charley said. “No thorns, no leaves, so I might not expect to see much in the way of traces. But no shreds of clothing I can see—or anything else.”
No blood.
Charley was looking around for more signs. She pointed ahead, to something beyond a large boulder, and strode towards it. As Elinda started to follow, Charley reached the boulder, looked beyond it, stopped.
Come over here,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Be careful. It’s steep.”
The wind caught Elinda as she stumbled down and she lurched against the rock. She peered over Charley’s shoulder.
A couple of metres below them was a figure in mud-stained jeans and an anorak, sprawled facedown. Brown, shoulder-length hair was matted with dirt and twigs. A few strands of the hair twitched in the breeze. It was the only motion Elinda could see. At her side, Charley whispered, “Is it . . . ?”
“There’s so much
“Hope so, if we’re not on a wild goose chase. Be nice if we are, though. This game used to be fun.” She walked on, talking into the wind, without turning to Elinda. “I haven’t had much time for it here, but back home, we used to go out in the bush every chance we got, Rick and I . . .”
The stream glittered in front of them, frothing around the stepping stones. A silver-blue bird-like creature on the far bank squawked and fluttered into a tree. . . .
Elinda realised she had hardly listened to what the woman had just said. She stopped and looked at her. “You had a son? I mean—I didn’t realise. What happened?”
“The sort of thing that happens to a cop’s kid sometimes.” They walked a few paces in silence. “Then I reckoned I’d learned enough about that world, and maybe it was time to try somewhere else.”
Elinda was standing on the first stone, with the rush of the stream filling her ears. “I’m sorry,” she said, too loudly. “I shouldn’t have asked you that.” The glare from the water stabbed at her eyes.
Charley shrugged. “It’s as much a part of what I am as any of the good times.” Her voice was almost drowned by the sound of the stream. “It doesn’t do to pretend things never happened.”
“Let’s go on,” Elinda said. “It’s colder near the water, isn’t it?”
They crossed to the far bank. Here the ground was steeper; it sloped up ahead and to the left. Snow lay in the shaded side of every hollow. None was marked by footprints. Outcrops of grey limestone pushed through the soil, with dead leaves silted up against them. An insect whirred, another avian drifted from branch to branch across the path. Something scurried in the undergrowth.
Charley pointed. “Looks like someone came this far, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t have spotted those. Can you follow them?”
“Sure. They’re really quite clear, but they’re closely spaced. Whoever made them was still following the path, but going slowly. Maybe it was too dark to see, or maybe she was looking for something.”
She,
Elinda, thought; they had both accepted that the tracks were Barbara’s.
Maybe she was looking for something.
And—what? Got lost? Twisted an ankle? Found what she was looking for?
“The ground’s drier here,” Charley said. “The traces are getting hard to follow. I’m not a professional at this, you understand.”
“What’s that? It looks like something broke through the scrub down there.”
“Right.”
The path was fading among bare brown undergrowth and rocky scree. To their left an outcropping of grey rock rose almost sheer; to the right the ground fell away at almost forty-five degrees. Ten metres below them, a couple of leafless birdcatcher bushes had been broken down. If there was any more indication of what had happened, it was hidden by trees and another outcrop of rock.
They edged diagonally down the slope, the scree threatening to slide under their boots. Elinda found herself icily calm. She let Charley go first and examine the broken bushes.
“Just broken,” Charley said. “No thorns, no leaves, so I might not expect to see much in the way of traces. But no shreds of clothing I can see—or anything else.”
No blood.
Charley was looking around for more signs. She pointed ahead, to something beyond a large boulder, and strode towards it. As Elinda started to follow, Charley reached the boulder, looked beyond it, stopped.
Come over here,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Be careful. It’s steep.”
The wind caught Elinda as she stumbled down and she lurched against the rock. She peered over Charley’s shoulder.
A couple of metres below them was a figure in mud-stained jeans and an anorak, sprawled facedown. Brown, shoulder-length hair was matted with dirt and twigs. A few strands of the hair twitched in the breeze. It was the only motion Elinda could see. At her side, Charley whispered, “Is it . . . ?”
“There’s so much
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