One Boy Missing(86)

They set off in two marked cars: Moy and Jason in the first; Andrew, Bryce and Ossie in the second. They sped towards the farm, slowing onto the dirt road.

‘It’s gonna be warm,’ Jason said.

Moy ignored him. ‘Bolt cutters?’

‘Got ’em.’

The scrub was three metres thick on each side of the track, dense melaleuca and ti-tree growing around gums, themselves overgrown with mistletoe and blackberry. Moy could see that it might be a good hiding place.

‘Early summer,’ Laing said.

Moy looked at him. ‘What?’

‘Early summer…might even get a sweat up today.’

But Moy didn’t know what he meant. A sweat? Searching? He just didn’t get Laing. ‘You should be careful. One day she’s just gonna walk in on you.’

‘That would simplify things.’

He looked at him. ‘I should have called for an ambulance first.’

Laing stared ahead, at the house in the distance, on the hill. ‘Wait.’

When the two marked cars arrived back at the side-track, Gary was missing. They got out and looked around before making their way towards the house. When they were just short, Moy saw Gary kneeling in the bush, using the dawn light to study the compound. He knelt beside him. ‘Anything?’

Gary kept his eyes on the house. ‘Bit a’ movement. Curtains. No one’s come out.’

Moy turned towards the others, who had gathered, their revolvers drawn, behind him. ‘Right, follow me,’ he said. He ran from the bush, supporting his pistol wrist, looking back, telling them to spread out.

A few moments later he was at the front door. He knocked. ‘Patrick, you there?’

No answer. He waited, and for a moment, imagined the scene inside.

‘Patrick?’

‘Bart?’ he heard from inside.

He shook the door. ‘It’s me. Open up.’

Patrick threw the door open. He stood, making sure, half-smiling, half-crying. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, before taking a single step forward.

Moy took him, and pulled him close as Laing and Gary brushed past, guns drawn, shouting for Humphris to show himself. Moy buried his face in the boy’s dirty hair. He could feel him crying, struggling for breath, finally consumed by the horror and relief that washed over him.

Patrick put his arms around Moy’s waist, locked his fingers together and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’

‘I shouldn’t have left the hall, but he said if I came with him he’d take me to Tom.’

‘It’s okay, Patrick.’

‘I couldn’t bring you here, I couldn’t.’

‘I know.’

The sounds from the rest of the house had tailed off. Laing and Gary came back out, holstering their weapons and shrugging.

Moy gave the boy a squeeze and let him go. ‘Watch him for a minute, will yer, Gary?’

With his gun still drawn, Moy moved into the house. It was clean, neat, smelling of lemon. He went into the lounge room and the television was blinking with Xbox hockey. He stopped and looked at a pile of games sitting on a coffee table: racing, golf, football. Scooby Doo, different episodes from the ones he’d bought. He walked into the kitchen. The dishes had been washed, stacked to dry. There were Frosties and unopened Coco Pops and a bottle of Coke left open on the bench. Then he went into the farmer’s bedroom, his single bed, the cover tucked tightly, the smell of an old body, and powder.

Laing came into the room. ‘Patrick’s in the car.’

‘I’m coming. One minute.’

Laing went out and Moy sat on the bed. He opened a drawer, found a pile of papers and leafed through them. Bills, manuals, a holy card. Standing up, he approached a window that looked over a fence, across paddocks, towards a distant horizon. Peaceful and ordinary. Quite still.

No; there was a movement. He squinted. A squat figure, running, stumbling, correcting himself, stopping for breath and looking back. Moy opened the window and thought of calling, but realised the little man was too far away. Still running.

He ran from the room, out through the laundry, into what passed as a backyard. Grass, a few spent flowers, freshly turned soil, stubble. A moment to find his feet and stride, and he was sprinting, although he knew he couldn’t do it for long. He studied the humpty-dumpty man, and could make out his flannelette shirt and the shotgun in his left hand. Faster, moving through the air, barely touching the ground. He felt his heart pounding. Called, ‘Humphris.’

Jo Humphris stopped for a moment and looked back, then continued. Stopped, put the gun to his shoulder, thought better of it, turned and went on again.

There were only a few more strides. Moy launched himself, took Humphris around the waist and dragged him down into what was left of the crop. Looked up, spat dirt from his mouth, saw the gun, moved and extended his body and kicked it away. He watched Humphris to see what he’d do, but the man had no intention of resisting.