The cable bit into her palm as she crossed, while her mind returned to the rolling, boiling water. We can’t search every pool . . .
The rest of their party followed behind, their eyes on their respective directions, their mouths shut, faces grim.
After half an hour’s walk, they stopped, the sky overcast again and a chill wind starting to blow. ‘Now, I believe this is where Mr Jack Michaels eventually found you, once he’d met up with Miss Carmen,’ said Darren.
A large daisy bush reached over the edge of the trail here, its hundreds of beautiful white flowers early for the season. The smell was sharp and spicy, and the air droned with bees.
Somewhere, we joined the Lake Nameless trail, she thought in surprise. I didn’t even notice.
She felt completely lost.
But she had a pang of memory as she crouched down, pressing a hand to the soft flowers of the bush. She remembered lying here, in the mud and wet. The aroma was wilder than other flowers.
‘This is where they found you.’ said Darren. ‘Any details come back to you?’
‘I think I remember stopping here.’ She looked over to the bush. It was taller than her, taller than Darren, so big it felt otherworldly: like someone had taken it from a suburban garden and sprinkled magic powder on it, making it grow wild and ferocious. ‘I don’t know why, but it felt like the right place to stop.’
‘Probably the flowers,’ remarked the grizzled farmer from their party, scratching behind his knee. ‘Girls like flowers.’
Eliza pinched off one of the flowers, cradling it in her hand. The wild bees buzzed.
This daisy bush protected me from the person who was following me. The thought came to her from nowhere, and then a wild and irrational fear rushed through her. She spun around, staring into the forest, groping for Darren’s hand. Her breath came in heaving pants, her chest tight and throat dry. ‘There was someone else . . . footsteps, I know it . . . someone was hunting me!’
‘Relax, Miss Ellis,’ said Darren. ‘Just breathe. You’re fine. You’re okay.’
‘He followed me here. I remember his footsteps! I do!’ She gasped.
‘Should we call someone? She can’t breathe,’ said the farmer.
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Darren. ‘She’s fine. Aren’t you, Miss Ellis?’ He rubbed her back. ‘It’s okay for you to have a panic attack, you’ve been under a lot of stress. Try to breathe, but take your time – we’ll still be here, ready when you are. Just take your time.’
Slowly, with Darren’s encouragement, Eliza’s breathing began to slow, until she could spit out angrily, ‘I’m not . . . having . . . a panic . . . attack.’
‘Either way, you’re doing a good job,’ he said. ‘There, that’s better. You’re okay.’
‘I’m really not,’ said Eliza, when she could finally speak again. ‘I’m falling apart.’
It had begun to rain, the water icy cold. The other searchers all took off their packs, pulling out raincoats, but Darren let it run down his hair and face. ‘So . . . you do remember something?’
‘Someone was following me here.’
‘What do you remember about them?’
‘Just footsteps . . .’ The back of her head begun to ache. She remembered the terror of being followed, the urgency in her chest to reach the girls, the urgency not to lead this hunter to the girls . . .
‘Just think, Miss Ellis. You can do this.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Please. You . . . Can you try?’
‘I’m not remembering —’
‘Eliza,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘I . . . have a confession to make.’
Eliza looked at him. His face was striking now that his hair was wet in the lashing rain.
‘My sister was one of the girls taken in 1985.’
‘What?’
‘Rose. Rose Cahil.’
‘Oh, Darren. I’m so sorry.’
‘No one in my family ever believed Ted Barclay was responsible. And if the Hungry Man is active again . . . I want to stop him. I want to find him. I have to stop him.’ He gripped her shoulders. ‘I need you to think. Really think. Do you remember where you were when you woke up? When you first realised you were being hunted?’
Eliza looked up and down the trail. She pulled herself out of his grip. ‘I don’t think I could even find my way back to the motorbikes, let alone back to where I woke up, where Carmen first found me.’
‘You might be the only one who can help us. We have to find the other girls. If they’re still alive.’
‘Darren . . .’ said the grey-haired SES officer.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Darren, throwing up his hands. He walked a few steps down the track before coming back. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought it was worth a try.’
He pulled his own raincoat out and handed it to Eliza to slip over her hiking jacket. She slid her pack off, her heart beating fast from the remembered terror. She turned her back and let him help her into the raincoat. She looked into the bush, the heavy raindrops setting the leaves dancing. ‘We’ll come back another time. I’ll try harder. I promise.’
‘That’s all we can ask,’ murmured Darren. Thunder crackled in the distance. He looked towards where it had boomed, raising his free hand to test the wind. ‘Alright, people, time to get off this mountain. And in the meantime, I’ll call Detective Badenhorst and let him know what you’ve remembered.’
CHAPTER 18
CON
Con and Gabriella sat in a café off the main street of Limestone Creek, next to a bay window. The sun was shining, the street outside was wet with rain and slushy snow, and people walked around in T-shirts. Con supposed these locals were used to the changing weather. Or perhaps the drama was exciting enough to get them out of their houses.
Con and Gabriella had been discussing the phone call from Constable Darren.
‘Someone else was up there. We knew that from the head wound. The question is, who?’ said Con.
‘Maybe we just need to wait until Eliza remembers more?’ said Gabriella.
‘I hate waiting,’ said Con. ‘And this diary is less than useless.’
Spread across the table, between their coffees and Gabriella’s second bowl of nachos, were the photocopied pages of Georgia Lenah’s diary.
‘Don’t be petty. What were we expecting? That she’d write out the name of her killer?’ Gabriella picked up another page.
‘It’s not even a diary,’ said Con. ‘It’s just a notebook of ideas for her bloody museum.’
‘The museum was her life,’ said Gabriella.
Con put aside another sheet, which showed plans for an art gallery for Tasmanian artists. ‘Was this really going to happen? Did they have funding?’
‘Not all of it, but it was under way. When I talked to the mayor, she said that Georgia had supporters all around Tasmania and even on the mainland.’
‘Well, that’s impressive I suppose,’ said Con.
‘The thing is, here in Limestone Creek . . . Well, it’s a bit of a sore spot, these mountains, right? Kooparoona Niara– Mountain of Spirits. This whole area was significant, but the local industries don’t want to remind people of that. Georgia had to deal with opposition from the timber industry and the mining industry – both have interests in this area, and both of them have very smart businesspeople who recognise that a museum about the area’s Aboriginal history could lead to bad news for them.’