Dance with the Devil (7 page)

'Very perceptive, Counsellor.'

Drew shrugged. 'It's easy to be perceptive about other people. Harder about yourself.'

It was an observation Emma agreed with. She'd always found it hard to analyse and come to terms with her feelings about her father. She suspected she could have the same problem where Drew was concerned.

The dogs, Jess and Ned, had relinquished their guard over Emma's father's grave and moved onto the front veranda. Drew discovered this when he pushed open the front door that afternoon and was greeted by low growls and a warning bark. It didn't take him long to get Jess to accept him, but Ned wouldn't allow him within patting distance.

The steady rain drummed onto the tin roof in a never-ceasing cadence. Drew looked out at the debris from the cyclone still littering the water-soaked yard.
He's out there! Somewhere out there in the valley, or perhaps further away. Someone who'd decided that I had to die.

The door banged behind him. Emma propped her father's rifle against the wall, took her Driza-bone off the hook and pulled it on. 'I have to check the horses,' she explained.

Drew reached for the other coat. 'I'll go with you.' He saw she was about to protest. 'I don't think you should go alone.'

The meaning of his words hung in the air.

Finally she nodded.

Emma blinked to adjust her vision as they walked into the stables. The odour of newly turned earth mingled with hay and dampness.

She glanced down at her father's grave. Tears stung her eyes but she resolutely walked past. A welcoming whinny greeted her as they reached the two horses J.D. had returned. She placed the rifle against a wall, hung her hat on a peg.

'Hello, Quest.' She rubbed her hand against the forehead of a chestnut-coloured mare. The horse snickered, her soft lips searching Emma's other hand for the treat she knew would be there.

The black horse in the end stall reached its head around, its large brown eyes hopeful. Emma moved along, murmured a greeting, proffered the treat. She smiled as the horse nuzzled her coat, searching for more. 'Don't be greedy, Solomon,' she chided.

She turned back to Drew.

Her heartbeat froze in her chest as he lifted the rifle towards her head.

Noise exploded in Emma's head.

Something moist spattered over her hair, her cheek.

The horses reared, squealed in fright.

Emma stumbled against the stall door, her ears ringing from the blast. Drew brushed past her and leaned over to pick something up from the hay.

Her shock beginning to fade, Emma noted the grim line of his mouth. Even in the dim light she could see the paleness of his cheeks beneath the tan. Her gaze travelled down to the long body dangling from his hand. Its tail brushed the hay at his feet.

The coffin-shaped head had been partially severed from the gleaming brown body. Blood dripped onto the paler belly.

'Taipan,' she breathed.

Drew nodded. 'He must have come in through the roof looking for somewhere dry or something to eat. He was sliding down the wall. You probably startled him - he'd drawn back to strike when I fired.'

Emma shuddered. Isolated as they were, she wouldn't have had a chance of survival if the snake had bitten her. It would have been a horrible way to die.

'Thank you.'

His lips smiled an offhand 'You're welcome.' But she read the fear in his eyes, the realisation of how close she'd come to death. Shock spiralled in the pit of her stomach. She thrust it away, gathered herself together. She ignored the hand he reached out in comfort.

'Let's get these horses fed. Tomorrow I want to check on Mary Johnson - a neighbour further up the valley. She's pregnant - due next week. J.D. checked on her straight after he'd left here earlier. He said she's okay but scared about the pregnancy.' A worried frown creased her forehead. 'It's her first.'

Emma was washing up the dishes from their evening meal when Drew walked into the kitchen with a candle in one hand and a notebook in the other. The kind of notebook a child might take to school.

'Emma, I think you should look at this. I think your father was trying to keep a diary.'

Emma dried her hands. 'Where did you find it?'

'In your father's dresser. It had been pushed to the back of the drawer.' He looked at his feet. 'I was searching for some clean socks to cover the bandages.'

Her fingers refused to reach out and take the notebook Drew offered. A diary. Her father's thoughts. A glimpse into his mind, his feelings.

Then she smiled grimly. It more likely contained his thoughts on how the horses were breeding.

She took the book from Drew, sat at the table and opened the cover. The kerosene lamp flickered yellow across the angular scrawl. She didn't notice Drew leave the room.

The first entry was dated nearly two years before.

I think I'm losing my mind. Clients are abusing me for not carrying out instructions they insist they've given me - but I can't remember. Chores are done that I have no recollection of doing. And today I found myself driving out the gate with no idea of where I was going or why.

Is it the loneliness? So many years with Patricia and Emma gone. So many empty days and nights. The only times when the emptiness goes are when Emma comes to visit. But she doesn't stay for long. I don't blame her. I long to tell her how proud I am of her, how much I love her, but the words won't come. Too many years of never saying what was in my heart. Oh God, how I regret it. Perhaps if I'd been kinder I might not have lost my beloved Patricia. If only

The first entry ended abruptly. Emma turned the page, her hand trembling. Her father was proud of her! He loved her! If only he had told her.
If only
…

The second entry was dated eight months later. The writing had deteriorated.

I hate what I am becoming! Lord knows I have never been a patient man but today I yelled at J.D. when he wanted to take me to the doctor. He's a good neighbour, only trying to help. And I don't feel well. Perhaps I'll go. In a few weeks.

Two months later, another entry.

J.D. is right - I must see a doctor. But I'm frightened. The loneliness is unbearable. Perhaps Emma will come home. I haven't seen her for so long. Her letters are wonderful but sometimes I can't understand them. Is it her writing? Is it me? I'm afraid to find out, but now I'm more afraid not to.

The last entry was dated the following day:

Alzheimer's! Is this what I am to be reduced to? A stupid old man with a mind of a child? Or no mind at all? Tomorrow I will settle my affairs, update my Will, and put an end

This entry was also unfinished.

put an end

What had her father meant? Put an end to his loneliness by contacting her…or her mother…or committing suicide?

Had his disease actually prevented him from taking his own life? How ironic if he hadn't been able to remember that was what he was going to do.

All those years she had thought he hadn't wanted her there, that he had preferred to be on his own, to run things by himself. And all that time he was lonely. A sad, lonely old man. Trapped by his inability to communicate his love, his need.

If only she'd known.

She remembered when J.D. had driven her home after picking her up from Cairns airport. Her father had been in the yards, working the mare. She'd called to him, and he'd turned. For a moment she thought she'd seen tears in his eyes. He'd walked towards her, arms lifting as though to hug her. Then he'd mumbled a greeting and turned back to the mare.

Now she felt it again. That sharp, bitter pang of disappointment. Only now it was mixed with regret. Regret for what might have been. For what
should have been.

The hurt welled up fiercely.

'Are you all right?'

Startled, she looked up to see Drew in the doorway. In the flickering candlelight, she could see the concern in his eyes. She closed the notebook. 'Sure.'

'I read what your father wrote, Emma. He loved you. He
was
proud of you.'

'So it would appear.' She stood up. 'I'd better wipe up these dishes.'

Drew walked into the room. 'You're not very good at taking, are you?'

'What do you mean?'

'You're good at giving. You're caring, compassionate. But you don't know how to take comfort for yourself.'

'I don't need comfort. I can cope. I've always coped.' Even as she spoke, she could feel her grief chipping at the barriers that had kept her heart intact since she was a teenager. Caring for her father had been an emotional minefield. Now her nerves were stretched to the limit. But she had coped before.

She would now.

Hadley closed the diary which held the results of more than twelve months meticulous planning and placed it in the desk drawer.

For a man who'd been so long in the isolation of the bush, he'd found it surprisingly easy to find out the information he'd needed. Although Cairns was no country town, the people were friendly and eager to help a man in search of a 'long-lost friend'. Perhaps its international tourist status had made the residents more willing to accommodate the request of a stranger.

So now his diary held names, addresses and other details that would enable him to carry out the tasks he had been given.

A sigh of frustration rumbled through his big frame. Only the flood prevented him from carrying out the tasks he had been commanded to do. As soon as the water abated…

Through the thick material of his work trousers he fingered the knife strapped to his calf. The long thin blade nestled in its scabbard, reassuringly solid against the muscle.

His wife walked into the room. He rose to join her in prayer.

The next morning the sun shone. The heat blazed down and turned the sodden grass to steam.

Drew was becoming impatient. The pain in his wounds had lessened and Emma was pleased with the way they were healing, but he was anxious to get back to Cairns and look for clues to whoever had tried to kill him. Someone who knew enough about him to know where he spent his holidays and when. Someone daring enough to sneak into his fishing shack, tamper with his beer, then drive hundreds of kilometres with his unconscious body in the vehicle.

But he also didn't want to leave Emma here on her own. Whoever had dumped him here could, even now, be leading his would-be killer back to finish the job. He determined that when he left he would take Emma with him. Whether she liked it or not.

They had just finished breakfast when the sound of a vehicle approaching had Emma reaching for the rifle.

She strode to the front door and peered out. Then she ran to greet the old Willeys Jeep that churned its way up to the veranda.

A man jumped from the vehicle as he pulled on the handbrake. A tall, gangly man in his mid twenties with straw blond hair and pale green eyes.

'It's Mary!' he called, panic harsh in his voice. 'The baby's coming!'

'I'll get my bag.' Emma called. 'You go back to her. I'll follow.'

The Jeep ploughed back through the mud as Emma dashed into the surgery. She opened a drawer, took out a key ring. She tossed it to Drew. 'Padlock key - for the shed. Long one for the Land Cruiser. Bring it around here, please.'

She began placing instruments and other gear into a backpack that already contained a comprehensive medical kit and emergency supplies that were a habit from her work with Médecins sans Frontières. Drew pulled on her father's boots, grabbed up the rifle and ran as best he could to the shed.

Emma eased off the accelerator as she approached the river. Muddy water swirled around the trunks of trees lining the banks. It churned and eddied, and battered debris against the crossboards of an old bridge. The wooden planks barely cleared the turbulent water.

She glanced across at Drew. He had insisted on coming with her, and she hadn't had time to waste arguing.

'This bridge is higher than the ones downstream that lead out of the valley,' she explained. 'It's usually the last to be covered when there's a flood. Tom and Mary live on the other side.'

'Alone?'

Emma nodded. 'His parents bought another property closer to Cairns and left Tom to run this one.'

She drove carefully onto the bridge. The water's force vibrated up through the vehicle and quivered in the steering wheel. The Land Cruiser inched forward.

Suddenly the bridge shuddered. Emma looked upstream. Nothing.

The bridge shuddered again.

'Could be a tree or a log floating beneath the surface,' Drew guessed. 'Probably hitting the middle pylon.'

Emma increased speed. 'No point waiting for the bridge to go.'

They breathed a sigh of relief as the Land Cruiser gained the other bank. It wasn't long before they were driving through paddocks where healthy-looking cattle grazed on lush, rain-soaked grass. Avoiding fallen trees and storm-tossed debris slowed their progress and added to Emma's impatience.

She swung off onto a dirt track and through an open gate. She frowned. Tom never left a gate open - not unless the need was urgent. He must really be panicking. She increased speed, worry warring with the need for caution.

The Land Cruiser slid in the mud, jerked into a rain-hollowed rut and slipped out sideways. Emma slowed, changed down a gear. Her face tightened in concentration.

For the next ten minutes she battled the mud and debris, and finally they approached a low-set home surrounded by sprawling cattleyards and sheds.

Emma slid the Land Cruiser to a halt, grabbed her bag and ran for the front steps.

Drew followed her into an old-fashioned living room heavy with family photos, tapestry furniture and dark green curtains. He glimpsed Emma disappearing up the hall and into a room. Sounds of a woman crying and a man's whispered reassurances drifted out and he followed slowly.

The woman on the bed shrank back as Drew stood in the doorway. Her large brown eyes filled with fear. She raised a thin arm to grasp Tom's hand.