Wouldn’t he?
I shelved the niggling doubt as unhelpful and began to crawl up the bumpy gravel track. It didn’t go far, as it turned out, snaking around a stand of mature pines that hid it from the road before exiting onto a small clearing where it ended at a large wooden gate with an old Department of ConservationTrack Closedsign nailed to the top bar. The Honda was parked to the side of the gate, but there was no sign of Austin.
Rather than risk crossing the clearing in full view of anyone watching, I steered the rental car off the gravel and bumped my way over thick roots and sucking mud to park behind a couple of pine trees. It was the best I could do. With the engine off, I sat for a moment and scanned the clearing once again.
Silence hung over the bush except for the sweet call of a tui somewhere to my right. The stillness made my skin crawl and my pulse quicken. I pocketed the key fob but left the car unlocked in case I needed to make a quick exit. Then I threw some old tree ferns over the roof in a loose attempt at camouflage, which turned out better than expected if you ignored the ominous sound of scratching paintwork.
Satisfied with the result, I followed the edge of the clearing around to the gate. A large wooden board sporting a map of the trail hung askew from a single nail with anotherTrackClosedsticker plastered across its face. A handwritten addendum in faded marker pen readBridge collapse. Track impassable.Use Holbrook Crossing as an alternative.
Angling my head to better read the grubby map, it seemed this particular track had been part of a series of connected trails that formed a much longer multi-day route. There were several huts marked along the way, including one not far from the gate.
I studied the beginning of the trail on the other side of the gate. Overgrown and barely passable, I doubted if many people had passed this way in years. The bridge was only a kilometre or so in, not much of an afternoon hike if you couldn’t cross it.
I drew a deep breath and scouted the clearing again. It had likely been a car park for hikers at some point when the track was open but no longer.
So why was Austin here? I had a pretty good idea, but standing at the gate wasn’t going to answer the question, for sure.
I looked from the Honda to the track, unable to shake the guilt gnawing at my conscience.
Promise me you’ll be careful.
I was pretty damn sure Mads wouldn’t consider what I was about to do in keeping with the spirit of that promise, but Austin had come to this godforsaken place for a reason. Given that I couldn’t shake the feeling it was because he had my mother stashed somewhere in there, the only way I was going to find out was to follow him in.
And if what I suspected was true, Austin Pattinson was going to regret the day he’d ever been born.
I sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly. “Well, babe, you did say I had great instincts. Let’s hope you’re right about that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NICK
I slippedthe hook from the chain and shoved the gate open enough to pass. Having dropped from its hinges, it moved awkwardly, the loud creak of wood like a gunshot in the quiet, sending my heart into overdrive. I slipped through and left it open.
Fresh boot prints scored the mud at the beginning of the track—gumboots, if I had to guess. I glanced down at my leather boots and sighed. Slim chance they’d be making it back to Auckland at this rate.
The narrow trail was hemmed in on both sides by advancing scrub. No dappled sunlit forest floors in this country. New Zealand bush was often dark, thick, confusing, and difficult to navigate. Stray too far from the soggy trail and I could easily find myself the one needing rescuing. I thought of the search coordinator’s warning and almost laughed. Lord help me if I got myself into a pickle on Glen’s watch.
Picking my way along the edge of the track where the footing was firmer, the lighter feeling of the clearing was quickly subsumed by the bleak aura of damp bush—dull greens andmuddy greys. We might’ve been above the fog line itself, but a damp dreariness clung to the foliage, the dim light sucking everything vibrant from the palette.
My gaze flicked between watching my feet and keeping my eyes on the trail ahead and I couldn’t have been more than a hundred metres from the gate when Austin’s sharp voice brought me to an abrupt halt.
“Open your mouth.”
I darted behind a sizeable ponga and dropped to my knees, peeking through the fronds. Nothing stood out, just bush and more bush. Looking ahead, Austin’s boot prints veered off the track and to the right.
I crept forward, following his prints up a short incline where a small derelict hut was in the process of being reclaimed by the bush. I recognised the type. In better times it would’ve welcomed hikers or hunters—a one-room weatherproof shelter to spend a few hours or even overnight on a multi-day hike. But those days were long gone. Lichens and spongy moss clung to its walls with clusters of mushrooms and bright red toadstools adding the only relief. Ferns pushed through its rotting deck, the veranda roof supported by a single upright, the far corner sagging under years of rotting leaf drop. And hanging over it all, the unmistakeable stench of decay.
Austin’s voice continued—a low hum coming from inside the hut. My heart leaped into my throat thinking it had to be Chloe he was talking to. It was the only thing that made sense. I considered the ramshackle building and the freezing temperatures and knew Austin would be bloody lucky if I didn’t kill him where he stood for holding my mother in such appalling conditions.
A single window glowed dull yellow next to the closed door on the rotting deck. I crept forward, flattening myself against the side wall, the cold damp seeping into my jacket as I put my ear tothe wood. But Austin had fallen quiet bar the sound of a chair or maybe a table scraping over the floorboard.
I made it to the deck, took a long look at the broken boards and rotting joists, and gambled it would hold my weight. It had to. A small creak on the first step froze me in place, but the hut remained quiet. I picked my way across the damaged boards to the wall beside the window. I drew a slow breath, counted to five, and peeked around the frame.
The tiny hut was a one-room affair with a set of wire-sprung bunkbeds loaded with newspapers and rubbish on the far wall. A dilapidated countertop and filthy sink sat on the other side of the window, an old stone hearth took up most of one side wall, empty shelves and a broken cupboard lined the other. And just visible, on the side of the door, a collapsible stretcher rested on its side.
But it was the middle of the room that held my attention. Because there, sitting side-on to the door, wearing disposable gloves and chowing down on a sandwich, was Austin, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. To his right, a small wooden table held an open duffle bag, a battery lantern, some papers, and two medication bottles.
Valium, no doubt. The Valium that Chloe had supposedly taken before going missing. The Valium that Austin was so sure he’d cleared from the house. The Valium that could act as a cover for so many, many things when Chloe was finally found.
