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  COPYRIGHT

  Grand Central Publishing Edition

  Copyright © 2003 by Caroline Carver

  All rights reserved.

  This Grand Central Publishing edition is published by arrangement with Orion, an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd., Orion House, 5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane, London, England WC2H 9EA.

  Grand Central Publishing

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  First eBook Edition: June 2009

  Originally published in hardcover by Mysterious Press

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56224-9

  Also by Caroline Carver

  BLOOD JUNCTION

  In memory of my father

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My agent is Elizabeth Wright at Darley Andersons; my editor is Jane Wood. Huge thanks to them both; they worked way beyond the call of duty.

  Also thanks to my New York agent, Liza Dawson, and my editor at Time Warner, Sara Ann Freed. This Brit author couldn’t ask for a better team across the pond.

  Special thanks are due to a number of people who helped me as technical advisers: Francis Holborne, Ferretti guru; Micky, Ferretti captain; Colin Heathcote, A21 chum at CabAir; Derek Edwards, also at CabAir; Gary Goodban, rainforest expert; Moley Mitchell and Paul Greensmith, life raft survival pros; Rachel and Simon Walker, medical aces; Dr. Michael Seed, whiz on weapons and all things scientific; Beatrice Law for her expertise on Chinese references. Any errors of fact will be mine.

  Grateful thanks to those who acted as critical readers: Tania Harper; George Loizou; Rachel Leyshon; Emma Stamper; Sophie Hutton-Squire; and my anonymous proofreader.

  To my mother, as always, for her love, encouragement, and support.

  To my friends who inspire, comfort and console, and help answer some strange questions: Meg Gardiner, Sarah Cunich, Bob Child, Tessa Bamford, Ian O’Hearsey, Steve and Amanda Morris, Ali Price, Dominic Cole.

  Lastly, mention must be made to my best buddy and co-driver, Caroline Readings, who told me to stop thinking about car rallies and get on with the book.

  ONE

  The cassowary had died instantly. A single whack from the hood of the Suzuki broke its neck. One moment the largest and most spectacular animal of the rainforest was crossing the road, the next it was a corpse, a seven-foot hump of sodden black feathers with blood seeping from one open brown eye.

  Georgia Parish couldn’t believe she had just killed one of the rarest birds in the Wet Tropics. Sure, she’d been driving fast, trying to make it to the aerodrome on time, but in the torrential downpour she hadn’t expected to meet any wildlife. She’d assumed all possums, bandicoots, rat-kangaroos, and the like would be tucked up immobile in their dens and nests, sheltering from the secondary storms of Cyclone Tania.

  Not this guy, though. Wiping her face of rain, she glanced behind her at the outskirts of the town, the handful of ramshackle weatherboard cottages slumped beneath palm and fig trees, but nobody was about. She wasn’t sure whether to be glad of this or not. On the one hand she wanted to apologize; on the other she knew that any resident of Nulgarra would be tempted to knock her flat, especially since she’d just driven past a huge yellow-and-black sign cautioning motorists that cassowaries sometimes cross roads.

  Her stomach hollow with guilt, Georgia surveyed the dent above the bull bar, where the bird’s head had thumped the hood. I’m sorry, she told the dead cassowary, but I’m very glad of the bull bar or you’d have come straight through the windshield and probably killed me. Not that I’m happy you’re dead, but better just one of us than two, don’t you think?

  She turned her mind to Evie, who had loaned her the Suzuki. Even if Georgia paid for the damage, it would be Evie who would have the hassle of taking it to a body shop, maybe even getting the thing resprayed. Talk about a favor backfiring in her friend’s face.

  She said a brief prayer for the dead bird. The heavy smell of the rainforest, a place of wet moss and mud and mangroves, coated the back of her tongue. When the sun came out, she knew the temperature would soar, as though the atmosphere had been ignited by a giant gas burner. The air was like a simmering stew and she was glad of the cloud cover.

  Back inside her small four-wheel drive, Georgia eased around the carcass. No way was she strong enough to haul the corpse clear of the road. The young male had to weigh at least as much as she did, around 130 pounds, if not more. She set a more sedate pace down the dirt road, her wipers thumping, her senses alert for another encounter with a forest creature.

  Two deaths in one day. Not that her grandfather had died today, but he’d been cremated four hours ago. A shiver of foreboding made the hairs stand up on her forearms and she was suddenly glad her mother, Linette, wasn’t with her. She would have been clutching the crystal around her neck and pronouncing all sorts of grim portents and fateful connections between the two dead males while Georgia rolled her eyes and tried to change the subject.

  Skirting a broken palm on her side of the road, she pondered on her mother’s almost unnatural composure at the funeral, until she remembered the huge joint she had rolled in the car on the way to the crematorium.

  “Sweet, you’ve had your brandy,” she had said serenely in answer to Georgia’s raised eyebrows, “and since you know I don’t drink . . .”

  Georgia wondered how many mourners had caught the scent of marijuana on their clothes and decided she didn’t care. Everyone knew that they’d once lived at the Free Spirit Commune just outside of Nulgarra, and had probably been surprised, maybe even a little disappointed, that the chocolate sponge at the wake was not some colossal hash cookie.

  Holding the steering wheel tight as the little four-wheel drive dipped and shuddered over water-filled potholes, she squinted through the rain for the first sign she might be nearing the creek. Just about everyone had told her she’d never make it through, and despite the fact that her mate Bri hadn’t been able to guarantee her a seat on his plane to Cairns, she had to try. No way did she want to stay with Mrs. Scutchings another night. Thanks to her mother, she’d been bunked up with her old headmistress over the last few days and, boy, had her patience been tested to the limit. The old bag was about as liberal as a barracuda and went as far as believing that the American tourist killed by a crocodile last season had done it on purpose, to keep potential tourists in Sydney.

  “You lot down south,” M
rs. Scutchings had said over a breakfast of rubbery fried eggs, “twist all the facts to make Far Northern Queensland look remote as heck and twice as dangerous.”

  Georgia had remained silent and forced down her solid egg. So far as she was concerned, the newspaper reports were right on the nail. The nearest major city up here wasn’t Queensland’s capital, Brisbane, 1,200 miles south, but Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea, 450 miles across the water. Driving to Sydney would be the equivalent of driving from New York to Miami. London to Gibraltar. Remote was exactly the right word. And not only were there estuarine “saltie” crocodiles to contend with, but there were sharks, stinging trees, and poisonous spiders. There was even a deadly jellyfish that, with a single sting, could kill an adult within five minutes.

  Some days she could hardly believe that her mother had dragged her and her sister, Dawn, out here from Somerset just to be near their grandfather. Yet Georgia could also see she hadn’t had much choice. When their father died, killed in a hiking accident in Wales, it fell to their mother to run the New Age shop in Glastonbury. Within weeks they were overdue on their rent and being threatened with eviction, and then the bailiffs began to appear. Hightailing it to the other side of the world must have held enormous appeal.

  She could feel the shock of arriving in Nulgarra, aged eight, as if it were yesterday, straight from a frostbitten winter into the sticky heat, where clouds of mosquitoes seemed bent on draining the last drop of blood from her. She recalled those first bewildering twenty-four hours, trying not to cry, missing the snug comfort of their little flat above the shop, the smell of burning incense, the sounds of wind chimes tinkling above the Glastonbury traffic.

  She wondered if Glastonbury had changed much since she’d left, because Nulgarra hadn’t. The town looked exactly the same as it had ten years ago, along with its residents. God, even Bridie hadn’t changed. Her old schoolmate had bounced up to her outside the chapel. “George! I can’t believe you haven’t cut your hair! Heavens, don’t you find it awfully hot? It’s so long! And you’re still wearing trousers! You always were such a tomboy. You haven’t changed a bit!”

  Maybe, if she hadn’t felt so tired, she could have embraced Bridie and told her she hadn’t changed a bit either. As it was, Bridie had managed to make Georgia feel bad-tempered and disagreeable, as always. She possessed that endless cheerfulness Georgia found exhausting, the kind of girl mothers asked to help bake birthday cakes or decorate the tree at Christmas, because she was so pretty and enthusiastic. Georgia didn’t get approached to do any of that stuff. She was the kind of girl who got asked to nail the chicken shed back together, or change the oil in the ute.

  “Are you married yet?” Bridie asked. “Anyone special in your life? Go on, spill the beans, I won’t tell a soul!”

  She had made a noncommital gesture and Bridie looked at her pityingly, then added in a more sympathetic tone, “Mr. Right will be along soon, don’t you worry. And get some rest, will you, George? You look like you need it.”

  Which wasn’t surprising, since she was tired to the bone—tired from organizing the funeral, tired of the fact her sister wasn’t there to help, and most of all tired of being asked if she was married yet. It had been a struggle to find her usual good humor each time she was asked where her other half was. Why in the world did everyone assume she didn’t have a life unless she had a man?

  Briefly wiping her face—the four-wheel drive Suzuki soft-top leaked like a sieve—Georgia swung the car around the next corner and caught a flash of white through the torrents of rain. Immediately, she slowed. “Cassowary Creek,” the sign said, and after an initial jerk of regret at the bird she had killed, Georgia halted the car and gazed glumly at the boiling, soil-capped torrent.

  Hell, she thought. It wasn’t a creek, it was a goddamn river.

  How on earth was she going to get out of here? The inland road south, to Cairns, was closed, and the coast route hopeless since the ferry across the Daintree River was shut. The road north led nowhere but to tiny Cooktown, with nothing but storm-tossed ocean to the east and impassable jungle to the west. If she didn’t fly, she was well and truly trapped.

  Please, God, she prayed, let me get through, let there be a spare seat on Bri’s plane. Please get me back to normality. I can’t stay with Mrs. Scutchings another night, and if I stay with someone else I know she’ll be hurt, and even if she is mad as a cut snake, I wouldn’t want that. She’s been kind.

  A log the width of the Suzuki churned past, creaming the water a muddy brown, and she watched it slam briefly into the opposite bank before the tide snatched it free and hurled it downriver. Should she risk crossing? Or should she return to Nulgarra and spend the next few days sitting in the pub drinking beer and watching geckos climb the walls?

  Wearily she replaited her hair, retying it with the black felt scrunchy she’d worn at the funeral. Bridie was right. It was too long, too shaggy. She wondered if cutting it would thin it down or thicken it to a mop. She’d always had long hair. Maybe it was time to chop off her bell-rope, as her boss called it, and risk going short, even change the color.

  She wiped the rearview mirror clean of condensation and tried to imagine her too-large jaw and gray eyes topped with a cap of red or black instead of the usual muddy blonde. No chance. It would make her freckles stand out even more. Not for the first time she glared furiously at her reflection, wishing she’d been blessed with a little sprinkle of the things across the saddle of her nose, which might have been attractive, rather than spread all over her face.

  Georgia became aware that, way in the distance, a bright blue fissure had cracked the leaden clouds. The break in the weather had arrived as predicted, and she knew that Bri’s SunAir flight would be leaving as planned at 2 PM. She had forty-five minutes. The sooner she got to the airfield, the better, in case others were doing the same and turning up in the hope of a ride out of the storm-thrashed area.

  With a critical eye, Georgia studied the churning torrent ahead, wishing her grandfather was with her; he would have tackled the creek no problem.

  “Georgie,” she fancied she could hear him, “you really oughta wade it before you cross. And where you going to aim?” Tom’s voice seemed to grow louder the more she stared at the foaming water. “Does the water come above the axles? The engine fan? The body floor?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes,” she replied. The water looked dangerously deep and the current was quite fast, so she’d have to aim well upstream to go straight across. And she would bet the bottom was sandy, giving her less grip than large, heavy stones, and pitted with bottomless holes made by other vehicles getting stuck. She swallowed, aware her palms had dampened.

  Evie had loaned her the four-wheel drive specifically for Cassowary Creek. She’d told Georgia the water level was bound to be high, and not to worry if she flooded the car, it was used to that. She and her trusty Suzuki had crossed the creek loads of times, even when it appeared impassable, so Georgia had better not be a wuss.

  She could hear Evie’s voice start to override Tom’s caution.

  “Why’d you think I bought a bloody four-wheel drive in the first place? To sit outside my van and look pretty? Stop buggering about and go, girl!”

  TWO

  Engaging low-ratio, Georgia inched the Suzuki down the muddy slope to the creek. She held her breath as the bank steepened, waiting for the car to slip, but she had full traction right to the bottom and her confidence soared. Evie’s little car might not look like much, but it seemed to be up to the job.

  Go, girl!

  When the Suzuki hit the water it gave an initial jerk, almost in surprise, then the wheels dug in. Her hands tight on the steering wheel, Georgia headed the car upstream, for a point just above the distinctive circular shape of a fan palm the size of a trash can lid. She concentrated on keeping the engine speed high to avoid the back pressure of water drowning the exhaust pipe and stalling the engine.

  Despite the battering of water against the car, the shaking and juddering
from the current, the Suzuki’s wheels were gripping nicely and, amazingly, they were moving steadily forward.

  “Always keep your eyes on where you want to go,” she heard Tom say. “You look at the trees, you hit the trees. You look at the precipice on the side of the road, you fall into it. Look at where you want to go.”

  So Georgia fixed her gaze past the clacking wipers and onto the fan palm and the muddy, stone-pecked slide on the opposite bank and kept her foot on the accelerator, her thumbs free of the steering wheel to avoid a sudden twist breaking them. Her shoulders were hunched forward, every inch of her body willing the Suzuki toward the opposite bank.

  Now they were in the middle of the creek, at the deepest point, and she was aware that the vehicle was struggling, teetering against the current, its tires slipping. A muddy wave broke over the hood. The electrics. Water gushed past. Georgia felt a sudden ghastly pause from the car.

  Get a grip, dammit! Get a grip!

  The Suzuki’s hood began to swing downriver. Gritting her teeth, Georgia yanked the steering wheel from side to side, seeking a fresh bite. Water poured through the doors.

  She felt the off-side front tire suddenly dig in, then the near-side, and inch by inch, the little four-wheel drive crawled through the swollen, battered creek. The bank was getting closer, and then the front tires were churning on the soft, muddy bank, gripping the stones beneath and hauling the Suzuki out of the river. Georgia let the car scramble up the slope. She purposely didn’t change gear in order to avoid breaking traction and spinning the wheels. When she reached the top and was on hard dirt road, she pulled over.

  Her hands were trembling as she released low-ratio and pushed the stick back to its normal driving position. The road ahead was littered with potholes, dead leaves, and branches. Tangles of vines, soaked with humidity, hung motionless from the trees, and the air smelled peculiarly bitter and pungent, like freshly dug earth.