“Let’s get out of the truck and run,” Lilly says but her voice is lacking conviction. She knows it’s futile. We all do. The timing of their arrival is cunning. Fifteen more minutes and they would’ve missed us. We would’ve been on the highway to Haast and from there on our way to Christchurch and freedom.
A cop I haven’t seen before and the redheaded policewoman Maddie recognized leave the car and march toward Scott’s truck. The cop is adjusting his belt with a pistol peeking out of a holster.
“Mrs. Reid, please step out of the car. You are arrested for the murder of Patrick Armstrong and Heather Millhouse.”
He said more, but I didn’t hear what it was. My head is buzzing with the all-familiar choir that drowns out everything else. It’s comforting to have the sounds of the Tribe filling my head again. At least, I know I’m not alone.
I do what he says and let the redhead cuff my hands. The big smirk on her face makes my blood boil. I was never prone to violence, but right now I would’ve given everything for a skillet to flatten her face. I’m sure it would deeply satisfy me. She shoves me toward the police car and pushes me into the backseat.
“Hey, stop. But. What…” Scott reaches for me.
The officer interrupts Scott.
“Don’t worry, we have it under control. Thanks for your help.”
He swings behind the wheel and we take off. Before we round the corner, I take a last glance at Scott standing in front of his house. In the past weeks, I came to consider him a friend, someone I can turn to when I need help. But he turns out to be nothing other than a rabbit-killing, gun slinging traitor and a cheater.
“Thanks for your help,” the cop said to him. Thanks for your help.
Those four words ricochet inside my head from one corner of my mind to another, like the little silver ball in a pinball machine. Cling, cling, cling. Thanks for your help. Only it doesn’t want to fall into the bottom slot and disappear. It keeps going around and around.
He betrayed me. Thanks for your help. That’s the long and the short. I got it wrong. I let his sad story of wife and child perishing color my common sense. I’m a fool, a stupid, stupid, gullible fool.
A sick weight settles in my stomach. He betrayed us. Scott turning on us is even worse than being taken away by the police. I can’t stand the lack of commentary from Sky and Lilly. Why are they not saying something? Anything? At least they could shout at me or give me a lecture of how wrong I’ve been judging Scott’s character, especially Lilly who had warmed up to him. Please, talk. Anything is better than nothing.
I never would have thought I’d beg the parts inside me to talk to me.
This would be a good time to do so.
Nothing.
Only the indistinguishable hum of chatter remains like the background music of a B-grade movie.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lilly: 4 December 2015, Early Evening, In The Police Car
I feel sorry for Elise. She doesn’t know that when the shit hits the fan, most of us go to ground. That means we disappear. Not that we want to, it just happens. Is it a habit or an inbuilt mechanism? I don’t know. I wish she would stop with the mea culpa rubbish. She may have the ability to see into a person’s character, but it’s just as much our fault as hers.
We were desperate to trust someone.
I guess, after escaping from under the reign of Helen and Horace, we thought we’d met a wholesome and decent man. No use crying over it, no matter how deep it cuts. We don’t have the luxury of having a long pity-party. My time is better spent searching for a way out of this dilemma.
I have fantasies of pushing open the backdoor and rolling out of the moving car, as you see on TV, but the moment I move towards the door, the red witch turns around and squints at me. Blimey, it’s as if she can read my thoughts. Or did I speak out loud?
They whisper in the front and send meaningful glances to each other, like adolescent school kids on the backbenches planning a secret rendezvous. How disappointing. I expected more from my first ride in a police car. There is no blaring from the police radio, no sirens are howling, not even the rooftop lights are flashing. I should be worth at least some rooftop flashing lights. I feel short-changed.
I hope the crime they are accusing us of is severe enough to send us to a larger police station in Queenstown or Christchurch. The local police are corrupt; I trust them as far as I could throw our loom after I saw the red witch setting us up by planting a gun. All is not lost as long as they send us on.
When we get to the highway, they turn left rather than right. What the…?
“Hey, you took a wrong turn. Port Somers is the other way.”
I might have saved my breath; they don’t even grace me with a response. What if they plan to dump us in one of the deserted canyons of which there are hundreds along the coast? I’m relieved when we turn into a driveway and, minutes later, stop in front of a farmhouse. The red witch pulls me out of the car and her colleague rushes to the farmhouse and knocks at the door. When the door opens, my mouth falls open. I’m not sure what I expected but certainly not this.
“Good evening, Elizabeth. I’m glad we find you unharmed and well.”
I stumble back and slam into the front of the red witch. This is impossible.
“Helen?”
“How wonderful, you are still sane enough to recognize me. Bring her in, Clara, we have a few minutes.”
So, Clara was the red witch’s name. They steer me
