Blood Secret (15 page)

21

Rennie's night was long and restless. Plenty of tossing and turning, plenty of ugly thoughts, plenty of memories to reinforce them. Enough to make Rennie flick the bedside lamp on in the quiet, early hours, pull the gun from her pack and
clean it.

It was a Glock 17, the world's most reliable semi­automatic handgun – a lethal piece of equipment but useless if it wasn't in good working order. Joanne had given it to her the day she finished her treatment with Dr Foy, a replacement for the one the cops had removed from her. A graduation present, Jo called it. It'd repulsed and reassured her and after twelve months of discussing security and stability and dealing with her fears, she'd wanted to sample life unarmed but couldn't bring herself to hit the road without it. Lessons of a lifetime versus three times a week for
a year.

She'd cleaned it regularly at the start, kept it oiled and the clip empty to save the springs. Then not so often, then not at all. She wasn't sure if it was complacency or a sense of security. But at this point, neither was appropriate. She fitted it back together, tested the slide, dry-fired, loaded the clip, inserted it and left the
chamber empty.

Before dawn, Rennie stood in the bay window, peppermint tea warming her palms as she watched the sun come up for a second morning in a row, anxious, wired and a little ticked off.

It might not be what you think
,
Evan had said. She hoped to God he was right about her father but after hours of trying to pull all the threads together, none of the possible scenarios fit.

If the kid from the four-wheel drive had gone back to the car park and assaulted Max, it explained the blood and not much else. Not the thud on the fence or the overturned brick or the search of the glove box. And how did the missing money come
into it?

Some of the pieces held together if Max had left her: his previous disappearances, the password protection on the computer, the missing money, the women, maybe even the unfinished text message. But what about the blood, the fence and brick, and the glove box. She could reason that the blood wasn't Max's and that Max himself had been at the back fence and had later riffled through the glove box except . . . what would he have been looking for? Pen and paper to write down his escape route?

The father-released-from-prison option didn't come together neatly, either. The unfinished text message, the blood, the fence and brick, and the glove box made sense. Even the guy with the camera worked – she had no idea what her father looked like now, but the photographer with the brimmed hat had been small, wiry and carrying enough years. That still left the missing money and the password protection. What did they have to do with her father?

And how long was it going to take Evan to get back
to her?

She wandered aimlessly through the house, tidied the sofa cushions where Hayden had been sitting, washed and dried the dishes he'd left. She was sick of searching the house for clues to Max but in the end, she found herself standing in front of his side of the
wardrobe again.

She tucked errant clothes into drawers, straightened shirts on hangers, sorted and refolded. She wiped down his junk shelf with a rag and flipped through the papers again. There were receipts for new shoes and a DVD, she saw the car insurance was due next week and smiled at a photo of the two of them. She fingered through the ashtray, spilling coins, paperclips, rubber bands and tacks. She couldn't locate a mate for a single cuff link but found the plastic cap for a USB thumb drive and replaced it. As she was scooping the contents back in, the
landline rang.

She dived across the room. ‘Evan?'

‘Rennie, it's Brenda. Did Max come home?'

She closed her eyes. On the odd occasion Rennie spoke to Max's parents on the phone, she felt clumsy and cautious with her words, not sure of the right response to their enthusiasm, rattled and uncomfortable with their warmth, conscious of not saying anything to damage it. ‘No. Not yet. I take it you haven't heard from him, either.'

‘No. I've called everyone I can think of. Annette in Perth, Aunty Roz, Aunty Cath and Uncle Grant in Wangi . . .' Rennie listened as Max's mum reeled off a long list of relatives and family friends, school and sports buddies who lived close and far. She must have been on the phone for hours. ‘I expect they'll let me know if they hear anything but I'll do another ring-around as soon as I've had my breakfast.' She sounded concerned but also efficient and practical, as though it was just a matter of tracking him down so they could stop worrying.

Rennie figured that was about to change. ‘I spoke to a detective yesterday afternoon.'

She heard a quick intake of breath then a new current of alarm in Brenda's voice. ‘Wait a minute, I'll get Mike.' There was crackling and rustling before Brenda's muffled voice called to Max's dad. ‘Mike, I've got Renée. You need to hear this.'

Five seconds later, his brisk voice was on the line. ‘I'm listening.'

‘The police are involved,' Brenda said into the phone and Rennie guessed Mike had picked up a handset in another room. ‘Rennie's been talking to a detective. Go on, Rennie.'

She hesitated, not sure how much to tell or how to phrase it. Habit made her want to cut straight to the chase, concern about upsetting them urged restraint. She told them that when a ‘couple of drops of blood' had been found in the car park, the police decided to get
more involved.

‘Did they find that kid from the four-wheel drive?' Mike was obviously making the same connections
Rennie had.

‘They hadn't when I spoke to the detective,' Rennie
told him.

‘So he's gone to ground then? That tells us something, the little bastard.'

‘
Mike.
' Brenda's voice was a slap on
the wrist.

‘I don't think they'd even looked for him yesterday,' Rennie explained. ‘And the detective wasn't convinced the kid had anything to do with it.'

There was a scoffing noise from Mike. ‘That makes no sense.'

Rennie closed her eyes, wishing she could agree with him. ‘Apparently there was a fight at the pub on Saturday night so there's nothing to connect the blood to Max at this stage. He said he has to consider a range of possibilities when someone goes missing.'

‘Like what?'
Mike asked.

‘Like Max leaving of his own accord.'

‘No,'
Brenda breathed.

‘James was here when the detective came around. He told him there were some financial issues with the business. He thought it was possible Max might've taken some money.'

‘Oh, for goodness sake,' Brenda snapped.

‘
James
said that?' Mike's tone
was incredulous.

‘Yes.'

‘How much?'
he asked.

‘I don't know. Thousands. Something to do with invoices.'

‘James is the damn accountant in the partnership,' Mike growled. ‘And he shouldn't be making accusations about his cousin when Max isn't around to defend himself.'

‘Max doesn't need that kind of money, anyway.' Brenda said it as though she typed up his weekly budget. ‘He got that insurance payout from the mine and he owns the house.'

Rennie wanted to cheer their wholesale support, relieved they hadn't for a second considered Max might take the money. But it wasn't the only possibility as to why he'
d disappeared.

‘Give me the detective's number – I'll see what I can do,'
Mike said.

When he hung up the second handset, Rennie figured the conversation was over but Brenda had stayed on the line. ‘You must be worried sick, Rennie. We are, too, of course but, well . . . how are
you
holding up?'

The switch in focus and the unexpected concern made something tighten in Rennie's chest. ‘I'm okay, thanks. And yes, I am worried. Quite worried.' She winced at her stilted words, wishing she knew how to match Brenda's warmth. For both their sakes.

‘You didn't have a quarrel, did you?'

What could Rennie tell her? They'd had sex on the floor, he'd proposed, she'd rejected him and they'd snapped at each other at Trish's birthday party. It was Max's
mother
and, put like that, she'd think it was no wonder he'd gone. ‘No. Nothing like that.'

‘It's just that when he was married he needed a bit of time out once or twice and forgot to let Leanne know where he was.'

Rennie had always been amused at the spin Brenda put on stories about her children. They didn't put on weight; they filled out comfortably. They didn't drink too much at Christmas dinner; they were merry and entertaining. This time, Max hadn't walked out on Leanne; he'd needed time out. He hadn't made her worry; he'd forgotten to call. Turning an awkward truth into something more palatable – and it made her wonder about Brenda and Mike's insistence that Max hadn't taken the money. ‘I don't think he'd do that,' she said, wishing it sounded
more convincing.

‘No, I'm sure he wouldn't, dear. How's Hayden coping? He must be terribly upset.'

That was probably the nicest way to describe him. ‘Yes, he is. He's had a couple of late nights. I'm hoping he sleeps for a while this morning.'

‘That would be best. He's still so young. Do you want us to come down? Mike's got a committee meeting tomorrow morning but I could catch the train and be there this evening and he could drive down later.'

Was that what other people did in a crisis? Have family turn up en masse? She was touched by the offer but Rennie didn't want to be dealing with anxious parents and watching her words while she fretted about Max. And if her father was out of prison, she certainly didn't want them anywhere near. ‘No, please, I don't think that's necessary. He's only been gone a day and a half, he could be back anytime.'

‘Well, if you're sure, but don't hesitate to call if you change your mind. I'll be thinking of you, dear.'

Rennie held onto the phone as though it might keep Brenda's generosity in the room with her for a while longer – at a manageable distance. It felt inclusive and slightly intrusive, sincere and implausible, nice and unnerving. Come on, Evan,
ring
.

She moved restlessly about the house, not searching now but staying busy, feeling as though the adrenaline that'd been pooling inside her since Saturday night would start leaking out her pores if she didn't get rid of it. If she went for a run, she could take another look around for signs of Max, do a little reconnaissance at the same time.

She pulled on shoes, tied her hair back, zipped both mobile phones into the pockets of her running pants and checked Hayden was still asleep. Five minutes later, she'd locked the doors behind her and was turning left at the lake's edge, the water smooth and deep green like an enormous sheet of opaque glass. She thought again about Max's detour on the way to the party – was it the lure of the sunset or a last look before he left?

Shaking it off, she focused on more reassuring things: the beat of her stride, the rhythm of
her breath.

Rennie was born with a built-in capacity to run. As a small, skinny kid, she'd done everything at a trot – going to the car, to the shops, down the road, around the park. It drove Joanne crazy. Her mother had watched with distaste, seeing only her father's genes in it. She'd finished a couple of school cross-country events so far ahead of the pack she thought she'd taken a wrong turn. A teacher once accused her of cheating, others got stars in their eyes about rep teams and trophies, but Rennie was never in one place long enough to achieve any
of that.

Evan and his kids were training for a fun run when Rennie and Joanne stayed with them. Up early and out on the road before school every day. It was all bullshit, as far as Jo was concerned, but Rennie was desperate to be part of it. Evan taught her how to breathe better and move more efficiently and after the first week bought her decent shoes and she'd never stopped. It made her feel cleansed and spent and strong. Plenty of times it'd kept
her sane.

At the roundabout where the four-wheel drive had cut them off, the grassy path at the water's edge narrowed to nothing. Rennie stepped onto the roadway, feeling the hard surface in her shins, and ran on the outside edge of the two-lane strip of bitumen, facing any oncoming traffic, the short drop to the water at
her side.

The kid had tailgated them along this stretch, swerving into the lane that was now her running track. She alternated her gaze between the road and the water, searching for anything that looked like it had come from Max – watch, wallet, shoe, a scrap of the fabric from his clothes. The only way something like that would get there was if he'd been scrambling around the rocks or his belongings had been thrown from a car. It fit her father-released scenario and the one with the kid in the four-wheel drive. Not the version where Max had
left her.

As her eyes moved in a side-to-side pattern and her legs counted the rhythm for her breath, she thought of other roads she'd run with awareness. It was one of the lessons her mother had drilled into her: know what belongs and what doesn't – the homes, the cars, the faces. Familiarity was a useful tool when you were hiding from
a ghost.

Her father's pursuit started before Rennie was old enough to remember. Her earliest recollections were of arriving in caravan parks in the dead of night, sleeping on the back seat of a car and the large knife under her mother'
s pillow.

She knew virtually nothing about her father's life until after the murder. Evan Delaney was part of the investigation and eventually answered her questions. Her parents had met in the army: Donna was a training officer and Anthony was SAS, an expert killer who was kicked out when he developed tendencies for paranoia. That he was nuts was no surprise and the training explained a lot – why Donna gave up calling the police, why she never believed he'd disappeared, why even a whiff of something out of place and she'd pack up and run. The fact she'd survived as long as she did was evidence of her own survival skills, the ones she'd drilled into
her daughters.