

### What Is the Lie?

Published by Anthony Van at Smashwords

Copyright Anthony Van 2012

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Chapter 1

"Come on, come on..." Tom urged. He hated red traffic lights with a passion. It was as if they conspired to delay him at every intersection. He was convinced that the current one was stuck on the red cycle, and he was glancing around to see how he could extricate himself from the traffic when the lights changed.

"Finally!" he shouted approval, but the Range Rover in front didn't move.

"Augh! Get off the phone you stupid woman!" he yelled at the unhearing driver ahead. And then he sounded his horn far longer than was necessary. She jumped and stalled her car in her haste he fretted until she eventually restarted her car. In the interim the lights flickered amber and then red.

"You are joking," protested Tom and was considering some comment to lambast the frazzled woman when he was distracted by the driver behind him sounding his horn. He gave an exaggerated shrug for the latter and turned on the radio. It was that Christian radio station again and their thought for the day was being dictated by a somnolent voice; 'You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.' He gazed at the pedestrians on the footpath. His mind worked; 'If the truth sets you free, what is the lie that keeps you captive?' He sighed, because he didn't want to be thinking about stuff like that.

"Ed!" was all Tom said. He changed the station to his favourite and wondered why he didn't complain to Ed about resetting the station every time he borrowed the car from work. And Ed borrowed the car regularly for business meetings, rather than drive his own large van. He rolled his eyes, shook his head and repeated, "Ed". It was only his affection for the older man that caused Tom to humour Ed's desire to drive his sporty car. So why didn't he complain? Probably because it was petty, and he didn't want Ed to know that it aggravated him. Ed's demeanour was so unlike his. He was unflappable. Tom wished that he could just let things wash over him like Ed Miles did. His, more senior in age, friend would just smile a warm smile and go on with his work.

A horn blared raucously. This time it was Tom who was holding up traffic. He accelerated with a short squeal of tyres before quickly easing off. A quick apologetic wave and he resumed his journey to work. His mental digression was enough to irritate a row of impatient drivers lined up behind him.

Tom worked in the family business. It was an engineering company founded around the design, construction and installation of effluent treatment plants. 'Clariflo', his firm, had successfully diversified in numerous innovative environmental companies. Tom's father, Harold Ferguson Witney, had named the company after his wife Clarissa, Tom's mother; he was particularly pleased that the name suitably described the business. Though the implied compliment seemed to have escaped his wife.

Harry had left the business to live an alternative hippy life style about two hours' drive up north, abandoning his family. It was so unlike him, Tom was totally bewildered by it all. Though still having a controlling interest in the company, he legally handed over decision making powers to his son, and power of attorney, should anything happen to him, to Ed Miles.

Because it had been Clarissa's family's 'old money' investment that had started the business in the first place, Clarissa was still the second largest shareholder. After a year and a half by herself Clarissa remarried. Tom was sure it was largely to spite his father. Her new husband was Gene Towers, a divorcee who had an undisciplined son. The son appeared only when he needed something, and it was usually money. Tom's stepfather had been involved in the sales side of Clariflo for a number of years and had gotten to know the family quite well. Though Tom didn't mind him as an employee, he found it difficult to warm to him as a stepfather. And Gene's son, Gene junior (though he went by the name Al), was someone Tom couldn't tolerate. He had left his mother's custody as soon as he realised the grass was greener with his father. He had been a financial parasite on the family ever since. His father indulged his whims, getting him a car and financing courses at the local university—most of which he didn't attend.

The marital arrangement with Towers was peculiar. In some whacky contractual set up, he was more of a beneficiary resident than a husband. And the prenuptial limitations were quite severe. But, initially, he seemed comfortable with the whole situation. More recently the financial security didn't seem enough. Gene was often bad-tempered and felt emasculated by the agreement. Clarissa herself regretted opening her house and having her hospitality abused. She was at present in the throes of having the contract terminated. Tom kept as much to himself as possible, eating meals with his ersatz family but spending most of his time with his cousin Rick, with Gil Trentham and at work. In fact, he enjoyed work interactions and most of the employees' companionship. It was almost a hobby developing ideas and product lines.

Although only twenty three, Tom Witney was now virtually running the company. Ed Miles, a trained company lawyer who had been a close friend of Harry, was still Finance Manager and was Tom's mentor, advisor and confidante. Even though he was thirty years older than Tom, he seemed to understand the young man. Ed recognised Tom's desire to not only be a financial success, but to make a real difference in reducing industrial pollution.

***

That morning Tom walked into the building at 8:45 am. Fifteen minutes later than usual. He'd already had a morning jog and had dropped into the gun club for an hour. Unusually, he was wearing a suit. He had a fairly important meeting with new customers and he thought it necessary to put on his best appearance for his presentation.

On the second floor he greeted the receptionist with a grumble about the traffic before negating that with a good humoured shrug, adding his usual cheery good morning and then heading into his own offices. His personal secretary, Winsome Brown was her businesslike self, filling him in on his daily program. The early fifties woman had been with the company from the very early days and although she seemed a little surly at times, her invaluable knowledge of the history of the company meant that she would have a job for as long as she wanted. Ed had kept her in the office in the transition period and Tom had inherited her, although she worked for both men on a needs basis. Sometimes he hinted that a more pleasant demeanour would impact well on customer relations, but his intimations had little effect.

The morning was spent with his important new customers going over the installation of a complete pollution control and effluent treatment plant for a new chemical factory. Because of government funding for 'greener industries', they were putting in the whole range from a twin scrubbing system for fumes and gases, to a closed drainage system, neutralisation tanks, colloid treatment, settling tanks and collection of purified waste water for recycling. It was the second such account they had won recently with the first successfully going on line just a few weeks previous. In truth, it was this whole working system that clinched the deal with their new customers.

By lunchtime, they were generally satisfied with the arrangements and decided to lunch together at a nearby restaurant. Tom invited some of the senior engineers and production managers along to promote links with the customers. Normally Gene, as Sales Manager, would attend customer events such as this, but he said he had a previous engagement when Tom contacted him. Tom wasn't sure whether he was feeling snubbed because InventiveChem, Gene's customer, had bypassed sales and contacted Tom directly.

Coming back after a couple of hours of profitable interaction, things were quiet. In his office, Tom hung his newly acquired Bachelor of Engineering Degree; the glass frame being necessary to flatten out the freshly coiled cardboard.

The calm was shattered as Gene stormed in. He slammed the door behind him.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself. You get one new customer who wants the 'It-does-everything' system and I lose two because they don't want to pay for top of the range treatment plants. They just want something that will satisfy EPA legislation." He took a breath noting that Tom was open-mouthed at his outburst and continued.

"It's all because of this stupid policy of zero contaminant outflows. It's ridiculous. Look, if we keep it simple it will sell much more."

"That's not the point Gene," interrupted Tom, "Our policy is for highest practicable environmental standards. It's where governments are heading and it will give us the edge if we develop now and grow what is now a niche market."

"You're trying to reach standards that aren't even set. What's wrong with letting treated waste water down the drain if it's passed all the tests and it's within the Environmental Protection Authorities' limits? My customers get nervous with all this talk of recycling and value adding when you're talking about pollutants. And not only that, we're becoming more expensive than our competitors," Gene fumed.

Tom replied in a quiet, soothing tone, "Gene, you don't get it. This is about getting a good reputation; it's about good science and good citizenship. If we can be the pace setter in 'green technologies' we will cash in when tougher standards become mandatory."

"You tell that to my customers," shouted Gene, who was now angry at what he thought was Tom's patronising words. He turned and left in no better mood than when he had entered.

Tom collected his laptop and papers and he then headed to the conference room.

"Winnie... could you get Ed to see any appointments this afternoon? I'll be with design."

"Ed went out earlier; I don't think he's back yet."

Tom suppressed a wave of annoyance. He'd normally ask Gene, but not today. He thought of his purchasing manager.

"Could you get Harley to take them?"

"Sure Tom, is Gene okay?" She indicated the direction in which the man had stormed off.

"Fine," answered Tom stoically. A few questioning stares from others in the main office communicated a 'What-was-that-all-about?' curiosity as he passed.

When he arrived, he noticed that some of the design engineers were already looking over his lengthy proposals for dealing with solid wastes from their treatment plants. The process centred around value adding to their existing plants by collecting the colloid mass from the settlement tanks (as they usually did) and, instead of disposing it, adding kaolin clays and other bonding agents before firing the matter into large ceramic tiles. The non-slip tiles could then be used for chemical resistant flooring around the plants they were installing.

He showed them a digital presentation and reasoned that the high temperatures would destroy any harmful organics and volatiles while any heavy metals etc would be captured inside the thickly glazed, grit coated tiles. Tom also suggested that the exhaust, from the huge kiln required, should be passed through one of their treatment facilities to ensure a secure containment of contaminants. Though he suspected that his precautions were 'overkill', he nevertheless, wanted to demonstrate that the integrity of the product would reward them for any additional cost spent in the design stage. Tom was hoping for some constructive feedback, but when the three men and one woman had spent most of the time reading specifications and nodding in quiet discussion, he knew they needed more time. He asked them to take copies of the blueprints and come back in two days' time with some recommendations.

He wanted to get into developing the prototype but Tom understood that consultation now might save them considerable angst and money in the future. By five, most staff had already gone. Erin, one of the graduate environmental scientists, walked him through what she was doing with biological treatment of petrochemical pollutants. Her hope was that bacterial tanks would be added to Clariflo's treatment suite. Erin was about Tom's age and he enjoyed the company of the attractive blonde, although he sometimes wondered if they would ever talk about anything other than work. She left in a rush when she realised what time it was. Tom thoughtfully reviewed Erin's bacterial proposals and made notes about containment protocols, dealing with bactericide contaminants and developing more versatile strains that would handle a variety of hydrocarbons. After tidying up some paperwork, Tom turned off the office lights and headed towards his private car port.

***

When he sat in his car he had a sensation of being watched. He adjusted the rear vision mirror to check behind him. Something was amiss. Tom scanned the car and checked the glove box. He had the jitters and he couldn't work out why. He turned on the radio. Yes, Ed had driven the car today. He changed the station almost automatically. Shaking his head as if to rid himself of some irrational suspicions, Tom started the engine and drove his Mercedes sports car toward home. Eventually, after negotiating a brief period of traffic snarls, he was travelling through the tree lined boulevards of his elegant suburb. He weaved gently along the last curve, around a traffic speed control and up a straight tree-lined avenue before arriving home.

It was about six thirty pm. Tonight he was late. He was almost always home at exactly the same time (except, on rare occasions such as this, when business meetings detained him). This was in deference to Molly and Tamara Jones, the mother and daughter who cooked for their family. Tamara had, naturally, taken over from her ill mother a few weeks ago. Molly Jones had cooked for the Witneys for as long as Tom could remember. Tamara had often come and helped in the past and more-so, recently, as her mother's health deteriorated. Tom quite liked her and always gave her grief. He teased, yet he really admired the way she was working her way through university by being the organised 'homemaker' that his mother never was.

There was a slight breeze and a rattle in the leaves of the tall poplars that bordered the long driveway. Tom was climbing the steps to the front porch when he sensed something was different. Juno, his pet boxer usually leapt the side fence with a rollicking gait, all slobber and enthusiasm, barking his greeting. Tom put his briefcase down and went around the side where Juno liked to lounge under a shade tree. On the other side of the access gate all was quiet. He walked further back and called, "Juno." There was a raucous bark from the shed. 'What was he doing in the garden shed?' wondered Tom. 'Had he been in disgrace over some misdemeanour? It wouldn't have been the first time.' The dog was all over him before he'd finished opening the door. It took a couple of minutes of "down boy" and "stop it Juno" before the dog ran to check the scents around the garden.

Tom made his way back through the gate, returning to the front door and unlocking it. Inside, his immediate impression was that everything appeared normal, with the television on in the lounge and cooking smells. Then, at almost the same time he detected the rank smell of burning coming from the kitchen. He quickly placed his briefcase on a hallway chair and ran toward the source of the acrid odour. A blue haze of smoke roiled in a descending layer like a thick fog, There on the gas range, a saucepan of vegetables and another of potatoes were boiled dry and smoking profusely. He grasped an oven mitt and removed both, turned off the gas range and switched on the exhaust fan. What had happened? Where was Tamara? Tom coughed and spluttered as the irritating fumes prickled his throat. Just as he swivelled away from the cooking area he gasped, "Tamara! Oh no..." He rushed toward her. Tamara was lying, recoiled defensively, underneath a table. He almost vomited as he saw the bloodied fatal wound on the side of her head. Her sightless eyes were staring and her motionless form unavoidably proclaiming her tragic fate.

Returning to go to the lounge, he saw in the walk through library adjoining the hall that Gene was lying in a pool of blood at the foot of the stairs. Tom's stomach rebelled and he just made it to the sink in the kitchen before emptying its contents. An awful ache invaded his being as he ran.

"Mum!" he yelled. Though his thoughts had imagined the worst. It was no less shocking when he walked into the lounge. "Mum?" He knew before drawing any closer. Tom found his mother's body slumped in the lounge. She too had gunshot wounds. He knelt over her and sobbed at the loss of his mother. Outraged, distraught, his stomach knotted. He gaped at the scene as if he was in another dimension—unable to perceive time or his own presence.

Emerging from the paralysis the morbid sight had created, he noticed the TV was still on with some inane game show. He went and turned it off. Tamara was lying dead in the kitchen and Gene had been gunned down in the library. 'It can't be. It's all wrong! These things happen to other people.' His mind floundered erratically, stuck like a blowfly in the viscous molasses of confusion. Stunned, shocked at the atrocity, Tom took several minutes to gain any sense of rationality. Strangled sobs wracked his being. He was devastated by this attack on his family, the violent invasion of his home. And death—the carnage—it outraged him. As his thoughts swirled, he considered the young woman. He was nauseated and moved by sadness at Tamara's death—an innocent murdered. Someone who had so much before her and was as inoffensive as anyone he knew. When the reality of the situation finally solidified in his mind, he dialled the police and informed them of the triple homicide.

"Yes", he croaked, "that's right. There are three people dead... This is Tom Witney... That's right, 311 The Boulevard, Pineville."

The person said something about staying where he was.

"Where would I go?" he lamely replied to no one in particular.

***

Two squad cars screamed to a stop and four police scrambled up the steps to where Tom was waiting, head in hands, sitting on the top step. A sergeant walked past him and briefly disappeared inside before emerging and introducing himself as Sergeant Straun.

"I want you to think carefully about everything that happened and then I want you to tell me," he stated as he took out a notebook. While Tom considered the order of events, Straun barked orders, "Put some crime strips around. I'll put in a call. Find out where Homicide are."

When he eventually came back from the car, two other squad cars pulled up a little more circumspectly.

"So what happened here?"

Tom recounted the events as he recalled them. He explained the unusual quiet, the smell of burning food and then the discovery of the bodies.

The sergeant asked him the identity of each individual and Tom's relationship with them. He was just starting to suggest possible reasons for Tom being angry at these people when an unmarked car came up the drive. Straun put away his notebook and greeted the detectives that got out of the car, speaking briefly with them in muted tones. Another car and a van then drove up the now congested driveway. From their outfits and equipment it was clear to Tom that these were forensic police. A strange numbness, like a bad head cold, seeped into Tom's head, and the images of people moving about slowed, conveying surreal, freeze frame portraits as he focused on the action about him.

After looking at the crime scene for considerably longer than the uniformed man had, one of the detectives came out again. He moved toward Tom and stood over him.

"I'm Detective Burton. I'd just like to ask you some preliminary questions before we take you to the station to make a formal statement."

"Okay, but I already told the sergeant everything I know," Tom said with a sigh that reflected his emotional exhaustion more than anything else.

The second detective exited the house with his notebook already open. He approached and spoke, "All shot."

"This is Detective Rolf," he introduced the other man. Tom nodded a slight reaction to the introduction and looked down at the ground.

Over the next ten minutes the detectives asked him, in a number of different ways, what he did, who he found first and was anyone still alive? Then they wanted to ask again, just to check. Exasperated, Tom vented his anguish.

"I told you; I came home from work. It was too quiet and I found the dog locked in the shed. When I went inside, I smelled the burning food. It wasn't until after I'd turned off the gas that I saw Tamara. She had been shot in the side of the head." Tom choked off the words as the memory constricted his chest. He took a moment before he resumed, "I got panicky and started looking for my mother. On the way I saw Gene at the foot of the stairs. I suspected the worst then and went to the lounge where I saw my mother slumped in her chair." His voice tailed off with emotion. He had to force air into his lungs before managing to weakly croak, "It took a little while before I could think to call the police."

"Is there a Mr Witney senior?"

"You mean my father?"

The detective nodded. "Where is he?"

"He's started a new life up north in a commune." A thought suddenly struck Tom. "I should give him a call. He needs to know about this."

"Don't worry. We'll contact him... all in good time."

Following some more peripheral questions that wore away at Tom, leaving him starting to quaver with his responses, Burton applied a different tack.

"Your family appears to be very wealthy Mr Witney, who would be the major beneficiary of your mother's...?" He left the end of the sentence implied.

Tom visibly sagged. It hadn't occurred to him till now. It was apparent that he was suspected; probably the only suspect at the moment.

"I guess I am," he barely managed to utter. It wasn't necessary to mention Holly, his sister who was overseas.

The questions continued. Why had he taken so long to call? What was his relationship with his stepfather like? What was Tamara's role in the household? Tom's head was spinning.

The two detectives left him in the company of a police woman who seemed to show some compassion, though it was clear that he was under informal custody. She asked him whether he had a girlfriend, and then asked how he felt about Tamara. He felt affronted that he had to insist Tamara had just been a friend of the family and that she valued the casual employment they offered.

Burton and Rolf returned for another bout of questioning as crime scientists scurried all over the property. Burton began, "Is the house usually locked?"

"Yes, usually; it was locked when I arrived home," Tom's words reflected his fatigue.

"There appears to be no forced entry, can you explain that?" He waited expectantly for Tom to answer, but Tom just stared, eyes glazed, wishing they would get on the trail of the real murderer.

He knew they were hinting that the killer seemed to be known to the victims.

Just then, one of the forensic experts examining the house came up with a gun in a plastic bag and showed the others.

"It was in the bushes out the back."

"Do we need to guess what type it is?" Rolf looked cynically at Tom.

The crime investigator shook his head.

"I believe you own a Glock nine millimetre Mr Witney." Burton was scowling now.

"Yes," was his strangled reply. There was a depressing feeling that it was his gun. Realising that they had already run checks on him disheartened him even further.

"Do you recognise this gun Mr Witney?"

"It looks like mine." Tom felt the web of guilt starting to restrict his movement.

Burton began summing up, "Witney, we believe that this is the murder weapon. I'm confident that ballistic tests will prove it. Do you have anything to say?"

It was then that Tom knew he was in really big trouble. It looked like they were expecting him to confess. He also knew that having used that same pistol at the shooting range that morning, it would not be surprising if trace amounts of gunshot residue were found on his hands.

Tom's voice was shaky, "Detective, if that's my gun I have no idea how it got there. I went to the gun club this morning as I often do, and then I put it away, locked in my trunk."

"And I suppose your car has been broken into today?" Rolf was unable to mask his scepticism.

Tom was becoming angry. "Look, would I use my own gun and throw it in the bushes? Would I call you before making sure I couldn't be implicated. I think someone's trying to set me up!"

Burton looked at Tom thoughtfully, "Not surprisingly Mr Witney, I think we've heard that before."

Tom continued to insist on his innocence, but his claims were deflected with advice to 'put it in his statement'. He was docile as he was taken to the squad car by a constable. Tom was morose, feeling persecuted and desolate, in a tangle of despondency. An overwhelming awareness came over him that he was on his own. His only real family was Holly, who was somewhere in Paris, and his father, Harry, who was away on the commune. That just left his worthless step brother Al. He stood next to the car with a policeman who was assigned to watch him.

Tom's thoughts were in a whirl. He had been set up. But who; who knew about his sport shooting? Who could take his gun?

At the same time the police were preoccupied with the question: who was set to gain from the elimination of his mother and stepfather?

The answer was appalling to him. He was a major heir with his sister. They would now receive his mother's wealth. Motive was certainly pointing to him. Holly was not around and he was. He may have denied involvement to the police, but he had to face facts. He certainly had opportunity. Who would benefit if he was out of the way? Al? No, he doubted if Al was in the will. His mother had made a point of telling him that Al would not be mentioned in the will, even though Tom had insisted that he didn't really care.

Anyway, could Al devise such a scheme? He was a sneaky guy. He probably was capable of planning something like this, but he had no motive. Tom had to find out who did this and he couldn't do that from a gaol cell. 'Escape'; that was the thought that invaded his mind now.

Seeing the keys of the police car still in the ignition and the relaxed attitude of his minder, Tom gave a piercing whistle. Juno his massive boxer leapt over the side fence and responded to a cry of 'set' to bring to ground and bail up the cowering policeman, while Tom launched himself into the squad car, turned the ignition and roared off down the gravel driveway and onto the roadway. It was all a haze of heart thumping madness.

The time was now just after nine pm and he had no idea where he was heading. Where would he go? He had to find a place where he could stop and think. Headlights, street signs and street side shops were all a blur as he drove the first few minutes through his suburb. 'A police car!' his mind was screaming. 'What was I thinking? How do I disappear in a police car?' Realising where he was, almost instinctively he knew what he had to do. Turning quietly behind the row of shops, Tom eased the car up a narrow alley. Attempting to slide out of the police car as unobtrusively as a suited young man possibly could, he walked into the driveway of the adjacent property.

Having been at Clint's place a week and a half ago, Tom knew exactly where to head. A slight tug raised the counterbalanced garage door. Inside was a meticulously neat series of storage drawers, tool boards and rows of labelled containers of parts. All this was to support his friend's bike riding mania. Toward the back his new racing bike hung suspended on a rack alongside his older one. Next to those were a couple of old lycra outfits that Clint lent out to people like Tom, who went riding with him. Frenetically, Tom changed out of his suit and into snug fitting bike shorts and vest, gloves and helmet. Putting his phone, wallet and PDA in a little backpack, he gave a final look around. As an afterthought, he rolled up some overalls that were hanging up and tucked them inside his vest. He hid the suit in one of the drawers. Wanting to hasten his departure, he grabbed the newer bike and rode out, trying to emulate a typical enthusiast.

Tom hunched over the handlebars and started cycling steadily along the highway. His goal was to have the mindset of a training cyclist, but his predicament invaded his thoughts. He had to unravel this plot against him. Was it Al? Who else? He had to do some investigating. Just riding without knowing where he was heading disturbed him. Recognition of where he was when stopped at a red traffic light cleared his brain. 'Stopping here was fortuitous,' thought Tom. The familiar intersection at least gave him a destination. Taking the corner, he headed off the highway to Ed's place in a nearby, more middle class type suburb than his own. Pumping the pedals, scanning the road in front of him, he wondered why Ed lived around here, since he could certainly afford something more up market. Furtively casting backward glances, he rode up the paved driveway. He stopped his bike and leaned it against the old utility that Ed had next to the garage. He deposited his small load of overalls and backpack on the ground.

Chapter 2

The door was answered by Lori Miles, the eldest of Ed's three daughters. Tom had met Lori only a few times over the many years that he had known her and this was the first time since his grandad's funeral. She had only been sixteen at the time and he had been too preoccupied to notice her very much. Now, however, he caught his breath and his heart seemed to skip. Looking at Lori, Tom couldn't think of what to say. Soft brown eyes were looking up at him. She smiled and brushed some strands of her dark brown hair out of her eyes. Saving him from solving the problem of speech, she spoke first.

"Hi Tom. If you're looking for Dad, he's out with the rest of the family for tea. They'll be back in an hour or so I guess. You can come in and wait if you want."

"Oh thanks, you're sure it's no problem. I really need to speak to your Dad." He walked past Lori and into the lounge. Tom knew his way around as he had met with Ed over a number of matters since management of the company had passed on to him.

"No, it's no problem." She studied him as he sat in one of the arm chairs. "You've changed. I've never seen you looking so sporty like this. Looks like your new work-life agrees with you." She felt like saying 'except that you need to loosen up you look so tense.' He sensed that she had left something unsaid as if she assessed him.

"But what?" he prompted.

"Nothing," she smiled, "I just remember you as being scruffy looking all the time."

Lori had been away at university so of course she wouldn't have witnessed his transition from an unkempt student to the trimmed young engineer she saw now. He turned to ask what she meant, as he was surprised that she had ever noticed him. Her grin put him off his line of thought. "What's so funny?"

"It's just that I've never seen you in a lycra bike suit?"

His face revealed a moment of pain as he thought back to the mayhem he had left behind with unavoidable haste.

"I have urgent business with your Dad which couldn't wait." Tom got up and spread his hands. Then, indicating the reason for his dress in an attempt to lighten up, he said, "So I came like this." However, his expression and quavering voice betrayed his tension.

Lori immediately reflected a look of concern. "Why don't you sit down and watch the TV and I'll get you a drink. Er, we don't have alcohol but just about anything else. What would you like?"

"Just water thanks," responded Tom as he settled into the armchair again and turned on the news using the remote.

Tom was watching an international report when it was interrupted by late breaking news.

'Police are attending the scene of a triple murder in the suburb of Pineville. On the spot is our reporter Andie Brown with the latest details.' The picture crossed to a young female reporter with short black hair. She began to describe the gruesome details.

"Thank you Peter; yes police have identified three people, all of whom have been shot dead. They were found in the opulent house of a 'wealthy young businessman'. Peter, police have expressed an interest in speaking with Tom Witney, one of the residents of the house. The three deceased were identified as Clarissa Witney – Towers, her husband Gene Towers and Tamara Jones a domestic at the house. That's all we have for now Peter."

The news reader reiterated that police were looking to speak to Tom Witney and accompanied the statement with a recent photo of Tom at an environmental conference.

Lori was standing at the doorway with her hand over her mouth.

"What did you do Tom?"

"It's not what it looks like." Tom quickly re-joined, before simmering down to explain. "I was set up. I wouldn't kill anyone."

"You have to give yourself up..." she paused, "or I have to give you up." Lori's face looked anguished. She couldn't believe what was happening.

"You don't understand." Tom's voice was harder, more insistent. "The murderer used my gun with my fingerprints. How could I explain that? As far as I know, hardly anyone else would benefit financially from my mother's death..." The words caught in his throat.

The attractive twenty one year old looked stern and mature beyond her years when she reiterated, "You have to give yourself up. Don't you see? By running everyone will think you're guilty."

"I'm not running," he retorted, "I'm going to find the killer. If I hand myself in they'll stop looking. The killer will get away. They have the weapon, prints and motive. How can I convince them it was someone else? I'm the only one who knows it wasn't me."

Lori shook her head, "I'm sorry Tom, I believe you; they will too. It's about doing the right thing." She went to the phone on the wall and started dialling, but before the call got through, Tom had hung up by depressing the button and gripped her hand tightly.

"I'm sorry Lori. I can't let you call the police." Lori winced at the pressure he placed on her wrist. She tried to remove his fingers and he grasped the other hand as well. Tom continued, "I shouldn't have come. Now I'm left with the options of kidnapping you, or tying you up so that I can give myself enough time to find a safe place. Both choices, I believe, will mean I will actually be committing a crime."

"What about running away from police when you know they want to interview you?"

"You're right, but it was escape from police custody actually, and that is a crime isn't it?" He didn't add stealing a bike and gear.

Lori gasped. "You escaped from custody?"

He nodded. "You know what they say... 'Desperate times call for desperate measures'." He gritted his teeth unable to believe all this was really happening.

"Could you pretend you hadn't seen me if I disappear now?" Tom looked pleadingly into her eyes. Her look seemed to soften a little.

"I could, but then I would be breaking the law."

'No one knows I've been here. If you pretend that you hadn't seen the news, you don't need to mention me. No one will know." He became more strident.

"I will..." she retorted and then Lori looked into Tom's blue eyes. "But I see where you're heading. You want me to deceive for you, but not lie. And what happens when you turn out to be the murderer? I'll be an accomplice." A strained tightness was in her voice.

Tom was stunned for a moment. "I thought you believed me. Do you really think I could murder my own mother, my stepfather and an innocent girl? If my character is that doubtful then maybe I deserve to be in gaol."

"Anyone is capable of murder given the circumstances. Isn't that what they say?" Lori seemed to become a little distant. "And what will you do if I follow your little deceit plan... flee the country? Or worse, get yourself killed trying to escape."

"I told you. I'm going to find the killer." He hesitated, and noted she was wavering. He was unaware of the increasing pressure he was applying to her wrists and was thinking of where he was destined to end up if he surrendered. He repeated, "I have to find the killer." Then with a vague silly expression on his face he murmured, "I'm going to find the 'one armed man'. It reminds me of a movie." He said the latter in an enigmatic, trailing off sort of voice.

"What?" asked Lori, now beginning to wonder about his sanity. She squinted doubtfully and grimaced. Tom half smiled, but grimly, for the first time that evening.

"Ask your Dad when things calm down a bit."

Lori's eyes filled with tears, "You're hurting me," she softly complained with a breaking voice.

He let go of her tightly clasped wrists and seeing his finger impressions he huskily whispered, "Sorry, Lori. I didn't mean to hurt you."

She rubbed her wrists and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Rallying, she asked,

"Does Dad know that you're in trouble?"

"I'll tell you one thing. Your Dad knows me well enough to know what I haven't done."

He pulled a contorted, confused frown in response to his own convoluted sentence, but then registered her gravity when she returned with a studied stern expression. "So you think I should go along with your little ruse?"

Tom sighed, "You know what... I have to go ... Look, do what you think is right. I would hate to get anyone into trouble." He finished a little sarcastically as he turned and walked away.

As the front door shut, Lori still stood there taken aback. She felt tears well up in her eyes. Had it all been about her? Where was her compassion, her Christian care for others? Not once had she commiserated with Tom on the loss of his mother and stepfather and, what did he say... an innocent young girl, whoever she was. She moved to the phone hesitantly. Her fingers shook as she dialled.

Tom grabbed a key for the utility from the shed after finding a gap to stow the bike. He had borrowed the vehicle on odd occasions before and he remembered well Ed saying he could use it any time. Donning the overalls, he fled from the Miles' place and, in the darkness, headed for his cousin's cabin in the hills. He felt much less conspicuous in the 'ute' and decided that it was unlikely that they would find him tonight, given that they were probably now searching for a cyclist in riding gear. He assumed that they had found the squad car by now. Tom bit his lip. 'Unless...' he thought, 'unless Lori had phoned the police straight away.' Then this whole ploy was a waste of time. He was just delaying the inevitable. It then occurred to him to check the glove compartment. When he saw the device that Ed kept in there, he immediately turned off his own phone. He didn't know whether police had begun tracking him but he was still in the suburbs; still far enough to travel to not reveal his destination to them.

Should he find another vehicle? He couldn't blame Lori if she had rung the police. He had treated her roughly and to help someone fleeing from the law was against everything she would have experienced and believed. Well, if she had called then they'd be looking for a white utility and he needed to find another car. He wracked his brain searching for a solution. He wouldn't steal one. That would just add to his troubles. Maybe his father would help. He pictured the strange reunion in his mind; 'Hi Dad, the police are after me... I need to borrow a car!'

The road into the hills became quieter the farther out he drove. Tom was quite sure that he had evaded notice and yet still he tensed at every car that passed. He struggled to locate the turnoff and was sure he had missed it. Tom was just looking for a place to turn back when he recognised the dirt road on the right that wound another three kilometres up the valley to the cabin.

The cloudy night ensured that the narrow winding road was dark and forbidding. Native animals scuttled away as the probing headlights revealed each new stretch around every bend. Vine streamers from the verge of the tangled forest encroached on the little used track. Tom was becoming anxious as the cheerless journey dragged on and on. He had been to Rick's cabin twice before and he was sure the trip from the turn off had never taken this long. To bolster his courage Tom rationalised; it was because he was alone and there was no one to interact with. Also, he was being cautious, driving much slower at night and he was sure his own emotional state compounded the worry. It was just then that the log fencing bordering the small river became visible around the bend and he knew he was only a few hundred metres from the cabin. Steering up a rutted dirt track through overhanging scrub, he followed the dark, leafy tunnel-like route across the stream. The rippling thuds of the sleepers signalled his progress.

Red possum eyes glared back at him as he parked alongside the cabin. Tom left the ute running and the lights on as he searched for the key in the wood box around the side wall. Once found, he fumbled the key in the lock and shoved open the heavy door. It opened reluctantly with an eerie screech and scrape on the floor. There was no electricity so Tom went through the routine he had rehearsed—matches on the mantelpiece above the fire place; light the candle and then light the kerosene lamp. Having successfully made the small cabin navigable, he returned to the utility and shut it down.

Surveying the single room dwelling he saw things much as he remembered them. Two wooden cots at one end, a small kitchen table at the other end near a sink and a gas cooker on a bench. And in the middle were some seats surrounding a large stone fireplace. It was now that he realised how hungry he was. The cupboards and shelves had precious little worth eating. He put a kettle of water on the gas stove after finding some tea and sugar. He figured that sweetening the black tea might compensate for the lack of milk. He recalled Rick saying that keeping foodstuffs there only encouraged the rodents so he always removed everything once he'd finished his stay.

While the water was heating, Tom managed to start a fire which quickly vanquished the chill of the mountain air.

Later, sitting with his sweet tea and mesmerised by the flames of a comforting fire, he painfully reran the day's events. Coming to terms with this new reality wasn't going to happen easily. Someone had murdered his family; he didn't resile from the assertion that Tamara was as much, if not more—in some ways—a part of his 'family' as Gene was. Tom wracked his brains trying to reconcile his mind with the compelling possibility that some person had engineered the scheme to implicate him. The only name that immediately sprang to mind was Al. And if Gene hadn't been a victim, he could have possibly imagined circumstances in which Gene could be the perpetrator of such a crime. But that wasn't worth considering. His disdain for Al, he knew, was motivated by his layabout ways and his total dependence on his father and step mother for supplying not just his needs and wants, but also his excesses. At times he was a loud, raucous and abusive, demanding, spoilt child, and at other times a sycophantic, fawning sleaze. All his aberrant behaviour was intended to obtain a couple hundred dollars for this or a thousand for that. Clarissa often resisted his ploys but Gene usually relented. Al's vices of gambling, drunkenness and inordinate partying proved an embarrassment to all. Still, he got what he wanted so why should he spoil everything. What would motivate him to jeopardize his life of indulgence? There was no indication that he would benefit from their deaths, unless, unbeknown to Tom, Al had been written into the will. Tom reflected, he would have to do some checking.

Who else? His father maybe? He had become quite unpredictable since embracing all things Gaian. What possible motive could he have though? Could he be seeking to resume his role in the company? Tom shook his head. All he had to do was ask. It didn't make sense. Just contemplating the idea that his father might be involved was absurd. He briefly considered Ed; but who could be more loyal or a better friend? His sister Holly would benefit, but she was overseas. She was as peace loving as they come and was, in his opinion, quite untainted by material wealth.

Tom scratched his head in frustration. He could understand the police thoughts about him. He was the most obvious suspect. Now it was not just motive and opportunity, but it was his weapon and, he had fled the scene. He was baffled. How did...whoever, get his gun? That was the question. His car hadn't been broken into, as far as he could tell. Ed had driven it that day so, obviously, he had questions to answer. If it wasn't him then that meant someone else took a key. There was the spare one at home. Could that have been used? Was it still there? A few people knew of its existence, including Al. There was also the key that Ed used, sitting in his office. He'd seen it on a little key rack on his desk. He'd got it cut because of the number of times Ed had borrowed the car. He would have to talk to Ed about whether anyone else had used that key. Of course it could have been a skilled lock-pick, in which case all of his assumptions were idle speculation. His mind was cluttered with all the possibilities.

Tom was still mulling over possible scenarios as he tried to sleep. Attempting to get comfortable under the limited bedding was a challenge. He had ended up using the mattress from the other bed to augment the sparse cover he got from the single thin blanket he'd found. It was bulky and unwieldy, but at least he was warm. Sleep came eventually and, apart from waking from a weird dream about being restrained by police stacking on top of him and probably brought on by his restrictive bedding, he managed to get reasonably rested.

***

When Ed came home with his wife and two other daughters, he found Lori highly agitated and wanting a private chat. He made himself a coffee and met with her in his study. He heard again the story that she had told him when she called. Privately, he was aghast at the horrendous situation Tom was in, but he managed to communicate a mood of calm. Ed tried to console her that ringing to tell him had been the right course.

"If Tom says he didn't do it then I believe him. The boy has integrity, I'll say that for him," Ed commented.

"Why did he run then; I mean if he's innocent?" Lori was battling to keep her voice steady.

"It doesn't seem wise to us does it? But think about it. He's in shock from the tragedy. Everything, in his mind, is saying it looks like I did it. And when the police start saying the same thing, he panics." Ed shrugged his shoulders as he said it, indicating that he was guessing.

"He didn't seem too panicky to me," She came close and hugged her father's neck, "Oh Dad, who could have done this awful thing if Tom didn't do it?"

Ed shook his head slowly, "I don't know. But we have to impress to the police that we believe it wasn't Tom."

Lori nodded miserably and wiped her eyes.

"Right, now you go off to bed and try and get some sleep."

After Lori had gone Ed made a call. He talked quietly for a short while. Lori came past the study door to get a glass of milk. She stopped when she heard her father's voice on the phone.

"How long do you think you can stay out of this?" There was a lull and then he continued, "The police obviously think Tom did it, but eventually they'll come and look for you." Ed paused briefly again, then finished, "All right, contact me if you need anything. Good bye."

Lori hurried on. Who was he talking to? Who would the police want to talk to? What did her father know about this? She shuddered. She wanted to ask straight away, but she felt guilty about eavesdropping on her father.

She knew her father. Lori convinced herself, there was no way he'd be involved in anything illegal. Still, there was a niggling doubt in the back of her mind; or maybe she'd misheard.

Chapter 3

Next morning was foggy and chilly around the mountain cabin. Tom coaxed the embers of the fire back to life and soon had a crackling blaze warming the single room. He was now very hungry and decided he would have to map out a plan for the day and subsequent days while he made another sweet tea. His main aim, initially, would be to avoid capture. Next, he had to talk to Ed. The mobile showed no reception. It meant that he was required to drive back toward the coast until he could make a call. That would be his first task. Tom's planning ended there. He knew talking to Ed was paramount, so he gulped his tea and went to the borrowed vehicle.

Driving back in the daylight took much less time, psychologically at least, and he was wondering again whether Lori had contacted the police—whether they were now looking for him in a white utility. His ruminating had delayed his planning further and he had only identified a few things that he had to check out by the time he neared a roadside clearing just outside the first small town. He took out Ed's phone and listed the items:

•Check out his spare car keys.

•Talk to Ed about driving his car and about his mother's will.

•Find out where Al was when the murder was committed.

•Talk to Holly to let her know what had happened.

•Find his dad and see if he knows anything. Borrow a car?

•Change my appearance.

•FIRST get food and clothing

Tom sent a text message to Ed, assuming he'd heard the bad news and trying to explain his innocence, telling him he'd give him all the details later. He kept apologising for everything before reluctantly asking for his assistance. He mentioned a way of returning the bike, listed the clothing and food that he would need and suggested some possible drop off points.

While he waited for an answer, he looked at his list. There were some things that he'd like to do that were a bit risky and probably not essential. He would like to contact the police and explain his actions and, also, he'd like to contact his employees and reassure them that things were okay. But he knew they were not. They would be in shock. Customers might have second thoughts about his company. Regardless of his concerns, all that was secondary to finding the murderer.

A short time later, Ed left a text message. It said that he would leave some clothes at the dock for him to pick up. It seemed that Lori had filled her father in on their meeting. The instructions for the meeting were very specific. Tom listed a few points, tapping the keypad with his thumb, wondering whether Ed was being a touch dramatic with the elaborate plan. Ed conveyed in his message that the police had already spoken to him that morning and he hinted that they were likely to keep an eye on him. Tom returned a text asking for information about how the investigation was proceeding, and he wanted to know who would benefit from the inheritance and business if he were out of the way. Ed replied that it was all very complicated and there were things they had to talk about personally. He would organise a time and place when things cooled down a bit.

Tom spent the next fifteen minutes talking to Holly on the borrowed phone. He didn't hold back, knowing she would prefer him to be up front. He basically told her that she should come home at once. He explained that her mother, Gene and Tamara had been victims in a triple murder and that he was a suspect and was avoiding police in an effort to find out who had committed this crime. She argued that he should give himself up and let justice take its course. To Tom it wasn't so simple. There was no way that he could think of that he could prove he hadn't shot three people. His gun, his finger prints, a plausible motive and no alibi; to him there was no reason why they just wouldn't charge him and stop looking for the real killer. The argument ended with both of them intransigent, convinced the other didn't know what they were talking about, which was usually the case between the two. When he finished the call, Tom felt a little more alone. He had somehow craved the explicit support of his sister, even though historically it was almost unprecedented. What he didn't understand was that, in other company, she was his biggest supporter, but to his face she always seemed to challenge or oppose him.

Feeling empty and unsatisfied, he considered sending texts to some close friends from university. Perhaps even driving a distance away and using his phone to mislead the police. It entertained him for a minute or two before he thought better of it and headed back into the hills. He contemplated trying the tactic on his way back from his rendezvous with Ed later that day, even texting the police with a message that he wanted them to keep looking for the real murderer. "Living on the edge," he said softly to himself, "gives you a better view." Tom couldn't remember where he had got that quote, but he considered that it fitted this situation.

When he was back at the cabin he started making another hot drink of tea. Before consuming the hot beverage he drank cold water just to fill his stomach a bit. He wondered if he should have risked buying some food in the small town but decided that, since his picture had been published, he might be recognised. He stacked a pile of wood for the night and wandered up the river some distance to while away the time.

Eventually he left for the meeting with Ed. His journey was an hour of jittery glances and nervous stops and detours. Pulling into a car park farther away, but adjacent to the one he normally used, he scanned the area before cautiously getting out. There was a heavy hedge separating the two parking lots. Tom found a small gap that allowed him to view the dock area and the parking spot where Ed said he'd pull up. He got back in the truck and sat there in bike gear with the overalls on, looking as scruffy as someone who had slept in the same clothes. He was there for fifteen minutes before Ed drove by looking as if he was heading to the parking bays where the motorised yacht was moored. He pulled up suddenly and backed up right near to Tom's hiding place. In the distance a car edged into the far corner. Tom assumed that this was the predicted police surveillance car. Lori jumped out the passenger door and called, "Meet you in the yacht. I shouldn't be long. She ran to the convenience store. At the same time as Ed opened his door, he released the catch on the trunk. Dragging a large sack out of the back door he swung it over his shoulder and sauntered toward the mooring pier. When he was almost to the yacht, Lori emerged from the shop toting two bags and some milk. She walked to the car and deposited one bag of groceries in the back.

Just loud enough for him to hear, Lori spoke, "Take the groceries."

Then she went on quickly away from Tom, venturing a rapid glance back in his direction. She resumed toward the yacht carrying the second bag of groceries in one hand and some milk in the other hand. Ed was standing on the foredeck waiting for her. Soon she boarded and then both went below deck. The police car started and slowly cruised past, moving all the way to the dock.

The subterfuge was working. While the police were convinced the action was on the boat, Tom quickly snuck through the gap in the hedge, opened the trunk, removed a large duffle bag and the groceries, closed the trunk and had the bags in the utility within ten seconds. He drove sedately from the docks fighting the desire to hasten his departure. He just joined the traffic on the main road when he saw Detective Burton race by and turn into the marina.

***

"Miles is up to something," he said brusquely to Rolf, who was driving.

"Do you think he knows where Witney is?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he was on the boat."

They pulled up sharply next to the other unmarked car with a minute squeal of tyres. They bundled out of the car and Burton quizzed the other driver.

"What's happening?"

"The girl and her father are in the boat."

"See anyone else?"

"No sign of Witney," the policeman was just as concise, "but he may be on board."

"Okay, wait here." The detective and his partner hastened along the wharf and stepped carefully on the gangplank of 'Perfect Treat'.

"Police, No one move!" yelled Burton as they scampered down four steps. Down below they found Ed and Lori just organising a coffee. He reintroduced himself and his partner, Rolf as a matter of form. Then he launched into questioning.

"Where is Tom Witney?" demanded the policeman.

"What do you mean?" Ed asked looking confused.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No," Ed Miles replied, "Detective you've already asked us this."

"Have you seen him today?"

"No."

"Why are you here on Witney's boat?"

"Tom often lets us use it. We were just bringing some supplies and bedding on board."

The detective slumped visibly. He stared at the two, somehow feeling that there was more to this.

"Detective you must know that Tom didn't commit the murders; he couldn't." Lori was trying to sound as convincing as possible.

"Then why did he run Miss Miles?"

"I guess he felt trapped. Have you questioned Gene junior?"

"As a matter of fact I have Miss Miles, and he seems to have a fairly good alibi. Apart from that, he doesn't have a motive. While Mrs Witney and his father were alive he was guaranteed reasonable support. Now, not being a benefactor," he confirmed that detail with a questioning look from his source from earlier that day. Ed gave an assenting tilt of his head and Burton went on, "he will have to rely on the generosity of his step brother and step sister."

"Do you have any other suspects?" Lori asked hopefully.

"Not at the moment, though I do have some questions for you Mr Miles."

"I explained that I was at dinner with my wife and two of my daughters," Ed almost growled as he brought over the coffees.

"No, this is something else. I spoke with your secretary this morning. Let me quote what she said; 'some bizarre things happened yesterday; strangers meeting with Mr Miles. He was quite upset when he left work.' Now who were those strangers Mr Miles?"

Lori looked with a worried expression at her father.

Ed looked up after taking a sip from his coffee. He looked steadily at his daughter before speaking.

"You're right it was bizarre. Two people, no, three people visited me that afternoon; two had urgent business with Tom and one was a personal visit. I was seeing Tom's appointments, but these two just turned up."

"You didn't think to tell us about this when we talked to you this morning." There was a sceptical inflection to Burton's voice.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I wanted to confirm what these people were saying... and I wanted to talk to Tom about them first." Ed hesitated and then looked Burton directly in the eyes, "But you're right, I should have told you. Even if I implicate innocent people; I mean it hasn't stopped you from pursuing Tom." He gave a wry grin, but there was a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "And I'm sure Tom is innocent."

"Why don't you let us decide who is guilty or innocent," grated Burton. "I wouldn't be so insistent if I were you. Did you know Witney had an argument with Towers yesterday?"

"I had heard something of it, but Gene was often flying off the handle, and he had worries of his own."

Adrian Burton paused briefly before continuing, "Tom Witney was on the scene. It was his gun, his fingerprints, he is a major beneficiary of the will and he's the only one without an alibi; but most of all, he shouldn't have run. We're forced to bring him in now."

Lori piped up. Her voice quivered slightly, "Wouldn't you say that all your evidence is just circumstantial?"

"That may be Miss Miles, but it's very compelling." Turning toward Ed he asked the question that was teetering on the edge of his memory. He blurted it out as the thought gelled so he wouldn't forget. "Tell me, what was worrying Gene Towers?"

"It had to do with one of the visitors; his name is Mr Charlton. I don't know his first name. He told me everyone calls him Charlie. Anyway, he said that Charlton Chemicals was looking for an up to date treatment plant, but the contract had some conditions." Burton's fellow detective was busily taking notes and Ed was distracted for a second.

"Go on," encouraged Burton.

"He said that Gene had been threatening to spread rumours about Charlton Chemicals and he was looking for money to keep him quiet."

"Blackmail," the senior man glanced at Rolf then back at Ed, "What sort of rumours?"

"Illegal dumping of chemicals, anyway he was very specific, we should stop Gene or he would take it into his own hands."

"So you think that's what happened?" Burton sounded a little condescending.

Ed ignored the inference that he jumped to conclusions. "I doubt it. Why would he come and see us if he was going to act so soon? As I said, it was a bit strange."

Burton wandered around the surprisingly spacious cabin, "Who were the other visitors?"

"The first one was Harry Witney. He'd been to see Clarissa and he wanted an address."

"Witney senior?" The detective's eyebrows were raised as if he was hearing new details, but, in truth, it bore out what they already knew.

Lori watched her father as he went on, "The other was the last. He came after Charlton... said his name was Ashley Moore. He was hoping to speak with Tom." Ed stopped unsure how to continue.

"What did he want?" Burton sounded impatient.

"He said he was Tom's half-brother; that his mother, Clarissa, gave him up for adoption when she was a teenager."

"What, just out of nowhere? That must have been a shock to you being the family legal advisor.

Has this been verified?" The detective again looked at Rolf and gave a little nod. The older man slumped noticeably and raised his eyebrows. The burden of the information was evident in his lacklustre response. He looked across the small table toward Lori knowing what he was about to say was news to her. "Actually, I have considerable knowledge of the history of this claim so, no, I wasn't shocked. As I said, there were things I wanted to check. I'll say this for him, he sounded believable."

"So, what did he want?"

"He wouldn't tell me. He just asked me to let Tom know he wanted to see him."

"That's it?"

"Well basically, he told me he'd visited Clarissa and they had a good reunion. And I asked about him. He said he was a teacher and happy in his job. He said he had been planning to get married soon, but it all fell through. It was then that he decided to take some time off to search out his roots."

"Do you know where he is staying?"

"No, I didn't ask."

***

Soon after, the two detectives left the 'Perfect Treat'. As he went alongside the other police car, Burton looked around; he leaned toward the window and queried, "Reeves, where did Miles park his car?"

The officer indicated over his shoulder, "Over there, near the hedge."

The senior detective raised his eyebrows, "Why there?"

"Seems his daughter needed to get something from the convenience store over the far side. I guess he put it there so she didn't have to carry the groceries too far."

"Mm," Burton was unconvinced. "Did you check out the store?"

The police in the car looked at each other. The first shook his head.

"Did you keep an eye on the car?" The detective sounded a little agitated now.

Reeves looked perplexed, "I thought you wanted us to keep watch on Miles and the girl."

Burton stared at the two and wordlessly strode to his car. Reeves looked up at Rolf who had a resigned expression, "What did he expect?" he whined.

"There are two of you," Rolf pointed out cuttingly and then he turned and joined Burton in the car.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Detective Burton looked across as Rolf leaned forward to start the car.

"You think Witney was here?" he looked a little mystified. "Why?"

"Get information, maybe get some stuff, clothes, food... who knows? But I'd bet he was here."

Chapter 4

Tom drove quietly back to the cabin. Once inside he unpacked the clothes. There were mostly casual clothes that he had kept in a small unit attached to his office and he found a good supply of food in the form of canned goods, dried meals, cartons of sterilised milk, bread and cereal and a few other niceties such as instant coffee and spreads. A small Bible had been placed in the bottom of the bag along with a large envelope containing the information he wanted and a smaller envelope with cash in it. Tom was fairly sure that Lori had a hand in the Bible's inclusion to his 'survival' package as Ed was far more subtle with his faith. He would not begrudge her attempts to redeem him, but he was especially grateful for the cash. Using his credit card would be a sure giveaway.

In the notes Ed had written, Tom had his thoughts confirmed. Holly and he were the major beneficiaries of the estate. Allowance was made for Al if he continued his education toward a finite goal. Ed also mentioned the existence of a trust fund, but he didn't elaborate and Tom was unaware who the money was held in trust for. Ed made some comments that the police investigation was not really going anywhere. At present their focus was trying to establish where he was and why he would kill three people out of the blue. One theory was that his desire to expand the business required an influx of money. Ed said that he explained to them that they were 'barking up the wrong tree', but they ignored him as a deluded friend. The idiom made Tom smile. He pictured little dogs with police hats on, barking at a tree.

On the whole Tom's spirits were elevated. He now realised that with careful planning and thoughtful precautions he might be able to evade his captors for a few days. And every day gave him opportunity to discover something new. The other boost to his morale was finding the toiletries bag at the bottom of the duffel bag. Not that he was keen to spruce his appearance up, given that the less he looked like a clean cut young businessman the better it would be. Rather, the inclusion of tooth paste caused him to savour the moment after eating when he could remove that disgusting furry sensation in his mouth. He smiled again as he supposed that Lori had included that as well, although it was not inconceivable that Ed's eye for detail had seen to the provisions. Tom ran his tongue around his mouth. What an idiosyncrasy; that in this time of dire events he should relish the idea of fresh, pearly white teeth.

Once he had bathed in the bone chilling waters of the river and was wearing some comfortable gear, he felt a lot more relaxed. He made a special effort to cook a good meal, even if most of the ingredients were either precooked or instant, freeze dried versions of 'real food'. Following a reread of Ed's notes, Tom sat down near the fire and reviewed his 'to do' list. Tonight he would visit home to check if his spare key was still there and confront Al regarding his whereabouts at the time of the murders. Ed had mentioned in a short letter that Al had returned to occupy the house. Tom felt a disdainful resentment that his pathetic step brother had the run of the huge house, while he was a fugitive. He considered how he would get in unobserved should the police still be monitoring the place. It would require locating them first and then finding a protected place to scale the front wall. He again went for a walk along the river to pass some time and think. Cutting a bit of firewood occupied the late afternoon and he took in the last of the sun's rays, sitting on a stump, before consuming some instant soup for his evening meal.

As the time drew near he changed clothes again, this time into dark clothing. He took time to enjoy a hot coffee and then, importantly for him, cleaned his teeth before he departed.

Late that night, contemplating what he was about to do added an eerie feel to his passage along the dark track that exited Rick's place. The drive to his home was uneventful but Tom was on edge nonetheless. His mind raced from the devastating scene of his home to the accusatory looks of the police and the hurt look on Lori's face. It all depressed him. Tom considered that he was shallow for being like this, but he had always wanted people to like him and hated any negative opinions others had of him. That police thought he was the murderer depressed him and made him angry but that Lori could even consider that he was capable of it—that was shattering to Tom.

He surfaced from his quagmire of self-pity as he passed the clanging bell of a railway level crossing. The sound cleared his thoughts like an alarm clock wakens a sleeper. Tom concluded that he should be thinking about the steps ahead rather than dwelling on the past. He parked the car a block away from the entry to his house.

It was past midnight when he sauntered along the footpath toward the tall stone wall that surrounded his stately property. Surreptitiously, he examined the cars parked along the street verge. There were only three but it was more usual for no cars to be parked on the road at this time of night. This was mainly because of the amount of off road space in the sizeable estates. The presence of the three cars made him nervy. He stood behind one of the large English oak trees and tried to determine which, if any, of the cars had occupants. At this distance he could see very little but Tom was afraid that observers in a car would be able to see him more clearly.

He inspected the wall carefully and identified one section, perhaps a metre wide, which was obscured from the two nearest cars by trees. The one at the far end was probably too far to bother about. Tom flitted from tree to tree to the spot he had selected. It would take only a few seconds to scale the wall, and although he feared that there was a police stake out on his place, he was fairly sure he could evade discovery. Without thinking too much about it, Tom launched himself at the wall. With his arms gripping over the top and his feet scrabbling to gain purchase on the stone face, he struggled to drag himself up. Bright headlights suddenly flooded the whole street and Tom felt like a stage performer under the spot light. He tried to lie horizontally flat on top and become part of the wall. The car drew away from the kerb and pulled alongside the other.

"I'll leave you to it Gabby. I don't think anything's going to happen. Waste of time if you ask me."

"Well you know Burton, wants to cover all the angles."

"Yeah... Hey, I might check that car out when I go, get a rego; it's been here since I arrived, see ya." The policeman gave a little wave and then did a u-turn a small distance short of where Tom was still prostrate on the ridge of the stone barrier. The conversation had seemed interminable to Tom who was still clinging tightly as the revealing glare of lights swung past. Luckily for him the car in the distance chose that moment to also do a rapid u-turn and it sped off into the night with a squealing fish tail. The distraction saved Tom from being noticed as the police observer was now especially interested in the unknown driver.

Tom dropped over into the darkness as he listened to both cars recede fast into the distance. Frozen to the spot for a moment he wondered what was going on. Who else was watching his place? "Friend of foe?" he said softly. "Whoever you are, you did me a favour tonight."

Padding softly across the lawn, he warily skittered from tree to tree. Working his way around to the back door, he heard a whining from the back shed. Detouring, he released the wooden door and was overwhelmed by a slobbering affectionate Juno.

"Well, somebody loves me," he remarked wryly. Looking inside the shed he noticed the food and water bowls were empty. The way the dog ravenously gulped the food he placed before it convinced Tom that he probably hadn't been fed since the previous day. Scratching Juno vigorously under the neck he then let the dog loose in the yard while he snuck in the back door. There was a light on in the lounge and the TV was on. His spare key should be on a hook in his bedroom and he thought best to check that as a priority. Confronting Al first might set off a series of events that would preclude him the freedom to choose what he would do next. He had no idea how Al would react but their history hadn't been particularly amicable. He was likely to call the police at the first opportunity.

In the library area it dawned on him that all trace of the killings had been expertly removed. Tom climbed the stairs stealthily and entered his bedroom. It was just as he'd left it. There hanging on the back of his door were his keys. He took them and stared at them as if unravelling some deep mystery. He sat on the bed and pinched the top of his nose, affecting a physical headache that only existed cognitively.

"So it's here, but did anyone take it?" he muttered. "What does this prove?" He knew his gun had been stolen but it could have been taken using either spare key or by an expert break-in. He headed downstairs caring little about concealing his presence.

Inside the lounge his step brother was slumped in an arm chair. There was an empty bottle beside him and the strong smell of liquor. Intoxicated, Al was in a semi-conscious state, half watching the television and slowly becoming aware that Tom was standing, staring at him. When it finally registered, Al strained to sit up.

"Whath are you doin here?" he slurred.

Tom walked out and came back a few minutes later with a strong coffee.

"Here, drink this. I want to get some sense out of you."

Al had almost sunk into delirium again and Tom shook him before assisting him to sit upright.

After several minutes, when it appeared that he had revived sufficiently to be coherent, Tom tackled Al.

"What do you know about the murders?" he asked in deliberately accentuated syllables.

Al took a moment to take in the portent of the question before returning with an alcohol induced delayed reaction.

"Nothin... I mean it. I'm as ssh ... shocked as anyone," he said defensively.

"So, where were you when it happened?"

"I was... I was at uni; I was... in the library."

"The library?" There was disbelief in Tom's reply.

"I've changed you know. I was trying to show...I was trying to show Clarissa that I've changed so, so I was working in the library." He was rambling a bit.

"I was trying to show her. Do you know what she called me?" He leaned forward and almost tipped the remnants from his coffee cup. Tom shook his head, but he had already started speaking again.

"She, she called me a 'rep... reprobate'. I had to look it up." He looked at Tom's unsympathetic face and responded with a little more acuity. "Anyway, I was at the library. You can...you can check it up if you like. I was workin' on...the computer. They have ways of checking that you know."

"Did anyone see you?" Tom tried to sound casual, as if he believed what Al said.

Al was about to answer when he abruptly pulled up. "Hey... what are you sayin'? You're the one who should be answering questions. The police are lookin' for you, you know." His voice became more threatening. "In fact I should probably give them a call now." He moved to pick up the handset but Tom moved quickly to remove the wall plug.

"That won't stop me callin' them," he scowled belligerently. He stood slightly unsteadily to retrieve his cell from the coffee table. With a gross overestimation of the force required to stop him, Tom tackled Al and brought him thudding to the floor. Using the phone connecting cord Tom tied Al's hands behind his back while he wailed aggressive, "Get off me you silly idiot. You're crazy!"

"I'm sorry Al," Tom panted, "You don't leave me any choice. I need to check a few things out and the police would make that a bit difficult."

Tom helped Al to his feet and led him to the back door. The phone and trailing handset attached to his hands added a touch of the ridiculous to the scene.

"Where are you taking me?" There was a concerned strain in his voice.

"Thought I might lock you in the shed so you understand how Juno feels." He shoved his wobbly step brother in the direction of the shed. Al started a screaming racket, "Help, somebody help me!" Tom grabbed a handful of his loose shirt and tried to stuff it in Al's mouth as he struggled violently. Worried that his initial outburst was heard, Tom rushed his unsteady form toward the garage, ignoring his muffled protests. Inside the shed, Tom tied a rag to secure the wad of shirt in Al's mouth and then found another piece of rope to bind him to a wall support.

"Maybe this will remind you to feed Juno and give him some freedom," Tom growled, frowning.

Al responded with a wide eyed fearful outburst of incomprehensible, gagged mumbling.

Tom grinned, "Don't worry; I'll call someone to rescue you."

Anxious now, that he might be discovered, Tom quickly vacated the premises. Taking the far corner route out of the property, he managed to drop down on the path and elude the less than watchful gaze of a couple of conversational cops.

Once back in his car, he travelled for ten minutes at a tangential direction to the one which would see him back at the cabin. Drawing to the side of the road he took out his own mobile, turned it on and called police, leaving a message for Burton.

"This is Tom Witney. Tell Detective Adrian Burton that I'm trying to find the killer. Someone took my spare keys and stole my gun. He needs to find out who else would gain from all this. Also, my step brother is locked in the shed at the back of the house. Those police at the front might let him out if they have nothing better to do."

Tom chuckled at that, imagining how Burton would blast his 'watchdogs'. Then driving a short distance with the device still on he muttered to himself, "This should give you something to do." Afraid to give them too much time to locate him he then he switched the power off. Finding the next left turn, Tom followed a looping course that ultimately brought him back to the road he needed.

***

Adrian Burton almost fell out of bed. The telephone rang loudly again and he snatched at it hoping to stop it before his wife woke. All he succeeded in doing was to send it plunging off the bedside table and caused it to land with a thud. In the process he lunged and tried to catch it but only managed to tear the bedding off his wife, Ally.

"Just answer the phone," moaned Ally, accustomed to his sleep dulled antics.

"Sorry," Burton slurred apologetically as he staggered out of bed. With one hand on the handset he used the other to replace the covers while answering.

"Burton here."

"Detective Burton, we've got a location for Witney. He's using his cell phone."

Can't you handle that? What do you want me to do?" The detective was irritable.

"He left a message for you." The voice on the line sounded defensive.

"You mean he rang us?"

"Yes sir, he specifically mentioned you. I'll play it for you."

After listening to the message Tom left, Burton was curious. "Are you still tracking him?"

"No sir, he turned it off soon after ending the call."

"Hmm," he pulled a tight lipped, eye squeezing grimace, "Don't bother trying to find him; he's playing with us."

"Sir?"

"Goodnight," Burton tersely concluded the conversation. He hung up, staring at the interfering instrument deep in thought.

***

Fatigue, and the lateness of the hour, ensured that the journey to the cabin was a fight to maintain his senses. He tried to not succumb to his drowsiness by turning the radio up loud and keeping his window open. It was about three am when he stumbled into the one room hideaway, collapsing onto the bed. A restless sleep coiled about him like a hungry python as he buried himself between the mattresses. The bulk of the padding insulated him though he was becoming inured to the chill of the night anyway. In a fitful sleep he relived the tensions of the day till he awoke groggily, at about eight am, still weary. Tom was ill at ease. Clear in his mind were dreams of his total ineptitude. In his dreams he had clumsy car accidents, made mistakes with customers and reached foolish decisions he couldn't explain. 'Were those his repressed fears?' he wondered. Failing to go back to sleep, he grumbled tiredly and then got up and attempted to start a fire.

While he fiddled with insufficient paper and small twigs, his mind backtracked over the futile episode of the past night. He thought; 'I have my spare keys, but they could have been taken and returned. The only fact I can be sure about is that my gun was stolen from my car. I still have to check Al's story and find out who else was watching the house?' He mused about his next course of action.

It was now almost two days since the murders and he hadn't established anything. Tom decided that he had to be more logical; more analytical and test every possibility. He would list everybody who could possibly be involved and then eliminate them once he had established they couldn't possibly have committed the crime. He knew some of the names were so improbable as to be ludicrous but he wrote them anyway. The last reminder he recorded was the word 'blankets'. Having put his digital diary away, he had a bite to eat and then raced the car back to the small township. Tom sent a text message. He was organising another meeting. When the negative answer came he considered his agenda. Tom studied the road map in the utility.

Chapter 5

Hurtling along back roads through the forested hills, Tom became impatient to get to his destination. Sliding on the gravel surface, he almost lost control a couple of times. When finally he spun out and stopped centimetres short of a large eucalypt, he thumped his forehead with a clenched fist. "That would solve everything wouldn't it?" he hissed. "Fatal accident while on the run." The significance of such an end seeped into him; his reputation condemned, investigation ceases and the real murderer goes free. Tom restarted the engine and drove more carefully. He soon emerged onto a narrow sealed road. This, in turn, met the main route crossing through the forested range. Driving up through the winding tree flanked corridor, he smelled the cool musty tang of the mist drenched vegetation. Up and over the ridge, his ears had popped a couple times as he sought some sort of equilibrium from the pressure discrepancy on his ear drums. Going down the other side the process was reversed and he swallowed repeatedly to account for the increasing air density.

He slowed as he approached a small mountain community of timber houses with corrugated iron rooves. They were scattered around a dale surrounded by steep slopes. Near the far side of the rustic community was a church. It was a fresher, brick building with a sign on the front –'Inverglade Anglican Church'. Underneath the name was a text—'You shall know the Truth and the Truth shall set you free Jn 8:32'. Nearby was a services noticeboard. For the evening service there was a title: One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see. Tom decided that it was another excerpt from 'holy writ'.

The car slid suddenly to a halt. He stared at the words of the first text. How long had it been since he had heard those words on the radio. It seemed an age and yet it was only two days ago. The truth! That he would love to know. Would it set him free? If the police knew the truth, it would. It suddenly occurred to Tom that if it was a Bible verse he could look it up because he now had a Bible; thanks to Lori or Ed. He copied the text into the phone and vowed that he would find out what it was all about. Having finished his 'spur of the moment' note-taking, Tom lifted his eyes to see a fragile looking elderly man gazing in his direction. His unkempt, wispy white hair blew across his forehead and he brushed it out of his face before giving a friendly wave. Tom returned the wave as he slowly drove off, noticing the man removing some letters from the church mail box. In his rear vision mirror he observed the man taking a more than casual interest in his departure. A nauseating feeling welled up in Tom's stomach. Could he have been recognised? He glanced at himself in the mirror. The dark stubble and dishevelled hair had altered his appearance appreciably from the clean cut businessman depicted in the news bulletin. Maybe he was just inquisitive, argued Tom to himself.

For the rest of the drive he was alert to any traffic and once, when a vehicle quickly drew up behind, he pulled left at the first opportunity and took a side road to allow the car to pass. Then he sat. He took a deep breath and berated himself for being paranoid. 'Everything was okay', he told himself, 'and nothing had indicated that they knew anything of his whereabouts.' Ironically, when Tom was beginning to relax, something sobered his optimistic mood. He had just crested a long incline when he froze. A police car was rushing up the hill towards him. Almost instinctively his car decelerated. Tom battled to appear unflustered and resume his previous speed. He glanced to each side of the road to determine his options but there appeared to be no exits through this section of farmland. Would he risk a confrontation? Would he ram it off the road? Tensed and feeling the sticky sweat of fear trickling under his shirt, Tom readied for a dangerous encounter. Before he knew it the squad car had roared past and continued on its way over the hill.

Relieved, Tom experienced surreal buoyancy; as if gravity had ceased to have any effect on him. He wondered whether this obsession with feeling targeted was a reflection of his egocentricity. Maybe, he imagined, he was experiencing some paranormal event in which people were looking for him, but they just couldn't see. Somehow he was other dimensional or invisible. On reconsideration Tom figured he'd got this far by dumb luck.

The car was coasting down the hill toward a small hamlet. Open farmland now appeared on both sides. With a little effort he tried to push his troubles to the back of his mind and absorb the peace and tranquillity of the scene about him. Slowing within the town limits, Tom drew into a service station and filled his near empty tank. He sensed that his silent chant of 'act normal, act normal' would probably have the reverse effect, but he couldn't 'not think' about his desire to be inconspicuous.

Inside the slightly musty, old, 'everything-you-want-plus-fuel' store, it was deserted. Tom strolled watchfully to the counter. A large cardboard sign announced in black felt tip block letters, RING FOR SERVICE. Just next to it sat a small brass bell. Tom rang.

"Great day," the friendly middle aged woman greeted him as she walked in through a side door and stood behind the counter. The smell of some savoury pastry wafted into the room and Tom had a gastric alert regarding staving off impending starvation. Whether she heard his gurgling stomach or noticed his appreciative inhalation, she seemed to read his mind.

"Would ya like some? I made a couple of big Cornish pasties. Just took them out of the oven," she spoke with an amused expression at his evident captivation by the aromatic invitation of the food.

"That'd be great, and the petrol; how much is that altogether?" Tom was opening his wallet.

She beamed at him, "The petrol's thirty five fifty and the pasty is free. Just think of it as good old fashioned country hospitality."

"No, I really should," Tom tried to insist but he was cut off.

"Don't be silly. Someone wants to give you something you take it," she stated flatly. "Anyway, you can have lunch with us and, if yer want, you can tell me what you're doin' up here." She took his money as he stood slightly dumbfounded at the way she shanghaied him.

"My name's Margie," she announced as she led him through the small office, then an airy country kitchen and out to a large, shady, bricked patio.

Margie sat Tom down at a big, round, lacquered, wooden table. It immediately intrigued Tom as he imagined the huge root bole from which the massive table top had been sliced. His thoughts were shattered by a raucous shout.

"Gus, are you comin' for some lunch?"

"A very small voice replied, "Coming."

Margie headed back to the kitchen and in a moment reappeared with a tray supporting three plates with ample serves, some fruit juices and a selection of homemade sauces. By the time she had given a brief history of her tasty additives, Gus sauntered up and washed his hands under a garden tap.

"Oh, hello," Gus offered his wet hand and then shook it in the air, "Sorry, Gus Grose," he proffered his hand again. Tom shook the still clammy hand.

"Tom, Tom W...", stopping short before confessing all, he shook Gus' hand uncertainly. "Tom," he repeated haltingly, as if he wasn't sure.

"Tom, tom tom, hey; that's an unusual name," he grinned playfully.

"Stop it Gus. That's no way to treat a guest," Margie chided. Gus smiled cheekily.

The dish was literally mouth-watering; Tom waited watchfully ready to start eating. Gus said grace and they began.

"So what brings you up this way Tom?" Margie inquired, knife and fork poised in her hands.

Tom swallowed his mouthful. "Well, I'm looking for a commune just out of town."

"You thinkin' of joinin'?" Gus managed to say distinctly enough despite a mouth full of pastry.

"No," he replied awkwardly, not sure how much he should say. "I just hope to speak to someone."

"You're the second today. A couple of coppers came by this morning and said the same thing." Gus was looking interested now. Margie interjected, "There's only old Harry there now. Is he the one you want to talk to?"

"Probably," Tom answered reticently.

"Has he done something wrong? I always thought it was strange, him being there with all those young people... midlife crisis or somethin'."

"Gus!" Margie scolded. "He seems a nice man to me; a bit lost maybe and a bit lonely. Anyway it's none of our business," she pronounced, and then continued to quiz Tom. "So, you're from the city?"

Tom nodded as he busily munched on a chutney covered piece of food, before clarifying, "I'm on a break at the moment."

"Staying out this way?"

He was starting to feel uncomfortable, and though he thought she was a bit nosey, Tom couldn't help liking her open, friendly manner. "Er, about an hour away," he answered ambiguously.

The rest of the meal passed with small talk about the community and the weather, before Gus gave Tom precise instructions to get him to the commune. Thanking them several times for their kindness, Tom got up to leave. Margie walked with him. In the kitchen she insisted on giving him a jar of the chutney he had complimented her for. While she gathered it from the large pantry Tom noticed a text on the wall. It disturbed him that someone was insinuating into the inner reaches of his mind. The phrase 'I saw the writing on the wall' occurred to him and he wondered what the origin of that saying was. He read the text.

'Jesus said, I am the Way the Truth and the Life...Jn 14:6' He reread it and wondered whether he should copy it. Flushing suddenly when he became aware that Margie was watching him he reached for the jar and said unsteadily, "Thanks."

"You're welcome; please drop by any time you're around. We love visitors. Isn't that right Gus?"

Gus was standing at the outside door. "Sure do; drop in any time," he said with almost as much enthusiasm as his wife.

The last five kilometres passed by almost unnoticed as his mind swirled in a storm of questions and ideas. He had been hoping it was a simple truism, that truth would set him free from the entanglements of carefully constructed lies. That truth would win out. That it would be clear that he was innocent. Now, instead of being comforted by an adage, he was confused by a religious perspective—Jesus is the Truth! Tom wasn't sure if that view would help him; whether it would divert him from his goal of clearing his name. Or, maybe, because it dogged him at every turn, it was more important than everything else.

Tom's mental abstraction evaporated as his destination came into sight. He drove under an entry arch, made of huge logs, which had taken some effort to construct. It seemed to serve no purpose other than to impress. Progressing slowly, as the sign suggested to prevent dust, down the long dirt drive, Tom wondered why Harry was now alone on his idyllic property. Had his Shangri La dream collapsed? Around the verdant pastures there were vegetable plots, animal enclosures and an assortment of dwellings. There was an old farm house, two or three log cabins, a couple of unusual conglomerations of wood and canvas and some tents, most of which looked like they had been abandoned.

Stopping the car at the biggest building, Tom got out, stretched and considered whether or not he should call out for his father. However, it was unnecessary for him to do anything because Harry was stomping on his pull on boots and hastening as he walked toward Tom.

"Hi Dad," Tom huskily exhaled.

"Tom! They're after you for... for." He couldn't put it into words.

"Dad, I'm innocent."

He gave Tom a cursory hug; it was an exceptional event for them both. "What brings you here? It's so good to see you. It's just awful... what's been going on? Why don't we take a walk and we can talk?" As usual Harry was full on, but now there was despondency in his unpredictable manner.

"So tell me about it. What happened?"

Tom studied his father. "I wish I knew. I came home and found..." he faltered as his voice broke. Images of the killings flooded his mind. With an effort he talked on, "Anyway, before I knew it, they were taking me into custody."

"Why do they suspect you?"

Tom felt grim. "It was my gun... and don't ask... I don't know how it got there."

His father was shaking his head in disbelief. "Who would do this?"

Ignoring the question, Tom asked, "How did you find out about it?

"The police were just here, about an hour ago," he replied matter-of-factly.

Brow furrowed and concerned, Tom asked, "What did they want?"

"You, of course!" ejaculated Harry, turning on Tom. "They wanted to know whether I had seen you. I'm glad you came after them. I wouldn't want to have lied to them," he grinned at Tom.

They walked past a neglected vegetable patch. Tom glanced around.

"Where did everyone go? I thought you had a community going here."

"It's a silly story, really."

"Tell me."

"Well, once I told them that I was broke they all decided to leave?"

"You're broke?" Tom was taken aback.

"No, I'm not broke!" Harry was a little disparaging, "I just told them I was broke." After a momentary stare he explained, "At first they were all enthusiastic about our sustainable farm, but it soon became obvious that they were just sponging off me. They didn't want to work. And they kept asking for more and more."

"So you lied to them?" his voice conveyed disapproval.

"Well, more of a 'commitment test'," Harry suggested wryly, ignoring Tom's judgemental intonation.

Tom and his father were now passing between fenced fields holding a number of cattle and sheep. The narrow lane started ascending a gentle rise.

"How big's the property?"

"Up to that tree line," said Harry pointing to a forested section near the top of the next, more substantial, hill. He turned then and faced Tom, "So, why are you here? This is not a social visit I take it."

Tom was briefly speechless. How would he put it? His first words were uncertain.

"I'm looking for clues. I need to know who did this thing." He looked directly into his father's eyes.

"You think I can help you?"

"Can you?"

"No, I don't know anything about it. Do you think I had something to do with it?" He was stunned. Tom held his hands up defensively, almost apologetically. "Dad, I'm trying to eliminate all possibilities. I don't think you did it, but I need to know where you were when it happened."

"You want me, your father, to convince you of my innocence." He sounded angry and astounded at the same time.

Tom spoke quickly, "You're the first on my list. That means you're least likely..."

"That's a relief," interrupted Harry sardonically.

"Dad, I just have to find out where anyone who knows me and", he stalled on the next words, "and the victims... I need to know where they were."

"I was right here," Harry answered vaguely, gazing off at the distant tree lined ridge.

"Did anyone see you?"

"Does it look like anyone would see me?" snapped Harry. He turned abruptly. "Let's go back."

"I have to ask, you know I do."

Harry was gruff, "Looks like you're going to have to keep me on your list of suspects. No-one can confirm my story."

If this was going to be typical of his investigation, then it was going to be a fruitless and frustrating task. The walk back was uncomfortable, with small talk about the business being the only distraction. Nearing the house, Tom spotted a four wheel drive and an old farm car in a shed behind Harry's house. Harry abruptly turned and faced him.

"So I guess I'll be seeing you."

There was a clear message that he was no longer welcome.

"What, no offer of a drink?" Tom was trying to be playful.

"Some other time, maybe," grumbled Harry; he then wheeled around and stalked off. The younger Witney was being dismissed. Tom was sure something was wrong but he didn't know what to do. He made a move to follow his father but pulled up short when Harry called over his shoulder, "Go away before I call the police."

Tom tried to comprehend what was going on. This was his father. They had always gotten along. Of course there had been the usual spat and skirmish trying to gain the intellectual or moral high ground. Both wanting to be right and, sometimes, trying to defend the indefensible. But this was different. Harry had always had time for his son. Tom wandered back to the car, mystified, shaking his head as if he were attempting to avoid a cloud of gnats. In truth, he was trying to clear his head of this weird unreality.

Snail pace, for him, the white utility crept out along the long driveway and onto the road. Before long he was back at Gus and Margie's in the small town. He had decided to buy some more supplies but it was a pretence for asking some questions. Inside Margie greeted him like an old friend. "Tom, back so soon? Don't need more fuel already do you?" she chuckled.

"No, thought I'd get some things before I headed back." She watched him as he put some fresh vegetables, chicken pieces and a milk drink in a basket and handed it to Margie.

"Is that all?" Margie had started tallying the items.

"Uh huh," Tom murmured before homing in on his true purpose, "Do you see Harry often? I mean does he drop in or drive by often?"

Margie scrutinised Tom before answering cautiously. "He gets most of his supplies from the local store up the road, and he gets his fuel from here." She stopped as if that was enough.

Tom wanted to dispel her suspicions. "It's just that he seems pretty lonely up there. When did you see him last?" Tom probed.

"Well he came in to get petrol on his way to the city... two days ago I think," Margie hesitated, "You sure he's not in trouble?"

"Not that I know of," Tom tried to be candid while not letting on that the information had disturbed him. "We used to be pretty close once and I'm just catching up a bit. How do you know he was going to the city?"

Marge paused again before answering. Weighing up whether she was saying too much.

"Well, he said something about seeing an old friend and some family business.

You're his son aren't you?" Margie grinned as if it all was falling into place.

Tom grinned back but said nothing.

She handed him a bag with his groceries after he'd paid and they said their farewells. His mind was in ferment. His father had lied about staying at the commune. Who had he seen? The words 'friend' and 'family business' suggested someone very much like Ed Miles. His dad had been hiding something from Tom and had obviously tried to get rid of him. Should he go back? Tom thought better of it. Driving back into the hills he tried to work out what his options were. Should he promote Harry to number one suspect? Should he confront him with his deception? How could he know what his father had been up to?

Dipping suddenly down and hurriedly braking as he followed a sweeping curve out of the forest, Tom was confronted by the sign that had intrigued him; 'You shall know the Truth and the Truth shall set you free'. He slowed and somehow expected to see the frail old man standing out the front. But his apprehension came to nothing. There was no man, just the sign and a meeting time—Sunday 10 am.

After pulling onto the shoulder of the road and stopping near the sign, Tom considered how the spiritual dimension of his life had been neglected in all his haste to be someone and achieve things. He contemplated going to the service just to satisfy his curiosity. Maybe those words wouldn't echo in his mind if he demystified the whole 'religious thing'. He figured that once he'd been to church, he could discount the belief of others as a quaint myth. Further back in the recesses of his mind there was a growing agitation. He had never had a need for reliance on a higher order. He had always been self-sufficient. Was he losing his grip? Maybe he could do with some otherworld help.

Tom completed the remainder of his journey in a distracted daze. Arriving at the secluded cabin he looked again at the text he had entered, added the one he'd seen at Gus and Margie's and then sat in the white utility wondering whether he was a victim of some strange mind game. Pithy clues were being left for him and he had to solve the riddle. It was all about 'truth' and 'lies' and something that intimidated him—this intangible spiritual dimension. He shook the fog from his mind. "Who's lying, and who's telling the truth? That's what I have to work out," he murmured vaguely.

Chapter 6

Jumping involuntarily on the brink of sleep, Tom overbalanced into wakefulness. So he lurched out of bed and got himself a glass of milk. He had been wrestling with his thoughts for half the night. Tortured with doubts about his father, he started to reminisce about family life and how bereft of affection he had been in the last few years. As an adult he had resigned himself to the fact that his parents had gone their separate ways. These days it was commonplace. But to Tom, it was a sad state of affairs. Surely it didn't have to be. Was he destined to inherit this unhappiness? He wondered if 'knowing the truth' could alter relationships.

Resigned to not sleeping, Tom picked up the Bible and found the passage that had dogged his thoughts. Reading in John eight about the cross examination of Jesus by some religious leaders. His head spun as he considered the claims of Jesus—the Light of Life and the Son of the Father. The words were unfamiliar and confusing to Tom. Could he be like those who were labelled killers because they didn't understand, and he didn't understand? Even though he knew the story at a superficial level, he also knew that millions of people had based their lives on the claims of Jesus. He reflected on the people known to him who adhered to these teachings. They were quite decent and personable. Ed, Lynne and Lori were a prime example of people he respected. Ed had proudly told him that his two older sons had gone into the ministry. That communicated to Tom that they were serious about their beliefs.

Still, it was not enough to convince him. Even though reasonable people had a faith that resulted in a moral and ethical lifestyle, it was not enough. Tom had to be convinced it was real, that it was true, and that seemed unlikely to his logical mind.

Having exhausted his abilities in attempting to decipher some sort of magical recipe for life, Tom got dressed. There was more he had to do. Suddenly he felt a surge of anger toward Ed. Why was he angry? Because the 'old friend' his father contacted was probably Ed. He knew Ed would have knowledge of what his father had been doing; they had been friends, yet he never breathed a word about Tom's father to him. Was he being unreasonable? Tom reflected. If Ed was his friend he'd expect some discretion, some confidentiality, wouldn't he? So, the friendship between himself and Ed hadn't progressed as far as he'd imagined. Or, the links between the older men were more substantial. He eventually rationalised that he could live with that.

Tom's mind was racing now. He scrabbled tiredly trying to prepare himself a bowl of cereal, totally distracted. What about the possibility that Ed could profit from his family's demise? If Tom were charged with the crime, Ed, with power of attorney, could run the business. Tom's face went into his hands. Without having eliminated his father from the list—something he had assumed would be a mere formality—he had now added weight to Ed's presence on the list. Granted, his older work colleague had been proactive in assisting his escape. He couldn't fault him there. But who knows? A devious mind could manufacture some loyalty content to let the irresistible machinery of the law pursue to an inevitable and predictable capture. Who was he kidding? If anyone had a devious mind at this point in time, it was Tom Witney.

The sooner he got to the office and looked through Ed's files, the better he would feel. Not finding anything, he thought, would be enough to exonerate someone he had always looked upon as a friend.

***

It was only just dawning when Tom arrived at his work. Before he realised it he was heading for his normal parking spot. Trying not to look too suspicious, he drove the white utility past the labelled parking bay and did a loop toward the back of the engineering building. Letting himself in through a side entrance, Tom found a pair of overalls and put them on. He then made his way up to the offices. His office was much the same as he'd left it. Tempted for a moment to open some current work files, Tom pulled himself short of turning on the computer. His finger stalled centimetres from the button.

"You're being investigated for murder you dope! What could possibly be more important than clearing your name," he muttered to himself. He sauntered slowly to Ed's office and unlocked the door, entered and relocked it from the inside. Already he felt dirty, almost traitorous.

"Some day I'll be apologising for this Ed," he vowed audibly, to quell his protesting conscience.

Tentatively at first, Tom tried the filing cabinet. The drawer slid out noiselessly. Before long he was immersed in his quest for some clue, some file exposing a plot, any family business that was out of the ordinary.

File after file was examined. One drawer, and then the next, was filled with customer details, contacts and proposals. One drawer was filled with bank information, budgets and financial arrangements. There were the plans for expansion that he had worked on with Ed and others and staff records. Surprisingly, there was a file with his academic record and an accumulation of notes and data. He studied the file carefully. In it was a note from his father to Ed: Have a look at him carefully. Let me know if you don't think he's up to it. He has to earn his place like everyone else. Tom didn't know what to think. He felt gratified that somehow he merited his position, but also he felt a little empty. He had to prove himself to his own father! Ironically, when he was under the impression he had received special dispensation as a son, that hadn't seemed a bad thing. Now, when he determined that he wasn't privileged, he felt disowned and a little resentful that he had to win over his own father.

By 10a.m. Tom had reached the last set of files. He was just about to open the drawer when he heard some movement and talk from outside the office. Quickly, he slipped into the adjoining office where Winsome usually worked. Then, fearing that he might still be too exposed, he stealthily continued back into his own office. A minute or two standing pressed against the door straining his ears, led to Tom cautiously cracking the door open. Still unable to hear anything but indistinct murmuring, he edged his way closer to Ed's Office.

"Well, you were right; Clarissa had filed some documentation about you." It was Ed's voice.

A softer, gravel voice replied. "I'm glad. I wanted some sort of affirmation that she hadn't forgotten me. It's not why I came, but I thought I should find out from you, that since I'm her son, whether I was mentioned in the will."

"Well, you've found out that she recognised you as a son, but I won't divulge that, or the will details, till the other participants are present." Ed sounded reflective, "What are you going to do now?"

"I, I guess I'll stay around for the funeral, although I don't suppose the rest of the family would want to meet me."

"Ashley, they don't know you exist. Turning up just when your mother is murdered won't necessarily endear you to anyone."

"You don't think I had anything to do with that?"

"I don't know, did you?"

"No."

"Well they're good people. Give them a chance. With the proper timing I'm sure they'll accept you. You might be surprised."

Tom was staggered by the revelation; he had a half-brother! Where was he when his mother had been killed? There was one thing for sure, it was another name for his list. Tom jumped as the trudge of footsteps grew louder. Footsteps that hurried toward where he was. He fled into his office and then to the small flat at the back. There was a pounding on his door and impatient rattling. He tensed for action.

"Open up, Police," shouted an insistent voice.

Tom peered through the small gap wondering what to do. How could they know he was there? There was a rear exit, but he wanted to know more. A slamming door, footsteps and a demanding query signalled Ed's arrival.

"What's the meaning of this Detective?"

"Ah, Miles, there you are. We hear you're having a clandestine meeting with a young man. Where's Witney?"

"You need to get your facts right Burton." Ed sounded more agitated than Tom could recall.

"It's bad enough you following myself and members of my family around, but bursting in when I'm meeting someone and making outlandish accusations is reprehensible."

"So who are you meeting? Burton sarcastically asked as a constable opened the door to Ed's office. Ashley sauntered out looking highly amused.

"Detective, this is Ashley Moore and he does look a little like Tom Witney if you discount the dark curly hair. So I could forgive your, er... confusion," Ed said with emphasis on the last word.

"So where do you fit in Mr Moore?"

"Fit in?" Ashley feigned ignorance.

Burton continued, "Look, we could run all the records and find out, so why don't you save us some time and tell me why you're here."

"I have some legal business with Mr Miles."

"And?" Tom imagined Burton's expectant gaze.

"I'm Clarissa Witney's son."

There was a stunned silence before the detective spoke with a knowing whine, "You're here about the will aren't you?"

There was no reply. Burton eventually restarted the conversation. "Well, while we are here why don't we go into Witney's office and have a chat? You don't mind if some of the boys look around, do you?"

Tom was spurred into action. In silence, he grabbed a few items of clothing and retreated quickly down a corridor, into the factory area and out a back exit. He halted when he saw a small red car parked alongside Ed's utility. There was no one to be seen so he repressed the desire to flee. Standing in the shadows like some covert agent, he examined the two parked cars. There was no movement; however the presence of the unfamiliar vehicle in his work car park on a Saturday morning bothered him. Slinking quickly to concealment behind a cargo container, Tom scrutinised the red car and the pickup. Even when he thought it was safe he compelled himself to wait a little longer, wary that he was at high risk of being caught.

Finally, having spent his limited patience the young fugitive strode toward the car confident that the area was deserted. Tom scanned furtively about as he threw open his door. His pulse was settling and his breath was easing when the passenger door was flung open. Tom's face blanched. He was transfixed—a rabbit caught in the spotlight. It took several seconds for him to realise that Lori had climbed into the cab, but he still struggled to speak.

"I can see you're speechless. Caught you red handed with my dad's stolen car," Lori scowled playfully, teasing him with a mock accusatory declaration.

"Where did you come from?... The place was empty," Tom's voice trailed off.

"I was lying in the back seat. I knew you'd come eventually," boasted Lori quietly. Then more urgently, "Tom is there anything that I can do to help?"

"You could tell me what your dad is up to."

"What do you mean," Lori re-joined defensively.

"I mean, he doesn't tell me I have a half-brother. He doesn't let me know what my father is up to. And if I disappear, he has a fair bit to gain in the company." Tom regretted it the moment the words escaped his mouth. Lori was furious.

"What are you insinuating!" she turned on him challengingly. "My father has done everything for you. How dare you suggest he's any way involved." Tom recoiled at the avalanche of indignation.

"I'm sorry. It's true, you both have done more than I deserve. It's just that I keep finding out stuff. I need all the information I can get." He looked remorsefully at Lori. She calmed a little and spoke pensively, "I know my dad; and if he doesn't tell you something," she slowed as if recalling a memory, "then, he has his reasons." Lori fixed her gaze on him. He warmed to her proximity. "Hey, nice overalls. Is that part of your disguise?"

"It might seem funny, but I thought it would help," he shrugged as he gave a crooked grin.

"It might if you weren't wearing pure white designer sneakers."

Tom looked down then back to Lori with a toothy 'oops' type of frown.

She slowly shook her head in disbelief, then swung the subject around, "We're picking up Holly at the airport tomorrow... thought you'd like to know."

Tom nodded not knowing what to say. "The funeral's on Monday, but I wouldn't risk it if I were you." She said it as if sensing his thoughts about how he might attend. "I'll get her to call you. You've got Dad's car phone don't you?"

"Uh huh," he responded. "You on my side now?" he asked with an uncertain smile.

Avoiding his eyes she deflected his invitation to recant. "I still think you should have gone with the police. Have you found out anything yet?"

It was a stinging rebuff. He answered sullenly, "No, if anything I'm worse off because I'm beginning to suspect my family and friends."

"How can I help?"

"I need to meet with your dad. I have to find out about this half-brother of mine, and..." he looked in anguish as he went on, "I need to know what my father has to do with all this."

Lori was shocked. "You don't think he has anything to do with the murders do you?"

"I don't know what to believe," he sighed. "Give me a call and let me know where we can meet."

She agreed and appeared to want to continue the conversation. "Where are you hiding?" He ignored the question. A truck drove past noisily crunching its gears.

Tom looked about nervously. He'd been here too long. The police would soon find him if he didn't keep moving. "I have to go Lori," he insisted. Lori leaned forward and put a hand on his knee. "What did you mean by 'half-brother'?" She looked curious.

He was abrupt. "It's all just news to me. Ask your father." He pulled a pained face that screamed loudly 'I have to go'. But at the same time it dawned on him how he relished Lori's companionship. It was good to have someone to talk with. She answered with a little forward head jerk that just as clearly responded, 'I get the message'. Averting her eyes, Lori moved.

"I'm going. Look after yourself," she added hastily as she exited the utility and shut the door.

Chapter 7

Burton stared at Rolf. "Have we got anywhere with locating young Witney?"

"Not as yet sir. He's obviously holed up somewhere, or trying to get out of the country."

"Well that narrows it down then, doesn't it?" he railed sarcastically. "This looks so bad. Our key suspect escapes from our custody and disappears without trace. And now, what was at first a cut and dried case is starting to become very murky."

"Come on Ade, escaping and hiding like that is proof of his guilt."

"Ya think so?" Burton barely moved his head from studying the papers before him as he gave his junior a sidelong glance.

"I'm sure of it. He's as guilty as sin. You've got the forensics—his gun, access to the home, timing is within the limits, no alibi and a motive. It's, as you said, cut and dried." Rolf held his hands apart with a self-satisfied grin.

"What about Ashley Moore?... He tells us that he just happened to arrive the day before to search out his roots. He just happens to be the son of one of the victims. And, he just happens to be asking about Clarissa Witney's will when we turn up." He stared at the wall trying to determine what all this meant. "You know how I hate coincidences. And the old man, he's hiding something. I think we're missing something here." He turned questioningly to Rolf, "Why would a smart guy like Witney do such a rotten job of covering himself?"

The other detective shrugged. "A crime of passion... I don't know, maybe everything came apart and he just lost it."

"Do you have any evidence that he had a relationship with the Jones girl?"

"No, but she was very attractive."

"So?"

"That's my whole point... unrequited love!"

Burton shook his head half smiling, "You amaze me Ro; you're the only one I know who uses what he doesn't know as evidence for a theory."

Rolf went on the offensive. "Who else? Al Towers, the most likely, has an alibi. He was seen going into the library, booking computer time and, even though the library was quiet, the computer log confirms he was there till late. Then he was seen leaving. It's got to be Witney. I reckon he's gambling that we'll think he's too smart to make it so obvious."

"Then why run?" Burton raised his bushy eyebrows. "I'm not convinced about this Ashley Moore. And I want to talk to Ed Miles again." He spoke as he was drawing some sort of connectivity diagram on a piece of paper. As an afterthought he blurted, "We need to speak to Harry Witney again too."

"Do you want me to talk to the Miles girl again?" Rolf tried to sound disinterested. Burton grinned, "You may as well. Hint that our suspicions are divided between Witney and her father and see if she can give us any leads then."

"Right," Rolf spun around and left with a little greater zest for the job than usual.

***

Tom was agitated that he knew so little. Walking, bare footed, on a beach for about an hour did little to clear his head. A skittish, chill breeze tugged at his clothes as, with hands in pockets, he trudged through the soft sand. Gulls congregated in shuffling groups, keeping out of his way, but staying near enough on the off chance that he had some food. He was endeavouring to grapple with the trauma and distress of his experiences and dealing with the dissonance that had arisen in his mind. How could he suddenly accept everything that had happened and, on top of that, cope with Ashley's appearance? Why his family, why him? What sort of person is Ashley? Could he be responsible for the horror and the disintegration of his secure world? A malaise of self-pity clouded around him. Absorbed with his fretting, he was almost unaware of his surroundings. A sudden gust of wind, sand grit was stinging his ankles and the sharp tang of salt stirred Tom back to be alert to his situation. He had wandered farther than he had intended. Turning, he jogged back along the shore.

Getting back into the white utility, he drove towards his own place thinking he might retrieve his car. Reason overtook him, though, as he considered the risk of being spotted. But he still didn't want to flee to his retreat without any more information, so he pulled over into a shopping centre and decided to have some 'think time' over a cup of coffee. Luxuriating in a foamy cappuccino at a local cafe, Tom got Ed's cell out and tried to take some notes on his suspect list. Starting with his father he wrote - find out where dad was – find out where Ed went, how long has he known about Ashley Moore?- Check out Al's alibi – find out about Ashley Moore. He sat and stared at the screen and sipped. The gun. He hadn't worked out who had taken it. He needed to ask Ed about the spare keys at work. Tom wrote it down. Suddenly a rush of questions flooded his brain. He really needed to meet with Ed. He spent the next ten minutes or so listing dot points.

After a toilet break he decided to have another coffee, thinking that it might be the last opportunity for a while to have a decent brew.

As he sat there following endless trails of what ifs, Tom noticed a police car pull in to the kerb. Warily, he examined the premises for a way out. There didn't appear to be an obvious exit. 'Sit tight', he urged himself. 'They don't know you're here; they can't see you in this corner'. He tried to disguise his appearance even more by putting a cap on to mask his eyes. A sidelong glance toward the entrance showed Detective Rolf walking toward the door. Tom tensed, ready to burst out while giving the policemen a decent shove on the way. He was reprieved. Rolf had turned in response to a call. He sat down at a table on the pavement. Tom moved across the aisle and craned his neck closer to the window. He was stunned. Lori was sitting opposite the detective. Why were they meeting? What would she tell him?

Tom had to sit there and stew. He was stuck in a foggy, boggy swamp of roiling fears. Every step left him more lost and entangled. Now he had questions about Lori. They sat and talked over coffee. It was almost as if she was flirting with him, smiling, laughing a little and then seeming to be deep in conversation. Strangely, Tom ached a bit. Some emotional angst tied his stomach in knots. He bit his lip. He knew he was developing feelings for Lori and he berated himself. He had no time for sentimentality.

***

An hour earlier, almost as soon as Lori had arrived home, she had received a call. It was Detective Rolf checking to see if she was home. He had wanted to ask her some questions. Seeing this as an opportunity to extract some information, she had agreed to meet him, but only if he was buying the coffee. Lori was appalled to see her dad's pickup outside the coffee shop minutes before the time she'd arranged to meet the policeman. Too late to change anything, Lori desperately hoped that Tom would stay inside; that he would see the police as they parked by the kerb. She sat outside and called Rolf over to where she was. A flittering shadow in the coffee shop window confirmed to her that Tom was watching them. What would he think? She knew it was all in a good cause and, secretly, she enjoyed the chance to tease a bit.

Rolf ordered coffees as they initially passed pleasantries. By the time the drinks arrived the conversation was mainly about Tom's relationship with his parents, his stepfather and Tamara. What sort of person was he and had he shown any unusual behaviour? Lori answered truthfully and tactfully, relating her limited knowledge, putting Rolf at ease before quizzing him.

"So how can you be so sure that Al Towers wasn't there?"

"What do you mean?" he was taken aback.

"You seem to have ruled him out just because he says he was at the university library."

"Well we have CCTV showing him arriving and leaving. It covers the period of the murder."

"What about other exits?"

Rolf looked at her, "Look, we've got no reason to believe that he's involved, but, we did check it out. The computer records show that the computer he booked recorded active use steadily over the time he was there. So he couldn't have done it." Rowan stared at her seriously, "No, Tom Witney is the culprit." The way he said it made Tom sound like a delinquent child.

She grinned. "What you're trying to say is that you think that he's guilty... that's because you can't imagine anyone else committing the murder. You need to use your imagination."

The detective leaned forward a little. "All right, you tell me who you imagine committed the crime."

Lori laughed, "I'm not going to do your job for you, but surely it's clear to you that Tom was set up. If he did murder them, he would have made an effort to hide the evidence, or give himself an alibi."

"Oh, the old 'it's-too-obvious-to-be-true' argument. You'd be surprised how often the simplest explanation is correct." Rolf was enjoying this sparring. Lori was attractive. Her brown eyes danced as she spoke and she seemed to relish this battle of wits.

"So, why did he run, if he was innocent?" He jabbed with his index finger to make his point.

She smiled in response. "I imagine... to try and catch the real murderer, since it seems you guys have stopped looking."

Rolf replied defensively, "We haven't stopped looking."

"Do you have any other suspects?"

"We're still looking into a few. It seems Mrs Witney had a child from a previous relationship."

"That guy I saw you with at Dad's work?" She looked at him inquisitively.

"You were there?" He looked confused.

"I dropped in on Dad after you left. So, was he...?" She continued her initial query.

Rolf suddenly became conscious that he was saying more than he should. He leaned back and attempted to be more discreet, "It's possible."

"What about Mr Witney, Tom's father?"

Rolf squirmed uncomfortably. Did she know about their concerns as well? "What about him?"

"It might be worth knowing where he was at the time," she said almost coyly.

Rolf became more forceful, "What do you really know about all this?"

Lori smiled; a touch of triumph in her expression. "I know it's time I went." She rose from her seat. "Thanks for the coffee and... thank you for all your help." She grinned impishly at him and then refocused, as if she were looking at someone behind him. He half turned, almost expecting that she was meeting up with someone, but she just walked to her small, red car and drove off. He vaguely responded to her vigorous palm movement with a half wave, concerned that he'd been the one who had been questioned. Wasn't he supposed to have made her uncomfortable by casting aspersions on her father?

Tom watched as Detective Rolf ambled to his car and drove off, appearing deep in thought. He wondered what Lori had told the policeman that had made him so absorbed.

He stood and stretched his legs ready to leave. Near the window he was giving a cursory examination of the highway when Lori's car drew into the car park from the opposite direction. She jumped out of the car and tried to restrain a sashay in her stride and a broad grin on her face. She came in and sat down next to where Tom was standing.

"What was that all about?" he asked suspiciously.

"I think he was questioning me." Her shy downturned face peering up at him mimicked helplessness, but he knew better. Tom resumed his seat, controlling a desire to hug her. Breathlessly she started, "When I saw the utility there I couldn't believe it. I had to make sure Rolf didn't go in. Then I saw you near the window, I knew you'd stay inside."

"So, you knew I was watching," Tom nodded knowingly.

"Were you?" she smirked. "Anyway, I made sure he'd gone then drove around the block."

"Why'd you come back?"

Lori stopped briefly. His comment took the wind out of her sails. "I'm just trying to help," she brooded disconsolately.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just... I didn't expect to see you."

She brightened a little. "Dad called. He said he'd see you back in the office if you want. They're not watching him anymore, as far as he can tell. He said you both needed to talk."

"That's certainly true," Tom assented. He studied Lori till she wordlessly tilted her head questioningly.

"I'm trying to work you out," he responded to her inquiring look.

"Why?"

"Exactly! Why? Why are you doing this for me?"

"People help each other," she managed in an unconvincing, stilted, even slightly embarrassed fashion.

"Yeah," agreed Tom doubtfully. "And what did you talk to Rolf about all that time?"

Lori gathered herself. "Why do you want to know?" she taunted.

"...because he's after me."

"I told him where he could find you and what a terrible person you are... what do you think?" she was truculent now.

Tom held up both hands in submission. "I was just curious... What did he say?"

Lori spent the next few minutes explaining how she dug for information and probably didn't add anything to Rolf's knowledge about the case.

"I left before he got to ask whether I'd seen you," she skewed her mouth humorously. "I didn't want to lie."

"You know he likes you, don't you?"

Although Lori had lowered her head, a small dimple betrayed her growing smile. "It doesn't hurt to make friends," she chuckled. "You should try it some time."

He thought her quiet dig was meant to chastise his abrupt manner, but Tom was unaware that she was closely watching his reaction. Instead of cueing into the intimation behind the remark, he rose and suggested they go. Tom assumed that Lori would come along back to work, but she said she needed to get a room ready for Holly, because Tom's sister had no desire to stay alone in the same house as Al.

***

Despite Lori's assurances that it was safe to go back, Tom was vigilant, ceaselessly scanning side streets, mirrors and the road ahead. Using the same entrance as before, he snuck in.

Once back in the building he relaxed some. Ed greeted him like a long lost brother, slapping his back as he hugged him.

Stepping back he observed, "You look a sight. I'm not sure if they'd recognise you now."

Tom rubbed his stubble and screwed his face wryly. "I feel pretty grotty. I might have a shower before I leave."

"Keep the face fuzz if you want to stay in hiding. There's a touch of homeless derelict to your looks."

"Thanks very much," Tom tried to sound insulted.

Ed spent some time apologising for not telling him about Ashley Moore. His rationale had been that he thought it would be better coming from Ashley and that circumstances had derailed a proposed meeting. Ed went into some background and it was all a revelation to Tom.

"You see," he stumbled awkwardly, "Ashley tried to contact your mother about two years ago, but unfortunately spoke to your dad. He immediately confronted Clarissa and after a considerable row, from what I hear, your dad took off."

"So that's why he left all of a sudden," interrupted Tom. "So he knew about Ashley all this time?"

Ed nodded, "I'm afraid so. Anyway, Ashley has taken time off from teaching to find his roots. He was a bit envious of your comfortable life but I didn't think he was up to any mischief. I mean, he seems decent enough. Well, just the other day he visited your mother... his mother," he corrected, "and got on quite well until Gene tried to run him off. I'd been invited to attend by your mum as legal advice and Ashley and I left together when it became a bit heated. The next day he contacted me and said Gene had tried to pay him off if he disappeared and never came back."

Out of the blue Tom interjected, "The key's still here." He had been sitting on Ed's desk listening intently when his eyes had wandered to the key rack on the desk.

"What do you mean?" Ed, who had been sitting on a couch, leaned forward intrigued.

"Oh," Tom looked up holding the keys, "I'm trying to work out who took my pistol from the car. These keys are still here, so unless you used them to take my gun... well I guess it's down to the spare keys at home."

"Whoa, not necessarily..." Ed's brow was furrowed and there was a quizzical expression on his face. Tom reacted to his puzzlement. "What's wrong?"

"Those keys were missing. I hadn't noticed that they were back."

"What are you saying?" Tom was totally focused.

"Someone took those keys... probably to get into your car and, it's quite possible, it was the person who took your gun."

Tom was standing now. He gave Ed a determined stare. "Who Ed? Who had the opportunity to take them... and more importantly, put them back as well?"

"I'd say just about anyone who works here, except for a couple things. One, it's impossible to imagine anyone here doing this."

Tom grunted, "Huh, maybe it's a sign of how desperate I am, but I'm imagining everyone being involved." He sat down next to Ed and put his head in his hands. "I hate to admit it Ed, but you're even on my list."

Ed gave him a consoling pat. "I'd like to say I understand. The truth is I have no way of knowing how you feel at the moment. I mean it's unreal. One day everything is fine and then catastrophe strikes."

A silly smirk played on Tom's lips. "You're just trying to make me feel good, huh?" he looked up at his finance manager. "So what's the other exception to suspecting everyone?"

Ed fixed his gaze on Tom, heightening a sense of the import of what he had to say.

"Those keys were returned today."

It didn't register immediately with his young boss so Ed elaborated. "Ashley Moore is the only person I can think of who was here to take them and then return them."

"Ashley," breathed Tom audibly. "We have to find him and confront him."

"He seemed so genuine. " Ed shook his head, "You be careful Tom. If he's the killer he won't hesitate to kill again."

Ed scrunched his face as if in pain. Tom sat riveted to the spot, aware that something was amiss. "What's wrong?"

"There's something else."

"What is it?" There was an unusual commanding quality to his query.

Ed looked apologetically, "I used your car that morning, for about an hour."

"Why?"

"... Just to drop some legal papers off for your mother. I wasn't there long, but I'm afraid..." Ed's face contorted with the ramification of what he was thinking. "I didn't lock the car."

"Oh, Ed." Disappointed, Tom tried to grasp how this information altered his perceptions.

"I'm sorry Tom." Ed was contrite. "I know this means anyone could have grabbed that gun; anybody could have come while I was inside and taken it."

"Did you see anyone?"

Ed looked dejected. "No."

"Oh well... it just widens the field. I'll still have to work on who could have used the keys."

They spent a few minutes trying to work out how to put some leverage on Ashley should they find him. How could they find him? The problem was, the keys were back and all that they had proposed was sheer speculation.

Pacing the room, Tom's mind went over what he had learned. A suspicion deviated his thinking in another direction. "What about the will? Who benefits most from Mum's will?"

Ed looked above his metal frame glasses. "It won't be read until after the funeral." The mild reprimand was meant to be a salutary piece of information, but Tom paid no attention to the rebuke.

"You've already suggested Holly and I are in it. You know exactly what's in it don't you?" Tom almost challenged.

"If you mean, did I assist your mother in drafting it? The answer is yes, but it's a bit unethical to release it before the official reading."

Tom rebutted with a bit of emotion, "Murder is unethical and, as you can appreciate, I won't be able to attend the official reading."

"Hmm," he stood, turned and stared at the picture on the wall. There was a text that Tom hadn't noticed before: 'Your word is Truth'. Ed cleared his throat. "I won't tell you exactly what it says, but I can say that only you, Holly, your father and two others were mentioned. I think that should be very helpful for you."

Tom's reply was almost monotone, "Two others? Surely not Al?"

Ed faced him. He didn't answer verbally. He just raised his eyebrows and pulled his lips tight, not clearly affirming or denying the negatively framed question.

The room was quiet. A mood of hopelessness invaded Tom's being. He flopped onto the couch and put his head in his hands again. 'Surely not Al?' he repeated in his thoughts. Then, when Ed's comment eventually sank in, it dawned on him that there was something else to explore.

"And two others?" he prompted his mentor. When he got no reaction Tom pressed on, "You wrote something about an allowance for Al if he kept to his studies, didn't you?" The older man made no comment. "That wouldn't amount to much and he would have to actually study right?" There was still no response from Ed.

"It's Ashley isn't it?" Tom cried. Then gaining momentum and volume Tom pushed on, "That would give him a reason to murder. Do you know where he was later that afternoon?"

Ed's perplexed look said all that was necessary.

"So, what you're not saying," he grated with an ironic twist on his face, "is that he's got motive and, probably, opportunity."

There was another uneasy quiet as Ed stared at the keys and Tom watched him, his mind muddling through a gluey inertia caused by emotions about confronting his friend.

"You've seen Dad, haven't you?" he blurted apprehensively. Ed turned to face him. His scrunched features betrayed the contortions his thoughts were performing.

"What can I say?" he replied softly, "I'm in a difficult place here."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, your father and I are old friends. I don't talk about it, but we've kept in touch." Ed strained a little, as if he was embarrassed about what he would say next.

"He... he saw me last Wednesday... wanted to er," he shuffled nervously, pouting his lips, "... to er, sound me out as to how you'd feel if he wanted to come back to work here."

Tom skewed his head intrigued, "He wants to come back?"

Ed nodded.

"Of course I don't care if he comes back or not." The words were almost scathing. "The thing is he was here. I have to find out where he went—."

"You don't think—" interrupted the older man.

"I don't know. But I have to hear it from him. He's lied to me once now. This time I want to hear the truth."

There was an uncomfortable lull in their conversation as Tom brooded over his father.

"Tom, this is not you. He's your father for goodness sake!" Ed's utterance was pleading and conciliatory at the same time.

"I may not be myself, but what about my Dad?" Tom almost snapped, "He just leaves, right out of nowhere. I thought I knew him, but he didn't give a clue about what was on his mind."

"I know..." the older man said quietly and lowered his head. He took a deep breath and spoke more purposefully. "Tom, I explained why Harry ran off. You have to understand. It was a huge shock. He knew nothing about it and then he was wondering what else was secret... he just started saying crazy things."

"I guess it would be a shock."

"Well, now he blames himself for what's happened. He says if he'd been around he would have protected Clarissa."

"That's silly. Why should he feel responsible for this mess?" Tom glanced up at Ed.

Looking back at him over his glasses like a paternal school master, Ed replied sagely, "Because he's just like you. You both act first and think later." He smiled, "... and then you come and tell me your regrets."

They spoke a little more about Harry before Tom enquired about how his friends and employees were reacting to the news.

"I think they're all a bit stunned by it all," Ed admitted. "I mean some think, like Holly, that you should just give yourself up. Gil rang and said if you needed a place to hide you could use his place."

Tom snorted softly as he considered his Uncle Gil. He was somehow related to Clarissa—a second cousin or something like that—and often dropped by. Being on the moneyed side of the family, it was he who tried to distract Tom with fishing or tennis and had introduced him to the gun club. It was just like him to treat Tom's evasion from the police as a bit of a lark.

"Rick dropped by and wanted to know everything, and then asked if there was anything he could do."

"Does he know I'm up at his cabin?

Ed shook his head, "I didn't tell him, but he may guess. You know you won't be able to keep this up for long, don't you Tom?"

"Mm," Tom conceded reluctantly. "Anyone else show particular interest?"

"Everyone!" responded Ed. "Erin couldn't believe it and then asked if I thought you'd done it. Drake and Gerhardt came up with multiple scenarios describing how you were framed while a lot of others took the view that your running indicates your guilt."

Tom looked up at Ed. "I don't blame them really... and I'd think the same thing."

It was then that Ed filled him in about Charlton Chemicals and how Mr Charlton had been angry at Gene. It was possible that someone had gone to the house to 'straighten Gene out' and things had gotten out of hand. It seemed unlikely to Tom but he said he'd follow it up. After giving the details of the company's address to Tom, Ed left. Tom then spent as much time as he dared under a hot shower.

As the archetypal 'fugitive' he was loath to leave without finding out anything substantial, but he'd already spent an hour there and he was sure it was one place the police would check regularly. At a loss as to knowing how he would continue his search for the murderer he decided to inspect the Charlton Chemical Company. Tom needed to plan his visit and organise a quick getaway should things turn ugly.

Chapter 8

"There's no way he did it," Gil thrust out his jaw provocatively. "You don't know the young man. He wouldn't harm a fly."

Burton stood facing the tall, middle-aged man, slightly amused at the clichéd, upper class mannerisms he displayed. Rolf stood next to his superior, notebook in hand, grinding his teeth impatiently at Gil's self-important proclamations. They were standing on the porch of his impressive, faux Georgian home (the facade being the only thing that was consistent with the historical style).

"Just answer the question."

Gil glared at the younger officer and spoke punctiliously, "Yes, I saw him on Wednesday morning. I often see him at the shooting range. Are you saying that everyone who participates in sport shooting is a murderer?"

"No, Mr Trentham," Burton returned quietly. "Did you see him take his gun home with him?"

"If you mean did I see him take it out of the club? The answer is, no. I was still shooting my last bracket."

"Does he normally take his gun home?"

"Of course; most members take their guns home, but there is a lockup facility there."

Burton switched tack suddenly, "So, you're a close friend of the family?"

Gil measured his words in reply. "You... could say that." He gave no more away.

The detective went on calmly. "Do you know where Tom Witney is?"

"No." Gil drew himself to his full height and added piously, "And I don't think I'd tell you if I did."

"No," Burton raised his eyebrows. "I suspected as much. And where were you Wednesday afternoon?"

Gil looked offended. "Me? I was here, by myself. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to trust me on that."

"So you're saying no-one can vouch for you."

"I suppose that's true. Maybe you should arrest me too." He held his hands up symbolically to be cuffed.

Just then another officer ran up and said a word in Burton's ear. "We may speak with you again Trentham," was his parting shot as he turned away and strode toward the car. Rolf was following close behind wanting to know what was up.

***

Old chain link fencing surrounded the grungy, surly buildings of the Charlton Chemicals factory. There was a large, desolate, weedy expanse of land behind the main factory and warehouse. Rows of drums on pallets bordered the far side of the barren field. Tom had driven around the surrounding roads twice and wondered how a place that flouted so many environmental laws was still open. Having heard something of his reputation, Tom tried to imagine the lengths Mr Charlton would go to, to stop Gene. He would visit later and find out what Charlie had to say for himself. Ensuring that he could get away was his main concern, so Tom sat and considered his options.

***

Two cars drew up outside the suburban town house behind a squad car. Burton and Rolf stepped out of the first purposefully. A constable met them and pointed in an animated fashion toward the building. They walked around the side to a tall gate which led to a laneway. The two stood and talked about the parked racing cycle. Anyone observing would think they were prospective buyers and that they were discussing a possible purchase.

A few minutes later they were upstairs confronting Rick Tanon.

"I was sort of expecting you guys." He stood back as they wandered into the expensive looking room and took in the minimalist décor. The lounge and adjoining kitchen and dining area was all steel, glass and white leather couches.

Burton turned and faced him as he closed the door. "And why is that Mr Tanon?"

Rick collapsed into a big couch, a silly smile played on his lips. "Well, I know Tom Witney really well. We're related you know."

"His cousin on his mother's side," interjected Rolf. "That accounts for how you can afford the upmarket apartment," he added in a disparaging aside.

"Hey, I happen to be a successful accountant." Rick's wounded expression was evidence that it was a sore point with him. "Listen, I can't help it if I come from a wealthy family... it has its benefits, but I earn my own way."

Detective Burton was undeterred by the direction the conversation had taken. "Do you know where Tom Witney is?"

"No."

"Has he contacted you?"

"No, not recently."

"So how did you get hold of the bike that he stole from Clinton Hughes?"

A cheesy grin spread over Rick's face. "It sort of just appeared."

Rolf was losing patience. "Let's take him in. We can charge him with obstructing justice for one."

Rick's face became more concerned as he responded, "No, I'm serious; it just appeared yesterday with a note. 'Please return this to Clint for me'. So I guess Tom dropped it off."

"You haven't seen him at all since Wednesday?"

"No, and before that, not since last weekend. We played golf."

"So you saw him on Wednesday?"

"Yes, Wednesday's our gun club morning. But you knew that didn't you?"

Burton's mind went to the list of half a dozen names from the club given to him by one of his detectives. These people were associated with Witney in some way and he wanted to follow up on them all. He questioned Rick about Tom's demeanour that morning and his personality as a whole with little success.

Finally, Adrian Burton had had enough of the verbal gymnastics. He sat down opposite the stocky young man and leaned forward. He spoke in a quiet, stern voice.

"I want you to think carefully Mr Tanon. Knowing Tom Witney so well, where do you think he's hiding out?"

Rick looked a little bemused that they were expecting him to 'inform' on Tom.

"You really think he did it?" he asked incredulously.

"Let's just say that he's a person of interest. Do you have some information that might help?"

After a moment's thought the young man reluctantly ventured, "You might try the holiday house down the west coast, um," Rick seemed to pause thoughtfully. "Or possibly camping up on the Snowy." He shrugged. "That's all I can think of. I'll let you know if I think of anything else."

Rolf, who had been taking notes all the while, peered up at Tanon and then at Burton. The senior detective gave a little nod and then they excused themselves with the prescribed dose of gratitude.

Just at the door, Burton turned as if he was animated by afterthought. "Oh, by the way Tanon, where were you on Wednesday afternoon?"

"Me? You're kidding right?" Rick spread his arms across the couch arm and back with an air of surprise and sureness.

"Just for the record Mr Tanon," iterated Burton in a monotone.

Rick rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Well I was at work and then left early and went to my mother's. You can check it out if you like."

"We will. What time did you arrive at your mother's home?"

"About three."

"Thank you again Mr Tanon." Burton made a pained attempt at a smile as he left.

Outside the consensus was reached quickly.

"He's keeping something to himself. Do you think he knows where Witney is?" Rolf quizzed.

"I'd bet on it. Even if he doesn't know for sure, I reckon he thinks he knows where he is." Burton turned to the younger detective. "Get Arrington and Lee to keep a watch on Tanon. I'll call Gully and see what's going on with Miles." Burton went to the car while Rolf spoke with the other plain clothes officers who had been waiting with their car.

***

Tom had finished his survey and was adding to the list of suspects and things he had to do. He resigned himself to somehow engage Burton's help in locating suspects. The first thing was to call the police number on his cell. He spoke quickly when they answered, ignoring questions and relying on the belief that the calls were recorded:

"This is Tom Witney. Tell Detective Adrian Burton that I need his help to find Ashley Moore. He had access to my car keys and he probably returned them to Ed Miles' office. Also he needs to follow up threats made to Gene Towers by Charlie Charlton.

He hung up but left it turned on as he headed for half an hour in the wrong direction. It was shut down before veering north and then east. Tom knew the anxiety he was experiencing was manifested by his clammy clothing. It was starting to get late and he didn't want to be driving the mountain tracks at night. If he drove uninterrupted he'd get back to the turnoff in a little over an hour.

***

The detectives had arrived several minutes earlier at the Miles' home where Burton was planning to ask some searching questions about contact with the fleeing suspect.

"Ade, Arrington and Lee are trailing Tanon. He's heading towards Grimpton." Rolf was yelling through the open car door.

"Right," Burton called raising his hand to signal he'd received the message. He had been on the other radio talking with headquarters about Tom's latest message. Explaining to them that they should send a squad car to the location. Nevertheless, he also assured them that Tom Witney would be nowhere nearby by the time they got there, but it was a procedural thing. It was nearing five and he was fairly tired of the whole investigation. 'Lancaster could take over tomorrow,' he thought, and he would have a nice quiet Sunday.

He spoke to the detective sitting behind the wheel. "Gully, nothing's happening here. I want you to go to Tanon's mother and ask her where he is going. When you're there check out his story too, will ya?"

"Aw, Boss, I always miss the chase," Gully gave a hang dog look.

"Give it a rest Gully," Burton rolled his eyes as he walked back towards Rolf. "Okay Ro, let's go and find out where Rick Tanon is heading."

They drove off in a rush, Rolf switching the flashing lights on as Burton called for some more support.

Inside the entry way, behind one of the two brick pillars that were on either side of the driveway, Lori stood quietly. She waited for the second car to leave before going inside. Rapidly she located her father's number and punched enter. There was no response.

At that exact moment Tom was paying for some petrol at a service station. He smelled some hot food at a takeaway counter and considered sitting down to a meal a bit further down the road.

Lori waited a few minutes before trying again, still no luck. After twenty minutes she was getting frantic. She had to let him know somehow. Where was he? Had they already caught him?

Tom was nearing the next small township when the phone rang. He swung over into what looked like a timber track and answered the repetitive summons.

"Tom, it's Lori. Where have you been? I've been calling for the last half hour."

"I stopped off for a hamburger. Why, what's wrong?"

"I think Rick is heading up to the cabin, and the police are following him."

"Oh great!"

"You need to get away from there."

"How did you find out?" Tom was scouting the distance behind him as he asked.

"They were here, outside the house, Burton and Rolf and another car, when they received a call... and I sort of overheard them," Lori commented diffidently.

In the distance Tom noticed flashing police car lights racing toward him. He didn't want to draw undue attention to himself by pulling out in front of the cars, so he sat and held the phone as obviously as he could against his ear while still obscuring his face as much as possible.

"Tom, are you there?" Lori's stressed words conveyed her unease.

"It's the police." His words were terse, "They're coming up behind me now. If they're looking for this car I've had it."

The first two cars screamed by, but the third slowed appreciably. Burton had told Rolf to see if the driver needed help. As they drew near the driver waved them on, pointing at the same time to the cell phone in his hand.

Tom breathed a sigh of relief as the last car disappeared from view.

"They've gone. I'm heading back," he said with relief.

"I'll pick you up at Grimpton." Her offer came unexpectedly.

He hesitated briefly, "You're crazy, but, considering everything... okay?"

"Wow, I didn't think you'd agree. How come?"

"Because that's about the third time they would have seen your Dad's ute. They'll work it out eventually that I'm driving. I need a different car."

"You can't take yours."

"What do you suggest?"

Lori thought furiously. "What about Holly's car?"

"It's garaged at home. They'll be watching there. Besides I doubt if Al will let us just waltz in and take the thing without making a fuss. I think I ruffled his feathers last time we met." His words gave no indication of the convoluted ideas suddenly springing up in his head. It was not so much a result of what Lori had said as a reaction to her concern and remembering the warmth of her presence.

"Maybe I could swap cars with a friend and you could use it."

Tom could hear Lori turning the ignition as she was speaking. He countered, "No, the fewer people involved the better. And if you're caught doing this it will be aiding and abetting. Lori, it might be best if I do this myself. Don't worry about picking me up."

"What are you going to do?" she said apprehensively.

"I'll sleep on the boat tonight and head off in the morning."

"Where?"

"I don't know, east probably; they'll be expecting me to go to the beach house."

There was an extended interval of wordless rumination as the two of them attacked the problem, searching for some possible solution.

"Tom, are you there?" Lori's faltering query gave little clue to the storm of ideas that flooded her mind.

"Yep, still here," was his slightly distant comeback.

"If you park around the back of the supermarket in Grimpton, I'll pick you up there."

"I thought we agreed...," he began to protest, but she cut him off.

"Shush! Listen; if they don't see a car at the docks, they won't know for sure that it wasn't just me or dad taking the boat. If they see the utility they'll guess for sure that you're on board."

"Mm, okay granted," Tom reluctantly agreed, although not convinced of the wisdom of involving Lori.

"And I know exactly where you can go."

"What do you mean?"

"I know where to go," she repeated. "There's a church camp I used to go to, on one of the islands in the lakes. It has a small inlet and jetty and Joe the caretaker is a family friend. I'll write him a note. I'm sure he'll let you stay a while."

Chapter 9

The pervasive darkness of a cloud covered bush night had settled around them as the tentative pursuers finally edged up the small track, crossing a heavy timber bridge then stopping before it opened out to a clearing. A dank, eucalypt tinged atmosphere added to the mystique of the timbered arena surrounding the small cabin. Furtive whispers directed one and then another of the seven subordinates until they were all in position. A raucous yell, a smashing, splintering sound and a rush of bodies into the dimly lit room culminated the hastily contrived plan.

Several minutes later they finally established that Rick Tanon was the sole presence in the cabin prior to their scrum-like onslaught. What ensued was a bedraggled troupe tripping and stumbling in the dark. Someone hissed, "Turn on the torch will ya?" which summed up the bungling, anticlimactic outcome of the foray. When they sought some information he was not very cooperative. Sore and sorry for himself, Rick bleated 'police brutality' and 'blatant incompetence' as the defining terms for the episode.

"Do we take him with us Ade?" It was Rolf speaking as they huddled around the headlights.

"No. He could be telling the truth. But I doubt it. Witney was here and I think he knew it." Burton was speaking through pursed lips. "I've had enough for tonight. On Monday we'll put some more pressure on Miles and his daughter. They know more than they're telling us. And I'll get Lancaster and his boys to dig up all the vehicles owned by family members and friends so we know what he could be driving. Let's go home."

Rolf drove back full of ideas, but he got little response from Burton who was very subdued. Finally, trying to break his boss from his pensive mood, he blurted, "What's wrong Ade. He's getting to you isn't he? Don't worry, we'll get him."

Burton looked across at him wearily. "I keep asking 'Why', Ro. Nothing seems to fit. Why do decent people want to help a murderer? Why does a murderer who escaped from custody keep contacting us and suggesting things to investigate? Why does someone like Tom Witney kill three people? Does any of it make sense to you?"

"You're just tired Ade. Murder never makes sense to me. They're crazy with rage, or jealousy, or greed... or they're just plain crazy."

'So which do you think? What drove Witney to murder?"

"I think he's crazy, a psycho... maybe he just snapped and he's playing with us now to feed some, some..." Rolf was searching for words.

"Egotistical aberration?" inserted Burton.

"Yeah, you've got a way with words. You know that Ade?"

It was a couple of minutes before the older man spoke again, putting substance on the framework of his thinking and setting it in context with words. "Well, Gascoyne is putting the pressure on so we had better find him soon."

Rolf just nodded. Gascoyne was the much feared chief. There was rumour that he was on some sort of performance contract where every unsolved major crime affected his salary. His irascible, belligerent tirade that morning gave credence to the rumour. 'How could one of the most modern forces in the country fail to find the key suspect while he's making almost daily calls to them?' he'd snidely demanded.

"You know why we can't find him?" Rolf suddenly stated rhetorically minutes later, as if the conversation hadn't stopped. Burton didn't grace the question with a reply. "It's because he planned beforehand. He had everything worked out... where he was going to hide, what cars he would use. It makes sense." There was a note of triumph in his conjecture.

"No." was all Burton uttered before he turned and snoozed the remainder of the journey. The remark deflated his young partner who knew better than to pursue the reason. Experience had told him that, having disputed his ideas outright, Burton would methodically, and maybe instructively, dismantle his theories to the point where he felt a fool for even having considered them.

Burton was thinking about the comment. If Witney had planned the whole thing he must be some sort of psychological genius, certainly too good for his investigative abilities. To use his own gun, call the police and not have an alibi, escape in a police car and then a bike on the scant hope that a police officer has a phobia about big slobbering dogs, and then to expect to be acquitted as innocent. If all that was true, then it was time for him to quit.

***

Tom had met Lori in the back parking bays of the Grimpton supermarket. She had purchased a few bags of groceries and had come out of the store to find him waiting, a little agitated at not knowing where she was but at the same time having a strong inkling as to her whereabouts. Lori explained good naturedly, when he huffed and puffed about where she was, that he would appreciate some fresh food on the boat and would thank her later. A little shamefaced he apologised, saying that life on the run was making him jittery.

After hiding the white pickup in the farthest corner, Lori drove them back toward the city and the marina where his boat was moored.

"I've marked in the map book where you'll find the church camp. It'll probably take about a day to get there," Lori explained as she squinted at the approaching high beam headlights. Tom marvelled that she didn't curse or complain at the inconsiderate motorist approaching. It was something he did almost as a matter of course. He knew it was one of the many flaws in his character. Now, being with Lori, her restraint was attractive to him, almost noble. It made him want to change. He sought some details about the place she had suggested and, after some key logistic information about distance, location and about Joe the caretaker, she started to reminisce. The obviously fond memories took hold of her and he was regaled with tales of her youth at the church camp. For the first time in several days Tom was distracted from his troubles. He laughed with Lori at the pranks and personalities she described and became pensive when she shared how that her times there were precious steps in developing her faith.

Tom sat and thought about the importance Lori placed on her faith. It wasn't just a social diversion, but a driving force in her life. He wondered what it was like to have a clear frame of reference for your life. One that answered many of the 'why' type questions he battled with.

Almost intuitively Lori sensed the reason behind Tom's contemplative silence and respected his quiet 'think time' by not intruding into his thoughts. He eventually stated something that had been irking him for the last hour or so.

"Lori, how can you," Tom faltered indecisively, "how can you help me hide from the police and be true to your beliefs? I mean, I appreciate it and all, but it's a bit of a contradiction isn't it?"

"So, what are you saying?" she crumpled her nose engagingly, "I'm some sort of a hypocrite?"

"No, no, no," he backpedalled instantly, "I just feel bad dragging you into all this. You're getting yourself in trouble because of me."

"I think it's called a moral dilemma. I'm not helping a murderer, am I?"

"No."

"Besides, I haven't had to lie or anything yet. I really didn't know where you were."

"Maybe, but you weren't cooperative either." Tom countered.

Lori looked confused. "Do you want me to turn you in?" She glanced across at Tom, frowning.

"Well, if it means avoiding getting charged by the police... yes, most certainly, tell them everything you know. I couldn't live with the knowledge that I dragged you, or anybody else, into this."

There was a short lull in their mild spat, but Lori hadn't capitulated. "When you first came to our place I wanted to call the police. I couldn't understand why you were running. But," she stopped and weighed her words, "but sometimes you do what is right despite what the authorities say. You protect the innocent." Her point made, Lori qualified her remarks with an incongruous postscript. "Still, I think you should turn yourself in. The truth will come out. I think your innocence will be proved in the end."

"You've got more faith in the system than I have."

It wasn't long after they had ceased talking that Lori turned into the main bayside road that led to the marina. Tom insisted that she drop him off more than a block away from the car park entry. He wanted to minimise any possibility of her being implicated in some offence.

"I need the exercise," he assured her with a peculiar grin.

"Have you got everything you need? You know where to go?" Lori queried as he gathered his things.

"Yup," he affirmed a touch flippantly, though his mind registered a few requisites that he was already planning to get.

"Look after yourself," she said softly and placed a hand on the side of his face. Their gazes met and Lori's soft brown eyes became dewy before she looked down. Repressing a strong desire to kiss her on her lips, Tom took her hand and kissed it gently.

"Thanks... thanks for everything. And... and Lori, don't worry. I'll be fine." He squeezed her hand and then backed out of the car. He had with him a duffle bag stuffed with shopping and a variety of useful objects he'd scavenged from the old white utility. Tom flashed a reassuring smile, closed the door and walked away. She watched his assumed, relaxed gait as he moved away trying, with some effort, to appear casual. Having scanned the area, he looked over his shoulder and gave a final wave. That a small turn and wave from Tom should give Lori a warm glow intrigued her. She drove back toward home in deep thought, almost oblivious to her surroundings.

When Tom cautiously approached the family yacht it was late in the evening. He waited for twenty minutes in the shadows before venturing onto the mooring pier. The creaking and shuddering boats bumped and swayed like a herd of frisky horses tethered to a rail. A rolling swell and the slap of the wind driven chop, lent an eerie, syncopated rhythm to the rocking craft. Tom didn't know where to look. Committed now to be exposed by the spray shrouded sodium lights of the timbered walkway, he tucked his head down, thrust one hand in his pocket and strode purposely toward 'Perfect Treat'. With a final quick look around, he scampered from the wharf, across the gangplank and boarded the rocking boat. The fifty five foot twin diesel, luxury motor cruiser was one of his father's few extravagances. With wood panelled cockpit, satellite navigation, small galley, a largish salon and staterooms with ensuites at the rear, it was a treat to travel in.

Showing some impatience, he delved for his key, dumping the bag so he could steady his hands and locate the keyhole before anyone noticed his presence. He staggered, drunk like, as the boat was tilted dangerously by a rogue wave. Waiting briefly for some stability, Tom inserted the key and shimmied through the low doorway, dragging his bag rapidly in before the next series of swells increased the degree of difficulty.

***

Time for a meal, for stowing gear and supplies, and two hours of attempted rest was all the delay that Tom could endure. Conditions on the bay had calmed considerably over that period and the forecast was for the beginning of more benign weather. Casting off and then navigating out through the marker buoys, Tom took the first of many GPS readings, tracking his position on the digital map glowing green in front of him. Cruising along the east coast of the bay, breaking clouds became visible in the watery moonlight. Streetlights, houselights and traffic indicators clung to the shore like a spray of fairy lights.

The throbbing engine and gentle rocking of the 'Perfect Treat' had a soporific effect on the weary young Witney. When the last harbour on the peninsula drew near, Tom almost sighed with relief. He regrouped his concentration for the late night docking. To his annoyance there were no observable quayside berths so he chose one of the anchored buoys behind the breakwater. Once tied and secured, he flopped into the couch and fell into a dead sleep.

***

Awakening to the gentle pitching of his motorised yacht, at first Tom was uncertain as to where he was. It was still dark and the salty, moist odour of the sea permeated the cabin. He flicked a light on and got together some breakfast. As he ate and sipped at a steaming coffee he noticed a Bible in one of the Perspex covered book holders on the side near the couch. "She's a veritable Gideon," he stated out loud, as he envisaged Lori stocking the boat.

'The truth will set you free'. Those words echoed in his memory. He wished the truth would come out. He paged through the Bible as he finished his coffee. Finding the book of John again he got to the same passage as last time. The words he read disturbed him. He had seen the words truth and homed in on the text.

If I am telling the truth, why don't you believe me? He who belongs to God hears what God says. The reason you do not hear is that you do not belong to God. Was that why he didn't understand? But it was the passage following that had tightened his throat. Was it a description of him? Child of the Devil... He lies and I believe his lies... Could this be describing what he was like? Surely he wasn't that bad? Tom wondered who Jesus was talking about. When he located the word 'Pharisees' he breathed to himself, "I bet they thought they were pretty good too." Suddenly a glimmer of realisation struck Tom. The lie, he had been wondering what it was. He reread the words:

Yet you are ready to kill me, because you have no room for my word. I am telling you what I have seen in the Father's presence, and you do what you have heard from your father.

'I wonder if the lie is that 'I don't need to be set free' so 'I choose to ignore God'. I can do this on my own. I'm all right,' Tom mused. Was that him? Tom had to admit that it sounded like him. He would have gladly told anybody 'I'm not a slave—never have been,' but in reality he knew he was a slave to his own selfish ambition, to prosperity and materialism and to acclamation from others. Tom stretched uncomfortably. He got up and looked at the small mirror. An unfamiliar person with a bristly face and unkempt hair gazed back.

"So that's what I'm really like." Was he responding to the image or telling the mirrored person what those words had just revealed to him? In his heart he knew he'd taken a step closer to those people long ago who 'put their faith in Him—even as He spoke'.

After grooming himself enough to not look suspiciously disreputable, Tom emerged from the cabin, closed up, dropped the dinghy over the side and boarded it. Eight or nine strokes of the paddles brought him to the access ramp and a set of stairs up to the top of the pier. In no time Tom was being taken by a taxi toward his home. Much to his chagrin he was an unwilling captive audience to a particularly talkative and inquisitive cabby.

"Been fishen'?"

"No."

"It's a pretty place isn't it, Sorrento? Do you live there?"

"No."

Not quick on the uptake, the driver persisted. "Did you come in by boat?"

"Yup."

Encouraged by a positive reply the driver followed up immediately, "So, did you travel far?"

"No, just trying to escape the rat race," Tom quipped.

"I know what you mean. I start every morning, four a.m. hoping to take overnighters back to the city. What do you do with yourself?"

Tom leaned forward and said softly, "I'm a fugitive from the law, but don't tell anyone. You see I'm totally innocent, but I need my freedom to prove my innocence."

The driver laughed, "Okay, I get it. You want a quiet drive. I can do that. I'll just drive and you can sit there."

"It's a deal," chuckled Tom. He sat and considered his position. He was now solo again. Lori might think she was an accomplice, but he couldn't live with the responsibility. No one would know where he was or what he was doing. But, more importantly, he wouldn't be hiding away finding out nothing useful. He would be trying to answer some questions racing around inside his brain.

He reviewed everything right from the start of the day. Who knew about his gun? Al knew, Gene knew, but he was dead. Rick and Gil were at the gun club with him. They knew about the gun. So did Ed, but what possible motive could they have? Then there was Ashley. He could have stumbled upon the gun. It would take some digging to find out what his reasons could be. Maybe he was resentful of his mother. The others? Charlie Charlton or some other unknown assailant, who somehow came upon his gun, possibly from his unlocked car, could have unintentionally incriminated him. Tom's head was spinning. There were too many 'could haves'. He needed to deal in facts. He made a list on his digital notes of what he knew so far. One; someone took his keys and returned them. Two; his gun was used to commit the murders. Three; Ashley Moore had confessed to visiting his mother.

Question one; what was the meeting like? How could he find out? He had to talk to Ashley. Tom made another note. He continued his facts. Four; Police believe Al's alibi. That led to another question. Is Al's story true? He had to check it out. Tom clenched his jaw. He still hardly knew anything.

***

The cab deposited him two blocks away from his place. Ten minutes of jumping at shadows, crawling past darkened windows and scaling fences had Tom just next door to his place, struggling to regain his breath. It was still dark as he hoisted himself over a neighbour's fence and then crept stealthily toward the garage. He heard Juno in the shed whining quietly and it made him grumble angrily. "I'll get Holly to rescue you boy." Oddly, although it seemed unlikely to him that the dog had heard him mutter, Juno suddenly became quiet. Tom unlocked one of the garage doors and used his copy of Holly's key to gain entry. A gratified grunt escaped his lips as he noticed that Ed had garaged his Mercedes in the first port. Before doing anything else, he wrote a short note on a piece of notepaper from his glove compartment. A ripple of guilt spread through him as he released the hand brake of Holly's vehicle. His rebuttal of Lori's idea was misdirection, not outright deception, he argued to himself.

He didn't want to risk the noise of starting the engine so he pushed the small Honda out of the garage. Once he'd relocked the door, he rolled the small sedan down the gentle slope of the long sweeping curve to the main road. Thankfully for Tom, by this stage the police had deemed it a poor use of manpower to keep surveillance on a place where they had already missed him once.

He turned the ignition and heard the disconcerting curling whir of the starter motor. He tried again, nothing... and again, nothing. Feeling frantic now, the heat rising around his neck and worried that someone would look out a window and see him, he tried again unsuccessfully. The growing light of dawn would reveal Holly's stranded car. Amidst his anxious tension a hint of reasoning invaded the fretful clutter of his thinking. Holly's car had been sitting idle for six months. He pumped the accelerator repeatedly before turning the key. The engine roared into life, more enthusiastically than he would have liked. The car departed leaving a blue cloud of smoke.

***

Chapter 10

Lancaster and Schultz were at the door waiting. Lancaster had told the others that he wasn't going to spend his day doing menial legwork for Burton when he knew what needed to be done. Having read Burton's case notes so far, he had decided that pressure had to be applied to the Miles' girl. She was involved and he was sure a modicum of 'professional' harassment would get her cooperation. After all they were investigating a triple homicide; they had to go in hard.

Finally, after the third ring, the door was answered by a flustered, but particularly attractive girl.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, "I was getting ready for church..."

"Miss Miles, I'm Detective Lancaster and this is Detective Schultz. We would like you to come down to the station with us."

Lori flushed. "I'm sorry; I'm just heading off to church. My parents have already left."

"Miss Miles, this is not a request. We believe you are involved in assisting in the escape of a wanted person." Lancaster was sounding as severe as he could. Her horrified expression was the desired result. He felt pleased with the way things were turning out. He was sure that had Ed Miles been there he would have insisted on the presence of a lawyer. But, as it was now, he was confident, with a little 'professional' intimidation, he would get what he wanted from the girl. She was already showing signs of guilt and fear.

"Can I call my parents? They'll worry." She looked up at the man who had perpetually florid cheeks and a constant, pained glare.

"You can call them from the station," Lancaster allowed. 'When we have what we want,' he thought.

The difference between Lancaster and Burton was that Lancaster believed 'the ends justified the means'. Burton on the other hand tried to empathise with the people he dealt with. He was sure that the facts would come out if he did his job properly.

***

Lori sat on the wooden chair wringing her hands. She had been in the interview room for five minutes by herself, stewing. Lancaster and Schultz came in. Lancaster was looking officious with a sheaf of papers and Schultz stood back by the door watching as the interview began.

"Miss Miles, you're a church goer, right?"

"Yes," Lori answered meekly. She watched the policeman writing on the 'record of interview' form.

"You believe in the importance of telling the truth don't you?"

"Yes." There was a tightness around her throat that quietened her voice even more.

"You know that lying in an interview is an offence?"

Lori's eyes were big with fright and filming with tears as she nodded submissively.

"Answer audibly please Miss Miles."

"Yes."

"Miss Miles, answer this carefully. Have you seen Tom Witney since Wednesday?"

Lori gathered herself and said shakily, "Tom Witney is not a murderer. If you knew him you would know how silly this is. He's innocent."

"I agree," Lancaster droned smarmily. "He's not that sort of man. That's why we need to speak with him. He might have vital information." He persisted, "Have you seen him since Wednesday?"

She struggled with her strangled reply. "Yes."

"Where?

"I dropped him off at his boat."

"Is he there now?" Lancaster's interrogation was more demanding now.

"No, well not exactly," Lori whimpered.

More insistent questioning led to the specific details of the camp location. Lancaster filled in the last of the interview record. Lori sobbed quietly as she wondered what Tom would make of her betrayal.

"Please sign Miss Miles." He thrust the official looking form toward her. She tried to read the notes through her tears. Sniffling she asked, "Can I ring my dad? He'll be worried sick.

"Certainly, we'll take you home now." Lancaster was beaming exultantly. He was going to ring the superintendent and tell him of the breakthrough.

***

Burton was brooding silently out in the weak winter sunlight filtering down on the back deck. His coffee was half finished. He was staring blankly at his open newspaper as his wife came out.

"What's wrong Adrian?"

Burton was jolted out of his reverie. "What? Oh," he said trying to sound matter of fact, "That was the super,' He vaguely indicated toward the telephone, "He's relieved me of the Witney case."

"What! Why?" Ally, his wife was perplexed. Her husband was highly respected for his successful detective work.

"It appears that Lancaster has found Witney. Gordon asked why it was that I spent four days with no progress, while after four hours Lancaster is sending a team to pick up the chief suspect."

"What did you say?" Ally was concerned for Adrian's self-esteem. He was proud of his achievements but didn't big note himself. He usually just did his job and let his superiors grasp at the kudos and media recognition.

"I told him I'd talk to him tomorrow. Witney didn't commit the murders, if I know anything about people, but he might have information that could help us. I don't think much of Lancaster or his methods, but I can't tell people he's unethical when he gets what they want. It sounds like sour grapes."

"So what will you tell George?" She always used his boss's first name.

"That they have the wrong man; and while he was on the run he was giving us some valuable leads."

"You're that sure he didn't do it?"

"Well, I shouldn't be. All the evidence says he did it, but it's all too neat."

Ally stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders. He arched back and luxuriated in the relaxing sensation.

***

Tom was rifling through Gene's files. Down toward the back he found the one on Charlton Chemicals. Comments from one of the chemists saying he'd be relieved when they had a proper treatment facility. There were dossiers tabulating the quantity of discontinued herbicides being relabelled as harmless and disposed of in a landfill. Also, some photos of damaged drums being buried at the back of the property and some newspaper clippings of fish dying off in a creek downstream from a landfill the factory used. The information was damning. Tom knew that this should have been presented to the authorities. He took copies, placed them in an envelope and addressed it 'Attention Detective Adrian Burton'. A short note was added to the contents.

He went to write a note in Ed's desk diary asking him to forward the envelope, when he noticed a scribbled memo 'Ashley needs Harry's address – give directions.' Tom's stomach roiled within him. Why was Ed not passing information on to him? Didn't he realise that he had to determine whether Ashley had found the gun. The path forward crystallised for Tom. Visit Harry and hopefully find out where Ashley is staying. Tomorrow, confront Charlie Charlton and find out what he did after visiting Clariflo on Wednesday, then talk to Gil about what happened at the gun club after he left. He wanted to send another message to Burton, but thought better of it. Tom then considered whether it would be best to go back to the cabin, but deferred on that idea as well, unaware that the search for him was now full scale in another direction.

***

Two unmarked cars and four squad cars were hurtling down the highway toward the lakes. Lancaster had requested that a chopper be on standby. Interspersed between operational details he would recount the interview session, the fear in the girl and the way he made her believe her friend was innocent. Even Schultz, who was used to his superior, was tiring of the thinly disguised gloating. For the third time Lancaster recalled how the girl caved in without any resistance. How feeble the efforts of Burton and his crew were, and how they pussy footed around to try and protect the sensibilities of people who had crucial information.

"I'm not going to use kid gloves when I know that if I lean on someone I can crack a case," crowed Lancaster.

"You know," said Schulz airily in a rare exhibition of spontaneity, "the first time I heard the term 'kid gloves' I thought it was a boxer's name."

Lancaster groaned derogatorily, partly because he was expecting some accolades from his junior, "Stan, you're an idiot."

Having sealed access to the island by placing two officers at the entrance to the narrow bridge connecting the campsite to the mainland, Lancaster led his troops in an extravagant blaring charge onto the island. They burst in on a somewhat bewildered caretaker having his afternoon tea. Joe vehemently denied any collusion and knowledge of what they were talking about. Lancaster stormed from the building minutes later demanding that the others search the area. His yelling became more impassioned as the searchers emerged from each successive cabin, disrupting beleaguered campers in the process of packing their belongings. Each searcher came out and reluctantly admitted their failure to find anyone. He called in the helicopter to search the local port town and surrounding region for a fleeing boat. The desultory looks Lancaster received when he asked for a boat by boat check at the marina, angered him even more.

***

Inspector George Gordon was nonplussed by this incredible display of irrationality. "You mean you didn't verify that the boat had left?" he snarled loudly. "We sent a helicopter and six units without any confirmation to this story you extracted, using your 'professional' instincts?" he bellowed antagonistically. "When you get back, leave your notes on my desk. I'm giving this back to Burton."

"But sir!"

"I wouldn't push it Norm. I've already got the girl's father complaining about procedures when you interviewed her. I believe she asked to contact her father."

There was silence as Lancaster battled to hold his temper. 'The silly rules were stacked up against them, preventing them from doing their job,' he thought, simmering.

"Not only that, I've already had one reporter asking my comments about a police raid on a church camp. You're letting the side down Norm," Gordon sighed disparagingly, "See me in the morning."

***

Streams of cars, busy like ant trails, people milling, convoys of pedestrians inching their way to passenger check-ins and the garbled echoes of constant PA announcements all heralded their arrival at the airport.

Lori and Ed were waiting at one of the gates located in the huge blank, wood panelled wall. Passenger arrivals seemed to be designed to heighten the drama of reunion. Each time the doors opened relatives and friends grew several centimetres, eyes opened wide in anticipation and cries from the successful greeters signalled another heart-warming social bonding. Conversely, the influx of bleary eyed, overburdened travellers looked totally disoriented; peering this way and then that, trying to spy a familiar face. Then relief sets in—they haven't been forgotten.

While most receptions were joyous affairs, with laughter, hugs, squeals and backslapping, when Holly emerged and went to Ed and Lori, both girls collapsed into each other's arms in a flood of tears and pent up emotions. Holly, confronting again the reality of her loss, was releasing the grief and sorrow that the compassion of friends catalyses. Lori was crying for Holly, but more than that, her anguish was triggered by her sense of betrayal.

"Holly, I'm so sorry," wept Lori. The two held each other for a minute or two as Ed stood awkwardly by. It wasn't until they were driving home that Lori explained how she had given up Tom to the police.

"That means they might be arresting him right now," Holly fretted. Her tired features were filled with concern. Lori nodded and bowed her head ashamed. Fresh tears welled up in her red eyes.

"Will he be all right? They won't hurt him will they?"

Both girls looked at each other and then at Ed driving in the front. Aware that they expected a comment, Ed tried to mollify their fears.

"If Tom doesn't resist or try and run," he tried again, "I mean Tom's sensible; if he surrenders then I'm sure he'll be safe."

That comment didn't do much to alleviate the girls' fears.

***

Ally brought the phone in. Her disgruntled expression communicated her annoyance with the caller, and Burton, looking up from the evening television news, was curious.

"It's George," she grumbled disapprovingly. He took the wireless device and attempted to resurrect some protocol.

"Good evening superintendent." He too was still annoyed, in particular that he had been removed from the case so arbitrarily.

"Call me George, Adrian," Gordon sounded artificially upbeat.

"What is it sir?" Burton answered phlegmatically.

"Adrian, I may have been a bit hasty. I want you back on the Witney murders."

"What about Lancaster sir?"

"He made a bit of a mess of things, I'm afraid... went on a wild goose chase down to the Lakes. Anyway, we'll talk about it in the morning. I'm getting a lot of demands from the chief to see some results."

"I'm sure he did his best sir. You don't want to give him another chance? I mean he's only been on the case a day." Burton wanted him to squirm a bit.

"No. You're back on the case."

"I'll see you in the morning sir," he finished dully.

"Right, good... in the morning then."

Burton beamed at Ally who stood by, a bit ambivalent about his docile response to his superior, "I told you I was indispensable."

***

Tom passed the turn off to the cabin. He was attentive to the traffic, concerned that they were still on the lookout for him. The journey to the country farm was more sedate this time. Soaking up the grandeur of the towering sub-tropical eucalypts with the sunlight glinting off their polished green leaves, he tried to ignore his nagging fears, how the weight of his constant vigilance and second guessing had begun to tug him down. He knew a certain amount of paranoia was necessary if he was to elude capture, but he desperately missed companionship and the trust of a close friend.

It was around midday when he pulled up to the small Inverglade church and watched the same little old white haired man altering the sign in front of the church. He had added 'Free coffee and raisin toast all afternoon'. The invitation was too good for Tom whose stomach had been informing him about its parlous state and his atrocious irregular eating habits of late. Parking the car off the road, he walked across to the ancient churchgoer. The man watched him curiously. He had an almost cheeky face and a glint in his eye.

"I think I'll take you up on your offer," Tom greeted casually.

"Wonderful. Come this way. My name's William, William Grose. Evelyn should have the coffee on the brew now."

When Tom had introduced himself as just Thomas the churchman gave a perceptive nod.

Around the side, on a neat grassed area were a few items of wooden garden furniture. Tom sat down and took in the panorama of steepling mountain ash trees surrounding the small valley hamlet. The flash of red-blue parrots winging past and the background laughter of kookaburras drew his attention as William kidded his wife about her dawdling pace. Minutes later the elderly couple brought out two trays, one with cups of foamy coffee and one with raisin toast and jam scones.

Tom skirted their inquisitorial attempts at obtaining his whole life history by selectively entertaining them with childhood anecdotes and his visions of closed, waste recycling systems for industries. William, in turn, imparted a snapshot of his colourful life as a university professor. He amused Tom with stories about the foibles of colleagues in academia. Tom snorted and chortled with laughter. While the two communed like old friends a stream of Sunday day trippers stopped by and partook of Evelyn's tasty indulgences. The warmth of the fellowship dispelled, for a time, the clammy fingers of pursuit, grasping for him, that had constantly tormented Tom. It was late afternoon when William shared how he had become an elder and lay preacher at the small church. As naturally—and as directly—as if he were commenting on the weather he prised open Tom's insecurities.

"So what do you believe about Jesus?"

Normally his inhibitions would have prevented the baring of his soul to anyone, let alone a stranger. But he felt compelled, by some unseen hand to divulge his insecurities.

"William, I can't get those words out of my mind?"

Caught out by his seemingly random response William asked, "What words?"

"The words on your sign; 'you will know the truth and the truth will set you free'."

"Ah those words," he reiterated sagely.

"They just kept confronting me, tracking me down like some bloodhound."

"The Hound of Heaven," quoted William solemnly.

"What?"

"Don't worry, I'm just thinking out loud. There's a poem written a long time ago, it's called 'The Hound of Heaven'. I should get you a copy."

Tom blinked slightly befuddled, as if he thought they were having two different conversations.

He composed himself. "I'm not sure poetry is what I need right now," he said dismissively. "I've been in a little trouble lately." He halted precipitously close to saying too much.

"This poet knew of trouble his whole life, but you're right, I'm digressing. What is it about the text that worries you?"

Tom gathered his thoughts a second time and addressed the conflict going on within him. "I've been reading some of the Bible... er mainly the parts around this text in John. And it says the truth will set me free. It says Jesus is the truth and I guess a whole lot of other stuff about being slaves to sin and the father of lies. Well, can I ask you? If the truth sets you free, what is the lie?"

There was an uncomfortable lull as William examined him. "What is the lie?" echoed the elder of the two. "You know, I've never quite heard it put that way before. It's a good question."

Tom was beginning to think there wasn't an answer and that his new found counsellor was stalling for time.

"Well?" Tom probed.

"At the risk of sounding trite, could I start by saying that the lie is anything that is not the truth? Let me explain. You have a choice. You can believe that Jesus is the reason and answer to a purposeful life, or you can believe something else about the rationale for your existence. But that something else is not true. It is a lie."

He sounded adamant to Tom. Perhaps he was too absolute. "Everything else is a lie?" he challenged doubtfully. "There are no exceptions?"

William chuckled "You are well named Thomas. Let me try another tack. Imagine you are the only Thomas in the universe, unique and individual."

"The only one of me... that's not beyond the realms of coherent thought," interrupted Tom.

"Fine... but let's suppose then that other individuals come along and claim to be you. And people believe them. Are they mistaken if they do not recognise the true you?"

"Yes of course."

"Would you not agree that they believe a lie?"

"I guess so."

"That, by not recognising who you are, they are being deceived?"

"Mm," Tom was reluctantly conceding his point but was struggling to see the relevance.

"It's much the same with getting hold of the true freedom that God gives; it's only through Jesus. The Bible says: for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved. Everything else is a lie."

Numerous questions followed as Tom tried to interpret William's allegory. Tom liked the way he spoke plainly and didn't dress up with clichés and epigrams what he saw as vital for a sound basis for life. He had a real faith.

Time had flown and he was distressed to discover that he had lost most of the afternoon and his investigation was still going nowhere. The idea of a cosmic conflict between good and evil was becoming easier for him to believe. He was beginning to ponder what side he was on. Instead of the liberation he so desperately sought, he felt the tightening shackles of guilt, fear and despair. His guilt was a new emotion, stemming from his preoccupation with his own aspirations and achievements to the detriment of others.

Just as he was about to excuse himself and resume his journey, Margie and Gus turned up. The reunion was light hearted and friendly. But he couldn't help feeling like a helpless swimmer swept along by the inexorable tide of events. As others from the local area turned up, he found himself unable to extricate himself from a church casserole tea. Then after that he felt obliged to listen to the message given by William about a blind man that received his sight. Tom knew that that too would add to his baggage of recurring self-dissatisfaction, especially when he spoke about Jesus as being the only way. William seemed to look at Tom when he said the blind man knew something of the truth about Jesus.

***

Rolling down to the house on the long driveway using only the moonlight to guide him, ensured an unnoticed arrival. Standing at the dimly lit doorway he rapped loudly. The surprise was apparent on Harry's face.

"Tom!" he exclaimed, looking a trifle stunned.

"Hi Dad." Tom enjoyed the effect of his unexpected appearance. His father rapidly regathered his poise and spoke. "Tom, come in." He moved aside to let his son in. "There is someone here you should meet."

He followed his father down a hallway and into the living room of the old weatherboard house. There, in a wooden rocking chair, sat a tall, thin young man with dark, close cropped curly hair and a strained smile. Before anyone could begin introductions, Tom took the lead.

"It's Ashley Moore I take it." His manner was non-committal. When Ashley rose to shake his hand he was met with an icy stare. He sat back down, visibly put ill at ease by the frosty encounter.

"Before we engage in an embrace of long lost brothers there are a few things we need to sort out. Wouldn't you say Dad?"

"Tom, now don't be unreasonable..."

"Unreasonable!" he cut off Harry sharply. "I'm being chased by police, suspected of murder and I find out my father lies to me." An utter silence followed his outburst. The chirruping of a cricket chorused in angry support, accentuated by the comparative awkward silence in the room. Tom thrust an accusing question at his father. "Why did you tell me you were here when you'd gone to see Mum?"

Harry hung his head. "It was a mistake. The truth was that I would have almost been back here by the time the murders happened, so I didn't think it would matter that I had been there earlier in the day."

"It matters," Tom chided.

"Okay, let me tell you what happened."

"That would be nice."

"Why don't you sit down?"

"I'd rather stand." There was a tinge of bitterness to his reply and he was unrelenting in sustaining his displeasure.

Harry began his tale. "I did go to the city. I had decided to see Ed first, but I changed my mind. So I went to... home," he said unsurely, "and met with Clarissa. I guess we apologised to each other, and I'm glad we sorted all that out before... before."

Tom softened his attitude. "What happened then?" he prodded quietly.

"Well, she said that Ashley had visited the previous day and told me that I should find him. I rang Ed and asked for Ashley's address. He told me he'd get it for me."

"That must be when he rang me," re-joined Ashley.

The other two registered his contribution with a glance before Tom went on, "What did you do then?"

"I left there and met with Ed. We spoke about... well, about whether you'd be amenable to me coming back to the company, maybe as a consultant or something."

"It's still your company." Tom was matter of fact.

The senior Witney took a breath and made a resolution—he wouldn't pursue the niceties of business etiquette. Anyway, I got the address from Ed and left. I waited at the motel for about two hours until Ashley turned up. We both came down here and he's stayed here each night since."

"Which is why you didn't want me inside the other day."

Harry's face revealed his chagrin. "It was unforgiveable, the way I spoke, but I didn't want you to find out about Ashley like that... so soon."

Tom looked across to Ashley. "I wonder if you can explain your actions." There was an edge of harshness to his insistent gaze.

"What do you mean?" He looked baffled.

"For starters, I believe you stole my car keys from Ed Miles' office." Tom sat down opposite Ashley and leaned forward, disdain in attitude. "I'm sure there's quite a story to this."

"What are you talking about Tom? This is crazy." Harry, standing up and protesting, was indignant for Ashley.

Ashley held up two hands miming his surrender. "I... I can explain. It's sort of embarrassing... It was meant to be a joke."

"Go on," pressed Tom, keen to see what story could be fabricated to refute his allegations.

"Well, when I saw the keys on Ed Miles' desk I asked about his Mercedes and he said the keys were spare ones from your car. It's stupid I know, but I thought if I took the keys and waited in your car, I could meet you... sort of surprise. It was only after I got outside that I realised how confronting that would be for a first meeting. So I changed my mind. I'm sorry, I returned the key yesterday though." He tried to minimise his responsibility with the feebly mumbled claim.

"How am I to believe you?" Tom disputed. "Do you realise that someone used my keys to steal my gun?" he said scathingly. His haranguing didn't stop there however. "If you didn't take my gun, and you had those keys, then it's possible someone used my other keys," he theorised, side-stepping the whole 'unlocked car' debacle.

Ashley was full of remorse. "I didn't know. I'm sorry, but it wasn't me. Seriously, I might be stupid, but I'm not dangerous."

He wanted to say that he thought Ashley was dangerously stupid, but he held off. Tom was becoming rueful that he had badgered Ashley, especially given his apparent candour. He tried a more moderate approach. "What happened after you left Clariflo?"

Ashley related his story. He explained how he'd gone to visit Clarissa. Tom paid special attention when he mentioned seeing someone leaving as he arrived. His description was of a tall middle aged man with dark wavy hair and greying temples. The description fit Gil Trentham. He was someone that often visited his mother. Tom had never worked out whether he was a distant cousin or just an old family friend. Gil always had an arts event he wanted to share, an investment opportunity he'd just taken up or he'd just come for a social visit. Of course Tom couldn't be sure. Ashley's description was hazy enough for it to be almost anyone.

Following that, Ashley told how he spoke with Clarissa for about an hour. While they talked she showed him around the house. She was, he thought, perversely uncommunicative when he raised the subject of his natural father. When he pressed harder for information she at first equivocated before finally dismissing his pleas, saying that it was a turbulent time in her life. Clarissa had told him that the man was a 'worthless degenerate' to quote her. The whole episode was a mistake in her past and that's where she wanted to leave it.

"It really puzzles me that she was so obstinate about it. I mean, it was a reasonable request wasn't it?" Ashley's brow furrowed as he looked from Tom to Harry.

"Clarissa has carried the scars of those events around with her all her life since," Harry croaked emotionally. "She shared with me, probably just hours before you saw her again, how the painful memories of giving you up for adoption came back to haunt her over and over again." Harry spoke more encouragingly. "She did say that she was so glad that you had contacted her though. To have the whole thing out in the open was such a relief. And to meet you and know how well you turned out; it was such a release from the torment she had experienced over the years."

"But how could it hurt for me to know my father? Even if he was a terrible person, I mean, after all these years he may have changed."

"I know what you're saying," Harry confided, "but for some reason the hurt never faded. She never let on to me either. I think her bitterness had only been tempered by your arrival."

Ashley went on to recount how Gene arrived early again from work, and again was incensed at finding him visiting. After ranting about not being appreciated at work he was interrupted by another visitor coming to the door. Tom was particularly curious about the identity of the new character that was added to his list of potential suspects. But Ashley couldn't help him. All he knew was that he sounded like a young man. While Gene drew Ashley aside into the study to repeat his offer of 'compensation' if he would disappear from the scene, Clarissa took the unknown visitor into the living room. She returned briefly asking to be excused as she had to speak with the visitor. She said she wanted Ashley to stay longer, but he had to decline the offer. Clarissa then said goodbye with an invitation for a meal on the weekend when all the family could meet him.

"So you didn't see him at all?" Tom sounded frustrated. Ashley shook his head slowly.

"You think he had something to do with... with the murders?" Ashley sounded brittle, like he had been dumped, unsuspecting, into another world where plots and conspiracies abounded. Tom viewed his half-brother with some scepticism. 'Was it all an act,' he wondered. Maybe Ashley was for real—a victim who in one week had managed to meet his natural mother and then lose her in a horrible crime. Tom left the question unanswered. He still needed more information.

"What happened next?"

"Well, after telling Gene that I wasn't interested in his money, I left."

"What time was that?"

"About four thirty."

"Did you notice what sort of car this visitor drove?" Tom was searching for some clue. He needed to fill the gaps.

"No, in fact I was distracted by a car pulling slowly away from the kerb right at the entry point."

"You can't be serious!" Tom moaned, more in dismay than in disbelief. "What type of car was that?"

"It was a Lexus... a light metallic coloured sedan. There was a big guy driving and a shorter, older guy next to him. That's about the best description I can give. They were still a fair way off when they left."

Tom was adding more questions to his notes. His frame of mind had deteriorated to even greater discontent since they had begun. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What happened then?"

"Well, I came home—to the motel—and met Harry waiting for me. He invited me to stay at his place, here, and gave me the directions, and then he left." Ashley went on to explain that he didn't leave until about six since he needed to shower and pack his things.

"So, what you're saying is that you had time to go back... with the gun you took from my car," Tom paused again trying to detect some sign of guilt in his facial feature, "and then shoot three people."

Ashley shook his head vehemently, "I didn't do it. I'm not like that. Why would I?" He looked across to Harry with a feeling of helpless exasperation. Harry remained mute.

"That's exactly the same problem I have," Tom sighed wearily. "Unless you can prove you didn't do it, I have to suspect you. Maybe you were mad at her for not telling you about your real dad. I don't know. You're in the same position as me... opportunity and motive." He stretched and leaned back. "Though I can't see how the police think I have a motive." He looked around almost daring the other two to suggest something.

Later, conversation was more cordial. They were munching on some of Harry's homemade, crispy golden oatmeal cookies and drinking hot chocolate. Ashley had provided a brief overview of his childhood with his adoptive parents and his more recent life as a teacher. He became maudlin as he dwelt on the breaking up of his relationship with his fiancé. He said he felt he had no direction, so he decided to try and find his birth mother.

Tom became more animated as something stirred in his memory.

"Ashley, why did Ed have to give you directions to here if Dad had already given directions?"

Put off balance, Ashley gave Tom a perplexed look, "How did you know?"

"Ed leaves notes," he replied cryptically. "Did you call him?"

"Yeah, I got lost." The admission was accompanied by a self-conscious smile before the young teacher expanded on his explanation, "so I rang him and left a message. He got back to me about ten minutes after I called with the directions."

Sharing tales of woe had the effect of bonding the three men. Harry's assertion that he was in some way responsible was repeatedly repudiated by the other two. Both attempted to recognise the upheaval in his life as Harry described his sense of betrayal when he had heard about Ashley. He said only recently had he been able to consider Clarissa's perspective. A young girl, the pressure from family, the heartache she went through and then having to pretend it never occurred. It caused him to go and apologise on that fateful day. The day she died. All three were quite emotional as Harry struggled to put his words together. The saddest part was that he said he'd regret for the rest of his life his pig-headed response—of going 'hippy in the hills', he had said—after he heard about Ashley.

When they all settled down to sleep, it was with tacit agreement that they were all on the same side in wanting to expose the real murderer. Tom tossed and turned unable to void his brain of the storm of ideas that kept him awake. Was he blind? He considered the metaphors that had assaulted his character. A slave to sin, a child of the devil, blind to the truth. None of these diagnoses were appealing and the prognosis if he remained that way, as described by William Grose in his sermon, was not optimistic. The tumult of accusations chased him into another fitful night of sleep.

Chapter 11

Things were buzzing in the Homicide Division. Adrian Burton was aware of the various rumours going round about the previous day's fiasco. He refused to confirm or deny that Lancaster broke his foot when a squad car drove over it, or that he was suspended for calling a SWAT team to raid a school camp. It was sufficient to say he was in an ebullient mood. His orders were phrased quietly as requests, coloured with encouragement and a broad smile.

"So Gully, how you doing with the list of possible vehicles?"

"They're on your desk."

"Did you distribute them to all the patrols?"

Stanton Gulliver looked up pleased with himself. "Sure did."

An hour later they were driving to the front of the Witney place. Pulling up behind Lori's car, Rolf and Burton stepped out in choreographed unison.

"Looks like Towers has visitors. This is the girl's car isn't it?" Burton queried tapping the bonnet as he passed and then leapt two stairs at a time to the front door. Just a look from Rolf substantiated his assumption.

Inside, Al greeted them dully and led the detectives through the large entrance hall and into the lounge area. At the same instant a gabble of voices was followed by two young women blustering into the room carrying bulky overnight bags. Upon seeing the detectives, there fell a stony silence upon the room. Lori, her eyes fixed on Burton, made a mental leap and cried out, breaking the motionless, tableau moment.

"Is he all right? Was he hurt? I rang several times but no one would tell me what was going on." The angst in her voice disclosed more of her feelings than she would have liked.

"I imagine you're referring to Tom Witney," Burton said wryly. "I'm afraid you sent Detective Lancaster on a wild goose chase."

"What do you mean?" There was fear mixed with apprehension in her eyes.

"I mean, wherever Tom Witney is, he is nowhere near Ti tree Island camp." Then, as if mildly rebuking her as a school master, his head leaned forward and he stared at her like he was looking over invisible glasses. "But if you hear from him again be sure to let us know, won't you Miss Miles?"

Lori averted her gaze toward the other girl. Burton felt sure he knew who it was, but he smiled politely and asked, "And this is?"

The new girl introduced herself as Holly Witney. To Burton she was clearly related to Tom Witney. Slightly taller than Lori, her slender physique, sandy hair and blue eyes were all similarities he noted. She explained that she was picking up some things for her stay with Lori. After suitably expressing his sympathy for her loss, Burton explained that it was important she assist in helping them find her brother.

"He's not guilty," she asserted firmly. Her voice was strident and her gaze cool. "I hope you haven't stopped looking for the real murderer."

"Don't worry Miss Witney we're still investigating all the possibilities, but your brother could assist, I'm sure, along a number of avenues." He smiled sanguinely.

Holly was not persuaded. "So, you have other suspects?"

"Most certainly, and many questions to ask... Why don't you all sit down?" Burton moved to the large screen television, taking into consideration that it was the focal point for the three lounge chairs and couch. Rolf stood leaning against the mantelpiece above the large stone fireplace. He gave Lori a gawky smile and a sheepish shrug as if to distance himself from any hint of harassment. Burton spent a few minutes trying to glean some of Tom's possible hideouts.

Al sat back, arms splayed out and with a supercilious grin, revelling in his role as a spectator 'lord of the manor'. Burton suddenly altered the target of his inquisition and boomed out, "Rowan what do think about Mr Towers here?" The effect of his question was startling. Rolf flinched out of his distraction. He had been playing with a dippy bird toy and a number of other tacky souvenirs that were attributable to Al's desire to make the room homier. When he jumped he almost sent the plastic bird off the edge, catching it just in time. Al's face had a look of consternation, wondering what Burton was referring too.

"Er, what do I... er what do you mean Ade?" Rolf replied, stumbling over his words while trying to recover some equanimity. Burton continued, feeling he had everyone's attention.

"Towers, how is it that you suddenly developed this desire to work in the library last Wednesday?"

"I decided to work on some assignments that were overdue. What's wrong with that?" he said defensively.

"Nothing... no... nothing at all. It's just that you don't come across as a conscientious student. So, did you finish them?"

"One, the other two are a fair way to being done." Al's expression showed growing hostility.

"Have you handed the finished one in?"

"No."

"Have you done any more work in the library since then?"

"No, not with everything that's happened. You can't expect me to carry on as if nothing has happened." The latter was spoken with considerable scorn.

"No, you're right. I wouldn't expect that." The girls and Rolf were looking on fascinated by the direction of Burton's questions.

"Do you mind if I see the files? They're on your lap top computer aren't they?"

"Do you have a warrant?" There was an acerbic edge in the way he asked.

"No, but I can get one if you wish," was Burton's dry remark.

Al hesitated momentarily before rising sullenly and laboriously from his seat. As he went to the door he shot back, "You know the library has a record of me being there all the time?"

"Mm hm," returned the detective.

When Al had gone Rolf queried his boss. "What are you getting at Ade?"

Conscious that Lori and Holly were tuned in to proceedings he answered vaguely, "Just trying to get the story straight."

Holly was picking up her bags. "You'll have to excuse us Detective Burton, Lori and I have a funeral to attend." Lori turned and whispered in her ear as she placed a hand on Holly's hand.

"We might wait a minute," she appended self-consciously.

Burton gestured with a small movement of his head, "Ah, we're a little curious."

Al came back with the laptop open and already switched on. It was almost as if he made a last minute check to assure himself that all was well. He planted the computer on a nest of teak side tables.

"The three files are in there." He indicated a folder and went back confidently to his armchair.

As Burton bowed over the machine, Rolf drew up by his side. Lori and Holly edged nearer without being any the wiser. Burton flicked on each of the files checking the properties. Each had different dates. His gaze flicked across the properties taking note of pertinent details. Burton wanted to see if there were any files exactly the same from which they were cloned. A minute or two into the search and he calculated that the task to be hopeless in the short time span he had available.

"Do you mind if we take this to the station?" His request was meant to sound low key and routine, but Al was wary and unyielding. "Not without a warrant." He vaulted out of his seated position and possessively grasped the laptop, shutting its lid more aggressively than he intended.

"So, why didn't you use your laptop in the library?"

"Just easier to use theirs and copy onto mine," he said unconvincingly.

Lori and Holly surreptitiously withdrew while Burton was checking out Al's story again. Putting the bags in Lori's car, both girls travelled in the car up to the garage. When the door was opened Holly appeared disoriented as she stared ahead. Where her car should have been there was empty space.

"Where's it gone?" Holly looked flabbergasted.

Already though, Lori had an inkling. They moved past Clarissa's Jaguar and saw a note under the windscreen wiper:

Holly,

I borrowed your car. Please feel free to use mine. Key is in the lock.

PS Please rescue Juno

T

"That rat!" murmured Lori.

"Oh I don't know, seems like a fair exchange to me." Holly sat down. "I'll follow you home."

"That's not what I meant. Tom deliberately made me think I was helping him escape, but he was using me to throw the police off the trail."

Holly was having trouble deciding whether Lori was mad at her brother or particularly fond of him. Her face showed aggravation but there was a discernible twinkle in her eyes. They retrieved Juno and put the prancing dog in the back seat. "Let's go, Lori. You can tell me all about his evil plan when we get to your place. We only have two and a half hours to get ready for the funeral."

Once they reached the Miles' home Lori became analytical. "You know, Tom is going to be in trouble using your car. I'm sure by now they will have a list of all the cars belonging to family."

Holly gave a smug look. "He's sneakier than you think. I don't know what made him think of my car, but it was a smart move. It's still registered in a friend's name."

Lori's mood became darker as she muttered, "He is sneaky isn't he? ... and he doesn't trust me." She was leaning against the sports car while Holly was burrowing for her baggage. Her voice was indistinct to Holly. "What did you say?"

"I said, he doesn't trust me. He knew I would tell the police. Maybe he thinks I've been against him since he stopped me calling the police on Wednesday."

Holly looked at her across the car. "He stopped you calling the police?"

Lori recalled the regrettable incident. "The news flash came on, and, well... it just seemed the right thing to do... to call the police. But Tom objected and was determined to get away."

Holly looked at her sympathetically. "It was the right thing to do. He's really crazy running. I don't think he'll achieve anything except make himself look guiltier."

Both Lori and Holly looked morose as they walked to the front door. It may have been that last thought, the merest niggling remnant of an idea, that maybe, in a moment of temporary insanity, Tom could have done the unthinkable. More likely, it was a culmination of not knowing and the emotional repercussions of dealing with a very public mourning.

***

Adrian Burton had his team around him in a small conference room. He was reviewing what they knew again.

"Let's see if we can have a fresh look at the evidence," he said, scanning the junior detectives. "From the forensic report we can ascertain that Mrs Witney appears to have been shot first and Towers shot in the back fleeing the scene before being shot again, fatally, in the hallway. It seems that the girl came out to see what was happening, stumbled, crawled back under the table and was shot." He looked at the men. Nothing of what he said seemed to have surprised them.

"Who could have done it? Well, most of the evidence points to Tom Witney—no alibi, but it doesn't make sense unless there's something we don't know. Gene Towers junior could have, given he knew about the gun. Why would he kill? Again it doesn't make sense... and he has an alibi. This morning we found out that the house safe was empty. Towers claims that he didn't know if anything was in there."

"So you're saying robbery could have been a motive?" It was Arnie Lee.

"That's something else we have to find out." Burton went on, "Now, Ashley Moore comes on the scene. Turns out he was checking out of his motel at the approximate time of the crime." In a moment of stasis he sought an elusive notion. "Still, the assumption is, if he has an alibi then he's not involved. The thing is he could have orchestrated it."

"What makes you think Moore's involved?" Rolf drawled.

Burton was deadpan, "I'm just keeping our options open. He may have a motive and he seems to have just cropped up at the wrong time. I hate coincidences."

The detectives were set some specific tasks and Burton went to his desk to read the pathologist's report for the third time. On his desk was an envelope addressed to him. On it was stamped the phrase 'CLEARED BY SECURITY'. He noted that the station mail sorters had been careful and thorough, having opened it in addition to the standard metal detection and x-ray screening.

Inside were numerous sheets of information and photos and a note:

'Adrian,

This information gives Charlie Charlton some motive I believe. I hope you follow this up.

Tom Witney'

'Cheeky blighter,' thought Burton, 'thinks he can call me by my first name.' For the next ten minutes the detective was totally immersed in reading the incriminating records. Gene Towers was blackmailing polluters. Charlton Chemicals had dumped drums of ancient herbicide stock tainted with dioxins in a landfill where rising water table levels were bringing lethal levels percolating to the surface. The land at the back of the company had high levels of toxic spillage.

He picked up the phone and talked at length with a detective sergeant liaising with the EPA. After promising to fax all the documents he hung up. The way forward seemed murkier with every step.

***

At breakfast on that Monday morning Tom wanted to make known his 'search for truth', for want of a better term. But the conversation quickly went to the funeral and how it was unfortunate that his circumstances precluded his attendance. Improbably to Tom, the conversation swung in a direction he wouldn't have predicted. Harry explained that Ed had organised his pastor to lead the service and that it was because Clarissa had recently shown interest in going to services at Ed's church.

Tom almost spoke of his recent experiences and search for meaning then, but something prevented him. A flood of reasons filled his mind. 'It was silly... they were quaint traditions', he thought. If he shared his fears he would become vulnerable to all sorts of criticisms. Was it pride?

"You know she may have got on to something," observed Harry, "If Ed Miles is anything to go by. I've never met a more decent man."

That was the opportunity for him to speak. But he made no sound. 'It was irrational', he argued to himself. He wasn't some frail person who bared his soul by sharing his inadequacies. The chance had passed. There was an empty ache in Tom's stomach as if he'd just ignored a lifeline thrown to him. He was going to make his own way out of the mire. He could do it he told himself. Then why did it feel like he was sinking?

Following breakfast, Harry and Ashley dressed formally for the funeral and headed off, hoping to spend a bit of time with Ed before the service. Tom, having seen them off, strolled up the hill and then hiked more purposefully up to the tree lined ridge. Standing on a jutting outcrop of rock that formed a natural viewing platform, Tom soaked in the scenery. The initial solitude he experienced was amplified by the expansive vista spread out below, but his reflective mood slowly morphed into a barren loneliness. It was as if even nature itself was shunning him and ignoring his existence. Feeling suddenly insignificant and puny, he cringed. A moist sweat began to permeate his shirt. He jogged back to the house oppressed by his insecurities. Once inside, he showered, soaking in the hot water till his spirits revived enough to refocus. Tom left soon after and drove towards Gil Trentham's home.

Gil had just returned from the funeral and was pleased to see him and welcomed him like a long lost son. They headed to what Gil called his 'parlour', which was an extended area adjoining his dining room with connection to the open kitchen area. They ate what Gil referred to as one of his 'epicurean delights', something Tom would have called an egg and bacon quiche. Tom quizzed him about the gun club and if he had any suspicions. Gil assured him that apart from Rick and him, few members had any knowledge of his family.

"Apart from old Ralston of course, he's always hitting on the well to do for donations."

"Would he have any reason to...?" Tom didn't finish.

"No, I don't think so," he paused. "You know it's more likely to be something to do with Gene and his son. I've never thought much of them."

Tom thought there was a touch of class prejudice in the way Gil expressed himself but he understood what he meant.

The tasty meal was finished. Gil had spent the majority of the time lauding his mother. It was probably the only eulogy he would hear and, in its way, it had a cathartic effect for him acknowledging his mother's death.

"So have you any other ideas?" Tom was fishing.

"You know I visit your mother regularly..." he looked to see Tom confirm this with a small motion of his head. "Well, I was there Wednesday afternoon and she shared some remarkable news." He waited a moment as if measuring his words. "I'm not sure how to tell you this, but... it seems you have a half-brother and he's made contact with your mother." Gil scrutinised his young guest for a reaction before he continued. "You know about him don't you?"

"Yes, like you, it was news to me. It seems everybody knew before I did," he said with a trace of bitterness.

"Mm. Well, I believe I saw the young man arrive as I was leaving, so you might find out what he was doing." Then with a glint in his eye as if an idea just occurred to him. "I know. I could do some investigating for you... find out what he was up to... and that Al Towers."

Tom almost smiled at the enthusiasm of the older man. "No, that's okay Gil. I think I've asked most of those questions already."

"Oh," There was a tinge of disappointment in the reply.

"Thanks for your help though... and if you think of anything, leave me a text."

"Certainly," Gil rose as Tom made to leave. "Tom, if you need a place to stay there's plenty of room here."

"Thanks Gil, I'm okay for the moment, but I'll keep it in mind."

"And, if you need any help, or make any progress let me know."

"Sure."

Tom left Gil as he waved from his large porch area. There was something indefinably resonant in the way his tall frame stood viewing his departure. He wasn't surprised. The man had been around the family for as long as he could remember. The nearest thing to gentry that Tom knew, Gil seemed to exist in perpetual retirement, pursuing his hobbies and the distractions accessible only to the wealthy.

***
Chapter 12

With some trepidation Tom left the car in the car park of Charlton Chemicals and made his way to the office. Inside there was a curved reception bench with two women working behind a lower desk.

"Can I help you?" the younger, dark haired receptionist asked.

"I'd like to see Mr Charlton please." Tom projected his best confident aura. After all he could construe some legitimate business out of a meeting with Mr Charlton.

"I'm sorry; Mr Charlton is in a meeting at the moment. Do you have an appointment?" She gave a tired, feeble smile as if to say, 'I don't have time for this'.

Tom straightened, still communicating a genuine and purposeful determination. "No I don't but that's okay I'll wait."

The woman whose nametag said 'Leanne' became more serious and resolute, "You don't understand sir. If you don't have an appointment then you don't get to see Mr Charlton." Her emphasis on don't was obviously meant to have a discouraging effect on Tom. However, he was unflinching. "Er, Leanne is it? Why don't you tell him that I need to speak to him about Gene Towers? I'm sure he'll want to speak with me." He watched her bite her lip as if to control her temper, then she wrote the name on a post it note. "No that's Mr Gene Towers, G E N E," he corrected peering at the note. He added casually, "It's not that common is it?"

She scrubbed out the first name and rewrote it. "And what was your name?"

"Tom Witney." Tom smiled at her.

The receptionist half smiled back as if surrendering to his onslaught of niceness. "Would you take a seat Mr Witney?" She left, already rehearsing in her mind how she would rebuff the friendly young man in a gentle way.

Minutes later, her face had blanched, Leanne came back and spoke tautly as if she had just ignited a powder keg and didn't know what to do. And mentioning Gene Towers' name had done exactly that.

"Um, Mr Witney? Mr Charlton says he'll see you in his private office in a few minutes. Would you follow me please?"

"Certainly, thank you Leanne." Tom followed her along a corridor past the office adjoining the reception area to a side entry of the large executive office.

The plush décor of leather lounges and fine deep carpet was arranged so that the large dark-red polished wood desk took pride of place in a naturally lit, expansive room. Not only was it aimed to impress, it was meant—Tom was sure—as some sort of symbol of success. There was a gold plated telephone, a bar with vertical mother of pearl panels overlaid on the same rich, dark wood and a series of photos with Charlie Charlton standing next to one celebrity or another. Tom examined a picture of Charlie with his arm over the shoulder of a successful lightweight boxer. The picture had writing which said, 'To my friend Charlie, keep punching.'

Just as he was looking at the next photo Charlie Charlton burst in. He was a shortish, solidly built man with thinning hair. Behind him was a much larger, intimidating looking man. Both wore scowls as they studied the interloper to their private domain.

"So, Mr Witney, or should I say the notorious Mr Witney; you have half of the Victorian Police Force looking for you I believe."

Tom stood motionless waiting for him to finish.

"What do want to say to me before I call the cops?" He stepped toward Tom threateningly.

"Ah, Mr Charlton, I would just like to ask you a few questions."

"Go on, but I won't say I'll answer them for you," he grunted gruffly.

"You went to see Gene Towers last Wednesday, but he wasn't in."

"That's right. Why don't you talk to Ed Miles? He'll tell you what it's all about."

"He did already."

At those words the stocky man tensed, "You have been busy haven't you? So what do you want to know?" He sat on the corner of the desk an ominous glower crossing his face.

"Did you end up, er catching up with Towers that day?"

Suddenly the incongruity of the situation appealed to the surly businessman. He laughed abrasively, "Ha, do you know what he wants Ned? He wants to know if I murdered Gene Towers."

It wasn't quite the direction Tom had planned for the conversation to go, but he saw it as an opportune opening. "Did you?"

"Now Mr Witney... Tom," Charlton had a crooked smile on his face and placed the palms of his hands together as if he was going to say something important. "If I did, would I tell you?" He moved around to the back of his desk and sat heavily in the expensive leather recliner, almost losing his balance as it tipped back. When he recovered his balance he went on, "Mind you, I admire the way you've kept the cops on the hop." He leaned forward, "So what do you know about Gene Towers?"

With less caution than he should have used, Tom began to expound on his research. "I know that Gene was trying to blackmail you on your, what you could call, questionable disposal practices."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure Miles explained that I was a bit angry about that."

"Yes he did. Did you catch up with him?" It seemed as if the conversation had gone full circle.

Charlton leaned back in his chair, a bit more carefully this time, and looked up at the big man, shrugging his shoulders as if he saw no harm in the conversation.

"You're a regular 'Fugitive' aren't ya?" He obviously enjoyed his own wit as he grinned toothily at Tom. "I mean you're running around trying to catch the murderer, prove your own innocence and avoid the cops at the same time. Remember the TV series?"

Tom nodded. He had used the same comparison himself. But it was more that his father had told him the storyline when they had both watched an old movie of the same title.

"Yeah, this guy was looking for a one armed man. You lookin' for a one armed man?"

Tom didn't encourage him, "You tell me."

In answer Charlton waved both arms up in the air quite amused at his own humour. He then settled down and refocused.

"Well, I'll tell ya. I did go round to his place. That's where you live too isn't it?"

Tom murmured assent.

"I had one of the boys watching the place to let me know when he turned up," he said by way of explanation. "So, when we got there, I was pulled up at the front gate... nice place by the way... and I saw his car but there were others there too. So we decided to wait till there weren't so many guests."

It was clear to Tom at this point that Ned had gone along for some enforcement. He was the muscle.

"Well, your place is the busiest house I know of. Benny, who had been watching for me said there had been a parade of visitors." He looked up again at Ned for confirmation. "What did he say? Four or five different people?"

"Something like that..." Ned offered in a surprisingly smooth modulated voice.

"Let's see, there was a young girl; she stayed so she was probably one of the victims. An old guy, then a young guy when the old guy left and then Towers arrived. Another young fellow turned up before the first one left. It was then that we gave up."

"So, you didn't go in to see him at all?"

"That's what I said isn't it?" Charlton insisted firmly.

"What about their cars?" Tom was groping for some clue, anything!

"Now, what did Benny say? I think the girl drove an old Nissan, the old guy a big four wheel drive, um the first young guy... I don't know some nondescript Ford. He did remember the last guy... made a point of drooling over it a bit. He said it was late model BMW silver series M sport. Doesn't mean much to me but he was impressed."

Tom had a hurried intake of breath as he digested that piece of information. 'What was he doing there?' was the lingering question as he stood rigid, preoccupied. Charlton's voice disturbed his parenthetic think time.

"So..." The rough executive paused for effect. It struck Tom then that Charlton started every second sentence with either 'so' or 'well'.

"I take it you have nothing to say about Towers' claims."

"You know, with the right waste treatment regimen you could solve your effluent disposal problems." The instant Tom said it he thought that perhaps this wasn't the time for a bit of levity.

"Are you trying to blackmail us for some business? We've been down that road already."

"No, no not at all."

"You know, a quick call to the cops and you wouldn't think any more about those environmental issues... I'm sure."

"You'd let me talk to the police about your chemical wastes?"

Charlton's eyebrows were raised, his mouth tight and his jaw jutted. "Ned, I think you need to show Mr Witney some of our hospital... ity."

A surge of fear washed over Tom as the big man stepped toward him. He edged away from the bookshelves and eyed the door he had used to come in. Suddenly a shadow moved to his left. He cringed back, but too late. A huge fist pounded deep into his stomach, a shuddering blow that evacuated the air from his lungs. As he gasped, doubled over, frantically trying to gulp air, a second punch crashed into his chest. Tom's eyes clenched shut, searing pain wracked his body and a juddering cross smashed into the side of his face. Everything went black.

***

Ned stood over the crumpled form of the unconscious visitor.

He stared down at Tom. "What do you want me to do with him?"

Charlton ran a hand over his face as he contemplated another distasteful, but unavoidable, intrusion into his daily business. "Take him through the back. Lock him in the storeroom. We'll have to dump him in the bay tonight." Then as an afterthought he advised, "And Ned... use some gloves. Try and keep it as clean as possible."

"Sure thing," he grunted. He took a handful of Tom's sweater and dragged him through the rear exit, along a narrow corridor and into a supply room on the right. Bright pink rubber cleaner's gloves were then painstakingly stretched over his big hands amidst much complaint. Using a roll of duct tape he bound Tom's hands behind his back, his feet tightly together and then wound several layers over his eyes and mouth as well.

To ensure he wouldn't move, Ned then wrapped tape around his chest and a metal leg of the storage bench. He gave the limp body a shake and, then convinced that he was securely trussed, he turned off the light and locked the door after him.

***

Sometime later Tom slowly regained consciousness to find himself in a confining, pitch black world of restricted movement, aching body and throbbing head pains. It took several minutes before he could piece the events together that had led to his predicament. He leant one way and then the other trying to stretch the tape. His efforts soon exhausted him. His head swam and he dry wretched as his body rebelled against the cloying, cleaning chemical smells of ammonia and chlorine. The cruel restriction of the binding tape, the beating and the mental fatigue of being continuously hunted added to his nausea. His loudest cry for help was barely a muffled mew on the other side of the heavy door.

***

Unbeknown to Tom, events had been set in motion. While he was trapped in the small room the police arrived. Burton and Rolf spent an hour trying to wheedle out of Charlton some admission regarding his threats toward Gene Towers. His reluctance to cooperate brought considerable pressure on the two detectives to play for time. For, as they dithered with innocuous questions, a team of EPA investigators checked the areas detailed in the information forwarded onto them by Burton.

By the end of the hour an officer interrupted the interview. The information had been authenticated by their findings and the team resolved to act. The senior environmental investigator charged that the company was complicit in flagrantly breaching EPA standards and chemical contamination levels. All the workers were evacuated, the plant was closed and Charlton was taken away for specific interrogation about toxic pollution. Burton stood chatting with the ranking EPA officer as the gates were padlocked and environmental warning signs were placed around the site. Charlton Chemicals was eerily deserted.

Todd Gow, the investigator who was heading the team, elaborated a point for Adrian.

"We had no choice. It is obvious, not only that the public has been exposed to dire risk, but that Charlton or his employees have been deliberately falsifying official records, forging documents and breaking laws for handling hazardous compounds."

"We may want to talk to him some more. Will he remain in custody?" Burton envisaged the evidence they needed from the surveillance of the house.

"We need him for questioning too," Gow observed, "But no doubt his lawyer will try and release him on bail as soon as possible."

They parted with a banter of small talk and mutually expressed approval of the role each had played in the operation.

Inside the storeroom the silence was oppressive. Tom became unnerved by the isolation. Were they planning to kill him? How long would they wait? Had they forgotten him? The passing of time gradually eroded his resistance to despair. Dreary minutes dragged by. He jerked upright at a scuttling noise that he eventually concluded was a mouse or rat. Hours must have gone by when his wriggling, struggling and straining ebbed and his muted protests had faded to whimpering. And then, even the weak cries soon ceased as he slipped into exhausted sleep.

***

Later, filled with alarm, Tom emerged from his unconscious state into a frightening, dark and constrictive prison. Remembering his desperate circumstances, he tried to make sense of what was happening. He had totally lost track of time. He was still alive, but not because of anything clever that he had done. All his futile efforts came back to him. A doleful moan emanated from deep within him. How could he be so stupid, recklessly charging into this den of thugs as if he was invulnerable to their brutality? Was he just naïve or was he inanely overconfident?

He sat leaning against the metal leg and took stock. What could he discover about his surrounds? First he swung his tethered legs ponderously around in an arc. They struck a metal bucket. A handle from a mop fell down and landed against his neck. After he manoeuvred around the bucket, his feet touched another metal leg. He tried to work the handle under the tape on his hair but with its rounded end he couldn't get any purchase. Extending as far as possible to his vertical sitting height, Tom felt his head bump against the top of the bench. The tape on the back of his head moved. Immediately he attempted to scrape the sticky polymer away from his hair. Repeatedly he rubbed the back of his head against the square cornered edge of the bench top. With each drag against the edge, the tape crept up, hair was tugged out and his head burned from the abrasion.

Having pushed the bands of tape up from the back of his head into a sticky circular ribbon shape, Tom eased the handle underneath. Lowering himself, he maintained constant painful pressure in opposition to the wooden shaft as it gradually tore away from his scalp. Tilting his head away and, with the handle now firmly embedded in the stretched tape, he managed to peel the tenacious adhesive off his head. Wincing with pain as several eyebrow hairs were extracted by the last thrust, he bent his battered head forward and breathed deeply through his nose to regain his breath.

Opening his gummed up eyes, Tom saw a glimmer of light beneath the door. Collecting his strength he swivelled his tape fastened hands to a side pocket of his jeans and fumbled for his car keys. It took numerous attempts before he hooked them out. Working with the serrated edge of one key he sawed to and fro at the bindings on his wrists. The constant tearing at the taut, stretched plastic caused it to slowly rip apart until finally it rapidly gave way.

Once his hands were free Tom didn't hesitate to strip away the layers from around his mouth. Then he unwound the bands around his chest before completely releasing himself from the cramping, duct tape fetters that restrained his legs. He wobbled unsteadily as he rose to his feet. It was necessary to grasp onto the bench top to stave off a bout of dizziness. He flexed his muscles and drew himself up to his full height, groaning as he stretched. The movement renewed the aching throb to the side of his head and he reached up and felt it gingerly. A gnawing void in the pit of his stomach reminded him of how little he'd eaten. His dry crusty lips and lolling dry tongue had him craving for a drink.

The miniscule wafer of light low down did little to reveal the inside of the storeroom. He set about testing his confinement but the locked door resisted all the bumping and pulling forces that Tom could apply. When he stopped thumping he listened. There was nothing, not a sound, no hint of any movement outside.

Feeling in his pocket, he was surprised that he still had Ed's cell. 'Keys and phone,' he thought. Either they were totally incompetent or something had interrupted their plans for him. He turned on the phone. The time showed that it was late Tuesday afternoon. He had been there for over a day! Tom made his call before he did anything else. He rang Holly and told her of the address and mentioned offhandedly that he was locked in a storeroom. A flood of questions followed which he deferred, saying he would explain it all later. Tom emphasised that his biggest concern was her safety. He insisted that if anyone was still at the plant, that she would not do anything. She should call the police and tell them where they could find him. He told her that if it was deserted she would need to break in to find him. The whole situation had Holly caught between intense concern and excitement. When she had hung up, Tom became aware that the door was caught in the dull glow from the screen.

He used the screen light on the mobile device to look around the store room. The door was heavy and unlikely to give way to his charging. The room was festooned with cleaning chemicals, rags, brushes and brooms and various toilet supplies. On one shelf there were fluorescent tubes, starters, light bulbs and some electrical connections and cables. At the far end a ladder was propped against the wall. Just as he was about to give up his rummaging around and turn off his phone before the power ran out, something caught his eye. On the lowest shelf was a metal box.

"Just what the doctor ordered," he breathed as he examined the range of tools inside. Eventually he selected a screwdriver and a hammer.

With deft blows he started to raise the pins out of the hinges, aiming the screwdriver under the cap of each pin. Only ten minutes were required to remove the top pin. The middle one all but popped out with just a few blows. The wooden obstacle shifted slightly and he wasted the next ten minutes trying to budge the bottom pin. It was not until he reinserted the first one that he made better progress. Finally, he managed to tap out the last centimetre out of the remaining hinge. It took a further minute to lever the door, wrong way, out of the frame.

***

By this time Holly and Lori had arrived in the Mercedes and it was starting to get dark. They saw the warning signs stating that the plant was closed by the EPA and alerting the public of the danger of hazardous chemicals in the area. Of more concern was the severed chain and open gate. Inside, the only car they could see was Holly's Honda. Marshalling their courage, the two girls took a jemmy out of the car and began walking toward the building labelled 'Office'.

Just then they noticed movement near a factory doorway to the left of where they were heading. A sigh of relief emanated from both girls almost at the same time as they realised Tom was waving his arm as he walked briskly toward them. Imperceptibly at first, a dark shape emerged with a growing roar from the shadows and accelerated towards Tom.

"Tom!" screamed Holly.

"Look out!" chorused Lori in terror.

Time appeared adhered to another scale as Tom turned abruptly and saw the dark car racing towards him. Momentarily paralysed with indecision, he frantically tried to get his legs to obey his instructions. The car was upon him just as he sprang and pivoted into a sitting position at the height of the car bonnet. Unavoidably, he was struck by the speeding car. Its momentum spun his body and he rolled up over the car. His foot smashed the windscreen as he tumbled over. Careering over the top, Tom fell like a rag doll bundle on the roadway. The car exited the car park with a screeching of tyres. Holly was busily writing the registration number as Lori ran as fast as she could, crying out Tom's name.

Lori was bent over the prone figure when Holly arrived. Tom was moaning.

"Do we take him to the hospital?" Lori looked up distraught, her face filled with concern.

"I think we have to. We'll put him in the back seat of my car and you can follow. Is Wattle Heights the nearest?"

A slurred protest grumbled below them. "No, no hospital; I'm all right."

"You're bleeding; you've probably broken some bones... you just look terrible."

"Ahh," he groaned painfully. "Thanks for the encouragement Lori," he gave a wry grin and then clutched his side as he rolled over.

"He needs a hospital," stressed Holly.

Tom grimaced, "Look, get me to the yacht. See how I go. Then if I get worse you can take me."

"Get worse!" Lori remonstrated by holding her palm to her head. "You're mad Tom Witney!" The two girls looked at him. He was scruffy, grazed, blood smeared and bruised, but he still tried to raise himself.

"Stop! Stay there and I'll bring the car around," ordered Holly. Tom lay on the bitumen and gazed into Lori's worry stricken face. He tried to smile. "I'm all right Lori... really." But just saying the words sent a spasm of pain across his chest. Lori cradled his head in the crook of her arm and helped him sit up.

After the car was brought alongside, Lori and Holly carefully eased him inside. Holly called the police and reported a hit and run and gave the details of the number plate. She hung up before any more information could be requested. Lori led off in Tom's car and Holly trailed her with Tom in her own car to the location advised by her brother.

Periods of quiet during the drive up the peninsula were interspersed with a description of the funeral and probing questions from Holly, though her brother was in no condition to join in on the conversation. Apart from a gasping 'It's good to see you sis,' from Tom as he wriggled painfully to make himself comfortable, most of his replies were garbled and he soon drifted off into delirium.

At the wharf the girls were thankful of the dark night and light spray of rain. Very few people braved the conditions for a walk or some fishing. The sight of the staggering, unsteady steps of a young man being supported by two young women may have attracted some attention even if it wasn't entirely unprecedented. Tom gritted his teeth as each movement provoked aches and stabbing pains. If anyone did witness the unusual trio they may have surmised that they were just seeing a drunken sailor being escorted back to his boat. The struggle to get Tom down the stairs and into his dingy would have been funny to Holly and Lori if Tom wasn't in such obvious pain.

Upon reaching the 'Perfect Treat', Tom gave one last effort to lift himself up the ladder before tumbling inside onto the couch. He pleaded for something to drink, so he was handed a fruit juice which quenched his thirst initially. Lori then put the kettle on while Holly helped him get his shoes off and covered him with some blankets.

"Not a great reunion, hey?" she said as she touched the day old bruise on the side of his face.

Later, sitting up sipping his coffee and trying to disguise his discomfort, Tom suggested that they shouldn't stay too long since the Mercedes was easily identifiable. It was decided that Lori would drive the car home while Holly stayed and looked after Tom. Tom, however, was determined to take the boat away so that he could have time to recover in a more discreet location. When it was clear that he wasn't to be dissuaded it was decided that Lori pilot the motorised yacht out through the heads and set sail for Ti tree Island. Of the two girls she had the most experience on the boat. The female dominated discussions pertinent to what they would do, and their whole decision making process, totally ignored Tom's interjections. His contention that both should leave and he would go it alone was disregarded.

At ten that night Lori rowed Holly back to the wharf where they gave each other a farewell hug, before Lori returned on board.

"You haven't eaten since yesterday have you?" she stated more than asked.

Tom gestured with a negative shake of the head.

"Well, first step to mending the patient is to feed the patient," she stated categorically as she poked around the cupboard. She didn't speak again until she had surfaced with a large can of vegetable soup and some frozen bread out of the small freezer. "Just what the doctor ordered."

Soon the smells of warm buttered toast and hot vegetable soup had Tom sitting up in anticipation. Lori, who had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and slipped on a large apron with the word 'Captain' emblazoned on the front, was hovering around Tom. She packed some pillows around him to ensure he was comfortable and then served him his soup and toast on a tray. He started the meal as voraciously as his sore jaw would allow, glancing up to see Lori quietly giving thanks. By the time he was finishing his second helping of soup he was feeling filled and warmed. Similarly, he was strangely warmed as he watched Lori eating the last of her soup. She was sitting at the small table dressed in jeans and sloppy windcheater. Her large brown eyes looking over her bowl at him.

"What?" she said, suddenly aware that he was staring.

"Oh, nothing," he searched for something to say that would suggest he wasn't just ogling. "So how do these things happen? Am I being punished for something?"

Lori supported her chin with her hands. "Should you be punished?" There was a mischievous glint in her eye.

"No," he retorted and then looking into her eyes he seemed to falter, "Oh, I don't know... maybe. I mean, I guess I'm a pretty selfish person." He looked down and then back to Lori, but she didn't respond. He shuddered as a twinge of pain went up his right shoulder.

"You tell me. Is God punishing me for the way I live? Is that why all this is happening?"

Lori took a deep breath, bent forward and spoke softly. "Tom, we probably all deserve to be punished for being selfish, or not caring, or anything we do compared to God's standards, but God doesn't work that way. The Bible says He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. Good things happen to good and bad people, and bad things happen to good and bad people."

"So what advantage is it to be a believer like you? I mean if it makes no difference what happens to you."

There was a quiet interlude as Lori gathered her thoughts. "Well firstly, knowing Jesus helps you respond to your circumstances in the right way. Secondly, it's about knowing the truth about who you are and what your purpose is. And, ultimately, beyond this life, there is a difference. Christians choose to be part of God's family; non-Christians choose to spend eternity separated from God."

"Whoa, that truth business just keeps cropping up doesn't it? So I'm not being punished, this stuff just happens?"

Lori rose and started cleaning as she continued talking. "We live in a broken world and bad things happen all the time. Sometimes God uses your circumstances to get your attention." She stood at the small scullery looking over her shoulder.

"Well he's got my attention." There was a taint of bitterness to his comment.

"The key is; how are you going to respond?"

"Yeah." The reply was reflective as Tom's mind already was somewhere else.

A short time later Lori was piloting the craft along the main shipping channel in the wake of a large freighter about a kilometre ahead. A stiff southerly breeze and squally showers buffeted the boat as it neared the heads. She had done the journey once before with her father, but in calm conditions in daylight. This was far more daunting. The erratic chop of the oily black rip nearing the end of ebb tide, the constant spray as the boat dipped in and out of the rising swell and the slap of the whitecaps over the bow made her wonder what she was doing there. Lori gripped the wheel, white knuckled and kept checking the GPS to ensure they were on track. Every now and then she would look back from the small wheelhouse area to check her passenger.

Tom had sunken into a deep restless sleep. He woke hours later to a gentle rocking. The sudden absence of the pulsating engine noise broke the rhythm of his slumber. He watched as Lori clambered inside, having moored in a small harbour on the far side of the next bay to the east. Collapsing with fatigue onto the bed inside the first stateroom, she soon surrendered to her weariness. Tom listened to her soft breathing and before long he also gave in to the stresses on his body and was snoring noisily.

Chapter 13

He woke to the sounds of spluttering eggs and bacon in a frypan. The delicious smells of caramelising, crisping rashers hung about him and were accentuated many fold by his hunger. Feeling sore all over, he carefully raised himself on the converted couch, rubbing his bleary eyes and touching his stiff, swollen, and still tender, shoulder.

"Hi," Lori greeted him chirpily, "You look a bit worse for wear." Her bright smile couldn't quite obscure the tiredness in her eyes.

"Don't tell me you're a morning person," he croaked dryly.

"Mornings are great," she beamed, "but it's all mind over matter anyway. It's as good or as bad as you make it."

"Right..." he replied doubtfully, "The power of positive thinking, hey."

Lori was dishing up the steaming breakfast on plates with freshly cooked toast. "Something like that. If you've got something to be positive about... you know... count your blessings and all that."

"I'm struggling to," Tom became conscious then of how miserable he sounded. He looked at Lori's sunny expression and corrected himself. "No, I'm wrong. You're a blessing."

Lori's face coloured and her eyes glistened with moisture.

With effort he concealed the agony of movement and lurched his way to the small meal table.

"You all right?" concern was etched on Lori's face.

"Yep, just a bit stiff and sore," he panted. He looked up into her eyes which appeared to be measuring him. She brushed a wisp of hair away from her face.

"Do you mind if I say grace?" she asked in hushed tones.

"No... go ahead."

She bowed her head, "Lord, thank you for keeping us safe. Thank you for everything you've given us. Thank you for this food, in Jesus' name, amen."

After a couple of attempts at eating with his right hand Tom switched to the left, which itself stung if he didn't lower his mouth to meet it. The pain, however, was more manageable than using his damaged right arm.

While they ate they spent a short time discussing the likely events that led to his altercation with the hit run driver. Tom concluded that the police had acted on the evidence he'd provided and that probably saved his life. He suspected that one of Charlton's minions, maybe the inimitable Ned, had come back to tidy up some 'loose ends' and almost succeeded in doing so.

Tom was sipping his tea and piling his dishes when he noticed Lori stifle a yawn.

"Hey, do you want to have a sleep while I drive? It doesn't look like you had much sleep last night."

"Are you crazy? You can barely walk and you want to take the helm?" she exaggerated her terminology.

"I can sit in the chair. It shouldn't be too taxing."

She shook her head displaying a comical tight lipped face. "You want to hold the wheel with all the vibrations going through you? I don't think so. You can hardly feed yourself without pulling a face."

Unable to convince Tom that he needed rest, Lori settled for a compromise. Tom sat next to her at the front of the boat for the first hour, then he'd have an hour's rest and then, if he still felt able, she would have a sleep. During that first hour, as the sun slowly strengthened and began to warm the forward section, they talked. Initially, Tom asked about her studies but the topic soon turned to the funeral and comments the pastor made about Clarissa's life.

He had shared how her life had changed over the last few months.

"I knew she'd been going to church but I didn't appreciate that it was very important to her," Tom admitted. "You see Rick and Clint and I spent most Sundays getting away from things." The moment he said it Tom wasn't sure why he was making excuses for not being around. Was he experiencing guilt for what had happened? Had his increased absences from home been triggered by an underlying resentment towards his parents? He sat uncomfortably listening as Lori recounted what was said.

"Pastor Allen said that among the changes he'd taken note of was her desire to make things right from her past. Do you think that has to do with Ashley?" She gave a sidelong glance at Tom.

"Possibly... I imagine it was a terrible thing for her to hide for so long. And whatever I originally thought about Ashley, I guess it wasn't his fault that he was put up for adoption and just happened to arrive on the scene when things turn into a disaster."

Briefly the conversation faded. The 'Perfect Treat' bounced over the occasional larger swells and Tom and Lori drank in the glorious sunny morning.

"So you've met Ashley then?" began Lori afresh after a few minutes.

"Yes, we had a sort of family reunion the other night."

"What's he like?"

"Oh, a bit taller than me... A bit darker than me... and a bit older than me."

"No," she giggled girlishly, "I meant... to speak to. What was he like to talk with?" Her tiredness was evident in the way she was searching for words.

"Oh, he seems decent enough. Just talking to him; he was inoffensive and... he was keen to establish his er...," Tom thought carefully about the term to use, "his 'non-involvement'."

"Where did you meet with him?"

"Dad's"

Lori turned a curious gaze toward Tom, and he felt compelled to go on.

"His place in the country... All his hippy friends have left, apparently... and Ashley is staying there now."

For a short period the conversation revolved around his father and how he was dealing with the various upheavals in his life. That was before Lori held him to the deal they had agreed on. Stiffly, he hobbled to the couch and within minutes he had succumbed to the effects of his injuries and the exertion of the last few days.

***

"Ed Miles' utility... Where did you find it?" Burton looked up from his notes. They were all sitting around his desk at an impromptu briefing that he had called.

Gully was reading from his notebook. "Ed Miles was driving it."

"Figures," snorted Burton. "I'll bet it was the one we passed on the way to Tanon's cabin. And I bet it was Witney driving. What else?"

"Well his Merc was also pulled up on the road... his sister was driving it." Gully watched the faces of the others to see if there were any questions but they weren't expecting any breakthroughs. "His mother's Jaguar... still in the garage."

"What about Lori Miles' car?"

"Still at her place."

Detective Burton frowned a little but then he proceeded, unruffled by the marginal progress they had made.

"Okay, looks like we're not having much luck with that. Have we got any more out of Charlton?" His eyes met Rolf's.

Rolf had wheeled his chair closer. "It's hard to say Ade. First he says he had nothing to do with it. Then when he's confronted with evidence that he was threatening Towers he admits to having his place watched... but he alleges that he left well before the time of the murders. He's still being questioned regarding all the dumping but he's called his lawyers in so it's slow going."

Burton pulled a face to indicate he understood. "What about that hit run report?"

"Ah that," Rolf livened up. "The gate had been breached with bolt cutters. There was broken glass at the scene and some blood. At the moment we're looking for Charlton's offsider... a man named Ned Hoddle."

"There was no sign of a body?" Arnie pressed but Rolf just wobbled his head, still facing Burton.

"What do you know about him... about this Ned Hoddle?"

"He's got a bit of history. In fact a few of the employees there have. Mainly strong arm stuff but also receiving stolen goods and some weapons offences. It looks like Charlton has a bunch of ex-cons working for him but he's pretty good at making things look legitimate."

"Okay, keep on it," Burton wrote something down and then sighed, "Ro, will you find out who Charlton had watching the Witney place... and put some pressure on him to find out who went in and out."

"Sure Ade."

Burton left with Arrington, unsure whether he should leave, or be heading the questioning of Charlton himself and leave his nurturing of the young detective to a less critical case. But he had a hunch. And in this business, he knew, hunches could make all the difference. Nowadays they would call it psychology, or profiling. To Burton it was all about knowing people and what made sense. He had read the statistics—that between fifteen and twenty percent of murders were committed by family members. The stark fact about that for him was that eighty percent weren't family members. He kept telling himself; 'keep an open mind'... 'Look at all the possibilities'.

While Arrington drove, the senior detective thought. Every now and then he'd murmur something out loud. He again went over the things that rang alarm bells in his brain. A long lost son returns soon before the crime is committed. Everything conveniently points, almost without exception, to one suspect. Although a number of things chafed him. A ne'er do well stepson has an alibi that is totally out of character. Then there is the separated husband, who only reluctantly admitted to being on the scene prior to the crime, and then only when confronted with evidence that he was seen leaving the area.

Some of the lesser characters in the plot came to his mind. Any one of them might be driven by money, passion or some less predictable psychotic motive. The key problem was access to the gun. They hadn't established a prima facie case regarding access to the gun. If other people could get at the gun then their case against Witney dissolved in imponderables.

"The gun... how do we find out who used the gun?"

"What'd you say sir?" Arrington glanced across at his boss.

"Nothing..."

***

Inside the offices of Clariflo, Burton felt the eyes of staff follow him. Ed Miles was in his office having just ended a call.

He rose. "What can I do for you detective?"

"Just a few more questions Mr Miles." Burton indicated to Arrington that he should get out his notebook.

"I'll do my best. Why don't you take a seat?"

With the two policemen on the couch and Ed behind the desk, Burton commenced.

"Have you seen Tom Witney recently?" Burton watched closely to determine whether Miles had trouble constructing an answer.

"As a matter of fact I have," he replied candidly.

"Where?"

"Here, on Saturday... not long after you left?"

"Why didn't you call us?" Burton wondered why he wasn't incensed by this flagrant disregard for assisting the course of justice.

"I don't know," he answered lamely, "He's a friend."

Burton avoided lectures about harbouring fugitives and stuck to his script.

"Do you know where he is now?"

"No."

'Are you telling me you have no idea where he is? How do you expect me to believe that?"

Ed slanted his head as if to make a point. "I didn't say that detective. What I said was that I didn't know where he was. I have lots of ideas."

Burton straightened, "Well, go on."

"Well, he could be at his father's place, or at Rick Tanon's cabin. He could be on his boat, at one of his friend's places, or even just in a motel. As you see I have ideas, but I don't know."

Adrian Burton looked across at Arrington who was writing furiously. Should he provide surveillance for each of these places and go all out to capture Witney? Looking back at Miles he pursued his next point.

"Tell me, who had access to Witney's car that day?"

Surprisingly Miles' demeanour perked up, "Ah, now that is a question of some consequence. It is what is bedevilling Tom."

Burton cut him off before he could further wax lyrical.

"So what have you come up with?"

"I have a set of keys to Tom's car, here." Ed pointed to the little bronze statue key holder.

"So, you could have taken the gun!" Burton bluntly accused.

"I could have, but I didn't." Ed lowered his voice as he continued, "Unfortunately, I did borrow the car and left it unlocked at the house for... maybe half an hour. That was before lunch."

Burton was speechless. His thoughts were in disarray. Looking at the forlorn countenance of the older man, Burton forced the words out, "You're serious aren't you?"

Miles returned a disconsolate nod.

"And that's not the worst of it, though, I know, it's bad enough. Ashley Moore probably took these keys on Wednesday and returned them on Saturday. So the list of suspects gets longer."

Burton was appalled. He battled to resurrect some coherent thoughts. What, why, how; he didn't know where to start.

Ed Miles ventured one further piece of unfavourable information, "and, Detective Burton, on top of all that there is a spare set of keys in Tom's room at the house. Tom said it was possible for someone in the household to have taken those keys to unlock his car."

Burton looked stymied. He needed to wade through this morass of complications to clarify some key concerns. The tiny impetus of an idea gave him a starting point. "Why did you drive Tom's car?" he asked.

"The short answer is that Tom indulged me in my enjoyment of driving his car, so I used it during the day for short business trips." Ed took a heaving breath, "The specific answer for Wednesday was that I was just nipping round to Clarissa's, his mother's, to drop off some documents. I usually tell him when I borrow it but he was in a meeting. I thought I'd be back before he was finished.

He fired several other questions at Miles. The encounter had created more problems than it solved. The gun was a puzzle that seemed insurmountable. Burton decided that it was motive that would reveal the murderer; he had to dig up as much about everyone as he could.

***

At the library, Burton had one of the librarians show him the corral that Al had worked in. He established that he was seen to arrive at two and camera records had him leaving at seven. Because the library was so quiet no-one actually remembers seeing him while he was in the little frequented study corner on the south side. Arrington was bemused by his boss' stalking around the whole library, testing all the emergency exits and inspecting the doorways as if he was a fussy cleaner. And the time spent viewing the computer activity log seemed disparate to its importance. Burton scanned section after section of the record. It struck Arrington that this was unnecessary attention to detail. They had done all this before. What was he looking for?

Burton had them drive to the Witney home and there they investigated all the same rooms and corners. Arrington hated going over old ground but kept quiet. Meanwhile Burton was steadily adding to his knowledge. He confirmed that Witney's spare keys were still in his room. They checked the safe and found it locked, so they used the combination that Miles had given them and they found it still empty. Surely that was no surprise.

***
Chapter 14

Tom slept deeply. It was hours later that he staggered groggily out of his bed and up forward, slumping heavily into the seat next to Lori. The welts and bruises all over his body hurt. His right shoulder felt heavy and numb like it was still asleep.

"You didn't wake me."

Lori grinned at him, "Oh, you wanted me to wake you?"

He turned to her and began to lift his right arm to give her a friendly shove. A searing stab of pain made him recoil and reel. Then, losing his sense of balance, almost immediately his vision blurred and a guttural emanation of pain escaped his lips.

Lori immediately threw the controls into idle and tried to catch Tom as he passed out and slid off the seat. She became entangled under his limp dead weight. It took some time before she could extricate herself from the confines of the helm and then haul his unresponsive body across the floor back to the bed. Straining and tugging, and then getting on her knees and heaving from underneath, she finally got him onto the couch. His blood stained, bedraggled shirt was wet from the wound's seeping fluids. Tom mumbled deliriously as Lori removed his shirt to reveal an angry red and swollen lesion.

"I'm sorry Tom," her voice rasped apologetically. "I should have checked your injuries last night. Looks like you have a massive infection." She touched the sticky, blood encrusted area, extracting a thread from a cut that had probably originated from his torn shirt.

He groaned, unhearing, unconscious to her words. His scratched, bruised and bloodied body made her shudder involuntarily. Using a wet towel to bathe him while she picked out tiny grits and gravel out of the shoulder laceration, Lori became aware of the extent of Tom's injuries. She recalled the horrific event in her mind and considered again how close he had been to being killed by the impact with the car. She ran her hand tenderly against his bristly face and felt the burning of fever on his forehead.

When she had heated some water, Lori put salt in it and soaked a small clean face towel. She used this as a hot poultice. The warm saline solution cleaned the wound further, which initiated fresh bleeding, as well as drawing out a pale excretion. Dabbing the inflamed shoulder, Lori said a silent prayer for Tom.

Between intermittent cries and moans, tremors swept through his body. The constant washing eventually stemmed the bleeding but she maintained her gentle strokes with the cloth. Sometime later the increased rocking of the boat alerted Lori to the danger of letting it remain adrift near the coast for so long. From the glassed in cockpit she could make out a line of breakers on the sandy shore fifty metres away. Instantly she engaged the engine and swung away from the shore, consulting the depth finder to instruct her on the best course away from the shallow water. Ahead was a sand bar. Somehow they had drifted into this deeper section. After cruising east for a minute and finding the lagoon becoming shallower and closer to the menacing breakers, Lori turned around and backtracked. Eventually a deeper channel appeared on the sonar screen and she surged through the rollers into open water.

Anchoring 'Perfect Treat' securely away from shore, Lori prepared a meal of beans and toast and a hot drink. Despite her efforts, Tom couldn't be stirred from his unconscious state. Becoming anxious at his condition and unable to revive him from his stupor, Lori placed her face against his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat.

"What have I done?" she whispered, "You should be in hospital."

She folded a cool compress on his face and sat back to eat her meal. His occasional trembling and delirious ranting brought her alongside. She sat near his prostrate form to speak soothing words and caress his feverish face with the moistened towel. Realising that she had to get a move on, Lori splashed some antiseptic from the first aid kit onto the worst of the injuries. Then, after bandaging the wound, she dressed him in some clean warm clothes from the storage cupboard.

It was after four in the afternoon when Lori restarted the engine and pushed the craft to its limits, fearing that lingering any longer would put Tom's life in jeopardy. Alternately leaping from wave crests and then tearing with jarring thuds through troughs, the motor launch reeled in the distance to the island destination.

Another southerly squall was scudding in from the southwest as Lori guided the boat through the narrow channel that marked the entrance to the lakes. Slowly she cruised past the marker buoys and then along a short inlet before tying up on a rustic looking wooden jetty. Tom was thrashing about and shaking with chills and tremors, although he was still burning with a high temperature. In a moment of apparent lucidity Tom saw Lori at the cabin door about to leave. He sounded panicky, "Don't leave me Lori... don't go... stay away from the house."

She had replied twice, assuring him that she wouldn't be long before she realised that he was hallucinating.

Hastily, she ran atop the jetty and onto the sandy shore, wending her way between the she-oaks. In the cool inky blues of dusk, Lori concentrated on ensuring her white sneaker clad feet skirted the huge tussocks and exposed, gnarled winding tree roots. She had to traverse the grounds surrounded by cabins to reach the residence near the main gate of the camp. Her incessant knocking roused Joe. He had been watching his favourite evening television news show.

"Lori, what are you doing here?" His expression was surprised and jovial. But realisation dawned on him and his smiling face transformed to dread. "You're covered in blood." She glanced down at her pullover and saw large dried blood smears all over it.

Joe sounded distraught. "You've brought that man here haven't you? That man the police are after... Lori we have a school camp in at the moment. I can't let you stay here. You have to go." He tried to edge her out of the door.

"You don't understand Joe, he's sick, he's hurt... he needs a doctor."

"Lori, what are you doing?" Joe was jittery. He redirected his question. "What's wrong with this fellow?"

"He's got a wound and it's become infected."

"A gunshot wound!" Joe was apoplectic.

"No, no... nothing like that. He was in an accident. He needs antibiotics." Lori was holding the door, "Help me Joe," she implored.

"Look, you can't stay here. Where are you parked? I'll tell you how to get to the hospital."

"I'll call an ambulance."

"No ambulance. I've got a school camp in Lori. Why can't you just drive him to the hospital?"

"Joe, I came by boat. I'm moored on the old pier." Desperation entered her tone. "I'll stay on the boat if you want. We just need some medicines and I'll get him to the hospital in the morning." Lori's voice crackled with emotion.

The old, grizzled caretaker softened. "Look, I have some antibiotics left from a recent throat infection. They might help. In the morning I'll drive you both to the hospital. If we get up early we won't disturb the children."

She stood at the doorway, the harrowing experiences of the last day telling on her face.

"Come in," he beckoned. Lori walked uncertainly inside already beginning to agonise over her decision to leave Tom alone and vulnerable. Joe went into the kitchen and searched through a cabinet. Walking back into the room he handed a half used box of capsules to Lori.

"Thanks Joe," she sobbed as she grasped him affectionately around the neck and hugged him.

"All right, all right, I'll see you in the morning," he said gruffly, but hardly concealing a chuckle.

Back at the jetty, Lori picked her way carefully along the rickety, old construction. In the dark, with the slight backlit glow of the sky reflected on the water, she had to negotiate gaps and loose planks that earlier she ran across without thought. Inside, Tom was lying on the floor making noises like the distant bellowing of a cow calving.

"It's a lie," he cried, and then repeated it even louder, "It's a lie."

He was in his own delusional world, unresponsive to her as she said his name and asked if he was okay.

The dressing on his arm was stained red from fresh bleeding. Lori rolled him on to his back. She moved to sit him leaning against the bed. He reached out and clutched her wrist. "Don't go!" he half shouted in a wild eyed plea. A spasm of pain wracked his body and he seemed to faint. Still holding her wrist he spoke in a throaty croak, "I love you."

Lori froze. What was he saying? He groaned again. His eyes were closed as his head lolled. 'He's delirious, just rambling,' she thought to herself.

"Tom, are you all right? Tom?" she tried to get some reaction, in part to revive him and in part to determine his level of rationality.

This time, to get Tom on the couch converted bed, Lori grasped him underneath the thighs and with a pillow against his back, half slid half levered him onto the bed. She tumbled on top of him with her last effort. Puffing and panting she found herself staring into his wide open eyes. Awkwardly and self-consciously she clambered off. Momentarily, at least, he was conscious, though totally disorientated.

"Where are we? What's happening Lori?"

Relieved, standing there untidy and grubby, Lori tried to explain. "You fell out of bed and... well somebody had to put you back on the bed. Believe me, you're no lightweight."

When she had given him some capsules and redressed his wound, she went and cleaned herself up. The tiny shower recess was a perfect luxury, providing hot, steamy water and a chance to become civilised again. Some of Tom's spare clothes, though oversized, were comfortable and warm.

After observing him and dozing on and off for a few hours she woke Tom and gave him some more capsules. He then watched her as she used her mobile phone to text her parents not to worry, that all was well. He remained strangely quiet as he watched her, though his attentiveness assured her that, at least now, he was genuinely lucid.

"Those clothes look better on you than me," he managed hoarsely.

Lori flushed perceptibly. Her wet hair framing her face made her feel particularly unrefined. She pinched a piece of the windcheater out, "We'll at least it's clean." Then with a positive inflection in her voice she asked, "So, would you like something to eat?"

He nodded, "Yes please, and a drink please," he added huskily.

The smells of a tasty meal (as tasty as a meal composed of canned and frozen vittles could be) pervaded the cabin when Tom, still gradually recovering his bearings, piped up, "Where did you say we are?"

"Ti tree Island, we're at the camp I told you about," she answered over her shoulder. "You're feeling better now?"

"Yeah... a bit."

"You know you've got a bad infection." She faced him and in a low voice rebuked herself, "It's my fault. I should have cleaned you up straight away. Instead, all that grit, dirt and germs were allowed to fester. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Heaven knows, you've done everything possible." He examined his shoulder, and then his clean tee-shirt. "Did you change me?" he had a doubtful expression.

"Mm, you couldn't stay in those filthy clothes," she gestured at a pile in the corner. "Besides, I'm almost a qualified nurse now. It's part of the job."

"Right." Tom still had a silly face.

Lori altered the course of the exchange.

"You know you were talking a bit... when you were out... I think you were delirious."

"What did I say? I didn't confess to anything did I?" Tom had a wry smirk on his face.

Lori looked sheepish. "I think you were worried about being left alone. It was a dream, or nightmare. I don't think it made any sense." She said the latter for her own benefit as much as anything. Then as an afterthought she added, "Oh yeah, you called out 'It's a lie.' Do you know what you were talking about? What is the lie?"

He fixed his eyes on her, "Yeah, what is the lie?" His words trailed off enigmatically.

When she asked him to elaborate he temporarily withdrew into himself. His mind harked back to conversations he had with William, something to do with believing a lie. And those verses that had made him feel guilty. Why was he torturing himself? He was innocent.

The meal time in the early hours of the morning had an inarticulate awkwardness to it. Tom made the effort to sit opposite Lori at the small table. At times the proximity to each other, the soft light of the frosted side lamp and the moon shimmering on the gently whispering water made an altogether too romantic setting. The tendrils of mutual affection seemed to constrict their freedom to speak. And when they spoke, the words were hushed as if the mood were too precious to disrupt. Lori felt hindered by her feelings, her beliefs about her feelings, and her conjecturing about how aware Tom was of what he said in his delirium. Similarly, Tom felt restricted by his perplexing feelings of affection and his speculation about what motivated Lori to care for him in the way she had. He wondered whether he had any right to continue to burden her with this calamitous escapade.

Sipping the rich, aromatic coffee brew that Lori had prepared warmed them both. Like mirror images they both had two hands pivoting on elbows to drink. Their gazes met across the table. For a moment they communed at a different level. Then Tom averted his eyes. 'If things were different. If his life wasn't in such chaos or if he had some purpose... a more meaningful existence,' he thought. 'Ultimately, he didn't deserve someone like Lori. She was selfless, caring, yet seemingly strong and under no illusions about what she was doing. Along with all that,' he mused as he lifted his eyes briefly, '... she was beautiful, in a tom-boyish sort of way.'

"What's wrong?" Lori responded to his drooping countenance.

'How long has this all been? Is it really only a...' he wrenched free of his thoughts. "It's been a week now." The full torrent of the tragedy immersed him for the first time. Now with his vigilante crusade put aside, pent up emotions overwhelmed him and with quivering lips and stuttering tongue he excused himself.

Under the pretence of having to wash his sticky matted hair, Tom locked himself in a cabin and surrendered to his emotions. He emerged a little time later, cleaned up considerably and he shared another drink with Lori.

Before heading off to their separate cabins, Tom rejected any possibility of going to the hospital in the morning, saying that he'd done little to solve the case; although he hinted that he had garnered a couple of leads he really wanted to pursue.

The greatest contention occurred as they stood at their respective cabin doors ready to go to sleep. It was about what constituted being 'well enough' to resume his sleuthing. 'Standing up was not a definition for able bodied,' argued Lori. Tom was sure that his recovery would be hastened with the advent of the medication, good meals and some regular sleep. Eventually his dogmatic insistence prevailed.

***

On the next day around mid-morning, after informing Joe that they wouldn't trouble him with a trip to the hospital, they cruised slowly into a nearby tourist resort on the lakes. They spent half an hour taking fuel on board before they moored farther up the narrow waterway. The light breeze and mild winter weather gave a holiday atmosphere to their stroll along the waterfront. Gulls screeched and wheeled above them, large pelicans paddled gracefully alongside expecting titbits. A rusty trawler was lost in a haze of spray as a high pressure hose executed a final clean in readiness for another night of fishing. Lori and Tom ambled across a long wooden footbridge and over a vegetated dune onto a broad surf beach.

Trudging through the heavy sand aggravated Tom's limp and Lori slid her arm inside his to assist him onto the packed sand near the water's edge. Lori's nearness caused an almost tangible rise in his spirits. The setting was so serene he wanted to delight in their time together, but his hampered gait and grimacing at any misstep soon had Lori steering him back to the township. When they reached the boardwalk, Tom was obviously tired and so they found refuge in a sunny corner of a dockside restaurant. Munching on fish and chips and slowly drinking large milkshakes, Tom couldn't help thinking that the previous week had been a bad dream. Now he hoped that somehow he could wake up and everything would be all right.

Chapter 15

Burton sat at his desk with papers strewn all around. Even though Gascoyne had vented his spleen on the department, he felt much better about the progress they were making. They had Charlton's sidekick in custody and they had given him the impression that Charlton had 'left him to hang out to dry'. Trying to protect himself, Ned Hoddle had confessed that he was told to 'check out' Tom Witney. Burton interpreted that as dispose of Tom Witney. Things went wrong he said and he may have run him over but it was an accident. He explained that he had been leaving the factory when Witney ran in front of the car. He insisted that Charlton had ordered him to restrain Witney because he was wanted by the police. The story broke down under examination. Why hadn't they told the police about the captive and about the 'accident'? He didn't have an answer. Now he wanted to know whether he was being charged for murder. Burton hadn't let on that they didn't have a body.

When Charlton was informed he was being charged with attempted murder he became very cooperative. So now, in front of him, Burton had a list of all the possible people that could have visited that Wednesday afternoon. He had sent Arnie and Gully off to reinterview Witney senior and they had just called to say they had found Ashley Moore and were bringing him in again.

Burton was worried about Witney. The guy obviously wasn't experienced enough to work out who was a threat and who wasn't. He had given up on the idea of considering him a main suspect. His unprecedented behaviour of sending information instead of staying low and his complete ingenuousness in exposing himself to suspicion extinguished any wariness that Burton might have had. Nevertheless, he wanted to find him for his own safety. If, somehow, Witney stumbled onto the real killer, a triple murderer wouldn't hesitate in eliminating him as well. He might be dead already, though the detective suspected that the 'mysterious caller' would have revealed that information. How badly injured was he, he wondered. Being hit by a car was no small matter.

He looked at his notes. Where to now? He chewed on his pencil as he considered Gene Towers junior. Something was amiss there. Evidence was falling into place, but there was nothing concrete. He stared at the whiteboard and grasped a marker. Of the other visitors to the Witney household Burton put a tick next to Gil Trentham. They knew he had been there. Before that Ed Miles' name was listed. There was no corroborative information, just Miles' statement that said he visited that morning and left the car unlocked! Thank you Mr Miles thought Burton sardonically.

Looking at the list he breathed the next name, "Harry, must have been soon after Ed Miles and left before Trentham got there." He started writing approximate times next to the names:10:30 Ed Miles

11:30 Harry Witney

1:30 Tamara Jones (deceased) 

2:00 Gil Trentham 

3:00 Ashley Moore ?

3:30 Gene Towers (deceased) 

3:45 Unknown visitor Not identified

6:30 Tom Witney

Burton marked the ticks of those identified as being seen by Benny Jose`, Charlton's stake out. He wasn't sure about Moore as he hadn't been specifically named. Nor had Trentham, but that fitted all the stories. Witney, of course was the one who had called it in. Next he marked coloured lines next to the names to show how long each person was there. Apart from the victims there was some overlap between Trentham and Moore and between Moore and the other young visitor.

According to Towers junior he left at eleven that morning. And there was clear evidence to substantiate that claim from the library CCTV which had him arriving at about eleven fifteen. Burton stood there surveying the board. Just then Rolf and Arrington swaggered in.

"... Got another angle for you Ade," Rolf announced with an air of importance.

"Well, go ahead." Burton wasn't in the mood for points scoring.

"We talked to Mrs Jones as you wanted; she's not too well... really shaken up by all this... and she didn't shed any light on possible motives."

"So, what have you got?" Adrian was used to the circuitous way Rolf took to tell his news.

"She let us into Tamara's room for a look around. It happens that she kept a diary." Rolf relished each revelation, but Burton was getting tired of it.

"Get to the point Ro. What did the diary say?"

Rolf held the brown leather bound volume up and opened it to some marked pages.

"She says in a few places what a great guy Tom is... I think she secretly liked him... maybe a lot. But, get this Ade, she writes :'The creep keeps pestering me I told him I'd complain to Tom about him and that really sent him out of his tree'. But she doesn't say who the creep is."

Burton rubbed his chin. "I'm sure we could all make fairly accurate conjectures as to who she is referring to. So, you two," he indicated Rolf and Arrington. "Talk to her friends... fellow students at uni; find out if she ever discussed who was harassing her."

"I'll start with some names and numbers in here." Rolf held up the diary, "and then I'll go back to her mother for contacts."

"Did you ask Mrs Jones if she had said anything about trouble with members of the household?"

"Sure did," retorted Arrington sharply not enjoying the insinuation that somehow they had been neglectful in their questioning. "She didn't know anything about Tamara having trouble at work."

"Okay Fred, keep your shirt on," Burton sighed, trying to ignore his defensiveness. "It figures, she wouldn't want her mother to worry."

Detective Burton was contemplating the implications of suspecting Al Towers. The corollary was that his alibi was false. He endeavoured to consolidate a perceived loophole, some weakness to his version of events. As this conundrum creased his brow, Gully and Lee came in with Ashley Moore. The next hour was a farcical episode. Ashley spent most of the time attempting to convince Burton that it was utterly reasonable to steal the keys from a relative you've never met, in a crazy ploy to surprise them with a 'hey I'm you're half-brother!' The only aspect that the detective found believable was that he had second thoughts and bailed out at the last minute.

"What do you think?" Burton gave a piercing stare at Rolf who had abandoned his task to listen to the interview.

"Whacky, I mean who would believe a story like that?"

Burton skewed his mouth to one side symbolising his consideration. "You know it might be just whacky enough to be true."

"I thought you didn't believe in coincidences?"

"Until they happen," he said curiously.

***

Friday morning dawned and Tom was shambling about making every effort to be quiet and so not disturb Lori who hadn't appeared yet. Every careless move was penalised with a corresponding twinge of pain. Yet he persevered. He was cooking porridge for breakfast and he thought he made a mean, creamy, smooth variety that was, in his opinion, delectable to the taste. When he finished he knocked on Lori's door.

"Breakfast; hurry, come and get it while it's hot."

There was no answer or sign of movement so he repeated his rousing call a little louder. When there was still no reply he poked his head in, "Lori?"

Her bed was empty. In fact it was neatly made and he wondered if she had slept in it at all. He rushed to the doorway to scan the area and crashed headlong into Lori coming in. They were both all apologies and embarrassment as they disengaged their limbs—he with some wincing and cringing.

"Where've you been?" Tom sounded more anxious than he would have liked.

Lori smiled, quite blasé to the concern which she had aroused. "It was such a beautiful morning I thought I'd walk along the shore for a bit."

Tom relaxed slightly, "Come and taste my famous porridge. You can have it with honey or raw sugar, or au natural."

"Famous huh?" she grinned, "Never heard of it before."

Tom's look of disbelief was ignored so he gave up. "Yeah, well, I thought we should have a good breakfast if we're going back today."

"You're not well enough to go back," she scowled. "What happens if that infection flares up?"

"Don't worry; I'll keep taking the antibiotics."

"Why don't you wait a few more days and really recuperate." She placed a hand on his.

He responded in kind enveloping her small hand between his hands. Tom was moved, "Lori I really appreciate how you've cared for me. I guess I owe you a lot. But don't you see... I have to find out. I can't pretend that everything's okay when there's still a murderer running around."

Lori withdrew her hand and spoke plainly. "If you start obsessing about this, or become vengeful, then it will damage you."

"I don't want vengeance, but I want justice. Is that so bad? I'm probably already obsessing about this, but as I said, I can't pretend it didn't happen."

"You have to look after yourself. You're not up to this."

Tom's attitude hardened. "I've looked after myself too much all my life. This is a chance for me to do something without putting myself first."

"Tom, people care for you," she hesitated, "What about Holly? Do you think she'd cope if you were badly hurt or killed?" Lori's voice was husky as she finished her sentence.

Tom paused lowering his head. He knew she would be devastated, as he would if anything happened to her. But his mind was made up.

"I'm sorry. I'll be careful... but I have to do this."

***

The mood on the journey back in the large powered craft was cool between the two of them. Tom had started them off early and was loathe asking her to relieve him. Though he stubbornly masked his lethargy, Lori saw his strength deteriorating and after two hours at the wheel she sent him for a sleep. He meant to have a short snooze but hardly moved for four hours. When, eventually, he did emerge Lori anchored in a cove and prepared a simple lunch of toasted cheese sandwiches. They discussed impassively what his plans were in terms of areas of further investigation but he managed to avoid any mention of where he would stay.

The remainder of the voyage was uneventful. His misguided desire to demonstrate his powers of rehabilitation meant that Tom endured considerable soreness during his stint at the wheel. His claims that he could manage just prolonged his suffering.

It was a dull, grey lowering sky when they arrived back at the peninsula port. They disembarked hastily trying to beat the rain. Lori took a large garbage bag off with her that she explained contained clothes that required washing or disposing. She informed him that at some stage he'd want clean clothes. He thought it was funny that some people could always remember the necessary and mundane chores while he was totally preoccupied, drowning in his own private disaster.

Holly's orange Honda was dutifully waiting for them. The drive to the Miles' house was subdued. Lori had tried to persuade him that his dressing needed changing but he insisted she'd gone to enough trouble already. He said he would contact her father soon and let him know if he was getting anywhere.

Tom walked Lori to the front door and the motion sensor light flooded the entryway. Impulsively she turned to Tom and hugged him. Then with a brushing kiss on his be-whiskered cheek she stepped back. "Please take care of yourself." She took a pace and made a spur of the moment decision. "Wait here, I'll go get Holly."

He waited fidgeting, tingling strangely, not quite comprehending what had just occurred. He stood musing until his sister came out. She hugged him. He flinched as she cinched his damaged shoulder in her clasp.

"Oh sorry, you're still pretty sore hey?" Holly stood back looking with concern. He pulled a forced smile. They talked for a short while about the attempt on his life and about all the changes they would have to face up to. He finished by telling her of a number of people he wanted to meet with.

"You should stop what you're doing and recover first." She had a motherly expression as she said it.

Tom countered with a good natured, tenderly delivered punch to her shoulder. "I've missed you sis. And I know you're worried but I have to do this." He kissed her on the forehead and abruptly turned and left, calling back, "I'll try and keep out of trouble."

Tom walked around to the driver's side and got in. At the instant he sat down the passenger door flew open and the sturdy form of Detective Adrian Burton deposited himself unceremoniously in the seat alongside.

"Don't even think about running away," he said gravely.

When Tom had reclaimed some calm he observed, "Detective, good of you to drop in."

"Well Witney, you've given us a merry old chase haven't you?"

"I tried my best. I thought I'd give you time to catch the killer."

"You mean you're not the killer?" Burton leaned inquisitively and shoved against Tom's shoulder.

"I thought I told you that," he barely managed to say. Tom was stoic but the pain flushed his face and his jaw clenched as the transferred weight pressed his damaged shoulder against the door pillar.

The policeman suddenly became apologetic. "You're hurt aren't you? Have you been to see a doctor?"

"I'll manage," Tom declared as the surge of pain diminished.

"I saw the car. He must have really hit you hard." Tom seemed unhearing as he looked straight ahead desperately thinking of a way to evade the inevitable.

"All Charlton's mob are in custody... thanks to you." Burton waited to see if there was any reaction from Tom. "We have EPA experts examining the dump sites and we're charging him with attempted murder... so your testimony in the case will be valuable."

"So you're saying Charlton didn't do it." Tom's face was still turned aside.

"Did you think he did?"

"Not really; it was a long shot... I think he wanted Gene dead... but I can't see how he could have got the gun. Unless he somehow met Ashley Moore near my car and got the gun from him... It's all a bit far-fetched."

"I'll say," Burton grinned, "The gun is the problem isn't it?"

"Why are you telling me all this?" Tom turned in his direction, "It doesn't change things. You take me into custody and the killer goes free." He tempered his irritation. "But I should thank you. You saved my life by arresting Charlton and evacuating the plant. I think they were going to kill me that night."

Tom then spent a few minutes going through the traumatic details of his imprisonment.

When he had finished the detective commented. "That certainly adds to the charges against him."

Tom was unsure where all this was heading. "So detective, are you going to take me in?"

Burton gestured dismissively with his hands.

"Look, call me Adrian. Listen, if this was an official visit then I would have to take you into custody... but I don't think you're guilty, so ... Goodness knows my boss would be very upset if he knew what I was doing." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "However, I would like you to forget this meeting ever took place. It was because of a fortuitous notion that I'm here at all."

Tom was mesmerised by Burton's words. "What do you mean?"

"'Fortuitous notion?' it's a synonym for a hunch. I saw it on an on-line thesaurus."

"Very funny... What was the hunch?"

"Well, I was heading home from work when it occurred to me. 'Where would you go if you were hurt?' The logical answer was to a friend's place. And, I thought, what better place than your girlfriend's place."

"Lori? Tom queried, "Lori is Ed Miles' daughter. We've known each other for ages."

"Right... I'm sorry, I thought ..." But there was a knowing smile that lingered.

Tom took a moment to adjust to these new circumstances. "So, I'm not under arrest. I haven't seen you even. Is there something you want?" Tom asked doubtfully.

"I want to talk... compare notes so to speak. I think we can help each other. And maybe I can prevent you from getting yourself killed."

"What do you want to know?"

Burton gave a good-humoured nudge. "Have you worked out who the one armed man is?"

"It's a bit like that isn't it?" Tom murmured. "That makes you Tommy Lee Curtis and me...

Harrison Ford."

"Yeah, thanks for that. I think I got the supporting role... story of my life."

"The problem is nobody is wearing a sign saying 'I did it'... no one armed man."

The two men spent a lengthy interval derailed from their individual pathways. They spent time putting together a cohesive list. Tom learned more about Burton's meticulous organisation of information than any new information that might be of use to him. It was the time between four thirty and six thirty that was a mystery to them both. Tom didn't expound on his theory about the unknown visitor, preferring to follow it up himself. How could he put a friend through the trial he had been through without him hearing the story first? He promised himself that he wouldn't jump to conclusions.

Equally, Burton was guarded about his reasoning regarding Al Towers. A gut feeling and some incongruous behaviour was hardly sufficient to indict someone.

Before parting, Burton shared the story of Lancaster's misadventure. He was grateful that Tom's intervention had reinstated him on the case. And, they both had a chuckle at the idea that anyone would believe he would risk travelling all the way to the lakes in a motor cruiser and stay at a school camp. Noticeably, Tom's laughter was a little louder and more forced that Burton's.

"Well, I have to go," he tapped Tom firmly on his good shoulder encouragingly. "You be careful, and see a doctor for that shoulder. And keep in touch if you find out anything." He handed Tom his mobile phone number. The detective exited and was soon out of sight. Tom digested the dialogue for longer than he intended, sifting through the strange events that had transpired over the last few days. If Burton was on his side now, should he give himself up and let the police handle the investigation? What was Burton after? It was time to reassess.

***
Chapter 16

Two cars, lights off, drew up slowly to a patch shadowed from the glaring halogen security lamps by a large advertising hoarding. Four men moved cautiously past the orange Honda up to the pier. Lancaster hobbling with a stick, followed one by one by each of the others. He skulked his way uncomfortably along the structure till he spotted the boat he was looking for. The crouching group congregated at the end of the fourth mooring platform that extended from the main pier. Furtive whispers and hand directions were followed by a drum roll of footsteps on the loose wooden planks. The coordinated raid onto the 'Perfect Treat' was characterised by banging, shouts and then an uncanny absence of any sound at all.

"He's not here sir."

"Keep looking," shouted Lancaster, "Maybe you can find those missing jewels." The other three men checked the engine well, stowage cupboards, every cubbyhole they could find while their leader waited on deck taking the weight off his aching foot. Eventually they emerged empty handed. It was clear their search had been futile and Lancaster bemoaned the fact.

"I can't believe it. I was sure we had him."

Schultz commiserated, "At least we found the boat this time."

The fearsome glower he got from Lancaster warned him to desist from continuing the thought.

"I don't think Gordon will see it that way Stan," he sneered angrily. "I talk him into letting us do this raid, because Witney might get away if we leave it to Burton tomorrow and we find nothing."

Schultz was so tempted to reiterate that they had found the boat that he rubbed his mouth with his hand. He considered whispering to Eric, who was next to him, but thought better of it. It was his idea, after all, to send a bulletin to all the yacht clubs and marinas to keep a lookout for the 'Perfect Treat'. He looked around at the mess they had made. Not a perfect treat now.

Tom peered surreptitiously through the porthole of the large catamaran moored on the opposite side of the walkway. He had gained access to the yacht at a whim when he had noticed the key still in the door. Opting to sleep there had been based on the premise that you can never be too careful when it comes to avoiding detection. He watched the desecration of his floating home. What were they looking for? Maybe evidence of where he might have gone. Discerning some movement up on deck, Tom observed the four policemen materialise. Their unenthusiastic retreat in comparison to the gung-ho incursion vividly portrayed the failure they were feeling. Clearly visible in the harsh security lighting, Tom didn't recognise any of Burton's team.

They stood close enough to be heard through the partially open porthole.

"What are you going to tell Gordon?" braved Schultz.

"What do you suggest Stan? I mean you found the boat."

"These things happen," said Keyes, a rookie to the group, attempting to defuse the situation.

"Why do they have to happen to me?" snapped Lancaster. "I just about begged the super for another chance." He ran his hand through his hair. "Come on let's go. You can write up the report Stan."

Schultz shrugged.

The gentle nudging of hulls, pulleys and rigging rattling and the splashing lap of wavelets were the only noises that could be heard when Tom transferred back to his ransacked cacoon. Tidying and organising his provisions for the next couple of days took the best part of an hour. Eventually submitting to the demands of his maltreated body, he lapsed into a restless sleep. Intermittently his sleep was interrupted by the throbbing of his burning wound.

***

Tom sat in the car parked outside the family home. It was still early and he hoped that Al kept to his custom of late nights and late mornings. A large Range Rover drew up behind him. Tom waved indicating to the other driver to follow and drove the Honda quietly up to the garage where he deposited it in its original spot. All remained undisturbed as he surveyed the dew covered lawns and briefly listened to the morning birdsong. Easing open the car door, he sat next to Gil.

"Thanks for doing this Gil. I'm starting to run out of options."

"No problems... This is a bit of a jaunt isn't it?" He grinned joyously as he set off, far too loudly for Tom's liking.

Tom detected the excitement in his voice, the wording sounding as if he were reading a 'boys own adventure annual'.

"You sure it's okay?" Tom was dubious.

"I asked didn't I? And I meant it. You're welcome to stay for as long as you need."

"Sorry for the early hour."

"That's nothing. Saturday is my golf morning. I should still be on time," he glanced at his watch, "Maybe a minute or two late."

"What about the car?"

"I fired her up this morning. Started first go too. Pretty good really, it's been three months since the last rally. It's got about half a tank."

Tom tried to visualise the elongated Gil folding himself into the Mini Cooper he used for amateur rallying.

"What are your plans?" Gil looked across, more seriously now.

"Firstly, not to get caught... and then to chase up a few leads."

"Anything I can help with?"

Tom considered the offer. "Not at the moment, but I'll keep your offer in mind Gil, thanks."

Sitting introspectively as Gil drove, some questions arose in Tom's mind.

"Gil, have you known Rick to ever visit my mother by himself?"

"No, why?"

"Oh, I don't know. He's not having business problems is he?" Tom scratched his head.

Gil gave a concerned look. "Not that I know of. You don't think that he...?"

The sentence was truncated by Tom's rebuttal, "No, no... I guess I just have to check everything out." He struggled to rephrase what he was thinking. "In your opinion, how was Rick that Wednesday?"

Gil appeared to deliberate for a second before he replied, "Fine... normal I think. He was his normal self-critical self, even though I think he outshot the both of us." He appeared unsure of what to say next. "I told you I'd dropped in too... I think it was around two o'clock. I didn't see him there then."

"No," Tom was almost indifferent. "I'm more interested in what happened between four thirty and six thirty?"

In his mind Tom was summoning up the events of the morning of that fateful day. At the gun club, Rick had left with him to chat briefly before returning inside to gather together his stuff and say goodbye to Gil. His thoughts were interrupted when they arrived at Gil's place. The car stopped and his recollections were pushed aside.

Tom deposited some of his things in the guest room and after having some breakfast alone, because Gil had disappeared to his golf game, he found the blue Mini Cooper. The growling engine gave the impression of power and speed when travelling at a moderate rate and it was quite responsive. At the first fuel depot he came across Tom filled the tank and then sent some text messages. He wanted to let Holly and Lori know that he was recovering and told them not to worry. Having sent the message it occurred to him that saying 'not to worry' was counter-productive, making people wonder what they shouldn't be worrying about. He then informed Ed about what had been going on and asked him to do some research on Rick's finances. A message to Rick suggesting a meeting was the last missive before he resumed his drive in the enhanced mini.

***

Tom drove faster than necessary on the familiar narrow track, enjoying the grunt of the modified engine. It's high power to weight ratio almost too great for him to handle. The raw vibration and noise of the compact was a sensation he was unaccustomed to. Within seconds after careering across the railway sleeper bridge he brought the nippy car to a slewing halt. It was surprising to him to see Rick's silver BMW already nestled in a corner close to the stream. At the sound of his arrival Rick's head protruded through the doorway. A hailing wave preceded his strident approach and boisterous buddy embrace.

Tom gasped, "Ah! Take it easy." He almost passed out from the riot of pain that engulfed him. Rick steadied him from the staggers, "Sorry bro, didn't realise you were hurt. What happened?"

"... Had an argument with a car and I think I might have come off second best."

Rick tried to support him as if he were disabled. "You don't need to do that," assured Tom. "I can make it on my own. It's just still a bit tender. How 'bout we have a coffee and I'll tell you what happened."

"Good idea," Rick agreed. They got to the door-less entry fringed with patches of splintered wood.

"What did you do to your door?" He saw a new, studier variety leaning against the wall.

"Yeah, well, your friends seem to have thought that you were here for some reason and they came in sort of uninvited." Rick generated a subtly reproachful face.

Tom's rueful come back had a certain 'sorry about that' flavour. "I meant to let you know but it was a spur of the moment decision."

Rick set the water on the gas. "Don't worry; now that you're here, you can help me put the new one in. I always have trouble hanging doors."

Tom felt obliged to once more relate the historical narrative of the last week and a half. The tale became more labyrinthine with repeated telling as each subsequent twist and turn was appended. Even though his recount of events was still not a comprehensive account it contained the main features. The key omissions were in reference to Rick's possible involvement.

"Can I write the book?" joked the stocky accountant.

"That's very funny," replied Tom blandly, but his mannerism said 'very dull'. He stopped and turned as he inhaled the tantalising scent of the freshly brewed plunger coffee.

"So, you've got no closer to solving the crime?" Rick presumed.

Tom was obscurely diffident. "You could say that. There are so many possibilities that it's hard to nail down actual facts."

"Have you worked out who took your gun?" Rick pushed across a packet of chocolate biscuits as he asked. Tom's initial reaction was wondering how it was that his friend had zeroed in on the pivotal question. He filed the thought before responding.

"If I knew that I'd know who the murderer was, I think." He sensed more than just a nuance of derision in his own words and recanted immediately. "I'm sorry Rick. I didn't mean it to sound like that."

"No, you're right. It was a silly question."

"Can I ask a silly question then?" Tom continued without waiting for a reply. "Do you know anything that could help... about the gun or who was at the house Wednesday afternoon?"

As the inference of the question sank in, Rick got up and moved to the open fire. Tom watched as he gripped a poker and incited the embers. Then he went across and joined him around the fire.

"The gun hey... To be totally honest, I could have taken your gun when it was on the bench just before you left the club. But I didn't. Besides, you would have noticed the box was empty when you carried it. Once you had left the building, I wouldn't have a clue what you did."

Tom was about to ask something else when Rick interposed a further comment.

" _But_! Every other time I've seen you leave in your car you always put the gun in the trunk. So I imagine a few people know about that."

"Mm, I guess you're right. Not very helpful in some ways, but important to remember—people who know me well know about the gun." He put his cup on the floor. "There's still the slight chance that someone... the murderer, just stumbled on the gun when Ed left the car at the house."

They talked about it a bit. Rick didn't think that it was likely but they both agreed that chance events couldn't be ruled out.

Tom studied Rick closely as his cousin moved about preparing their coffees. So much so that Rick shook with a mild shudder of discomfort.

"Is there something else?"

"You tell me," was Tom's riposte.

"I don't know what you want me to say." Rick was floundering.

"What about telling me what you were doing visiting my mother on that Wednesday afternoon."

Rick screwed up his face as if in agony. "You know about that?"

Tom swayed his head back and forth sagely like an ascetic monk.

"How do you know?" It was strangely imperative to Rick that he knew what Tom's source was.

"Is it important?"

"Yes it is... to me anyway."

Tom interpreted that his inquisitive fervour was caused by a concern that a confidential allegiance may have been broken. He tried to allay Rick's fears.

"No one dobbed you in or anything like that. Your car was seen going in at about four twenty. It's fairly distinctive and memorable."

"Somebody just noticed my car?" He said it as if to reassure himself that he hadn't been informed on.

Time oozed by as they sat and sipped their drinks. Tom awaited an answer. Rick began by placing some more pieces into the growing puzzle. He reminded Tom how their respective mothers—two society sisters—had an ongoing feud. It was a fairly static affair and involved not speaking, not contacting and not even referring to each other. This became quite difficult for the cousins when either Tom or Rick visited each other. Rick paused thoughtfully before he delicately explained that he had discovered Tom had a half-brother. Tom assured him that he was already conversant with that information and, though it was hard to get used to, it was no longer an astounding revelation. So Rick explained that when he found out that the whole thing revolved around an illegitimate child that Clarissa had put up for adoption, and which a newly married Alison Tanon had offered to raise as her own, the jigsaw gained definition. Her offer had been rebuffed and she took it quite hard. Rick said that when all this became clear to him, he decided to arbitrate.

"Is that why you were there then?" Tom stretched to try and clear his head.

"Yes. And the amazing thing is that Aunt Clarissa was keen to meet with my mum and reconcile with her. She told me that Ashley, your half-brother, had been in contact with her. She wanted all the family to meet with him that weekend."

"That would've been something," Tom ambiguously submitted. "What time did you leave?"

"About five... I wasn't there that long. I just slipped in to say hello to Tamara." He bit his lip. "Tom, she had so much to live for. It's such a tragedy."

It was clear that Tamara's death cut deeply and Rick struggled to rein in his emotions.

The images of the three callously slain victims seemed to coalesce into indistinct blurs in Tom's memory as if some part of his consciousness refused to adjust the focus.

"Yeah," was all Tom could manage.

Rick began to rally from his depressive mood. "If I had of stayed longer none of this might have happened."

"You can't do that Rick. No hypotheticals; goodness knows, I've speculated about so many 'what ifs', but it's a futile exercise—you end up beating up on yourself and it doesn't change anything. Besides, you might have become the fourth victim."

Another conundrum, it was true that Rick often did stay for a meal, but given the circumstances Tom didn't ask him about it.

"I guess I'm still on your list until I get someone to back up my story."

"If I was being totally analytical I'd say yes, but, I don't know... at the moment I'm just filling in the blanks."

"So, am I exonerated?" Rick was gathering the cups and taking them to the sink.

"I suppose so. If you could tell me why you told Detective Burton you were at your mother's?" Tom was relating some of the information Burton had shared.

"What do you reckon?" he almost bit back. "I was probably the last to see them alive. I figured no one saw me." Rick was remonstrating with his hands. "Mum wouldn't have understood what I was doing and I would have been arrested for sure." He kept going, in an effort to bolster his case. "Being arrested for murder is not good for business. People don't care if you are innocent."

Tom felt like saying 'tell me about it', but he refrained. He knew that Rick was saying 'mud sticks' and that he was worried about his reputation and his business.

He also felt unable to lecture Rick on the importance of cooperating with police given his recent track record. He did suggest, however, that it would be easier for them to solve the case if they had all the right information. Rick stared at him distantly for several seconds. He then uncomfortably relented, seemingly in deference to Tom and his precarious situation. He said he would go to Burton and tell him that Tom had encouraged him to 'fess up'.

***

Their lengthy talk ended when Rick announced that it was lunchtime. An outdoor barbeque of sausages and hamburger eaten with a pickled relish between slices of bread was a balm for Tom's seared sensibilities. The warm glowing, late winter sunshine glinting off the dappled river and the hushed gossip of the breeze through the giant eucalypts provided a refuge from the corrosive thoughts of suspicion.

Also therapeutic was the diversion of repairing the door that afternoon. Some of the doorframe had to be replaced and while Tom attached the new doorstop timbers, Rick was chiselling recesses for the hinges on the door. He laconically admitted that they had probably done him a favour by breaking down the door since he'd procrastinated putting in a good solid door for years. The whole job was slowed by Tom's injury impeded, pedestrian pace as well as good natured critiques of each other's work, random suggestions regarding some fairly abstract motives for the crime and regular coffee breaks. The completed job was celebrated with canned vegetable soup for dinner and a feast of pancakes prepared on the barbeque hotplate.

With a little persuasion, Tom decided to stay overnight in the cabin. Rick, who had deduced where he was staying from the presence of the rally car, assured him that 'Uncle Gil' wouldn't necessarily expect him to return. Using the moniker 'Uncle Gil' for Gil Trentham had stuck with Rick. It was a vestige from when they were kids and when he was one of the few who came and watched the boys at football games.

The evening was spent sitting around a bonfire fuelled by the old door and dead branches gathered out of the bush. Conversation spanned a myriad of topics as one idea acted as segue to another. Tom shared how he had started to awaken to a spiritual dimension of life. Rick spurned the idea saying it was a natural reaction to the stresses being placed on him.

"No, it's more than that," insisted Tom. "It's all about right and wrong, being purposeful or aimless, and about what's most important in your life."

"Boy, you really are becoming philosophical," Rick chuckled.

"If by philosophical you mean wanting to know why, then I guess I am."

"You think that religion will tell you why all this has happened?" he sounded doubtful.

"I don't know. That would be good to know. But I'm becoming interested in knowing why I am the way I am; why the world is the way it is and I guess why people like Ed and Lori Miles are the way they are." There was a sort of pitiful yearning in the way he spoke.

"Lori Miles; I should have known there was a girl involved." Rick gave him a playful punch on the arm, "There always—Ooh sorry!" he immediately broke off mid-sentence, as Tom recoiled from the contact. "I forgot about the arm." Apologetically he passed a remnant pancake smothered with honey over to Tom.

"She's a lovely girl though," he couldn't conceal the grin that crept onto his face.

"Yeah, you're right! I've asked myself the same question. Is it because of Lori that I'm suddenly finding religion?" He rubbed his face with a hand to dissipate some of the radiant heat. "I have to be honest, it sounds juvenile, but I sort of go all queasy when she is near." He expected peals of laughter from Rick but to his credit he restrained himself, aware that his cousin was baring his soul.

Tom regrouped his thoughts. "Well, because of my feelings, I haven't talked much to Lori about what I'm thinking. In fact, it's been comments from total strangers that have been very convincing in alerting me to my synthetic world."

"Synthetic world?" Rick was searching for clarification.

"It's not real Rick. I've been living a life all the time seeking the approval of my friends, my employees, my family... everyone, under the misapprehension that life is about scoring brownie points and being popular and accepted."

"And it's not?" He grinned.

"I'm not saying there's anything necessarily wrong with that. It's just that... well it's more about what is true... what is right and what is real. I guess I've been finding these qualities in the historical person of Jesus."

"Oh, that accounts for the Bible I found with your stuff. Does that mean you're one of these born again Christians?" Rick was beginning to sound sceptical.

"I don't think so. I'm not sure what that means. But, you know, it sounds pretty good doesn't it... being able to start all over again. I know there are plenty of things I'd do differently."

Conversation dwindled briefly as the two cousins peered into the flames, preoccupied with self-examination. Tom cast a small log into the blaze and liberated a squall of swirling embers into the dark night.

Chapter 17

It was Sunday. Normally Burton would have the weekend off but Gascoyne had hauled Gordon over the coals about their lack of progress. Gordon, in turn, berated Burton, gesticulating crazily that someone's head was going to roll if they didn't make a breakthrough. This had all been instigated by Gordon relaying to Gascoyne for a second time that Lancaster had heralded a breakthrough and was about to raid the suspect's boat. In turn Gascoyne had told a press conference that an arrest was imminent. Burton reflected; 'Hey it wasn't his fault that Lancaster was incompetent...' He thought it but he didn't say anything. Dutifully he accepted the admonition that there were no weekends till Witney was caught.

When he was informing his crew, Burton had been tempted to placate them by saying that he had placed a location device in Witney's car. Second thoughts prevailed however. Justifying his benign encounter with Witney was problematic, and defending his hunch that Tom Witney was innocent was inconceivable when his bosses were so fixated on capturing him.

The whole charade of continuing the search had to be perpetuated. He sent each group to a variety of locations while he and Rolf followed the signal from the planted device. Of course Rolf, who admired Burton immensely, was sworn to secrecy. He made sure that he secured a guarantee from his senior partner that in future he would be included in his clandestine ventures.

This was the reason they were now pulling into the Witney property, guided by the electronic signal.

"That cheeky blighter," Burton murmured to himself, and then remembered that he'd used the same expression before. "Can you believe it? He has the audacity to hide in his own house."

"I can't see the car anywhere," Rolf observed.

Burton pointed to the top of the winding driveway. "Up there in the garage."

A cursory inspection of the garage perimeter located a large side window. Through that Burton and Rolf saw the orange Honda.

"There it is. Let's go find him," Burton urged with uncharacteristic impatience. He'd had enough of prolonging this pursuit in an effort to dredge up incontrovertible evidence to either convict or acquit him.

Inside the house Al Towers grumbled about harassment. He'd only just dragged himself out of bed after a hard night that left him with dark circles around his eyes and a thumping headache. When he heard the detectives' contention that he was harbouring a fugitive, Al almost had a seizure.

"You think Tom is here? I haven't seen him. I don't know anything about it."

Burton motioned with both hands palms down for Al to settle. "Just wait here while we go and look."

Fifteen minutes later the two policemen came back empty handed. Apologies were offered by Burton and Rolf for disturbing his leisurely Sunday morning, but before they excused themselves they sought an undertaking that he would contact them should Witney turn up. Down at the car and about to get in, Rolf had an immature smirk on his face.

"Okay, what's up Ro? You upset because I've decided to drive?" He started the car.

"No, nothing like that."

"What then?"

Rolf folded his arms. "How lucky are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"No one knows you were expecting to pick up Witney... nothing to explain to anyone. You just go on as if you're continuing with the investigation."

"It's got nothing to do with luck," Burton argued. "You never take anything for granted, especially with this character."

"You mean Witney?"

"Ah huh." He checked the intersection for traffic and then pulled into the main thoroughfare.

"He has changed his car again... probably unaware I put a tracker in it. He's just really cautious... didn't like it that I knew what he was driving."

"That car wasn't on the list either." Rolf took a note down. "I'll find out who it's registered to."

"No need," Burton took one of the mints from the ash tray. "Did a check already... belongs to a Phil Denver. It seems he was an acquaintance of Holly Witney. And I think she makes all the payments without having transferred ownership."

Rolf put his notepad away and just nodded slowly. He still had a lot to learn.

***

Tom woke early, breakfasted with Rick and finished off helping with some repairs before he headed back to Gil's place. In his mind was the information from Burton that the safe in the library had been cleaned out. What had been in the safe? It wasn't something he monitored closely. The last time he had looked, which had been about two months earlier, there had been a wad of cash of maybe three thousand dollars and some very precious jewels—family heirlooms—which, he had been reliably informed, were worth plenty. If that was the motive for the murders then surely Al had to be the most likely suspect.

The path ahead began to map itself out as he drove. He needed to contact Holly and get her involved in his scheme. The alibi; that was the sticking point. If he couldn't unravel the fabric of Al's story, then any other contention he had against that good-for-nothing, without irrefutable evidence, fell to pieces.

Of course the more he thought about it the sillier his theories became. Was it Ashley, who after years of resentment had lashed out in a frenzy of revenge? Maybe Rick has some other agenda. What if Charlton hadn't left? He hadn't balked at the idea of killing him. Perhaps he'd just been after Gene and the others got in the way. This theory started to become more plausible the more he thought about it. With his gun accessible to anyone who had been around the house when Ed dropped by it made the list fairly open. That he had been implicated by the gun may have been pure happenstance.

Gil met him as he drove up and lured him inside for another tasty lunch. Tom explained to him that he was getting Holly to visit the house while he went to the library to see what he could learn. Gil asked how he proposed to dismantle Al's story when the police had failed. Tom answered that the police went by the premise that it was a possible occurrence—students did spend time in libraries studying—whereas both Gil and he knew, knowing Al, that it was so unlikely as to be almost impossible. Gil conceded that the story had something of the far-fetched about it but it had stood up to police scrutiny already, he reminded Tom.

***

There was a dreary lethargy around the investigating group as they munched on take away pizza. Sunday lunch time was no time to be at work. Although all of them were used to being rostered on weekends, this was different. They had been required to attend work by the superintendent and it made them feel like naughty little boys doing detention.

"What have you got Gully?" Burton garbled through a mouthful of pizza. He sat on the edge of his desk looking at the experienced detective.

"All of Moore's story checks out so far... He was adopted by Ellen and Daren Moore, eventually became a school teacher and has contacted government agencies in his search for his birth parents."

"That it?"

"Yup!"

"Okay, Ro, tell everyone what you and Fred found out yesterday."

Rolf held up the leather diary as a reminder. He then proceeded in his roundabout way. "Fred and I checked with the university. We got some names of students in the same tutorials and quizzed them about close friends and social relationships. Out of the entire group only two knew her well."

Burton sighed as he waited for the critical details. He caught Rolf's eye and gave a tiny windup finger movement.

"Anyway," Rolf abridged, "Dayle Sampson always had coffee with Tamara. They were friends. She said the pest in Tamara's life was Gene Towers junior. She referred to him as Al. But, interestingly, Tamara had shared with her that Gene Towers senior was almost as bad, flirting when his wife was not around."

Burton précised the report. "Right, so Al Towers would be a main suspect if it wasn't for the alibi. And that still stands doesn't it Arnie?"

Lee stood from his chair and positioned a printout on Burton's desk.

"It's a bit weird Ade, the activity readout from the library network has a sort of regular pattern, like he was playing a game or something... maybe internet chess with a timer?" Lee looked doubtful.

"Does Towers strike you as an internet chess player?" The question sounded more belittling than Burton intended. He stared at the readout tracing the pattern with his eyes. It was the same one he'd looked at in the library and he had the same misgivings about its meaning.

"There's something else," Lee looked meaningfully around the other four. "It's possible to get out a side entrance and travel to the Witney House without being seen, using the side car park. It only takes about ten minutes."

"The side door is a deadlock." Fred Arrington mentioned, unintentionally dousing Arnie's stimulating report.

Burton listened intently deriving some pleasure from the way his team were becoming an effective unit. They gleaned important clues and demonstrated an increasing level of systematic thinking.

"So, did you examine the doors?" he looked at Lee.

The young detective responded, "Yeah, they were deadlocked doors. Still, if he had an accomplice who kept the computer going, he could be let back in as well."

"Is there any evidence that anyone else was there to help?"

"I'll go over the tapes again and see if there was anyone who can't be accounted for inside the library."

"Good thinking Arnie," commended Burton. He had a glint in his eye as he continued, "But you know, one person could have done it if they put blue tack and tape over the lock."

"That's what you found isn't it," intruded Arrington as if a light had just been switched on in his head. His hand pointed involuntarily as he went on, "... when we looked the other day."

Rolf summed it up for them all. "All we have to do is find out how he rigged the computer log."

"And find out what his motive is," added Gully.

Rolf recited his recipe. "His slighted passion for the girl, or... stealing what was in the safe, or maybe some domestic fight. It's got to be one of them."

"You forgot psycho," quipped Arrington.

Burton wound it up. "He's not crazy Fred." Then as an afterthought he asked, "What did you find out about what was in the safe?"

"Both Holly Witney and Ed Miles said Clarissa kept her jewels in the safe. Those jewels were valued at about one million dollars."

There was a whistle from Rolf. They all agreed that was motive enough.

***

"Where've you been?" Tom was speaking from a pay phone in a local mall.

"I went to church with Lori. It was an interesting experience," Holly responded.

"That explains why your phone was off."

Holly was sitting out on the back porch with Lori. "So are you okay? How's the shoulder?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Look, I've got a favour to ask."

Tom detailed what he wanted Holly to do, insisting all the while that if there was any chance of being caught she should just get out.

Hanging up, he left, hopeful for some success at the library.

***

Holly drove up to her home with Lori by her side. It had been impossible to discourage her from coming once she comprehended what Holly planned to do. Al was lounging watching Sunday afternoon football on the large screen television when the two girls came in. There were several empty beer bottles on the table and one in his hand. His hackles were raised from the previous visits and he demanded to know what was going on. Holly reminded him that it was her home too, and that after the will was read it would probably be hers even more so.

Al made as if to follow them around, mistrustful of their motives. Lori presented her most winsome smile and engaged Al in small talk while Holly, purportedly, went to get more clothing. After flinging an armful of jeans and tee shirts, amongst other things, into a bag, Holly snuck quietly into Al's room and started searching for stolen jewels. Lori kept distracting Al with, what she thought was, absurd conversation, given his lassitude for work. What courses was he doing in university? What was he aiming for? His answers were wary and fractious. Lori quickly switched to envious approval of his sporty car. Having his ego stroked made Al descend into slimy vanity. He would take her for a spin if she liked.

"You know you're very attractive," he crooned edging toward her in what he thought was a smooth move. Lori eased away saying she might leave the drive for some other time.

"Go on, it'll be fun... wind rushing through your hair." He reached out a hand to touch her hair.

Lori shrank back, cringing from his attentions. Al reacted angrily. He cursed her 'high and mighty' ways. He said she thought herself too good for him just like Tamara. He ranted and raved at her, bewailing the shabby treatment he'd received; "She called me a creep! Well who's laughing now?"

Al had Lori cornered and he was flaying her with drunken abuse when her wide eyed terror suddenly skewed his attention in a different direction.

"Where's Holly?" he shouted. Lori was cowering against the bookcase and battled to utter any sound which might divert Al from grilling her.

Decisively, his menacing form stomped unsteadily from the room. Lori trailed behind fearful of his volatile mood swings. He stalked through the hall aggressively, almost tripping on the first step as he lurched up to the second floor. Within seconds he thumped out the distance to his room and burst in, delivering a hostile glare as if the room had in some way insulted him.

Holly, hearing the clamour of his storming advance, buried herself, tremulously at the back of the wardrobe. The chaotic state of the room was more or less the way he had left it. Detecting no movement, he slammed the door and strode toward Holly's room.

Lingering behind at a safe distance Lori was perplexed about her good friend's whereabouts. Al lunged into Holly's room without warning. Inside was her carry bag filled with clothes but there was no sign of the girl. The room was the antithesis of his. Everything was immaculate and orderly. Lori watched at the door while he maliciously trashed the room. He threw up the bed covers to look under the bed and scattered clothes from her wardrobe. Now, more aggravated than ever he re-emerged looking disoriented, unsure where to look next.

Just at that moment Holly came out of the bathroom.

"What were you doing in my room?" she snapped in a horrified voice.

Ignoring the question Al returned, "Where were you?"

"Where do you think?" she re-joined, and then looked over her shoulder. She went up to her room and made an unruly fuss about the mess he'd made and his total disregard for other people's property. Al fled her vitriol, off balance, attempting to clarify, in his alcohol clouded mind, what it was he was trying to achieve.

Driving away Lori gave Holly a disappointed sigh, "No luck hey?"

"Well, no jewels to be found."

"What about his car?"

Holly gunned the engine as she launched into the street. "Don't worry about it. Tom said the police already searched his car. They searched his room too."

"So why did we do this?" Lori accompanied the question with an Italianesque, palm upward shrug.

Holly pulled a key from her pocket and held it up triumphantly. "A student locker key—that's why!"

Lori looked at her doubtfully.

"Well, where else would he hide it? It's worth a try." Holly responded equivocally, being deflated by Lori's, less-than-wholehearted support. It had been a real buzz to face the suspense of her stealthy raid, heart racing concealment and then succeed undetected. But now logic told her that all she had was a key and only a faint possibility of a solution to their whole quandary. But it was what Tom was after.

Meeting Tom at the Library was an awkward time; both Lori and Tom were unable to gauge how to express their growing affection for each other. The interaction between them was guarded, with neither of them admitting to the closeness they shared together on the yacht. Tom had no luck gaining any information from library staff about Al's computer use. He made himself scarce when his strident requests for details stirred some opposition from the conscientious staff. His inspection of the wing, where Al had supposedly been working, just reinforced his initial theory that the practised delinquent would have slipped out unnoticed and returned back later to ensure he was seen by staff.

Holly's news of the key visibly lifted his spirits and he was all for immediately going to the university and checking the locker. Holly warned that the quiet of Sunday afternoon might make him too conspicuous, recommending that she go early Monday to open the locker. Lori said she wouldn't be able to help as her course was resuming and she would be doing a week's hospital orientation.

In the afternoon, the three made a strange sight drinking coffee at a riverside café. The two girls still attractively attired from their morning church outing sitting alongside an unshaven, derelict type who still smelled smoky from the previous night's bonfire. Tom was entertained as Lori testified to Holly's Scarlet Pimpernel impersonation. Holly described how she turned Al's room upside down and was surprised that he didn't notice. And they all laughed when she told how the mustiness and cloyed air of odorous footwear stored in the wardrobe, set off an irresistible urge to sneeze. Her remedy of holding her breath led to an explosive gasp just as the door slammed.

***

The night at Gil's had Tom writing copious notes, trying to get some sort of picture of how everyone was involved. He listed a series of questions. Did Al steal the jewels? If he accepted Rick's explanation for being there, why did he visit his place so late and so briefly? Did Rick actually forget his jacket that morning to go back inside the gun club or was it an excuse for something else? Could he rule out Charlton and Ashley?

-***
Chapter 18

Monday morning had Tom heading off from Gil's for the Miles' place. From there he and Holly drove to the university. Locating the particular set of lockers took longer than they had planned. They had initially set about wandering through each building but eventually altered their approach and sought a map from the Admin building. Holly needed to be back at the family home for the will reading and they couldn't waste any more time hoping to randomly discover the numbered section of lockers matching the key.

Finally, with the aid of a map containing the locker directory, the brother and sister located Al's locker. The two plotters adjourned their raid briefly when a group of three female students gathered nearby and talked of the weekend while stowing books and belongings. Tom and Holly engaged in, what they hoped was, convincing chatter as they waited for the area to clear.

"So how did you go with that essay?" Tom led.

"Oh, what was the point?... so esoteric," she remonstrated theatrically.

"What? You mean you didn't galvanise the polarised theories of Behaviourism, Constructivism and Cognitivist into an eclectic, practical learning theory?" he prattled.

"What?" she gaped overloudly. "I bet you plagiarised that straight off the net."

Tom threw a glance over his shoulder, concerned their charade was becoming an artificial attention-getter. He was relieved that the girls had turned and were still engrossed in their own conversation. He grinned back at Holly and whispered, "Who said you never get to use learning theory?"

She rolled her eyes and then scanned the locker numbers. By the time she had located the correct door they were alone again.

As Tom opened the door corresponding to the numbered key three students in track suits sauntered by; so Holly continued to assassinate his character, informing him that he was unlikely to construct three cohesive thoughts let alone author an original essay of any merit. Her humorous diatribe was interrupted by a gasp from Tom.

"It's here... the jewels... they're here."

He started withdrawing the sports bag containing the valuables when he made a rapid mental run through of the next sequence of events. He pushed the bag back into the locker.

"What are you doing?" Holly demanded.

"If we hand this to the police Al's just going to deny knowing anything about it. It will be his word against ours. We have to tell them and they can confront Al with it."

His sister agreed, "... makes sense," and then looked doubtful. "Won't they think we're setting him up?"

Tom shrugged, "Maybe, but at least we know he stole them. And we know he has a clear motive." After a short pause he went on, "You'll have to return the key before he notices it's missing. I'll let Burton know what we found." He locked the door and then sent a text as they trekked their way back through the buildings to the car park.

As the siblings headed home, Tom finally felt that he was making progress. Again, his entry was secretive. This time he had Holly drop him off near the garage and he got in via the rear door that linked to the kitchen. A number of others had arrived for the reading of the will and were congregating around a large teak table in the dining room. Holly gave him the all clear when it was safe to move. They both flitted upstairs on separate missions. Holly deviated to Al's room and returned the key, before freshening up and heading downstairs.

Tom's first destination was his mother's room. Just going in seemed an act of desecration, but his intrusion was soured even more when it became obvious that someone had pilfered almost everything of value from the room. Gene Towers junior had a lot to answer for. A fleeting examination of the bedroom revealed nothing, and the adjoining study, that was used more as a private library, had none of the files or records he wanted.

Cautiously descending to the hall, Tom heard the drone of Ed's voice welcoming everyone to the reading. They would be 'very civilised', he announced. Clarissa had determined that the formal proceedings would be preceded by an ample morning coffee time. Tom listened for a few seconds, then he ducked around the corner into the main library and then into a smaller annex that Clarissa had used as an office. It was here she had met with Ed, with emissaries from charity organisations and with a variety of business folk. Very few people left the room without realising they had met with a shrewd business woman. Also in the room were three large filing cabinets and a computer. It was the files that drew Tom's attention.

Starting with the top left drawer, Tom methodically worked his way through assiduously organised records. He paged through accounts, architect drawings and glanced at bank balances, investment statements and the like. A sub file of household bills—all alphabetical—attested to her meticulous nature. There was a whole file dedicated to a trust she had created to mete out donations to worthy charities; she being the chair of the board of trustees. There was some correspondence regarding Ashley that also included letters and emails from him, starting from when he had made himself known to her. Right at the front there was a scrap of card with some pieces stuck together. It had been torn off a larger card as if it had been ripped angrily. The small script had, what he understood was, a miserable message for his mother. He considered the situation speculatively. Here was a young girl newly pregnant and then she gets a note which in the repaired remnant part said:

I think your parents are right. It would be best if the child is adopted out.

Bert

Anything else that was written would have seemed inconsequential compared to those heartless words. And maybe these fragments were retained to obliterate any claim that the father may have had to his offspring. He pocketed the scrap, unsure why he was so intrigued by the note.

For some time after, Tom kept looking, strangely preoccupied, and he was uncertain what exactly he hoped to find. There were documents outlining his mother's investment in Clariflo, her plans for an overseas trip, tax records that went back years and a file of numbered will drafts. Some things Tom skimmed over as being of no interest, while others showed aspects of his mother he never knew. She had taken on an active support of Tamara's education, was sponsoring a child through Lori's church and had kept a recent file of sermon notes.

Halfway through his random sifting of the files, he started a fresh approach, this time carefully examining Clarissa's bank records. Tom began with the most recent statements and traced through the transactions. He soon wearied of the exhaustive method of looking at each consecutive printout and skipped three or four months at a time. On statements that were a little less than two years old, then going back, a pattern suddenly emerged. He followed the payment of ten thousand dollars a month to an account number. The payments were consistent going back several years but stopped almost two years ago. Tom wrote the account number down.

Just as he set to recommence his study of the documents the sound of a vehicle coming up the drive penetrated into the room. He leapt to the window just in time to spy Burton and Rolf loping toward the front door. Two following squad cars pulled up behind them. Burton was clutching the sports bag. Hastily he straightened the room and withdrew out the side exit that led through to Clarissa's favourite indoor conservatory. Already the plants appeared wilted and affected by neglect. But he didn't linger. He went outside and skirted the house all the way around to the back door again. This time he silently edged inside to the hallway stairs. He heard a snippet of Ed enunciating the legalese of the last will and testament of Clarissa Witney before he vacated the scene for the safety of his bedroom.

***

Inside the large dining room Burton signalled Ed to finish his spiel while he and Rolf stood back against the wall. Anxious glances came from various ones around the table. What did the presence of the two detectives mean? More questions?... Maybe they found the murderer or Tom had been caught? They all tuned in as Ed précised the whole document by restating the beneficiaries.

At the conclusion of the summary a moment of silence gave way to a ripple of hushed voices. A few seats scraped the polished floor boards. Family members began to leave the table. As the murmur escalated to normal conversation, Al thrust his chair aside and stood with a surly look on his face. His vain hope that maybe he had benefitted in some way had been obliterated. Before he could take a step Burton commandeered the meeting.

"Perhaps you can all take your seats again for a few minutes." A steely gaze had Al turn and slump back into his chair. Burton began to speak, relishing the detective novel quality of the setting. "First of all, I'd like to say that the law frowns on all those that hinder a criminal investigation..." he stared meaningfully at upturned faces, "regardless of the purity of motives. I think you know what I mean. People can get seriously hurt if they take the law into their own hands."

A few faces coloured, and avoided his scrutiny. The detective was in his element and there was a jocular timbre to his words as he went on.

"It's so good to see you all here together. It gives us a chance to sort a few things out." He turned on Al. "Mr Towers, it seems that you have in your possession something that doesn't belong to you."

The accusation cut deep into Al as the list of ill-gotten goods flooded his mind. He strained to control his trembling and rallied his voice with a combative retort.

"What do you mean? I haven't done anything wrong."

"Ro, bring the bag please."

Rolf, who had been hovering just near the doorway lifted the bag from the passage and dumped it on the table; much to Holly's delight. Burton opened it up and hoisted a few of the jewels for all to see.

"Mum's jewels," confirmed Holly.

"They were found in your locker at the university Mr Towers. Remember they were taken on the day of the murders. Can you explain that?"

He looked around guiltily, "Somebody's setting me up. Besides, I was at the library on Wednesday," he said as an afterthought.

Burton launched more forcefully into interrogation mode. "It's your bag isn't it? We can check it for fingerprints. It was your locker, so it stands to reason, Mr Towers," he exaggerated the name, "that you stole the jewels."

"But..." Al began, but Burton halted him with a hand gesture and cut him off at the same time.

"I know, I know... the alibi. Let me tell you what we discovered... the side door to the library had been tampered with. Tape and blue-tac were used to ensure the door didn't self-lock. Do you want us to take finger prints of the door to confirm you rigged the door?" Burton asked hoping it wouldn't be necessary.

"You can if you want," replied Al feebly with a vestige of belligerence. "It doesn't prove anything. I might have wanted some fresh air. The records show I was still using the computer."

It was his ace... his last defiant stand. Library staff would contend that he hadn't left.

"No, you're wrong about that," countered Burton harshly. "The records only show computer activity... not that you were using it."

Now there was fear and doubt in Al's eyes. It was as if someone was pulling thread from his carefully woven plan and it was beginning to unravel.

"Ro, will you get that dipping bird from the mantelpiece in there?" he motioned toward the lounge room. He turned to Ed. "Can I use your glass of water Mr Miles?"

"Certainly," Ed slid the glass toward the detective.

Burton topped it to the brim from another glass. Rolf came in and placed the toy bird on the table wishing he knew what his boss was on about.

"Please bear with me," Burton said as he set the toy into action, setting the bird on a book almost as high as the glass and then pushing its head into water and allowing it to swing back pendulum like on its axis. He looked at his watch as the evaporating water cooled the felt covered head, condensing the air in the top bulb.

"This is stupid," complained Al as he made as if to go.

"Stay where you are Mr Towers," growled Burton. Slowly, as the rising red fluid altered the balance of the bird, it tipped and the head dipped down into the glass. The fluid drained, the head swung up and the feathery tail brushed against the table as it swung with renewed energy.

"Well, what do you know Al? Can I call you Al?" The detective smiled gratuitously at Gene junior as the dipping bird began to bow a second time into the waiting receptacle. "The timing is similar to the cursor activation recorded on the library computer. And, coincidentally a librarian said she noticed some water markings by the computer you were working on. What do you suppose that means Mr Towers?" Everyone had turned their eyes toward Al.

"I dunno," he spat. "You're the detective."

"It means you left the library and came and stole those jewels. And then you killed my mother... your own father and Tamara," seethed Holly.

"I didn't... I wouldn't," he countered weakly. "You think I could kill my own father?" Al didn't come across as the outraged or sincere, devoted son.

"What! You argued all the time. And you were constantly pestering Tamara. She wrote to me about you harassing her." Holly was standing now and speaking loudly. Burton and Rolf watched attentively, interested to see how things developed. He was pleased that Holly corroborated what they had interpreted from the diary.

Al was stung by her remark and retaliated angrily. "Don't you believe a word of it. She was stuck up. All I did was ask her out a few times. She was just like you... you think you're too good for me. Well you're not!"

"So you killed her," Burton pressed. "We know you stole the jewels. You planned to cover your tracks by keeping the computer active with your little toy..." He made an aside explanation to Rolf. "The lower bulb bumped a connected mouse after each dunking." He continued, taking a step toward Al. "You found Tom Witney's gun in his car that morning... then after rigging the side exit at the library you came to the house, shot everyone here and stole the jewels.

"No, no that's not how it was." Al was panicky now. "Okay, I came to steal the jewels. I had to do something. She was shutting me out of her will. But they were already dead when I got there... all of them... so I took the jewels and left." He looked around askance. Did anyone believe him?

"How did you know the combination?" Rolf moved toward him taking out a set of hand cuffs.

"It was easy. I... I set up a video camera and then told Clarissa I desperately needed some money." He sounded pleased and a little conceited. His mood abruptly changed when Detective Rolf grasped his hands and cuffed his hands behind him.

"Hey, what are you doing? I didn't kill them... I told you." He tried to shake himself free.

"The problem is Al, how do we believe you? And if you weren't aware, stealing's a crime too." Rolf confided sarcastically as he ushered him out of the room. He led him outside and delivered him into one of the squad cars where two uniformed officers stood waiting.

Harry and Ashley had moved over to talk to Ed. Burton walked over and joined them, speaking in low tones. Holly slouched back into the padded chair. She glanced over at the young lawyer who had come to represent a charitable trust that Clarissa had supported. He had been fascinated by the dramas that had unfolded before him. He gave Holly a sheepish grin, "Interesting life you live."

"I'd swap it for a nice, dull, every day sort of existence," she smiled back.

"Oh, it can't be all that bad... having enough money to do whatever you want." He spoke as he stood and packed his satchel with papers.

Holly suddenly bristled defensively. She wanted to retaliate with some incisive wit but she knew he was right. Everything had been easy for her. She had pleased herself and done little for anyone else. Now she was very wealthy and it made her feel more miserable than ever.

"Money's not everything," she replied lamely.

He looked up as he snapped his bag shut, "No, I guess not. Maybe you should consider doing some good with it like your mother did."

Holly became cynical. "I suppose your charity is just the one I should choose. You'd get a nice commission for that wouldn't you?"

He smiled sweetly at Holly as he made for the door. "This is all pro bono. Unusual as it may seem to you, some people like to help others." The young lawyer then continued on his way.

"I like to help," she countered weakly, but he had already left the room.

"Fake, what do you mean fake?" Burton's voice had risen involuntarily as he remonstrated. Harry raised his hands as if fending off a pressing crowd. He spoke in a conciliatory manner, trying to quell the aggravated detective's response to this apparent deceit.

"Detective Burton, I was just saying that it's possible that young Towers stole the replica jewels. I had some of Clarissa's designer jewels copied for security reasons. I'm not sure, but I think she still kept the real ones in her room."

"So, you're saying he stole fake jewels... he may have killed three people for copies?" Burton sounded deflated as if the pendulum swing of events were taking their toll. He picked up some jewels from off the table. "They look real," he murmured. Holly drew near and fingered the cherished possessions of her mother. Her expression was withdrawn and melancholy as the conversation ricocheted around her.

"They were very good copies... the main set worth several thousand dollars alone."

The policeman shook his head slowly, "You're kidding?" He looked up and when he got no reaction he sighed, "Well I guess I had better check out whether they're genuine or not." He fixed his gaze on Harry. "So, will you go and check to see if the real ones are where you think they are?"

"Sure," The older man responded uncertainly. "I don't suppose the combination has changed since I left." He turned to leave.

"Wait!" Burton called before he'd taken a step. "You need to put these on." He handed Harry latex gloves from his pocket. "I don't want to compromise the evidence."

Harry accepted the gloves and almost broke into a jog as he went to the hall and rapidly climbed the stairs, closely shadowed by the young Arrington. His haste spurred by a growing curiosity.

A stilted voice broke the silence, "You must be devastated Holly. We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Ashley." He softened his voice aware that he was intruding into a poignant moment. "Are you all right?"

Holly heaved with a wavering reply, "I'm fine."

"I guess we're related... it must be a shock to you."

"I've had a few of those lately," she said unsteadily.

Ed moved across and gave her a hug. It was all too much. Holly crumpled against his shoulder in a torrent of tears. Ashley and Burton looked uncomfortably at each other before Burton distracted himself by replacing the jewels. Rolf swaggered in on the emotional scene with a questioning look at his superior.

"It seems that they might be fake," he said flatly, indicating in the direction of the sports bag.

"Fake? Why? How do you know?"

"Witney... senior just told me that the safe with the real jewels is in the bedroom."

"So it was all for nothing?" Rolf's head alternated like a fast carnival clown sideshow. "Three people dead and Towers has nothing to show for it."

Burton grimaced. "I just wish we had some physical evidence," he said under his breath as Rolf came close. "We'll charge him anyway, but get the forensic people to go over everything again. This is all too murky still." Burton motioned to Rolf that he should check on the older man, so he left quickly.

Burton and Ashley maintained light conversation as Holly recovered and dabbed her eyes self-consciously. Ed patted her lightly on the back before turning his attention toward Burton.

"Does this mean Tom's not wanted by you guys anymore?"

"No, we still want to talk with him," the policeman assured him. He made as if to explain when a noise distracted him.

Thudding footsteps signalled Rolf's and Harry's re-entry into the room, followed farther back by Arrington. "It's all gone... jewels, cash, everything!"

"Was it forced?" Burton grilled instantly.

Harry motioned no while saying it simultaneously. "No. Although it was concealed behind a panel, it was already open, and it was empty," he repeated, "It was empty."

"So, someone who knew the combination..." Rolf made the proposition.

"Or a safe cracker," intoned Burton. "Is there any indication that Mrs Witney could have sold her jewels or stored them safely elsewhere?"

His question received only blank stares and a shrug from Harry. Holly looked up from the couch she had found respite in. "I doubt that mum would do that... they were family heirlooms and she was very fond of them." Her voice quivered. Harry went over and comforted his daughter, recognising the anguish she must be going through; she was being confronted afresh with the undeniable fact of her mother's death.

While Harry, Ed and Ashley joined in the consolation, Burton spoke quietly with Rolf.

"This throws everything up in the air Ro?" he began.

"What do you mean?" Rolf had been thinking that the case was drawing to an end.

Burton was aggrieved. "We don't know for sure who committed the murders. Now, we don't know who stole the real jewels or when. I hate it when nothing comes together."

"So you don't think Gene Towers is our man?"

Burton looked uncertain, "He could be. He's just so devious... it could all be a lie."

Rolf concentrated, "How so?"

"It's possible that he planned to be caught out on a lesser charge of theft, and then only for the value of the replica jewellery... when in reality he stole the real jewels and murdered three people."

"Do you believe that?"

"Do I think he's that smart? No. But someone is leading us a merry chase."

"Who?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Young Witney, old Witney, Moore, Charlton... I don't know. It could be someone else. Rick Tanon contacted me this morning and said he was there... said Tom Witney insisted he tell the truth. So he's another possible."

"What did he say?" Rolf asked, piqued by yet another development to which he hadn't been privy.

"Just that he'd dropped by to try and sort out a lengthy dispute between his mother and Clarissa."

"Another coincidence?" inserted his junior tartly.

"There are reasons," Burton said quietly, ignoring Rolf's ill-advised mockery. "Anyway, he said he left at about five and they had come to an amicable arrangement."

"Why should we believe him?" The response was more moderate this time. But there was no answer. Burton was searching the recesses of his mind for an elusive link. Something was dogging him. He couldn't identify it but he knew it was there somewhere.

Chapter 19

The police had moved outside and were talking quietly. Inside the opulent residence Holly was getting to know Ashley. Harry and Ed joined in the conversation as it had eventually diverted to moving back into the house. It was clear Al had done little to the upkeep of the place, and bins filled with pizza cartons and disposable fast food containers gave ample evidence of his daily fare. They had managed to make more coffees with the remnant of the milk Ed had brought and some long life milk discovered in the pantry. Muttering about the state of the home, they continued discussing the reoccupation.

Upstairs Tom was dozing on his bed. He had lain there sometime earlier trying to dissect the information he had gathered and had sunk into a fitful slumber. An annoying beep tried to infiltrate his dream. Was it an oven timer? BEEP. There it was again. He tried to focus on the time. He couldn't quite see the phantom watch when cognition woke him with a start. His phone! The battery warning was sounding. He'd left it on from the morning. They should have been on to him by now. Maybe they were no longer after him. He went across and looked out the window. The detectives were leaving and Al was in the back of the squad car. Was it all over? Just then he saw three police cars pulling in through the gate and he knew he was in trouble.

Rushing downstairs he burst in on the quietly talking coffee drinkers.

Tom yelled louder than he intended. Impelled by a surge of adrenalin, "Hi all," he gave an anxious wave. "Holly, got to run... take my phone... left it on and they think they found me. Don't tell them when I gave it to you if you can help it." Placing the cell phone in front of her, he turned and fled back upstairs, stuck a chair under a manhole cover, dislodged the cover minutely, leapt off and hurtled to the back of the house. Here he cautiously clambered out a window, careful to close it, and then shuffled to the edge before dropping to the ground. The jarring impact reignited a cascade of flaring aches like a chain of fireworks. His hobbling sprint took him to the back shed.

From there he gingerly darted across toward the garage, diving lengthways behind a low hedge when police appeared around the side of the house. He waited, disregarding a multitude of pain messages being sent from various parts of his body. He was almost prehensile in his adhesion to the ground as the two uniforms ambled around the back, scarcely casting a glance in his direction. Through a chink in the base of the hedge he observed them disappear around the farther corner. Then, ensuring the house obscured his movements from where the police had parked, he crawled the remainder of the distance.

In the garage, rallying his protesting body, he climbed up into the A-frame rafters which had never been sealed off. Here he shimmied underneath a covering tarpaulin and flattened himself on top of a stored table tennis table. There was a hinged gap that gave a narrow view if he put his eye right against it. Gritting his teeth, Tom tried to suppress the rampant trembling of his body. Through long deep breaths he gradually calmed his tautly straining muscles.

***

Minutes earlier, out the front, Burton and Rolf had hooked behind the speeding squad cars and retraced their way back along the large roundabout that accessed the front porch. Lancaster and Schultz emerged from the first vehicle and Burton heard the former bark orders to the two officers in the trailing car to secure the back. Before they moved, however, Burton stepped out of the gravelly grinding cloud of dust that billowed around and was now settling all about them. He demanded, in a controlled steely voice, what Lancaster was up to this time. He fervently hoped that his adversarial workmate was mistaken when he insisted that Tom Witney had been tracked to his home.

"How?" queried Burton.

"They did a check on his mobile and found it was still on. It's here." Lancaster almost sneered, "And you've been here half the morning, haven't you?"

Burton just stared coldly. Coiling through his numb mind were stomach wrenching thoughts. 'Had Witney slipped up? Was he there all the while they were questioning Towers?' He didn't think he could bear the ignominy of being out manoeuvred by the smarmy, self-promoting detective before him.

Lancaster turned uncomfortably to go in. His hobbling was watched with some amusement by the uniformed brigade who always enjoyed a stoush between their so called superiors.

"You know we've made an arrest. You're wasting your time."

"We'll see. As far as I know, Witney is still wanted. You can come and watch how real police work is done if you want." He smiled gleefully. Burton at first was tempted to watch the proceedings, but preferred, in the end, to wait and see what would happen.

Rolf, who had been standing on the other side of the car watching, noted the concerned look on his boss's face. "What do you think?"

Burton pouted thoughtfully, "He's gone out on a limb, so he must be pretty sure of himself. Not calling it through could really backfire on him."

"If Witney's phone is here... and he called you this morning, then he's here. This could look bad for us," Rolf visibly wilted as he summed up the jam they were in.

Two constables wandered off to the side of the house while Lancaster and Schultz waited impatiently for the door to be answered. Schultz was studying the ground between his feet when the door swung open. The four stormed in thrusting Harry aside as they scoured the rooms of the house. Lancaster was grilling Holly when a shout from upstairs had them all running. No fugitive, but a possible bolt-hole could be seen. Even as Gapes stood on the chair and hoisted himself aloft into the darkness of the attic, Lancaster got a niggling feeling he was being handled. The offending device was in the possession of his sister and the conspiratorial looking four had said nothing that was of any use.

By the time he'd received a negative report from the ceiling space and he'd raged his way through the rest of the house, little effort was made by the others to search the grounds. Cursory scans of the shed and garage by his squad exemplified their disenchanted mood. His repeated forays of futility had eroded any respect they may have had for their 'vaunted leader'.

Tom suspected some sort of trap. The brief stroll around the garage accompanied by some 'boy banter' about cars hardly constituted a search by any definition. They were trying to flush him out. He was certain. After staying put for one hour... then another just to make sure, he ventured a stretch to quell his mounting stiffness. And even when he dropped to the floor he skulked about squinting through the side window and tiny gaps in the doors. It took even more resolve to hazard an escape out the side door, firstly on his knees to the hedge, and then a hunched dash for the back door.

Back inside the house all had left except Holly who was cleaning and disposing all the garbage. She looked up as he entered and brushed a wisp of hair from her face.

"I wondered where you got to," she grinned. "You're a veritable 'Invisible Man' aren't you?"

Tom slumped into a kitchen chair. "You know, this is getting very tiring. I thought they'd stop looking for me once Al was arrested."

"From what that red faced detective said, it seems you're still a suspect. Where'd you hide?"

"In the garage... Say have you got something to eat here? I'm starving." He looked around hungrily.

"Nothing that's worth eating, unless you want a can of something..." She gave the bench one last wipe, "Besides, Ed invited us over for dinner... sort of mutual support get together."

"Even though I'm still wanted?"

"Uh huh," she confirmed, "I think he wants to talk you into surrendering."

"I'm not going to do that... not yet anyway. I've still got some things I need to do." As an afterthought he added, "I still might join you though."

Tom watched almost trancelike as Holly finished up cleaning. He listened as she retold the recent events. How Al had been arrested but had stolen cheap replicas of their mother's jewellery. His devious alibi had Tom believing it was possible that Al could have committed the murders. But there was something wrong.

Then remembering that they were to be guests at the Miles' place he rushed upstairs, showered and donned some clean clothes. Back downstairs, Holly sat waiting. She looked around the kitchen slowly until their eyes met. He went across to her as she got up and a long hug ensued. Things were no longer the same. Life had taken a radical detour and suddenly it was more important than ever to be family. Holly half sighed, half grunted as she signalled that it was time to go.

***

Burton had stopped off for a quick bite to eat and was psyching himself up for a long evening of interviews. He was desperately hoping someone would break and confess to the killings when Gordon paged him. Inside the superintendent's office, Gascoyne was sitting in Gordon's comfy leather chair while the super was on one of the couches against the wall. Gascoyne didn't mince his words.

"Where are we at Adrian?"

"Sir?"

"This murder case," he expanded grumpily, not thinking it necessary to elaborate on the obvious.

He went on before Burton could answer. "I hear you've got suspects coming out of your ears and the main suspect... Witney isn't it?" he looked for confirmation from Gordon, "Yes, Witney is still running about on the loose."

Burton hated justifying his moves, but he knew the chief was expecting some explanations, so he began tentatively.

"Well, we have a few interviews tonight... I'm hopeful some of these people might shed some light on some gaps in the evidence."

"You're hopeful?" his voice gained volume. "I thought this was cut and dried. Find Witney and charge him with murder."

Burton chafed. "Do that and we'll lose the case. A good lawyer will rip us to shreds." He knew he was speaking out of turn, but he didn't need to be told how to do his job at this stage of his career. The chief was taken aback for the minute. He became more conciliatory.

"So, who have you got that could help you?"

"We have Charlie Charlton, and accomplices, who've been arrested for conspiracy to murder, unlawful detainment and a variety of environmental crimes. He was at the Witney house, or thereabouts, on the afternoon of the murders."

"Who..." Gascoyne started but was cut off by the detective, who held up a hand and kept speaking.

"Let me finish. We have Gene Towers junior, who constructed an elaborate plot to steal Mrs Witney's jewels while trying to convince us he was nowhere near the house. He's been arrested for theft and is under suspicion for the murders. And we have Rick Tanon who is here for obstruction of justice. We want to know why he initially lied about not being near the house on the Wednesday afternoon. As far as we know he was the last to see the victims alive."

Gascoyne was aggravated now. "So you have all these suspects, but you can't prove that any of them did it?" he said disdainfully.

"That about sums it up," said Burton tiredly. He retaliated with some venom. "Look, my record speaks for itself. I don't appreciate being second guessed all the time. If you don't want me on the case get Lancaster. He's all for a quick arrest." Burton turned as if the conversation was over... and maybe his job was over as well.

"Not so fast Adrian. Just settle down a bit. We're all upset because this thing has dragged out so long in the media." The Chief had swung his approach to soothe his key investigator.

Burton felt like saying that the media were a concern to Gascoyne but not to him, but he kept his mouth shut. Gascoyne went on.

"Lancaster is on suspension." The statement was blunt. "If he was a team man he would have contacted you the moment they located Witney's phone signal and... maybe he'd be in custody now." The last phrase was expressed with a knowing lilt.

"... Maybe." Burton managed, trying not to meet his gaze.

"It seems... Adrian... that Tom Witney has been in contact with you."

Burton said nothing, not sure what he could say. Aware that anything he did say might reflect poorly on his professionalism. Gordon spoke for the first time.

"Our monitoring indicated that he called your cell. Can you explain that Adrian?" Gordon sounded miffed that he had been left out of the loop.

Burton started unsurely, "It's not easy to explain. Let's just say that almost all the leads we have had have come from Witney. He seems determined to clear his name, even to the point of nearly getting himself killed at the hands of that thug Charlton. Apart from running, everything he's done seems to indicate his innocence."

"You don't think he's hood winking you?" suggested his boss sceptically.

Burton changed tack. "If you were guilty and had just escaped custody, would you lay low and hide, or would you keep contacting police, possible suspects and family, barely avoiding capture on several occasions?"

Gascoyne was tiring of rationalising what he thought was an untenable approach.

"All right, he may have given you some useful information, or... he may have distracted you from the obvious... that he committed murder and he's now muddying the water with red herrings. I want you to bring him in."

The mixed metaphor had prompted numerous possible humorous responses from the beleaguered detective and his efforts to restrain himself led to a careless remark.

"How do you propose I do that sir?" Burton immediately regretted opening his mouth.

Ignoring the insubordination Gascoyne outlined his strategy, "Return his call and tell him you have arrested Towers for the murders, and that you have some useful information for him."

"You want me to lie to trap him?" he recoiled at the thought.

"Not a lie," the chief offered insincerely in a singsong voice. "You have arrested Towers and the information is that he's under arrest as well." His cheesy grin said it all for Burton.

"That's all an interesting strategy if he still had his phone...but his sister has possession of it now. And anyway..."

He was about to denounce the tactic as reprehensible when a vibration in his pocket told him he had a call...Maybe it was another text? He quickly excused himself on the pretext that interviews were waiting, but he didn't get away without a stern warning to 'get his act into gear'.

It was Tom Witney. He felt like Witney's flatfoot. This time he had sent a text about regular payments made by his mother into a bank account. 'Would he find out who owned the account?' It seemed like he was doing the legwork for everything Tom could dig up, or his men were. Each possible suspect was referred to him. And, now he'd been set a money trail that had no valid basis or reason. Was he just curious, or was there some link to the murders. Burton wrote the account number down and left it on his desk. Rolf joined him as they headed to the interview rooms and was full of questions about his boss being hauled before Gascoyne.

***

When Holly and Tom arrived at the Miles' house all were already congregating around the extended dining room table. He had just sent a text to Burton asking him to identify the owner of the account number and he was still mulling over whether he was wasting his time. Was there any significance to the account? Or was it just one of Clarissa's charity projects? His distracted train of thought evaporated when he saw the gathering for the meal. Harry and Ashley were also guests and there were hugs all round as all those present greeted him as a long lost family member. His hug with Lori lingered longer than the others and he felt reluctant to release her. A couple of perceptive sidelong glances from Holly and Mrs Miles and the pair disengaged self-consciously.

Seating arrangements were deviously contrived by Holly. She moved up one position to create a space between her and Lori. It would allow her to sit next to Tom. Subtle glances in their direction made their proximity even more awkward. Their conversations were explicitly directed toward others mindful that inquisitive eyes were watching and measuring their reactions to each other. Oddly enough, the affected disinterest and exaggerated avoidance between the two only reinforced the growing belief that there was more than merely friendship. The mutual spark of affection was almost palpable.

Aromatic smells from the veritable feast tantalised Tom's senses. He realised that over the last week or so meals had become a hurried postscript and more often than not he had skimped on basic nutrition. With everyone having taken their seats, Ed stood and welcomed his visitors formally before giving thanks for the food. Tom was particularly impressed by the way he spoke to Jesus as though he was an unseen guest at the table. He gave thanks for Tom's safety and then for the food and the blessings of good friends. The short prayer rekindled a different sort of hunger within Tom. He remembered afresh the almost tangible hollowness he felt compared to the vitality of William Grose. Was the 'Hound of Heaven' still pursuing him... finding him from within? His trance like inactivity when everyone else had started caused Lynne Miles to ask if he was all right.

"Sorry?... er yes, thank you. I just have a lot on my mind. Mrs Miles, I really appreciate your hospitality." She smiled and he saw something of Lori's beauty in her. Not wanting to stare, he tucked into the delectable food.

The generous portions of roast meat, vegetables and pudding dessert eventually satisfied Tom's gnawing hunger. Talk around the table started with Ashley's story which fully suited Tom. But as his tale drew to a conclusion it naturally led to the horrific events that had descended on the Witney family. Tom was soon fending off concerned questions about his health and wellbeing, about his movements and any progress he was making. Briefly a callous desire to garner information from this opportunity of meeting some of the key suspects overcame him. He confronted Ashley.

"Did you receive money from Clarissa on a regular basis?"

All at the table went deathly quiet and at once Tom cringed at his own ineptitude at judging the appropriateness of the situation. Ashley himself blanched and struggled to configure some sort of response.

"You don't have to answer Ashley," warned Ed softly. "And this is not the time or the place," he added giving Tom a reproving look.

"No..." Ashley began uncertainly, "I want to answer. I think Tom deserves to know, after all he's been through." He collected his resolve and spoke frankly to Tom. "She did begin sending me money which I said I didn't need. I told her I had a good job. Ultimately, I refused to accept any more and started sending it back."

Tom looked up, still shamefaced. "When did she begin sending it?"

"About a year ago... she sent money for five months."

Tom looked around to everyone. There were disapproving faces and empathy for Ashley's discomfort. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking about this stuff." He felt bad for spoiling the happy mood. Turning to Lori he whispered, "I think I'm becoming a bit obsessive trying to work out who did this... this—" he searched for something not too graphic"— terrible thing... I should go." Her hand went to his knee, preventing him from rising as she protested softly, "No," she then raised her voice so all could hear, "I think we all understand... because of everything that's happened, that you want to find out the truth behind all this."

He went a little red and muttered apologetically, "No I shouldn't have. I won't ask anything more."

There were some reassuring murmurs and then the conversation reverted to more commonplace topics such as Holly and Tom moving back into the family house, and Ed saying that things at work were ticking over but they all missed him. Lori spent time talking with Holly and appearing to avoid him for the rest of the evening.

Superficially, Tom joined in talk with Ed and his dad, asking bland questions about treatment installations, but his thoughts were swirling around the word 'TRUTH'. It reverberated in his head. He wanted to find out the truth. The truth about the murders... the truth about Lori— what did she feel about him? Most of all there was the truth about Jesus. Was he willing to find out what it takes to live a life of faith? This idea of a battle between good and evil was becoming entrenched in Tom's thinking.

Reluctantly, Tom headed home to Gil's place without catching up with Lori again. The lively Mini was reined in by his total absorption in replaying the past weeks' events. The circuitous course he had taken scrabbling for some hint or clue had finally led to Al's arrest. How could he guarantee that the police had enough evidence to convict him? How could he prove that Al had taken the gun from the car?

Then it hit him like falling into a yawning chasm. His stomach lurched and the nauseating certainty that it was all wrong. The ammunition... his gun had been empty. He always transported it empty of course. Normally there would be a carton of shells in his carrying case, but he had finished them all with his last shooting round. Someone with easy access to ammunition was much more likely than Al. It seemed incomprehensible but two names came to mind. Rick and Gil both had access through the gun club and they had the knowledge of what was required.

Both had been at the house during the day and could have grabbed the gun. Either could have returned later to commit the crime. But why... why would either want to kill or steal? Both were independently wealthy. Was there some other motive? Suddenly Tom slammed on the brakes and brought the small car to a screeching halt. He had almost driven through a red light as the tumble of thoughts careered through his mind.

His reflexes were slow to respond to the green light. Somehow he had to pursue the possibility that Gil or Rick may be involved, or work out whether Al had gone to the painstaking extent of even readying bullets for the gun. The remainder of the drive to Gil's place was a blur. By the time he'd arrived Tom had mapped out a plan for the next day.

***

Burton sank tiredly into his desk chair and gratefully accepted the coffee Rolf handed him. Charlton's lawyer had restricted him to the barest of responses and a deluge of 'no comments'. There was sufficient evidence to charge him, but they needed information about the Witney murders. After interviewing Charlton, Rolf and Burton spoke at length with Rick Tanon. He talked freely about his quest to bring reconciliation between two sisters—his mother and his aunt—about his friendship with the Witneys and his close bond to his cousin Tom. He told them of his work, his shared pleasures and his contentment with his lot.

He admitted again that he had misled them by not telling the truth the first time. In fact their garrulous suspect drained the two detectives. Feeling worn down, they released him and took a break.

"I feel that after all that guff there was something that Tanon didn't tell us."

"Like what?" Rolf was splayed in another chair sipping his drink.

Burton rubbed the bridge of his nose. "He didn't speak of his affection for the girl... which I think was his real reason for frequenting the home. Perhaps something was amiss. There's more to him than he lets on. He might be involved."

"What about the jewels?" Rolf wasn't convinced.

"Yeah well, it certainly would be a handy misdirection. He doesn't need the money, by all accounts, though a million dollars would be hard to ignore."

Rolf was still dwelling on the play of words, wondering whether it was deliberate, when Burton continued, thinking aloud. "Still, a million dollars' worth of jewels won't be easy to get rid of. Whoever has got them will probably sit on them for a while."

Burton stretched and got up. Rolf was mystified. "Ade, are you saying you don't think Gene Towers junior did it?"

"No, I'm just keeping our options open. We know that he stole some jewels in an elaborate scheme. But we can't categorically nail him for the murders. I wonder how he'll react when he finds out they were fake." He moved to the door, "Come on let's finish this and get home. It's getting far too late to be thinking straight."

It took an age for Al to admit to anything. He whined about mistreatment. He delayed and distracted from the questions. When his protestations continued unabated, Burton bluntly threatened him.

"Are you finished?" the detective stared icily at Al.

He shrugged defiantly, as if he didn't care what the police said.

"If you don't tell us everything you know, I'll charge you with three counts of murder. There's no hope you won't be convicted." Burton stopped. He needed to be absolutely clear. "You'll be convicted for sure. Any jury hearing how you rigged the computer and tampered with the side exit to construct an alibi will have no sympathy for you."

Al visibly shrank back as Burton pressed on. "They'll hear what Tamara wrote in her diary about you; how you constantly harassed her. How you spend your life carousing and detest the fact that you won't inherit anything." He pushed his face so close it looked like he was examining the pores on Al's nose. Burton hissed menacingly, "How do you think the jury will react to that?"

Desperately the young Towers retorted, "I told you... they were all dead. I grabbed the jewels and ran for it. I didn't kill anyone." His pathetic quailing voice signalled his crumbling resistance.

Burton launched in again. "So where did you find the gun?"

The new attack caught him off guard. He looked confused. He didn't understand how they knew.

"What... what do you mean?" he quavered.

"The gun! You found the gun. I want to know where you found it?" the detective urged.

"It was just sitting there... on the stairs. I went to pick it up, but I'm not stupid. I didn't want to leave my prints on it."

"So?" Burton kept pressing.

"So I grabbed some tissues and threw it out the back."

Burton straightened and eased the strain on his back. He turned to Rolf and gave him a little nod before stepping away a short distance. Rolf gathered that he should continue. He asked the first thing that came into his head.

"Why would you pick up the gun Al?" The question was smooth and quiet.

Al was relieved that the verbal barrage had ceased. He wanted to explain. "Well, I figured someone committing a robbery wouldn't leave a gun, and I wanted it to look like a robbery."

Rolf almost crooned his next question. "Why would you think that?"

"It was an execution," he said hoarsely. His eyes looked up vacantly as he reran the scene in his mind. "It looked so obviously a planned killing, no-one would believe a thief caught in the act would be so... so..."

"Clinical," Rolf finished for him.

They didn't get much more out of Al other than stunned disbelief when Rolf told him that it was all for nothing as the jewels were imitation. He came clean. He hadn't seen anyone else. All he had wanted was to get away as quickly as he could, hoping no-one saw him before he regained access to the library. He blubbered almost incoherently toward the end. He left miserable and broken, and Rolf couldn't help feeling some sympathy for Al. What had been planned as an ingenious crime had deteriorated into a circus.

"What do you think he'll get?" asked Rolf when they were alone.

"Theft, perverting the course of justice and interfering with a crime scene, hmm," Burton thought briefly, "He might be lucky. Apart from a few drunk and disorderly charges he hasn't been in trouble before. Maybe six months to a year... if he has a really good lawyer... maybe probation."

Rolf fixed a stare on his mentor. "So how did you know Ade?"

"About what?" Burton pretended to be slow on the uptake.

"You know. The gun... how did you know he'd handled the gun?"

"The forensic report mentioned a few tissue fibres. We know the murderer was either Tom Witney who hadn't gone to the trouble of removing his prints, or someone wearing gloves or..." he continued slowly, "someone who needed to use tissues... so I guessed."

Rolf shook his head. "It sounded as if you knew."

Burton grinned, "That's the trick isn't it?" He gave the younger man a soft punch on the shoulder.

He went on, "So what does it all mean?" He awaited a response from Rolf.

"That... Witney didn't kill anyone?" There was an upward inflexion in his voice revealing his uncertainty.

"Why?"

Rolf answered with a little more certainty as it became clearer to him. "It was too early. Towers would have been back at the library when Tom Witney arrived home."

Burton added to the conclusion. "I think it also means that our murderer was hoping someone would pick up the gun and confuse things even more. It's all about confusion," he trailed off. His mind was already trying to retrace something Rick Tanon had said.

"Tell me," he said as he waited for Rolf to make eye contact, "Why would Tanon... good friend and cousin of Tom Witney... having affection for Tamara and customary guest of the Witney's, not stay for the evening meal?"

His partner looked at him. There was a glint in his eye, "You've got a theory haven't you?"

"Let's just say we're dealing with a very devious mind and we have to check everything that seems a bit unusual." Burton was already rehearsing in his mind, some more questions he had for Rick Tanon.

Chapter 20

Dazzling rays from the early morning sun shone through a gap in the curtains, pestering him into wakefulness. Tom grumbled his way out of bed and had a shower before joining Gil downstairs for breakfast. Chirpy as usual, Gil had already had a walk and was just settling down when he came in.

"So what's the plan for the day?" he asked as Tom reached for some cereal and milk.

"Visit Aunt Alison and find out some of the history about this feud she and my mother had and," his face seemed to wince with the effort of conjuring up an elusive thought, "I need to ask Rick a few things too."

"You don't have any issues with Rick do you?" Gil had a surprised look on his face.

"Well it's just that he was the last to see..." he rephrased, uncomfortable with putting the murders into words again. "He was the last reported at the house."

Gil was about to say something more, but thought better of it and chewed slowly on his toast while he watched the young man carefully. Finally he said what he was thinking.

"You don't trust Rick?"

Tom felt the scrutiny accompanying the words as he took another mouthful of cereal. When he swallowed, he shot back a glare at Gil. He had been stung by the criticism.

"What?" he shook his head with annoyance, "It's not about trust; I have to know why he was there, and, more importantly, why he left," he defended, answering the imagined disdain that the accusation seemed to carry.

Gil shrugged, "You do what you have to do."

The remainder of their breakfast time was awkwardly quiet; Tom distractedly munching the remnants of his cereal as Gil thumbed his way through the morning newspaper. Just as Tom was about to leave, Gil called out, "Hey Tom, take the Range Rover. I have someone coming over to work on the Mini."

"Won't you be needing it?" called back Tom as he stood at the doorway.

"No, I have to be here for the mechanic. Besides, I can always give you a call at Rick's." He threw the keys at Tom. The quick grasp to catch the keys made him grimace as his shoulder twinged painfully. He fished in his pocket for the Mini Cooper's key and gently underarmed them back to Gil.

On the road he considered his approach. Rick had lied once. Maybe there was more to his visit than he had said. How could he sift through the lies to find the truth? Tom remembered that it was the lies that kept him running. It was the lies that had made his whole life a pretence. A sham of creating an image, of showing he could measure up; trying to prove that what he was doing was worthwhile. Now it seemed so futile. He was a prisoner of an existence in which he was desperately seeking some meaning. Could he get to know this Jesus who was the only Way—a liberator of prisoners to the lie?

A voice welled up in his mind; "You're all right. Compared to most people you're a good man." Then it resonated through him. That was the lie! He was shackled by his own self-righteousness. He had spent so much time convincing himself that he was a crusader for good with his environmental ethos, that he'd become entangled in his own sales pitch. If the truth be known, he longed for the approval of his peers... to hear their appreciation. How he really yearned to be free of his preoccupation with image. The ulterior motive to impress others, to gain the admiration of others and to think of himself as better, reared its ugly form like a spectre in his mind. Would his pride allow him to take hold of this freedom being offered?

The shrill blare of a passing ambulance increased his tension and made him pull over when he was about to turn off. Starting again he steered the Range Rover up the tree lined street and turned through the ornate arched gateway of the Tanon Mansion. At the top of the drive the police were leading Rick into one of their waiting vehicles. Tom pulled up some distance away along a service driveway and studied the scene. Aunt Alison was tearfully standing at the doorway as Burton spoke with her. Rolf was carrying Rick's gun case and an overnight bag.

When, eventually, the police had departed, Tom drove up to the house. Uncle George let him in. He was red faced and flustered.

"Come in my boy," he commanded in his thick, wheezy voice. "Did you see it? They arrested Rick for the murder of your mother!" he sounded outraged. "I've just been on the blower to my lawyer. I've told Rick not to say anything."

"Why?" Tom asked weakly.

"Why indeed? All the time they've been after you, and now, all of a sudden they arrest Rick... the fools," he ranted.

"Uncle George, what would make the police think Rick had anything to do with this?" asked Tom trying to clarify his previous one word question.

George turned on Tom unexpectedly. "It was your gun wasn't it... the murder weapon?" he challenged. Tom nodded. "The police say Rick's finger prints were on the shell casings. Do you know anything about that?" he demanded croakily.

"Rick's fingerprints... Rick's shells?" Tom sounded dazed. Suddenly the pieces started to fit. Rick knew about his gun. He was the last to see his mother. But why would he? What possible motive could Rick have?

His uncle's anger subsided slightly as the remote possibility of his son's guilt gained impetus in his racing thoughts.

"Come with me," he instructed huskily as he lumbered unsteadily along the broad entry foyer. "We have to calm your aunt. She's absolutely beside herself."

Turning into a large open living area, brightened by two walls of large bay windows, Tom saw his Aunt Alison bent over in a leather couch weeping uncontrollably in silent shuddering sobs.

"Ali dear, what is it? It'll all work out. It's just some huge mistake." George's rasping voice was even more strained by emotion. He comforted his wife with an arm over her shoulder and gave a helpless glance toward Tom.

Gradually Alison gained some semblance of restraint. She tried three times before her voice stopped quivering enough to be heard.

"It's just that... Rick was so angry with Clarissa. He said... he said this feud had to stop and he would make sure she saw reason." Alison lifted her tear streaked face up toward her husband, "Oh George, what if... what if he lost his temper. I told him not to go but he must have snuck out."

George continued to try and calm her. Tom tried to imagine what series of events could have resulted in such a horrific end. He couldn't, not involving Rick, or anyone else for that matter. Yet the police had arrested him. They had physical evidence linking him to the murders. Tom shook his head. His world seemed to be falling apart.

It was about half an hour later when they were all drinking tea near one of the windows overlooking the sweeping lawns and gardens landscaped down to the distant roadway, that he began to formulate some questions in his mind. Talking quietly, Alison had calmed to the point where she asked for Tom's opinion about Rick. Unsure about how to answer, he skirted the issue by talking about his longstanding friendship with his cousin. Eventually he admitted that Rick was not warm to his mother. The two seldom communicated, and then only the briefest of greetings in a detached recognition of each other. But that didn't mean he killed her, argued Tom with somewhat hesitant conviction as he wondered about the lies to police, about the shell casings and about the recent realisation that the shooter knew how to shoot.

The conversation was deftly nudged onto family history. Mining early in the last century had spawned the family's wealth, and Tom's grandfather had shrewdly diversified into property and a variety of other businesses which had protected them from market volatility. Tom carefully broached the subject he'd been stewing about since he'd examined Clarissa's papers.

"Aunt Alison, who was Ashley's father?" he asked.

She looked at him intently, alert and then, carefully weighing her words, she answered. "Of course you know about your half-brother now, don't you?" When she saw her nephew had an expectant gaze, Alison went on. "You know he visited me a few days ago. Asked me the same question... and I couldn't help him either. You see, Clarissa was determined that no one would know who the father was. When she found out that he didn't want to take any responsibility, because our parents threatened to cut her off if she tried to keep the child, she refused to let anyone know who it was or even to mention him."

"So, no one knows who the father is?"

His aunt confirmed his comment with a tight lipped, eye squeezing, assenting nod as if she suffered pain at the thought. And then added, "Clarissa wouldn't even let the hospital authorities know who fathered Ashley. She just ignored them."

Tom reached slowly into his pocket and retrieved the torn piece of card.

"Aunt, do you remember anyone called Bert... someone who knew my mother?"

"Bert?" she looked at him curiously. "No, I don't recall any one called Bert."

"What about a nick name for, say, Robert or Herbert?"

"There were a few Roberts at school, though I don't know if she kept in touch. Oh," she inserted as if just remembering, "there was an Albert. He actually pestered her for a while until he heard she was pregnant... then he disappeared."

"You don't know his surname?" queried Tom hopefully.

Alison shook her head, "Sorry."

The name 'Albert', stuck in his mind. How could he track him down? Later, he spent some time looking through old school photos. He saw one student listed as Albert Sheehan. His Aunt Alison identified him as the Albert she remembered.

His Aunt, thinking that helping Tom might take the scrutiny off Rick, offered to contact the past students association of their old alma mata to try and locate Albert Sheehan.

Tom left the Tanons soon after their lawyer arrived with a brief report to say that Rick was not answering questions unless he was present. And, at the moment, the police had only circumstantial evidence.

***

The drive back to Gil's was lost in a storm of emotions. He was relieved that he was no longer the prime suspect; however the situation was little improved if someone who was both his friend and cousin was somehow implicated. The time he'd recently spent at the cabin reminded him of how well he got on with Rick. If Rick had really orchestrated the whole thing, he was sure it would create a schism between the two families. The potential added upheaval to the greater extended family was too much to contemplate. Both sides of the Bank's family (his mother's family) would have the ugly scar of violent crime as part of their history.

With an abrupt thump of the steering wheel Tom knew what he would do next. There was a yearning in his innermost being. He wanted to speak with William Grose... find out what he needed to do to have that contentment, that inner peace that William and Marge and Gus had. Lori and her dad were also ones who seemed to have that understanding of what it's all about. Not that they understood it all but they had the right frame of reference. He wanted that.

He would spend some time alone at the cabin. Just the seclusion and quiet would be a boost, he was sure. Then he would visit William and get the whole story.

When he arrived at Gil's his plans seemed to falter. The Mini had been taken away for some major work and he couldn't just drive off in Gil's four wheel drive. Gil gauged from his mood that he was at a loose end and finally extracted Tom's get-away-from-it-all idea. He offered to drive Tom and pick him up on the Friday. Tom quickly accepted Gil's suggestion and got together a few things, remembering he still had clothes at the cabin.

A text appeared on his cell phone soon after he turned it on. It was Lori checking up on him. Was his arm getting better? Was there much bruising? She hoped he was resting. He sent a return text telling her he was taking a few days away at Rick's cabin. He then turned his mobile off and left with his quasi uncle.

***

Burton was becoming frustrated. At first he had a clear cut suspect. Now he had Al Towers, Charlie Charlton, Rick Tanon and Ashley Moore, along with the original suspect—Tom Witney. At present he had Harry Witney in front of him. The problem was the safe... the one that had the real jewels in it. It had been opened. And it was opened by someone who knew the combination.

"Mr Witney, you say that you and your wife alone knew the combination. The jewels are gone. What do you expect us to think?"

"I didn't take the jewels. I wouldn't," he said flatly.

"How do explain the open safe then?" Rolf interjected.

"I can't," Harry replied and then miserably rubbed his forehead as if in acute pain. "Don't you think I've been wondering about that? Maybe Clarissa was forced to open it before she was..." he tailed off.

The team met back around Burton's desk. He discounted the 'forced to open the safe' idea, since it didn't fit the crime scene at all.

"Towers was right," he said, "It was an execution."

They all understood what he was saying. The shooting started in the lounge with Clarissa, then Towers senior being shot as he fled and the girl shot cowering under a table. It was difficult to work in any other scenario to the one they had with the facts they knew.

It was time to refocus on the key issues Burton said.

"Look, if we don't come up with something soon, we're going to have to release the lot of them... except Charlton of course," he qualified.

"And Gene Towers," added Gully.

"Couldn't we technically hold Moore on the theft of those car keys?" offered Rolf tentatively.

"Not if Miles doesn't press charges. And he's brushing it off as an 'ill-considered prank'," Burton countered, quoting the latter in an affected imitation of Ed Miles' voice.

"Tanon's lawyer is making threatening noises too," Arnie Lee put in.

"Well, where do we go from here?" Rolf wanted some action. He looked to Burton.

Burton stared at the whiteboard covered with names and arrows and captions. "We're missing something. We have a gun with Witney's fingerprints. We have shells with Tanon's fingerprints. We have a robbery committed by Gene junior, threats made by Charlton and some other bit players. What if someone else has set this whole scheme up?"

They all looked at him expectantly.

"Who?" urged Gully.

"Miles?" suggested Arnie.

In the contemplative silence as the other three policemen studied the creased brow of their boss, Fred Arrington hurried into the room and broke into the huddle. His animated expression instantly drew Burton's attention.

"What have you got Fred?"

"It's weird really," he spoke with enthralling intensity. "When Harry Witney purchased his safe, someone else bought the same model, the same day!"

"Get on with it Fred," berated Rolf, denying his moment of theatre.

"The Manager from Onslow Safes remembers it well. Almost immediately after Witney had left the store Gilbert Trentham comes in and states that he noticed Witney leaving and, because he considered him such an astute judge of quality, he wanted the same safe. Although it was a strange event, he, nevertheless, relished the opportunity to make two substantial sales so quickly." Arrington was reading from his notebook as if replaying a conversation.

"So, Trentham buys the same safe on the same day. What does that mean?" Arnie looked sceptical, but there was a glint in Burton's eyes.

"You checked the serial numbers, didn't you Fred?" Burton had a knowing expression on his face. Arrington nodded.

"The safes were switched." It wasn't a question. Again Fred nodded.

As if by osmosis, or telepathy they all deduced what that meant. But Rolf put it into words.

"So, Trentham knew the combination because he bought it and then switched it. That means Trentham stole the jewels. But why, he's wealthy himself isn't he?" Rowan looked at the others.

"Maybe he wasn't rich enough," speculated Gully.

Burton was galvanised into action. He blurted out a string of instructions.

"Arnie, find out where Trentham is, but don't spook him. Fred, find out everything you can about Gilbert Trentham. I want every connection with the Witneys explored. Gully, I want you to talk to Harry Witney. Find out what Trentham really is to them... how often he visits... his relationship with Clarissa Witney. Rowan, you ask Tanon the same questions... I've got a call to make," he said to himself enigmatically.

There was a flurry of activity as Gully and Rolf headed off to the interview rooms and the others went to their desks to make their respective calls and do research on their computers. Burton picked up the piece of note paper he had left there earlier and then checked a number on his address list. After spending longer than he planned on the call sharing pleasantries with his favourite judge, he headed out. He grabbed a female constable on the way explaining that he needed a ride to Judge Forrester and then to City-Metro Bank.

***

"It's good to see you Adrian. We ought to get together sometime," drawled the judge.

"Yeah, we should do that," Burton commented a little too hastily. "Is it ready yet?"

Forrester pulled out an envelope and handed it to Burton. "You must be desperate for this. You usually send one of your boys. Who's that young one? Ralph?"

"Rolf," he corrected. The detective was becoming a bit agitated. "You're right Louis... this could be the breakthrough we're looking for, and... honestly, any progress is most welcome. This investigation's become a bit of a debacle."

"You still chasing that triple murderer?" the judge squinted and asked the question.

"Yup," Burton managed through clenched teeth.

"Well, get a move on then." Forrester waved him away dismissively. "And catch the killer," was his parting cry as Burton exited the door.

Walsh, the police woman, greeted him by handing him the radio microphone. She listened as the detective's voice increased in volume with each successive phrase.

"You can't find him?... What about Witney?... "No, Tom!... Not him either... Check with his sister or the Miles' girl... Find them!"

Walsh watched the senior homicide investigator take a deep steadying breath and then in a quieter register he said, "Walsh is it?"

She nodded,

"Okay Walsh, let's get to the bank. We have an account to settle." He momentarily pulled an exaggerated grinning face at his own repeated witticism, before looking ahead absent minded. The traffic courteously gave way to the squad car with its flashing lights.

At the bank, the manager soon had escorted the officers to a rear office. It obviously wasn't good for business to see the police asking questions at the counter. After officiously perusing the subpoena, he said pretentiously, "It all looks in order. This says you want a copy of the account records emailed. So, has this customer been involved in illegal transactions?"

Burton had no time for this. He tried not to be rude, but his response was sharper than he intended. "Look, send the account details as soon as possible, but not now. I just want to know who this account number belongs to. That shouldn't be too difficult." Burton thrust the number Tom had given him at the self-important banker.

The manager visibly shrunk back. "No, no, no... not at all. No, I can do that." He swivelled his chair to face his computer and rapidly navigated his way into customer accounts.

"It belongs to a Gilbert Trentham. Yes, Gilbert Trentham of..." There was a closing door sound. He turned around but the police had already gone.

All the way back Burton incited Constable Walsh to greater speed. His mind raced. 'This had to be handled right'. He wanted all the pieces of the puzzle in place before proceeding. He hoped the others were ready to fill in the gaps.

When he got back into the office they all drew around him like moths around a street lamp. Facing his computer he noticed the email had arrived. He was scanning the details of Trentham's account. The first thing he noticed was a recent sizeable deposit, two days previously. Before that, apart from investment annuities and interest payments, there were no credit entries for almost two years. Then monthly, going back, ten thousand dollar instalments were paid into the account. Burton turned, and grabbing a white board marker, was chafing to hear their reports. He was writing furiously 'probably blackmailing Clarissa Witney about illegitimate child.' Without turning he called out, "Okay, Rowan and Gully, what did you find out about Trentham?"

"Been around for as long as Witney can remember," Gully began. "... Seems to have been a friend of the family. Everybody got on well with him... except maybe Clarissa. She didn't like him at all."

"Rick Tanon says the same thing," Rolf added. "He says he is a bit of a loner except for the gun club, golf and occasional trips with him and Tom Witney. Apparently they get on really well with him. In fact he says they refer to him as Uncle Gil."

"Anything else?"

Rolf ventured a further comment, "Well, it may be nothing, but Tanon reckons 'Uncle Gil' must have been going through some tough times. He said he reined in his free spending ways over the last year or so."

"That matches his account," confirmed Burton. "So where is he Arnie? They all looked at Lee.

Lee squeezed his nose and had a self-conscious, scrunched up face.

"Nothing new since I called... At the moment I have no idea, sir." His formal response indicated his embarrassment at failing to locate Trentham. "I have an APB on his vehicle. There's a squad car staking out his place. I sent Reeves and Goss to check out his clubs. I guess we'll just have to wait."

"What about Witney?" Burton was terse.

"Well the girl was cagey. She asked if we were still after him; and... well... I guess I didn't tell her the whole truth. I said we had some new suspects and were concerned for his safety."

"So, what did she say?"

"She hung up."

"Good grief Arnie, you know she's going to try and warn him?"

Lee couldn't conceal a broadening grin. "We've got a tail on her."

Burton felt a warm glow inside. He had a good team.

Chapter 21

Tom was baffled by the turn of events. He asked Gil whether he believed Rick could be guilty. Gil gave a solemn look and told him that you never knew anyone completely. There were things about Rick that they didn't know... maybe couldn't know.

Gil had a glassy stare at the road ahead. "Maybe there were things he got caught up in... got trapped so badly that he saw no other way."

"So he killed? That doesn't sound like Rick," Tom pronounced doubtfully.

"That's what I'm saying. What we thought we knew about him was probably a lie. We all live out a lie... every one of us. Nobody knows what we're really like." There was a tinge of angst in his voice. He looked across at Tom and expanded his theme in a calmer voice.

"What I think I'm trying to say is that we're trapped by our circumstances, expectations of other people and we all create these imaginary public personas—we live a lie."

Tom harked back to his own convictions and remembered his desire to be transparent... to live out his life truthfully. Gil went on, "I bet you're living a lie... thinking private things, keeping secrets, just like everybody else."

There was a moment's silence before Tom responded, "You're right in a way Gil. I guess we all have our secret lives... our thoughts. But I know some people that try and say what they think, but with care... they have good motives and purposeful lives."

"How do you know?" he said cynically.

"I guess I believe it about them; they seem genuine. Not like you or I Gil. You're right. There's so much I don't know about you, and I'm probably a mystery to you. Our stuff is so important to us... things, position, recognition and being a member," he said the last word with an inverted comma gesture. "I don't want to be trapped by a lie," he continued, half to himself.

"Anyway, they talk about a 'truth that sets you free'. And I'm finding out more about it. As I said; the people I've met are a good advertisement for it."

Gil snorted rudely, "You're talking religion aren't you? Bunch of superstitious garbage..."

"Have you looked into it?" Tom probed.

"No... don't have to. It's garbage." He was adamant. There was a resentful sneer that lingered on his face before he made a conscious effort to appear more civil.

Tom reflected quietly, "I'm searching for the truth, Gil—maybe you should think about things that matter... about searching for the truth that sets you free. It must be better than dismissing it out of hand."

Gil shrugged and didn't comment any further on the subject. They had started entering the foot hills when Tom started thinking about how long he'd known Gil. It occurred to him that maybe he knew something of the family history.

"Gil, what do you know about my mother before she was married?" Tom began.

"What do you mean?"

"... about her pregnancy... when she had Ashley."

Gil was taken aback. "Not much... why?"

"Oh, I don't know... it's just that you've been around such a long time, I thought you might be able to clear up some questions." Tom looked out the window as they cornered sharply and saw a vista of the valley below that as a driver he wouldn't have been able to appreciate. He missed seeing Gil swallow before he spoke.

"What sort of questions?"

"Well, about Ashley's father; I was looking through my mother's papers and I think she referred to him as Bert... there was a note from this 'Bert'."

"Never heard of him," Gil replied stoically.

Tom pulled the note from his pocket. He read it to himself again:

I think your parents are right. It would be best if the child is adopted out.

Bert

"What's that?" Gil was curious about what Tom was doing.

"It's the note from this Bert." He read it out to Gil who shook his head as if it was just another of life's sad tales. Looking at the scrap of card Tom started thinking about a father who had been blackmailing his mother for years... when it comes out in the open... when Ashley finds his mother, there is no secret to reveal. The payments cease and 'Bert' gets desperate. If only he knew who Bert was. He thought about who could be called 'Bert'... Bertrand, Robert, Herbert, Gilbert!

Tom gave a sidelong look at Gil. Incredibly it struck him then. The profile... the dark wavy hair... his lanky stature, all mirrored in a younger version he'd seen—Ashley!

Conscious of Tom's staring, Gil reacted, "What?"

"Gilbert can be shortened to 'Bert', can't it?" Tom submitted.

Gil stiffened, "Maybe, but so can lots of names," he countered.

"True," Tom agreed as he considered the import of what he was about to say next. He gazed with growing certainty that his accusation was well founded. "But, do they all bare the remarkable similarity that you have to Ashley?"

Gil distractedly deviated off onto the gravel shoulder and corrected his course before glowering at Tom. "You've got a nerve. After all these years you've known me and now, with such flimsy evidence, you accuse me of abandoning your mother?"

Tom retaliated, "You said yourself that I don't really know you." He looked up ahead and saw the turnoff to the cabin. Gil took it a little quicker than Tom would have liked and he sensed a fierce desperation in Gil's glowering stare.

Tom took the next step belligerently. "Of course that means that my mother has been paying you blackmail money for years. That's why you've lived so well... why you've always been around. And when she stopped payment you got angry."

Gil's lips tightened and he began to simmer with rage. "You think you've got it all figured out." There was a menacing tremor in his voice. Tom saw his hand reach beneath his seat and pull out a nine millimetre Beretta. The barrel levelled at his chest.

"You think you can shoot me in your car and get away with it? You're crazy Gil."

His face contorted into a vicious snarl. Tom's heart raced and his body tensed as he saw the wooden bridge draw near.

Gil manoeuvred a slight bend clumsily, trying to maintain the angle of the pistol. Once round he relaxed marginally as the car reached the creek crossing, and almost grunted, "You'll just disappear. Nobody..." Before he could complete the sentence, Tom had flung his door open and a second after the wheels had thumped back off the sleeper bridge, he tumbled out of the door. Unbalanced by the dismount from the sleeper bridge, Gil had to steady his grip on the steering while slamming on the brakes. He fired the gun twice randomly in the general direction of his quarry before Tom vanished over the edge of the embankment and scrambled down to the stream. Driven by fear and panic he fled at breakneck speed back under the bridge downstream. Leaping across large river stones and running through the pebbled shallows, Tom rapidly distanced himself from the roadway.

Gil had run to the edge of the creek and started moving upstream, assuming Tom had hidden himself around the turn in the water course. A distant clatter of pebbles alerted him to Tom's escape route and he quickly altered the direction of his pursuit.

Tom clambered up the bank and headed through the bush in the general direction of the cabin. He took great gasping, rasping breaths as he toiled up the steep hill behind the cabin. Occasionally he stopped and could hear the threatening steps of the hunter behind him crashing through the scrub. Because of his exertions, the aches and injuries of the previous week were announcing themselves vengefully once more. With renewed effort Tom dragged himself up the slope. He was heading ever nearer to the deeper upstream valley of the same creek which formed an arc around the cabin. Struggling with every step, he went higher and higher approaching the ridge which fell away toward the gully that the creek flowed along. His plan was to conceal himself under the dense ferns and underbrush of the subtropical gully.

As he neared the rim of the precipitous descent to the, much narrower, swirling stream below, Tom paused. The calls of parrots and the distant cackle of kookaburras overlaid the upstream rushing thunder of a waterfall. No footsteps... no frenzied chase; had he eluded the crazed and calculating 'Bert'. How could this be? Someone, whom he'd known all his life... who had been his host for the last couple of days... had lived this secret, cruel existence, and had been a constant threat to his mother. Gilbert had deceived them all. He'd been a malicious parasite all his life, while Tom had thought of him as a trusted uncle. It was all a lie. So, we were back to lies, thought Tom.

A movement down below between two large trees suddenly had Tom pivoting and going into a crouch when he heard a sharp crack and felt a stinging sensation in his side. Staggering from the searing stab of pain, Tom toppled over the edge and plummeted in an uncontrolled avalanche of arms and legs down the steep incline. Hurtling over a ridge, he became airborne before plunging into a deep pool at the base of a small cascade of water. The current carried him through two turbulent rapids, tossed him about for almost a hundred metres and then deposited him on a gritty, shallow shore of the broadening creek.

Blood seeped from a flesh wound in his side. Spurred on by the stinging and the surge of adrenalin, Tom propelled himself down the treacherous stream bed all the way back past the wooden bridge, This time he crawled along a branch to the farther side, climbed a large tree and huddled in the hollow of a broken limb, half way up the huge, gnarly eucalypt. He was shivering and exhausted. For several minutes he didn't make any but the tiniest of movements in attempting to make himself more comfortable. There he remained, obscured from the ground by heavily leafed new growth just below. He waited for what seemed an age, but it was only twenty minutes later when Gil reappeared. He was stealthily picking his way downstream, gun at the ready, determined to obliterate this new obstacle to his plans. His manner of searching indicated that he wasn't sure if he was looking for a body, or stalking his prey. He'd poke a stick behind boulders in the fast flowing stream; then he'd examine possible exits from the squat gorge, peering hesitantly over the top of the bank.

Gil slowly worked his way nearer. Tom insinuated even deeper into the tree hollow. Suddenly a loud, piercing crow call metres above him rasped repeatedly, jolting him with a terrorising shudder. Its territorial cawing drew his pursuer's gaze. Anxiously, Tom hunkered down even further, horrified that some part of him might be visible from the ground. Tenaciously Gil inspected the ground. He hovered about the tree unsure if he noticed signs of footsteps. A scuttling rabbit, thirty metres downstream, eventually diverted his attention. He instantly moved off in that direction, assuming that it had been startled by Tom's presence.

The snapping of twigs and fluttering of underbrush signalled the would-be assailant's deadly chase. Easing himself into a less cramped position, Tom followed his diminishing form. When he felt secure enough to move Tom stretched back and partially peeled away his blood soaked shirt. There was a painful slash across his stomach that still oozed congealing blood. The shirt was patted back to limit the bleeding with the knowledge, that ultimately, it would be an agonising exercise removing it. He was now confronted with a dilemma. He wanted to put distance between Gil and himself, but he didn't want to expose his position by climbing out onto the broad, mottled grey background of the large trunk. If he left his departure too late, like a predator Gil might return to pick up the scent afresh and catch him unawares.

Decisively, he descended from the tree haven and hastened back upstream, backtracking up into the winding gully. This time he avoided the openness of the fast flowing creek, choosing to negotiate the thick abrasive vegetation of the steepening gorge sides.

Soon he was crawling along a rock ledge that ended where a torrent of water cascaded down a near-vertical water fall. Edging up precarious, slippery footholds, Tom scaled around slabs of sheer rock through a tedious soaking spray. Refraining from looking down, he battled up the tortuous climb. Each agonising metre of progress brought him nearer to the top and relative safety.

Finally, wet, aching and bedraggled, Tom collapsed in a clump of bracken. For several minutes he lay there regaining his breath. As the evening drew on, he shivered convulsively. How would he survive? Someone was waiting not too far away, down there, hoping to eliminate him from the scene. But if he stayed, his injuries and poor condition, he was sure, would cause him to succumb to hypothermia. The shivering was almost constant and uncontrollable when the sun set. He knew he had to get moving. Maybe he could find his way to the road and hope for a ride.

Just then he heard the distant sound of an engine. With the swirling wind it was difficult to determine whether Gil had driven off, or was just parking the Range Rover for the night. He listened intently, but heard nothing more. It was getting quite dark when he made an impulsive decision to head back down. Gilbert Trentham was probably cosy and warm inside the cabin. He knew he had to move while he was still able.

Painstakingly, Tom lowered himself down the slimy rock surface. His legs got the shakes as he barely recovered from losing his grip on the crumbling cliff. Eventually steeling himself to continue his descent, he concentrated on locating firm footholds. Stepping from one large tussock he found a protruding ridge close to the teeming cataract. Gradually he rested his whole weight on the narrow support. Just as he released his grip on a string root his foot slipped on the algae coated stone. Instantly he was dropping out of control, bouncing off outcropping ledges and into the roiling pool beneath—almost a re-enactment of his previous fall.

Again, caught by the rushing current, Tom was tossed along the rapids, swept through a surging convergence between large boulders, down a smaller waterfall into the pool of his first plunge. The turbulent water carried him down the same bruising journey, till he dragged his sodden, beaten body to the shore.

***

Tom wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but he came to, chilled to the bone and shivering. The night sky showed a spray of stars in the gaps in the forest canopy high overhead. Thoughts of death welled up. What did it mean to die? Was he ready? He knew he wasn't. He had to find the truth. He had to live the truth and understand the purpose... his purpose. He remembered his original desire to discover this truth. He was going to talk with William Grose. Teeth chattering and shaking violently, Tom prayed for help to escape his delirium.

An idea began to form in his mind. He could sneak back to the cabin. If Gil had gone he could warm up in front of the fire and grab something to eat. If he was still there he might be able to steal the car. The first problem Tom encountered was that he could hardly walk. Every time he got to his feet he would lurch and reel dizzily before grasping a sapling or rock. He would stagger a few steps and then stumble onto the rough ground. After several painful falls, he opted for crawling to increase the probability of his surviving what was now a virtual trek of a few hundred metres. So Tom struggled on, scrabbling on all fours. On and on, he painfully crept, all the way back to the clearing.

He was oblivious to how long it took to reach the small rise near the cabin. It had been slow and painful, so when he wriggled to the top of the rise and saw a four wheel drive vehicle he moaned with disappointment. He lay flat on his face trying to gather his strength when there was a sharp crack of a branch behind him. Tom felt utterly vanquished. The effort had taken too much out of him. Was he to be shot in the back? Where was the bullet? He merely surrendered to the grasping hands turning him onto his back. He expected to see Trentham's leering face jubilant in victory. It took him a minute to focus and recognise Burton's unmistakeable smiling face.

Chapter 22

Tom was rushed into a city hospital by Burton, accompanied by two squad cars, sirens blaring. On the trip in Burton explained that they had arrested Trentham earlier that evening with him insisting that Tom had confessed to him and had then wandered into the forest, determined to end it all. When Tom started questioning him, Adrian Burton ordered him to remain silent and he would tell him the whole story.

He described how they discovered the switch of safes which tied Trentham to the theft of the real jewels. They followed up the bank account number and it too pinpointed him as the blackmailer and the one with most to lose when Ashley's existence came out into the open. The detective then told how they discovered that Rick Tanon had noticed that his gun had been emptied of its shells when packing up his things that Wednesday morning. He'd commented to Trentham that he thought he still had half a magazine left, but didn't consider it again until he was asked directly by Burton if his 'Uncle' could have taken some shells from him. When the tail following Lori Miles called in with the progress of their pursuit they were told to pull her over and escort her away. The instructions to the second car was to drive in to the turn off and then keep a distant surveillance on the access road.

By the time Burton started on describing the capture of Trentham, Tom had surrendered to fatigue. Rolf nudged Burton to end the monologue, "He's out to it Ade." Burton glanced back and smiled.

"He's had a pretty rough go of it hasn't he Ro?"

"You can say that again; a regular TV mini-series."

Burton laughed, "So you looked it up?"

Rolf gestured open handed that it was a given. He looked pensive for a moment before starting the conversation again. "Do you think he would have been better off trusting the courts to prove his innocence?"

"Hard to say Ro... hard to say," offered Burton abstractedly. "When we were about to arrest him I was thinking, 'had means, had motive... the inheritance, and had opportunity'. I thought it was a cut and dried case. Then I thought, why would he let the food burn?"

***

After a few days in hospital with lots of visits from Holly and Lori—usually together, a couple of visits from his dad and Ashley—usually together, and single visits from Rick, Ed, various employees and William Grose who informed him he'd read about the turn of events in the newspaper. He also got a visit from Burton, who provided an update of the case. To Tom's surprise, the fact that Gil was Ashley's father was news to him. They spent a long time entertaining each other with their sleuthing tales.

His first night home began with a meal at the Miles' home. Ed had invited Burton as well, and much to Tom's delight, he turned up with Ally. There was a lot of story swapping, laughter and amusement at Burton's stories of Lancaster's bungled raids. Some subdued empathy as discussions related to plans in the near future. Harry announced he'd decided to move back to the farm and do 'farming' properly this time. Ashley was staying in the house for a while longer before travelling. He planned to resume his teaching in the coming year.

At the end of the meal Tom awkwardly asked Lori to step out back for a private conversation. The two strolled casually between two rows of grape vines flecked with green shoots. A yellow waning moon was just rising over the rooftops.

"We've been through a lot over the last few weeks haven't we?"

"More you than me," she qualified softly.

"I just want to say thanks for everything... all your help. I mean, you took risks... and, well, you didn't have to." He was tying himself in knots. Tom tried again on a different tack.

"What would you say Lori, if I said that I like you very much and that I would like to get to know you better?"

Lori seemed to colour slightly before gathering her thoughts. She wiped her palms on the sides of her jeans and Tom hoped the action was not metaphorical. With a slightly set jaw and a quivering voice she responded, "I'd be very flattered if you said that, and I'm happy to be your friend." With considerable effort she continued, "But that is about as far as it goes."

Tom was crest-fallen. Did she have no feelings for him? Did she see him as unscrupulous? Had he hurt her in some way? His thoughts were in a tumult. Then he remembered his restraint of her when she tried to use the phone. "Listen, I'm sorry about hurting you when you tried to make that call. I'm not usually a violent man, but I was desperate. I just had to get away and work out what was happening."

Lori looked up at him, a pained expression on her face. "It's not that. I'm not judging you and I have no right to; it's more complicated than that." Lori was in emotional turmoil herself.

Suddenly the light dawned on Tom. "It's this truth thing... you don't want to compromise your faith." He saw the moisture in Lori's eyes and recognised that she was struggling to keep her composure.

He managed to smile warmly at her, realising that there was an emotional upheaval tearing her apart, and he was convinced that it was because she cared. They had formed emotional links that just couldn't easily be thwarted by mere words.

"Okay, friends..." he put his hand out to shake. Robotically she reciprocated, believing that she had somehow cancelled something she secretly yearned to begin.

She paused and then looked up hopefully, "Maybe you could come to church with me and Dad and Mum sometime?"

Tom looked into her soft brown eyes and answered softly, "Maybe."

***

Several weeks later, Holly contrived to deliver some paperwork to the Miles' home. Lori invited her in for a drink of coffee and they chatted. Lynne Miles came in to say hello and then went back to her meal preparations.

"How are you managing now?" Lori asked.

"It's all a bit weird; three lost souls in a big house. I'm trying to help out in the business and then cook for myself and two fairly distracted guys. They try and help out, but seriously it's much easier if they stay out of the way; they're not very domesticated."

"I could come and help out if you need," Lori suggested and then gave a guilty, toothy grin.

"Lori that would be lovely, though you understand you're part of the problem?"

Lori tilted her head questioningly.

Holly focussed on Lori's quizzical expression, "Tom is besotted with you. Every Sunday I think he drives up to a little church in the hills. Because, when I asked him where he goes, he told me about some people he met in a quaint country church. He also said he's looking for a friend. Though, I'm not sure what he meant by that."

Holly had warmed up now and wanted to fill her friend in on all the news. "Once he was talking about your family and he said he wanted to understand why Ed and Lori were so different."

Lori looked down coyly, feeling a warm flush of pleasure wash over her.

Holly enthusiastically continued as the bearer of all the gossip. "And Ashley is head over heels for Erin."

"Erin?"

"Erin Tallis, an environmental scientist at Clariflo. If I can work it right I might get you two to alternate cooking duties," she laughed.

After they had made arrangements for Lori to come over for dinner and bring some dessert, Holly made her way to the door.

Lori followed her and stood at the door as she stepped out. "You could have sent those papers with Tom for Dad couldn't you?"

Holly turned, smiled conspiratorially and winked.

"Bye," Holly called as she almost skipped to her car unable to disguise her obvious high spirits.

It was a surprise to Tom when Lori turned up for dinner and, even though his heart flipped a little, he managed a half-hearted reproving look at Holly. Of course she blithely ignored the look and the two girls worked in the kitchen while Ashley and Tom were in the informal lounge watching the news on television.

When an ad break came on Ashley began, "So have you asked her out?"

"Who?" Tom was being obtuse.

"Who? Lori of course."

Tom tried hard to be disinterested. "It's a bit complicated; we're sort of just good friends," he tailed off.

"Good friends!" Ashley scoffed. "I saw the way you looked at each other when Lori came in."

"Don't know what you're talking about." Tom tried to conceal a little grin sneaking onto his face.

"So, have you asked her out?"

"No."

Ashley looked at him. "You're crazy. Are you going to ask her tonight?"

"News is back on," evaded Tom.

During the meal, talk ranged from company projects, university courses and how good Lori's trifle dessert was to harking back to various episodes from Tom's fugitive days. They also discussed how the two bachelors and Holly were managing housework, division of labour and when was Lori coming back to cook?

There was huge laughter at descriptions of Ashley's first attempt at washing clothes, with some items of pastel stained whites brought out for display and a moment of poignant silence when Holly commented that everything used to be so ordered and correct and now it was a disaster zone. She felt terrible about the change in mood and in an effort to change the subject and rescue Holly from her faux pas, Lori suggested, "Why don't you take me to this new church of yours Tom?"

His mouth dropped open; he looked squarely at Holly, who quickly avoided eye contact.

Unwilling to address the question, Tom asked, "Who wants coffee, tea... we even have hot chocolate?" He quietly took the orders and went to the kitchen. Holly's eyes filled with tears and she looked down at her plate aware of Ashley and Lori's gaze. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Lori got up and went into the kitchen.

"What was all that about?"

"It's a private matter. Something I had to do. She shouldn't share things like that."

"Not even with a friend," Lori touched his arm, "I really would love to go."

Tom gazed at her. He couldn't understand what was going on. Was he too proud? After all, in some ways she and Ed were responsible for this journey of discovery he had embarked upon.

"I'd love to take you," he croaked. "Eight thirty Sunday morning."

"Eight thirty!" exclaimed Lori.

"It's a fair way," he grinned.

That Sunday Tom arrived promptly at eight thirty. He knocked at the door and heard, "Coming," and a shuffle of footsteps going past. He waited a few minutes for Lori to complete last minute adjustments to her appearance. She looked particularly attractive in a blousy, sparse floral print summer skirt and tee-shirt top and button up over shirt. When she saw him in neat blue jeans and loose over shirt she furrowed her brow.

"I'm not overdressed am I?"

"You're beautiful," he said candidly before adding tongue in cheek, "for a friend."

She gave him a little nudge. The journey was through the now familiar picturesque hill country and the large patch of mountain forest he was beginning to know well. They spoke little to begin with, commenting about the country with some appreciative observations, until eventually Lori asked a bit about what the church was like. Because he lacked the knowledge of other churches he had little to compare it to, and he wasn't sure what things she wanted described. Of course Lori was more interested in the people but Tom didn't grasp that.

He pulled into the small car park of the old stone, rural church a few minutes before nine thirty. With the engine off they were much more aware of the peaceful environment. The breeze was rustling the leaves on the tall trees. Bird song and calls sounded all around the forested dale. William Grose was there to welcome everyone as usual. Tom and Lori walked self-consciously from his Mercedes, aware of the inspection by the locals.

"Tom, good to see you again," proclaimed William heartily, "And who is this gorgeous creature?"

There were some chuckles from regulars who knew William's penchant for embarrassing all and sundry at every opportunity, in a good natured way of course.

"Ah, William this is Lori Miles."

"Well hello Lori, welcome to this little fellowship. You are no doubt the one about whom Tom speaks when he talks of a friend who encouraged him to go to church."

Lori looked up at Tom. Tom looked at William for rescue and he obliged quickly by ushering them in. The service was quite informal with a pianist playing favourites which the congregation, numbering about forty five, sang. Two teenage sisters, one playing a guitar, sang a gospel flavour song and then William preached.

His message was simple: 'Everyone has a choice about Jesus'. He explained that no-one can be forced to accept the truth. You can believe what you like—and many people do. At that point he gave some funny examples including superstitions, myths, religious sects and tenuous scientific theories. 'What makes Jesus true?' he asked. "Nothing—He is true in Himself, but see all the evidence. There are people who sincerely follow his way. There is His message of love, His example of giving and His promise of a purposeful, fulfilling life." He finished with the choice offered the two thieves. One demanded proof—wanting God to respond to his command; the other offered faith and was rewarded with a promise.

"What is your choice?" William asked as a way of finishing off his sermon. They sang a hymn and then the meeting finished with a benediction.

"Wow, I enjoyed that," breathed Lori looking up at Tom. "What did you think?"

Tom noted the joy in her expression, the sparkle in her eyes and responded, "I enjoyed it too."

Lori was looking for more. "What did you think of the message?"

"It was good," Tom teased.

William, who had wandered over, overheard the discussion and intervened.

"Tom may not have told you Lori, but I'm sure he won't mind me letting you know. He made a choice for Jesus last week."

Lori gave Tom a huge hug. "Welcome to the family," she said softly.

"I guess that means we're still friends," Tom chuckled.

"I guess it does." She hugged him again.

###
Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer?

Thanks!

Anthony van

About the author:

What does a retired teacher do? Especially a teacher with a hyperactive imagination and ingrained work habits. Well this one writes. And being a Christian, each novel I have written necessarily is pieced together from a Christian perspective.

I have a broad range of interests which include science and technology, mathematics, travel, sports and the interrelationship of people. Much of what intrigues me about people is that some pursue truth with the determination of a bloodhound while others almost ignore existential ideas and while away their short time spent on earth being distracted by pleasures or possessions or power.

Other titles by Anthony Van

The Only Thing That Counts

Dying to Live

