The Great Divide

Prologue

The boy plunged deeper between the rows of vines. Blackened branches nipped at his clothes. The air was thick with tiny particles of ice that tore at his throat.

Only the rough cry of a crow had cut through the silence as he’d snuck away from the family’s tent at first light; otherwise, all was still.

He’d climbed a tree, then a rotting wooden fence, to reach the vineyard—such long, straight traces to run along. It was ideal. Lost to the pumping of his legs, he’d grinned with pleasure.

He hadn’t counted on the carpet of decomposing foliage betraying his feet, causing him to slip. Nor had he expected the enormous shadow that loomed suddenly beyond the desiccated limbs and twigs.

He’d stopped, narrowing his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to be here—was this a grown-up come to scare him off?

The boy peered closer. No, the shadow was too large, the shape somehow wrong … it growled and moved toward him.

Heart pounding in his ears, he’d turned and started running again, darting from one row to the next. No joy in the movement now, only panic.

Tears blurred his vision as he sucked hard at the frosty air. Where was the fence? The campground? His mum?

Clammy, hairless flesh smacked against his ankle. He fell hard, head bouncing on the decaying leaves. He opened his eyes a fraction and whimpered.

An unmoving hand lay near his feet, the fingertips bloodied and raw. Fold upon fold of dark cloth enveloped the body beside him and a second withered, bleeding hand rested on its chest.

Tilting his head back, he met the sightless gaze of a corpse. His scream emerged as a croak as he scrabbled at the ground to escape the icy stare of the old woman.

Chapter One

Dunton, Tasmania

Friday, 7.42 a.m.

Detective Jake Hunter responded to the call-out for a missing child with a sense of reprieve. After four days of sitting idly in the station office, blanketed by midlands fog, a sense of deflation had set in alongside the bone-chilling cold. He had wanted this new posting to afford him time to catch his breath, not to ossify with boredom.

As he dressed in the weatherboard cottage next door to the station Jake searched his phone for directions to Dunton’s campground, the last known location of the lost boy. He noticed more missed calls and texts from Melbourne. They would have to wait.

Slamming the door behind him, he crunched down the gravel driveway, legs brushing against the low-cut box hedge. His heart beat a little faster as he turned the ignition—this was his first search and rescue in years.

Hurtling through billows of mist, flashing blue light on the dash, he narrowly avoided a beaten-up hatchback that failed to yield to the police vehicle. The driver flipped him the bird as he overtook. Jake made a mental note to identify her later.