At that end of the car park, almost touching the fence, was a small roofed shelter. One side of this structure featured a laminated map of the various walking routes fastened with brass tacks to the wooden wall; the opposite wall was lined with a rack of fire brushes - the old broom style - made by tied twigs. This feature always freaked the child within Jen out a little. Even now, at the age of forty-three, she clearly remembered seeing them as young girl when her parents had taken the family for fresh air and summer picnics. She recalled stepping out of her father’s stifling car into the bustling excitement of the National Park, where she would creep up on whirring crickets, and chase butterflies in the dappled light. When she had asked her older sister what the shelters were, she had told Jen in a conspiratorial whisper the ragged structures were where desert witches would park their brooms, before creeping amongst the boulders to gather snakes and lizards, or, if they were lucky, lost children.

After that, Jen would only go into the park if she held her mother’s hand, and picnics became more about scanning the shadows beneath the trees than enjoying the food. Thankfully, the fear of dark witches dissolved as she grew older, and it was not until Jen bought the retired police dog from the shelter and began frequenting the park again she even thought about it.

As an adult, Jen had rediscovered the pleasure of the wild outdoors as part of her recovery. After spending ten years in a miserable marriage, in a claustrophobic little house, she had somehow found the strength to get divorced, and take back her life. The anti-depressants she had swallowed nightly during her marriage were poured down the sink and replaced with early morning walks, carrot juice, and fifteen minutes of nightly meditation. Whether it was being rid of her sulky husband, or simply her new routine, Jen had felt less anxious and much happier than she had in months, possibly even years.

Usually, she loved starting her day with fresh air and a bit of easy exercise. However, today, the woods felt different somehow. Perhaps it was simply quieter than usual.

‘Ra, come on boy!’ she called again.

There was an excited bark from somewhere nearby. Jen turned around to see the big dog leaping through the long needle grass, like a dolphin breaking through a yellow sea.

‘Come on, you silly big mutt,’ Jen laughed.

At a point about ten metres along the path, Rasputin burst out of the undergrowth. Jen felt her shoulders slump with relief. The dog looked towards her, and began to excitedly wag his tail from side-to-side. Still, he did not move towards her, so Jen called again.

‘Come on, Ra, come on,’ she called, and patted her leg.

In response to this, the big dog came running excitedly along the path towards her. As he grew nearer, something bizarre caught Jen’s eye. At first glance, she thought the limp grey object dangling from Rasputin’s mouth was a glove or perhaps a Halloween prop, but then, he reached her, and dropped the object at her feet.

The bitter sweet stink of decay from the mottled hand caused Jen to instinctively turn away towards the undergrowth and retch. She waved a flapping hand back towards the dog, who promptly picked up the hand again, then dropped it even closer to her. Jen moaned again, and forced her eyes away from it. Rasputin, who believed his mistress was pleased, barked excitedly, and rushed back into the undergrowth to retrieve the rest of the body parts.

17

Vicki exited the cab, and slung her bag over her shoulder. The last couple of days had taken its toll on her, but she wasn’t ready to give up just yet. If anything, the trip to Barstow had given her a new resolve to uncover the truth. However cathartic it had been, her tantrum outside the diner had been the quickest way she could retrieve the SATA hard drive from the laptop. As she had cleaned up the debris from the street, she had slipped the thin metal case into her bag. If she had in any way believed Laurie was alive, Vicki would not have been so destructive with her property. As it was, she had no doubt of the tragic nature of her friend’s absence.

The initial shock and pain of Laurie going missing had strangely been put on pause, replaced by frustration and a burning commitment to find out the truth. Leighton’s dismissive attitude was only a blip. Vicki knew she had the technical expertise to investigate what happened herself. Now she had the hard drive, she would be able to locate the precise cluster and host of the bus website. More importantly, she could run a bloodhound programme to tear through any encryption, and discover the name of the web author who maintained the site.

As she struggled to turn her key in the lock, she could hear the telephone ringing from the other side of the door. Fumbling, she opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it with her foot. She then punched a four-digit code into a small touchpad panel in the hallway.

The phone continued ringing insistently, until Vicki stumbled towards it, and picked up the handset.

‘Hello?’ she panted.

‘Victoria. It’s your mother.’

‘Hi, sorry, I was just getting through the door.’

‘Are you sitting down yet?’

‘Why?’ Vicki felt a sudden rush of adrenaline flood her body.

‘I have some rather unpleasant news for you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Your father’s dead,’ her mother said.

Vicki felt the ground soften then melt beneath her feet. ‘What did you say?’ she asked quietly.

‘He was found this morning.’

‘What happened?’ Vicki was speaking, but she was not thinking about anything; all her thoughts had simply stopped.

‘Apparently, he had taken to gathering herbs from around the cabin, and infusing his own tea. We won’t know for certain until the toxicology report is completed, but it looks like he included belladonna amongst his mint and nettles.’

‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes, honey, he’s dead. I’m sorry.’

Vicki’s mother continued speaking, twittering on indifferently about the lack of funeral plans, but her daughter had slipped silently on to the floor. She let the telephone fall from her hand. Her mind was consumed by a distant memory from the first summer they had moved to Oceanside. Back then, her mother was already perpetually lost to her career. Her father, who perhaps in some cosmic way sensed his limited time, was more content to collect his daughter from kindergarten, and spend afternoons on the beach digging for treasure with plastic spades and wooden spoons. Now, two decades later, Vicki sat - half a kilometre from the spot where she and her father had gathered shells and followed in each other’s footsteps spiralling around the sand - and wept.

Her father was lost to eternity.

18

On the afternoon Leighton had returned from Barstow, he stopped in at the police station. The place was busy following a botched robbery of a jeweller’s shop, so Leighton had left a message for dispatch with Lenny at reception. He heard nothing back for two days, and consequently assumed he was now of little significance to the people in the station.

Leighton had been frying off some chopped garlic, with cubes of pancetta, to make a pasta sauce, listening to a hissing Rolling Stones vinyl album on his stereo, when he heard the dull buzz of the doorbell, one evening. He turned off the gas, turned down the music, and walked through the apartment to the front door.

Wiping his hands on a tea towel, he partly hoped to find Vicki standing there. Despite the fact he was wrong, he did find a familiar figure standing on the doorstep.