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  Heads swivelled.

  Standing there, resplendent in her cherry-red point-to-point jacket, ruffled white shirt at her throat and skintight tan corduroy pants, was Stephanie Petrakos. The clatter was her riding crop hitting the deck. She had a hand over her mouth, and there was an expression of uncontainable terror on her face as she looked at her battered and bleeding husband, the bloody mess on the billiard table, the opened strongroom, the three hooded and armed intruders who had violated her home.

  Stephanie screamed—hard. And Stephanie was a top-ofthe-range screamer. It had been a big part of her acting repertoire.

  Simultaneously, three guns turned in her direction.

  2

  September 2003

  Contrary to widespread belief, the Victorian gold-mining township of Buzzards Hut is not named after the bird, which is not found anywhere in Australia. The real story is that in 1857 a Scottish prospector named Samuel Buzzard, together with his younger brother William, made the hazardous 130-mile cross-country journey from Melbourne with three mules and a horse, camping en route in wild bush country and eventually settling in this remote, mountainous location. According to Samuel’s journal, along the way William was bitten by a snake, there were encounters with spear-carrying savages, and Samuel himself suffered exposure and hypothermia from the ceaseless rain and freezing conditions they had to endure—and for which they were less than prepared. It didn’t help that they’d made the journey in midwinter, but when the cry ‘Gold!’ goes out, no-one seems to care what time of year it is. Neither Buzzard had any knowledge or experience of the wilderness—they had soft hands; they’d worked at the family manchester business in the city. Samuel and William were more at home handling bolts of imported cloth, on the tennis court or at the seaside in Sorrento than hacking through bush, dragging recalcitrant animals and heavy equipment up muddy slopes, pitching tents in dense, inhospitable forests and shivering all night under too-thin blankets. When, towards the end of their journey, they hit a serious snowstorm, the brothers said their prayers and prepared to perish.

  Miraculously they survived,then prospered when they finally arrived at a level, grassy tract of high country nestling among snow-capped hills. A fast-flowing river—the Goulburn—ran through it; there were dozens of tent-dwelling prospectors scattered around, and some had found good-sized nuggets panning or working the quartz-rich terrain with picks and shovels. In time the Buzzards built a stringybark and mudbrick shanty, then when the alluvial gold ran out they returned to Melbourne,purchased more equipment and animals and returned to the place that was now known as Buzzards Hut. That was when they began deep-sinking, gouging shafts hundreds of feet down with pneumatic drills and establishing the Number One Sarah mine, which was named after Samuel’s wife.

  The Buzzards made a fortune and in its heyday the town had a population of 12 500, twenty-two pubs, eleven churches and at least as many whorehouses. The Number One Sarah mine became the economic mainstay of Buzzards Hut. It operated continuously—and profitably—for over a century until it was shut down and flooded in the early 1970s. In more recent times a large consortium had tried to restart it. Following some promising core samples millions of dollars were poured into infrastructure before the cash flow dried up, the bean counters apparently deciding that the price of gold was too low and the cost of production too high to justify any further expense. So Buzzards Hut fell back into oblivion.

  This potted version of events was contained in a framed newspaper article on the wall of the town’s remaining pub, the Stag. It was being read by a man with a pot of beer in one hand and a freshly lit cigarette parked between his lips. He was wearing brown boots, faded blue jeans, a grey windbreaker and, for outerwear, a dark blue, down-filled Paddy Pallin jacket. He might have been anywhere from his late thirties to mid-forties: it was hard to tell because his hair was dark and smooth, swept back and slicked from being outside; his facial features seemed untouched by age. And yet a closer inspection of his still green eyes would indicate that, like the Buzzard brothers, he had been to places and seen some wild things in his time.

  The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, sipped his beer and looked over the bar. Standard features: curling, stained photographs of regulars fooling around late at night, the booze well and truly aboard, a mounted stag’s head with an impressive set of antlers, some antiquated rifles, a couple of moth-eaten brown trout and, stuck on the ceiling, hundreds of coins from all over the world. All familiar to him.

  He rubbed the window with his sleeve and looked outside. It was still raining heavily. This was a consistently solid, vertical downpour that looked like it had no intention of stopping. When he had driven into town an hour or so earlier there was water sluicing across the road and cascading merrily down gutters and around parked vehicles. It often rained this way in Buzzards Hut—at least for nine months of the year according to the publican. The man knew this anyway, but let the old guy talk. He was a bald, slow-moving man in his sixties with a dead, putty-like face that might have been preserved in alcohol or formaldehyde.

  Buzzards Hut. The man in the Paddy Pallin jacket said the words to himself, then again, audibly: BuzzardsfuckingHut. It had been a long, long time. Pissing down then too, just like this. He sure got wet that day. Nowadays the town seemed even more of a relic, with a population of ninety-three, no school, one pub and one shop—a combined general store and single-pump petrol station with fifty-year-old signs advertising Swallow’s ice-cream and C.O.R. and Plume motor spirit. There was a town cop, but the nearest doctor was an hour and a half away in Jamieson.

  The room was not large, more in the style of a cosy snug, with a horseshoe-shaped bar and a crackling wood fire that provided a certain rustic ambience as well as warmth. At the other end of the horseshoe was a crew consisting of three men and two women who—judging from their smart outdoor attire and cultivated voices—were blow-ins from the city. Owing to its remoteness and unspoiled character Buzzards Hut had become a magnet for tourists, and many of the houses in the town were weekenders owned by outsiders. They came in their four-wheel drives to escape the stress of city life, fish for trout or go bushwalking—there were tracks that penetrated many miles into the wilderness.

  The one who had caught his attention had short black hair framing an attractive face that had a fine, sculpted quality about it. She was . . . hmm, late thirties, around his age, probably a little younger. It was hard to tell with women—they could do so much to falsify the truth of the matter. Average height, a fit, compact build, nifty little sunshades perched on her head. Full of self-confidence and . . . what was it? Poise. She dripped poise, and style. Outfit: designer checked shirt and stretch jeans that looked as if they’d been purchased for the occasion. One word flashed into his brain: money. And although they were a team he had the impression from the ‘conversation’ that they did not know each other well. Certainly the black-haired woman’s body language told him she was on the fringe, even bored with the company. She had a glass of J&B and ice from which she occasionally sipped while she listened in. She didn’t seem connected to the others at all, and each time he threw a glance at her he caught her peeping back sneakily. Interesting . . .

  The dominant male in this outfit was ruddy and fiftyish, oversized but not much bigger than a Kenworth prime mover; he was sounding off at great length about something riveting that had happened back at the office. Evidently he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, since he used it continuously, with power and conviction. Probably a corporate chief and his underlings on one of those bonding weekends. If someone tried to butt in he simply pumped up the volume a few octaves and carried on as if he’d just swatted a fly— clearly a man who was used to having everything his own way. Then the man in the Paddy Pallin jacket caught the woman looking at him again, and this time he held her eyes for longer than usual, staring her out, giving her a smile and receiving one in return, until she turned away and sipped her J&B, no hurry at all.

  The rain still showed no signs of eas
ing—in fact it was intensifying. He gazed outside through the misted window while someone put more wood on the fire. Well, if he had to stay indoors all day it may as well be here. He tipped down the remains of his beer and ordered another one, preparing to settle in, and when he checked out the other end of the bar the main guy was still in control, but there was no sign of the dark-haired beauty. Pity about that. Quite unexpectedly a pang of real disappointment stabbed him. He lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply while he thought about her.

  It was warm now, too warm for a down-filled jacket, and he was working out where to put it if he took it off—there were no obvious places. In the end he tossed it in the corner, under one of the stuffed trout. Then he smoked and drank and looked out the window, thinking various things, noticing after a while that the rain was slowing to an Irish mist that swirled and eddied through the air like snowflakes. Two young girls strolled up the street, drenched, heads slicked, wearing no protective clothing, not hurrying and apparently not caring. Fourteen or fifteen years old, he guessed. Watching them pass, the man smiled. Something about their attitude impressed him. So it was wet out—so what? Sublime youth.

  He noticed his glass was empty, and returned to the bar.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the female voice said. ‘I’m supposed to have given these up, but right now I could use one. Do you mind terribly?’

  He spun around—she’d come from his left, near the hotel’s front entrance, presumably where the women’s conveniences were located. Now she was right next to him, having sidled up from behind.

  ‘Of course not. Here you go.’

  She accepted one from the pack, then tilted her face towards him while he lit it with his plastic Bic lighter. It wasn’t perfume, but a soft fragrant soap that wafted over him.

  Exhaling away from him she said, ‘You’re not a local.’

  ‘No,’ he said, watching the smoke leave her lips. ‘And neither are you.’

  ‘God, this is so strong,’ she said. ‘I used to smoke Dunhill lights.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Been on these all my life. Guess I don’t notice any more.’

  ‘I’m getting a decent kick, anyway. Wow.’ She removed the shades from atop her head and put them on the bar towel. A deliberate move, he thought—meaning she wasn’t leaving straightaway.

  Seeing she’d left her empty glass on the other side, he said: ‘Are you ready for another J&B?’

  ‘How’d you know I was on J&B?’ she said—smiling.

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘You always notice what people are drinking?’ It didn’t quite have the inflection of a question, but she seemed to expect a reply.

  ‘In certain cases, yes,’ he said, and signalled the putty-faced barman: ‘J&B for the lady. So, what are you up to in Buzzards Hut?’

  She laughed and said, ‘Good question. I’ll give you three guesses. Then you can tell me why you’re here.’

  ‘Sounds fair. How about . . . corporate weekend away?’

  ‘Nope. My God—what a grotesque thought.’

  He’d already decided to play out this little game. ‘Bush-bashing in a Toorak tractor?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Shake of the head. ‘Although we did come here in one. Like everyone else.’

  ‘Maybe . . . some gold prospecting?’

  She cocked an eye. ‘Interesting idea. But, sorry, no cigar.’ The J&B was placed in front of her.

  ‘That’s three strikes,’ he said.

  She took a last drag of the cigarette before crushing it out. ‘I think I’m cured of those now. Forever.’ She swirled ice, sipped.‘No, I’m here for the bushwalking, would you believe.’

  ‘I would, but not in this.’

  ‘This wasn’t happening when we left. Didn’t start till well after Warburton.’ That was where the real climbing began.

  ‘It always rains in Buzzards Hut.’

  ‘Really. So . . . you’re an old Buzzards Hut hand?’

  Again, it was not quite a question.

  ‘You could say that. But I haven’t been here in a good while.’

  ‘Sounds like there’s a story attached to that.’

  He looked her directly in the eye. She was very attractive, but something more than that—her eyes were green, the same as his. That was unusual enough, but they were exactly his shade of green; they had the same shape and dimensions, even down to the slightly overhanging lids that gave her a deceptively lazy appearance. And the more he looked, the more he saw uncanny similarities in her other features as well—crow-black hair, longish face, aristocratic, slightly beaky nose, the lopsided mouth when she smiled. She might have been his sister—if he’d had one.

  ‘It is a long story,’ he said, still locked onto her unblinking eyes. ‘For another time, maybe.’

  ‘Time is what I have on my hands,’ she said, not smiling, sipping her drink. He felt his stomach turn inside out.

  ‘Same here,’ he said, a crack in his voice.

  ‘Can I have another cigarette?’ she said.

  ‘Thought you were cured. Forever, was the word.’

  ‘Been a recidivist all my life.’

  When he’d lit it for her he said, ‘Bushwalking, huh?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Smoke curled and drifted around her face, blending with the soap scent—a heady mix.

  ‘I have to say you don’t look the type.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve never done it before.’ She sipped and said, ‘What type do I look like, anyway?’

  He grinned, sensing a trap, but didn’t falter: ‘The type who’d be more at home doing lunch somewhere in Chapel Street instead of holing up in the wilds of Buzzards Hut.’

  That made her laugh. ‘Since you mention it, I am not averse to doing the occasional lunch on Chapel Street. You’re right—this is not my natural habitat.’

  He finished his beer and ordered another.

  ‘What about you?’ she said.

  ‘What about me.’

  ‘Ever been bushwalking?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Around here?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Do you recommend it?’

  ‘Sure. Depending on who you’re with at the time.’

  She looked across the bar at the others. ‘I don’t actually know these people. Well . . . I sort of know the woman. They belong to the bush-lovers’ society or something, and I’ve just . . . come along for the experience. But I should rejoin them. They’ll think I’m very antisocial.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She smoked and shrugged at the same time. ‘Why?’

  He said,‘You’ve just told me they’re not your closest pals. So who cares what they think?’

  She thought about it, looked over at them—the main man still fully in control—then shrugged again. ‘Doesn’t matter a goddamn, I guess. It’s just my conventional, respectable, upper middle-class background speaking.’

  ‘Another J&B?’

  Searching his face, she gave the impression that this was an important decision for her, a turning point. It was his feeling too. One more drink meant she had switched allegiances.‘Oh, why not,’ she said. ‘But it’s my treat.’

  Putty-face delivered the drinks.

  ‘Okay, your turn,’ she said. ‘Why are you here, in the . . . what was it? Wilds of Buzzards Hut?’

  Grinning lopsidedly, he said, ‘You don’t think I look as if I belong here?’

  She ran her eyes over him—the face,youthful but somehow seasoned,the short-sleeved grey windbreaker,the strong,sinewy arms and capable, big-veined hands with long fingers.

  ‘I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility,’ she said.

  ‘My family had a weekend house here for years,’ he said. ‘I came here a lot. But the place was sold and, as I said, I haven’t been back for some time.’

  Watching him interestedly she said, ‘But that doesn’t explain why you’re here now.’

  He swallowed some beer. ‘Well . . . I guess you could call it a sentimental visit.’

 
; ‘Uh-huh. But . . . you don’t look the sentimental type to me.’

  He knew he’d asked for that.‘What type do you think I am?’

  She sipped and said,‘I think . . . you are a man of purpose. You do everything for a reason—a practical reason.’

  The half-smile dissolved from his face. Christ she was warm there. She had pegged him as well as any sister could. For an icy moment he felt spooked, as if she was reading him better than she was entitled to, as if their meeting here was not accidental. Or was he that transparent? Maybe. He was not too much given to thinking about himself, or seeking opinions or approval from others—he was what he was, and that was that. She, however, came from a solid middle-class upbringing, she sounded educated—unlike him—and was probably an astute judge of people. So there was no reason to be paranoid—yet.

  ‘Are you staying here?’ she said. ‘At the hotel?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We have the best rooms in the place. Sheer, wanton luxury.’

  He laughed. ‘My accommodation is much more basic. I’m staying at a log cabin down the road. Place called Scotchman’s Reef.’

  ‘Log cabin? How . . . invigorating. Clearly you are a true son of the pioneers.’

  ‘Like old man Buzzard himself.’

  ‘Old man Buzzard? You mean there really was such a person?’

  ‘Sure. He was one of the original settlers, emigrated from Scotland in . . . 1857, I believe. Started the Number One Sarah mine.’

  She leaned slightly closer. ‘I give in—what’s the Number One Sarah mine?’

  ‘It’s the whole reason this town exists.’

  She was watching him intently, rattling ice cubes.‘I thought there had to be a good one. You know plenty, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m a smart guy. Plus, I read it on the wall over there.’

  She tilted her head back and laughed, and he could see the string of J&Bs having their effect. ‘There’s probably a lot you can teach me about this town.’

  He drank the remains of his beer. ‘I could punish you severely from here to Christmas. Given the opportunity.’