Murphy stalked out of the hut, slamming the door behind him.
‘Murphy?’ shouted Con. ‘Gabriella, Murphy is coming your way. Keep hold of the car keys and stop him from doing anything stupid. Careful, he knows how to pick pockets.’
The sound of a motorbike engine rumbled outside the hut.
‘Shit! He’s taking Jack’s bike. Gabriella!’ shouted Con into the phone.
‘On it!’ came her breathless reply.
Eliza squeezed Jack’s hand, but he didn’t squeeze back.
I’m sorry, Jack. I need to tell them about the fight.
CHAPTER 24
MURPHY
Murphy rode Jack’s dirtbike down the trail, manoeuvring around the rocks and roots, the headlight illuminating the muddy tyre tracks that showed the route Jack had arrived by.
He was approaching the end of the wallaby trail now, the sound of the engine rattling inside his helmet, the visor raised to keep from getting water-blind from the raindrops. He saw lights up ahead, coming up fast. Tom and Gabriella, standing in his way, waving him down, shouting for him to stop.
Murphy revved the engine and drove straight through.
They dodged to the side, their faces a blur in the rain and torch beams, and then Murphy was on the wider four-wheel-drive track, the bouncing headlight lighting the road and the tree limbs that spread over it, ghostly arms reaching for him.
A wallaby bounded across the trail ahead of him, joey in her pouch, pausing at the edge of the track to watch him, eyes reflecting the headlights. Murphy rode right past: he knew where he was headed.
He took old dirt tracks he knew well from a youth spent riding these same trails with Butch. He criss-crossed forestry and muddy bush routes, down the mountainside, until he came out into the outskirts of Limestone Creek and directly onto a farm’s driveway. He rode it to the road, then through paddocks and into town.
Roaring through the streets of dilapidated houses and barking dogs, it didn’t take him long to reach the Masons’ large double-storey house. He left the motorbike idling against the fence and stormed up to the front door, ignoring the stepping stones on the manicured lawn. He kicked open the heavy wooden door with a crash that busted the doorframe.
‘Madison!’ he shouted, flicking on the light in the main living area, everything sparkling clean. ‘Where are you?’
Nelly Mason’s scream echoed from upstairs, and seconds later the stairway light flicked on. Mr Bruiser exploded down the stairs, crouching on the final step and yapping like a guard dog. A moment later Kevin Mason ran down the steps, naked, holding a cricket bat.
Nelly was behind him, wrapped in her dressing gown.
‘Murphy, you bastard, what the hell are you —’ shouted Kevin.
Murphy pulled the Glock out of his belt and pointed it at his head.
Kevin fell instantly quiet, the cricket bat dropping out of his hands. Nelly fainted, her body hitting the carpeted steps with a dull thump.
‘Madison. Get down here,’ shouted Murphy. ‘Now!’
‘No,’ croaked Kevin, voice strangled. ‘Madison, he’s got a gun!’
He heard Madison’s footsteps and then she too appeared, hair messy, her phone in her hand.
‘Lose the phone or I’ll shoot your dad,’ said Murphy.
Terror flashed across Madison’s face. She dropped the phone and it cartwheeled over to Nelly’s sprawled body. ‘You killed Georgia? I was so sure it wasn’t you . . .’ she whispered. Then outrage crossed her face. ‘I defended you.’
‘Jack said you planned this,’ shouted Murphy. ‘You and the girls planned to go missing. For the sake of your fucking YouTube channel?’
The fear vanished from her face, replaced by a raised eyebrow. She came down the stairs and put her hands on her hips. ‘That’s what Jack said, is it? Did you know he’s screwing your daughter?’
‘Madison, go back to your room,’ choked Kevin.
‘Don’t worry, Dad, he won’t shoot – it’s Murphy.’ Madison cocked her head. ‘He’s just as weak as Jasmine.’
‘Did you plan this, Madison? Did Jasmine agree to it?’ said Murphy, shaking the gun. ‘Answer me!’
‘You think I told Georgia to throw herself off a cliff?’ said Madison, now smirking. ‘You really think I’m capable of that?’
‘Did you set this up?’ said Murphy.
‘Yes,’ said Madison. ‘I did. I planned it all.’
‘What are you saying?’ said Kevin, turning towards her a fraction.
‘You found the backpacks, is that it?’ said Madison. ‘Won’t be long until it gets out then. Yes, we planned it. But something’s gone wrong. They haven’t made contact with me, Georgia is dead, and Bree didn’t get her backpack either. I think someone has really taken them, Murphy. Or, more likely, Cierra and Jasmine are playing a game I don’t know about. The little bitches.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘One thing’s for sure: with Georgia dead and the other three missing, maybe our story has become true. We summoned the Hungry Man.’
‘What about Jasmine? Tell me,’ said Murphy. ‘All of it.’ He shook the gun again.
‘Say please,’ said Madison.
He ground his teeth so hard they creaked.
‘Go on,’ said Madison. ‘Say please.’
‘Madison,’ whispered Kevin.
‘. . . please,’ ground out Murphy.
‘No. I’m going back to bed. I’ll talk to the cops tomorrow, but I’m not talking to you while you’re in such a foul mood. Goodnight, Mr Murphy. Night, Dad.’
Madison picked up her phone and walked up the stairs. Murphy watched her go.
Nelly, he saw now, was awake, but hadn’t moved. Kevin was white as a sheet.
Murphy put the Glock back in his belt. ‘Your daughter is out of fucking control.’ He stomped out of the house, kicking over a potted plant on his way to the dirtbike.
A story was forming in Murphy’s mind. Georgia’s death was accidental, then Jasmine and Cierra ran – afraid of being in trouble – taking their backpacks and hiding somewhere. And for some reason Madison was calm, assured. It was agonising that she wouldn’t share whatever secrets she kept behind that smug little face, but that . . . that meant whatever had happened to Jasmine, maybe it wasn’t too bad.
Two emotions were warring inside him. His daughter was missing and that was like an illness, pneumonia: there was something blocking his chest and he couldn’t breathe and he was burning with fever. But this other thing now inside him: a glimmer of hope.
Jasmine and Cierra’s backpacks are gone, so they both made it from the Lake Nameless trail to the Fisherman’s Hut at Lake Mackenzie. As he drove back home on Jack’s motorbike, certainty set in. Jasmine is alive.
In the morning he would head to Lake Mackenzie and join the search that would surely begin there.
He left the dirtbike in the driveway, behind Butch’s Hilux. He could hear music from the back shed – Butch was still out there.
Murphy walked into his room, stopping in front of Jasmine’s crayon drawing. For the first time since Sara’s death, he kneeled down at his bed to pray.
Sara, if you’re up there – I need you now . . . bring Jasmine back and I promise, I’ll never smoke weed again, I’ll never . . .