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  Beneath it, also flawless, the words… love from Alice.

  Alice?

  Alice who?

  “Happy birthday, Cordy-Bear,” she said.

  Happy birthday?

  At once, I recalled similar envelopes with similar inscriptions, ones I would find every year beneath my pillow. Inside would reveal the most striking cards, each meticulously handcrafted, each creation unique, with perfectly quilled flowers and satin bows and clever pop-out surprises.

  “It’s not my birthday,” I whispered, the same words I whispered every year.

  Her only answer was a kindly smile. So many questions sprang to mind. But for now, they seemed unimportant. For now, it seemed as if time had stopped still just for us.

  Until…

  Her eyebrows arched unexpectedly, her widened eyes shot over my shoulder. I began to swing around but her surprisingly strong hand whipped hard against my chest instantly unbalancing me. I fell sideways, seizing several branches of a nearby bush. As I tried righting myself, I heard it.

  The crack.

  Ripping the air.

  What followed was unclear, erratic. Yet several impressions stayed strong.

  Of me automatically swinging to the sound’s direction, discovering nothing. Of the sensation of sticky patches sprayed upon my already bristly skin. Of the woman’s startled face frozen into something horribly twisted.

  My muscles began jellifying, my heart pounded erratically. And a knot of strong, undiluted fear rocketed from deep within. With unblinking eyes, I looked down to the woman’s hands. They were grasping her chest, the white of her shirt crumpled in her small fists. A circle of red had formed and was rapidly spreading across her shirt.

  She looked down once and then returned her glassy, terrified eyes to me. “I’m sorry... so, so sorry,” she choked. Blood burst in broken bubbles from her mouth as her body began to slowly fold.

  I instinctively reached forward to stop her from falling. But it was too late. She crumpled to the ground. Piercing screams shattered the silence.

  It took me a good fifteen seconds to realize that those screams were my own.

  Chapter 4

  Araneya Estate

  1987

  THE LITTLE GIRL finished counting to ten and removed her fingers from her face. “I’m coming,” she chimed, her voice sounding like a thousand crystals colliding in the breeze. Delight crinkled her pretty face; her smile was as large as the sprawling gardens surrounding her.

  Her joyous eyes danced from side to side, eagerly searching which way to go. Ahead of her was an enormous, old fountain expelling water from numerous fine jets. Nearby, two marble lions guarded the structure. Granite pathways snaked from the fountain’s corners until they vanished into hidden twists and profuse vegetation.

  The girl ran to the fountain, first stopping at one of the lions looming menacingly over her. She wasn’t afraid of it. She was used to its snarling glare and its threatening jaw. She grabbed hold of one its sun-warmed paws and swung around to the back of it.

  “Boo,” she shrieked, but there was no one there. She repeated the same performance with the other lion, and as before, the space was empty. She jumped up and down clapping her hands, the long waves of her hair bouncing in rhythm to her jumps. “Where are you?”

  No answer.

  She proceeded to skip around the fountain, pausing to watch one of the jets streaming water high into the sky. She raised her small head in an attempt to see its tip but instead, the cruel, summer sun blinded her. Rubbing her eyes, she waited for her sight to return and then pranced down one of the pathways. In playful rhythms, she leapt behind every bush, every garden ornament that crossed her way, seeking the hidden. In time she did, a tiny woman sitting behind a solid, stone statue of an angel.

  “There you are,” the girl sang with much satisfaction. “I told you I could find you.”

  “You should always know I’d be here, little one,” the woman said, twisting her long golden plait around her fingers.

  “Why?” she asked in her sweetest tone.

  “Because it’s the guardian angel, and that’s who I am.” The woman moved aside, revealing a gift-wrapped package resting on an old, weathered bench. “Happy birthday, little one.”

  The girl shrieked. She raced to the package; her fingers impatiently worked at its wrapping. And when completed, there, amongst the fragments of the ripped and crumpled paper, lay an adorable rag doll. It had huge eyes and long hair just like hers, and remarkably in the same color. It wore a blue and white dress, edged in lace just like her favorite dress.

  She hastily picked it up and bundled it lovingly into her neck. “Dolly,” she whispered. She then wrapped one arm around the woman. “Thank you, Alice, thank you,” she said, with her child-like sincerity. “I love you so much… so very much.”

  “I know, little one, and I love you too.”

  And Alice meant every word.

  Chapter 5

  Saul

  December 12, 2010

  3:35 pm

  SAUL REARDON LEANED against his office desk.

  It was large, curved and handcrafted from solid mahogany. On its dark leather inlay lay the basics, an ACER laptop, a white, slimline lamp and a black, multifunctional printer. An out of place snow globe titled The Magic Forest rested to the left of a cylindrical container of sharpened pencils.

  A man, fortyish, thickset with a bushy beard and brows to match, stood across from Reardon, nervously wringing a shabby-looking cap in his large hands. His face was tanned and heavily lined.

  “I don’t know what to say, Jacko,” Reardon said, staring at the small, unopened gift in his hands. And he didn’t. Jacko could barely afford the family’s next dinner, let alone whatever was inside the parcel.

  “We knows yer don’t want no money and all, but well… what yer did for us….” Jacko shrugged and dropped his head.

  Reardon looked up, felt something decent stir inside of him. He stepped forward and calmly rested his hand on Jacko’s rounded shoulder. “I was happy to do it.”

  Jacko blinked away the rising moisture in his eyes. “Yer such a selfless man.”

  Was he? Reardon wasn’t so sure.

  “Aint seen the likes of it before, well… not the ways I’s lived. Yer don’t seems to care who we are but if there aint no-one else who can help, yer just do.”

  A penance I inflicted upon myself years ago, Jacko. And Reardon recoiled at the thought.

  “And yer wants nothin’ in return.”

  Just your loyalty.

  “Just our loyalty.”

  Reardon smiled.

  “And me loyalty is there for yer anytime.” He let out a deep, throaty cough and nodded at the parcel. “Anyways, open it.”

  Reardon began stripping off the speckled gift-wrapping. It was a little tattered, wrinkly, sections of it marked by old, yellowed sticky tape. A blue pre-loved bow balanced on the top. Pieces fell with a soft whoosh onto the marble floor. What remained was a photo, framed in white cardboard with roughly colored crimson hearts.

  “Ellie wanted yer to have that, to remind yer of how yer helped save her.”

  Ellie was Jacko’s seven-year-old daughter. The photo was of her. She was leaning over a small table with a red crayon in her hand. Blonde curls framed her chubby-cheeked face, her fringe pulled back by a pair of bright purple baubles. Her smile was wide and unmistakably happy. But her eyes dominated all else. They were the most remarkable blue, glassy like, yet so full of warmth.

  Much like Issie’s.

  Much like yours, Reardon could hear his mother say.

  “She made it herself, even wrote them words,” Jacko said with a burly swell of his chest.

  Heading the frame, in childish scrawl was – I won’t forget you ever.

  Reardon’s breath was sharp; it almost hurt. I won’t forget you either… ever. “How’s she doing?”

  “Real good, real good. She’s movin’ around real fine now; she can’t wait to shows yer.”


  “I can’t wait to see it.” He pictured a very frightened, very damaged Ellie of eight weeks ago. He clenched his jaw tightly, felt a deep-rooted anger re-ignite. He looked across at Jacko and said as fiercely as he could, “Those men will never bother you or your family again.”

  “I believes yer.” Jacko’s tone was just as fierce.

  Reardon nodded and then shot a look at his left hand. There were three, deeply embedded scars on his palm, one crossing the other two, creating the symbol Ѝ. His chest tightened.

  Disturbing images of another set of men quickly infested his head. As did the hauntingly terrified faces of their seven innocent victims. Victims misguided by their trust in Reardon. He visualized the day when he would finally hunt the bastards down. And his chest loosened just a little.

  Patience, Saul, he would hear his mentor say. Let it guide you.

  He had been patient for six years now. Six long years of following one lead or another. But as initially promising as those leads were, the results were always the same.

  Nothing.

  We will find them, Saul.

  He had to believe it. Closure, at least for the children, at least for his Issie, that’s all he wanted.

  I love you, Daddy.

  I love you too, sweetheart.

  “Yer okay, Mr. Reardon?”

  Reardon snapped back to the present and again lifted the photo of Ellie. “Just a little overwhelmed.”

  Jacko smiled and before long, he left.

  ***

  Reardon strode towards his bookshelf.

  It lined one of the room’s nine-foot walls and housed a wealth of his passions. He searched for a particular book titled The Road Less Traveled - a special gift from his mentor. When he found it, he carefully placed Ellie’s photo before it.

  He ran his hand over his hair, messing it further, then headed to the bar where a semi-filled coffee maker sat bubbling on a white stone bench top. The heady aroma of the coffee was enticing. But Reardon reached for the bourbon instead. He filled a short glass deciding against his usual ice.

  On the way back to his desk, he paused at a chess game still in progress, centered on a low marble coffee table. Beside it lay a current issue of Business Weekly. He grinned at the game. At present, he was winning.

  He slumped into his chair, stretched out his long legs and took a slow swig of his bourbon. It was warm, smooth and slid down his throat like virgin honey. He then leaned forward, clicked his laptop to life and stared at the name heading the documented page.

  Claudia Cabriati.

  Reardon rubbed his brow, felt his fingers press hard against his skin. Someone had to be messing with him. Right?

  Either that or this was one bloody coincidence.

  The office door flew open causing Reardon to shoot a look over his shoulder.

  Ethan Sloane entered, swinging a well-used cricket bat and whistling an upbeat version of ‘We Are the Champions.’ He shoved the door closed with an easy back kick, tossed the bat onto one of the sofas, and then strode directly towards the bar.

  After grabbing a beer, he yanked a rubber cooler from the pocket of his cricket whites, thrust the beer into it and himself onto the other sofa. Its leather fabric whooshed under his muscled weight. With little effort, he twisted the cap from his beer, aimed it towards the sink and threw. It landed with a tinny clatter.

  Ethan grinned broadly and took a long scull of his ale.

  “I take it the game went well,” Reardon said, returning to several small piles of printouts. He stapled one last batch together and placed the stapler back in its drawer.

  “Certainly did. You should’ve seen me, mate. Smashed a six right over the fence. Bloody brilliant, if I say so myself.”

  “Really?” Reardon’s chair squealed as he swiveled to face his friend. Ethan was now lying horizontally, his unblemished socked feet crossed on the bottom armrest. His adidas joggers were scattered randomly on the floor. “With my lucky bat.”

  Ethan feigned outrage. “Mate, luck had nothing to do with it. It was skill. Pure Sloane skill. Man, I was like an art form! The flawless foot movements, the seamless swing of the arms, the cracking connection of bat to ball and then the ultimate follow through.” Ethan shook his head and let out a long, relaxed sigh.

  “Sounds quite the picture. I guess the only question left is, which female did it impress and what time are you picking her up?”

  Ethan arched one eyebrow. “For someone with your mathematical capabilities, I hate to tell you that’s two questions. But seven thirty, actually. A pretty little number named Cherisse.”

  Reardon crossed his arms and grinned.

  “You know you could come. A small group of us are meeting at The Local.” Ethan shrugged his broad shoulders. “After that who knows? The chicks would really dig that posh London twang of yours. Naturally, I’d have to rip them off me first, but hey, what are good friends for?”

  For a moment, Reardon considered Ethan. He was almost as tall as Reardon, well over six feet and displayed all the rewards of someone who worked out tirelessly. Along with his supposed boyish charm, it made him a very resourceful person to have around.

  Get yourself a good wingman, his mentor had once said. And Reardon had. One that, in time, had become more than some selected sidekick.

  He and Ethan were like brothers.

  As for Ethan’s invitation? Reardon’s silence was the only answer Ethan needed.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” Reardon said. He handed Ethan the detailed printouts on Claudia Cabriati.

  “What’s this?”

  “Read it, tell me what you think.” Leaning back in his chair, Reardon stole a few, short moments to take in his favorite spot in the house. It faced two enormous double-glazed doors that clearly revealed the panoramic splendor of Queensland’s Blackall Ranges. Reardon worshipped the Blackall Ranges. Here, he could think forever.

  “You want to help this woman?” Ethan sounded puzzled. “Why? She’s not your thing.”

  Ethan was right, she wasn’t. Years ago, Reardon had made a pact. That pact included a prescribed set of people he would help - as Jacko had said - only those who had no one else. Cabriati didn’t fit that description, not in the slightest.

  One of Cabriati’s many supports was Melanie Lloyd. She had rung Reardon earlier that day.

  “I’m told you can definitely help her,” she says in a noticeably strong, expectant tone. “Claudia’s already been through enough.”

  Reardon is well aware of Cabriati’s sorrowful past. “Mrs. Lloyd…,” he begins.

  “Don’t go ‘Mrs. Lloyding’ me,” she interrupts. “I’m not an old woman yet. Mel is just fine.”

  Reardon smiles. He has a good feeling he is going to like this woman. “Mel, I will say what I say to everyone. I can help her but she has got to want that help herself.”

  “Of course, she wants it.” Mel speaks as one addressing a fool.

  But Reardon is no fool. “4pm tomorrow then.”

  She rings off shortly after.

  Reardon sighed, then passed Ethan a printed photo of Cabriati. “Let’s just call it a feeling.”

  Ethan’s reaction was immediate. “Whoa! A feeling? Man, I could guess where you’re having that feeling! She’s one hot….”

  “That’s not the reason.” Reardon noted his slightly defensive voice.

  Ethan analyzed the photo with more interest. “I’ve seen this woman before.”

  He had?

  “At The Local, just over a week ago.” Ethan paused and then, “Yep, it was definitely her. She was drinking with a friend.” A wicked smile spread across his face. “I was trying to get her attention; she’s a looker all right.”

  “And you refrained?”

  “Know when they aren’t interested, mate, and she clearly wasn’t.”

  “What? That virtuous charisma of yours actually hit a snag?”

  Ethan jumped up, threw the bottle into a large metal bin and strode over to the fridge. “It’s a rarity, b
ut it’s been known to happen.”

  Reardon chuckled. “That in itself is enough for me to meet her. Maybe even award her with a medal of fortitude.”

  Ethan yanked out another beer and threw Reardon what appeared to be a rather derisory glare. “You’re bloody hysterical, mate.” He flopped back onto the sofa. “But it just might interest you to know, that someone else was watching her.”

  Reardon was definitely interested.

  “Someone further indoors, in one of those poorly lit sections.”

  “Description?”

  “Not much of one; too hard to make out the face. He had the hood of his jacket pulled over his head and wore large shades. At first, I thought it was some kid trying to look cool. Who else would be wearing a jacket in this ridiculous heat?”

  If it was to hide his identity, was it for Cabriati’s benefit or for someone else’s? “What made you think it was a he?”

  “Instincts, mate.” He grinned a roguish grin that visibly said, I know a female when I see one, disguised or otherwise.

  Ethan tapped the photo. “This woman got up to go to the bar and the guy dropped his shades, watched her every movement. Several men glanced at her. But this? This was completely different. Whoever he was, kept a strong fix on her all the way back to the deck. I managed to catch this woman’s eye, and tried to direct her attention to him.”

  “And did she?”

  Ethan shrugged. “She looked in his direction a few times, but nothing. I assumed she either failed to see him, or just wasn’t concerned about him. Whatever, she returned to her table. When I looked back, the guy had done a runner. It was all pretty strange.”

  “So you got to see his face.”

  “When he dropped the shades? Only partially.”

  “Recognize him if you ever saw him again?

  “Maybe, don’t know.” Ethan threw the photo onto the table. Noticing their chess game, he leaned forward to study it more closely. “How did this Cabriati chick find out about you?”