‘Bugger,’ Dave said as he felt another stick dig into his calf. He stopped and pushed hard on the spot with his finger to stop the bleeding. Grabbing the GPS off his belt, he looked to see how far away from the car he was: 3.3 kilometres.
As he looked around, a glint caught his eye. He swung back to have another look. There was something shiny to his left. Forgetting about his calf, he walked with a sense of urgency towards it.
Breaking out into a clearing, he saw what had caught his eye. It was a bunch of faded plastic flowers set on top of a wooden cross.
Dave’s breath caught in his throat. Two graves were enclosed by a low rusted iron fence, about knee high. Goosebumps spread across his skin as he read the hand-carved plaque.
Our children lie in these graves. Victims of a life which has stolen ours. Twins Kenneth and Pammy Tucker lie together as they were born and died, aged four, taken in a mining accident.
Kelly Tucker, aged eighteen months, taken by a snakebite.
Tim and Marianne Tucker
Dave shivered and looked around. Three children, taken in tragic accidents, lying here in forgotten graves, watched over only by the birds and the wind.
Back in the car, Dave thought about Tim, out in the middle of the bush, living a life by himself, after having lost his children. He wondered about Marianne and where she was. Surely if she were dead, she’d be buried with her children. Maybe the grief had got too much for her and she’d moved away. Gone to live in a town, or anywhere else, to get away from the life which had taken her kids.
He must have been on Tim Tucker’s land while he was looking at the graves, so he got out his map and tried to work out where Tim’s hut would be in relation to them. It must be about two and half kilometres away. A long way.
The sun was high in the sky now and Dave realised he didn’t have much time left before he’d have to start heading back to Barrabine. He supposed he could always stay out another night, but he didn’t have any way of letting Melinda know and he was a little concerned about how tired she’d been.
Driving as fast as the road allowed, he followed the last track he noticed, which looked like it led to a dead end. He was keen to check it out; it might be a good spot to dump a car. The track obviously hadn’t been used a lot and there were tree branches growing over it. Some of the branches had been broken off, suggesting someone had driven a vehicle down here. Dave stopped and looked at the snapped branches, wondering how long ago they’d been broken. The leaves were beginning to wilt but weren’t yet completely dead and dry, so it would have to be at least a couple of weeks. A simmering excitement started in his chest.
Grabbing the camera, he snapped a few shots of the broken branches then started to walk, following the track. About one hundred metres in, he turned to look back. He couldn’t see his vehicle—it was if the bush had closed in around him and hidden him from the world.
He kept walking, taking in everything, stopping occasionally to take photos. The trail was easy to follow because the broken branches led him deeper into the bush like they were a Hansel and Gretel trail of crumbs.
Then suddenly there it was. The white four-wheel drive. Parked beneath a tree. The numberplate was the one he’d memorised and instantly Dave knew he’d found the secret world of Glen Bartlett.
He took shots of the car in situ—complete with the leaves which had fallen onto the windscreen and now sat there, piled up. The birds had found it a useful perch, if the amount of shit on the roof was anything to go by, and there were clear dog tracks around the vehicle as if they’d circled it, trying to work out if it was prey or not.
With gloved hands, he opened the driver’s side door and looked inside.
Nothing remarkable caught his eye. It looked like a hire car that had recently been picked up from the carpark. Clean and tidy. Dave noticed there were a few areas where dirt had been picked up on Glen’s shoes and brought into the car. He snapped some pictures, wondering if the dirt could be analysed; it might help them track his movements, understand the places he’d been visiting.
He flicked open the glove box. Only the manual and copies of the hire agreement. Dave checked the starting kilometres against the kilometres on the speedo. Only three hundred. Nothing too substantial.
In the back of the car he noted a takeaway wrapper, The West newspaper and a map. He brought the map out and unfolded it on the bonnet, his heart in his mouth. Finding Barrabine, he looked for anything that might indicate where Glen had been visiting. Noting the worn crease lines, he folded the map back to them and looked at the section it showed, hoping for more clues as to where he’d been.
Oakamanda was in the middle of the square and around it were black dots, indicating all the different leases, but there was no handwriting, no markings to give a suggestion as to where he’d been.
Grabbing the newspaper, he looked at the date. Five months ago. That gave Dave pause. Why would he have a newspaper five months old? He flicked through the first few pages and couldn’t see anything to do with either Barrabine or mining.
Frustrated, Dave let out a loud sigh and ran his hands over his head. Putting the map
