End of the Bitumen

“Every chase ends the same way — the road gives up before I do.”

The bitumen ended without ceremony or warning, the smooth surface giving way abruptly to a stretch of rough gravel that jolted us hard enough to rattle teeth. The transition was marked only by a change in sound and sensation—the smooth hiss of tyres on asphalt replaced by the harsh crunch and rattle of loose stones. The patrol car shuddered violently, the entire frame protesting the sudden change in surface, loose stones spitting up against the undercarriage in a sudden roar like we were driving through a rockslide.

I eased off the accelerator instinctively, then applied the brakes hard as we began to slide sideways on the loose surface. The car's rear end broke free, skimming across mud-slicked gravel that offered almost no traction, before I managed to correct with opposite lock, catching the slide before it became a spin. We rolled to a halt in what revealed itself to be a small public car park, the kind of basic facility common to Tasmanian parks and reserves—nothing fancy, just cleared ground and minimal infrastructure.

The car park was half-flooded, water standing several centimetres deep across most of its surface, streaming across in shallow rivulets that collected in potholes and pooled near the drains that had been overwhelmed by the storm's volume. The edges were defined by low scrub that marked the boundary between maintained space and wilderness beyond—native grasses and bracken fern, already waterlogged and beaten down by the rain.

To our left, barely visible through the downpour, a weather-stained toilet block sat just beyond the parking bays—low-roofed, constructed from concrete that had aged to a mottled grey, square-edged and utilitarian like every other park facility across the state. It stood at the far end of the car park, half-shadowed by several wind-shivered myrtle trees whose branches thrashed in the gale, positioned squarely in the way of whatever lay beyond.

I craned forward in my seat, trying to see past the structure, but the path or trail that might continue was completely hidden—cut off not just by the persistent rain that reduced everything to grey opacity, but by the toilet block itself that blocked our line of sight. Whatever came next—walking trail, service road, bush, nothing at all—I couldn't determine from this vantage point.

We were close. So damned close I could feel it. And once again—stalled. Stopped by geography and weather and the limitations of what a vehicle could traverse.

The thought of heading in on foot through unfamiliar terrain, in weather that was only getting worse, with no backup immediately available, and no guarantee Gladys was even still ahead of us rather than having doubled back or taken some other route... it sat badly in my gut. Created a knot of unease that had nothing to do with physical fear and everything to do with tactical disadvantage.

Not because of the rain or the mud or the physical discomfort. Those were manageable inconveniences. But because of everything else that could go wrong in those circumstances. Because of the vulnerability of being on foot against potentially vehicle-mobile suspects. Because of the ease with which people could disappear into Tasmanian bush and never be found despite intensive searches with dogs and helicopters and hundreds of volunteers.

A knot twisted in my gut—familiar by now, an old companion I'd carried through too many frustrating cases. That same leaden weight that settled in my stomach every time a trail went cold, every time we'd almost had them, every time someone slipped just far enough through our fingers to escape. Every time proximity to truth was followed by its retreat into mystery.

I sat still for a long moment, the wipers continuing their futile work, swiping mechanically away at a world I couldn't quite reach. The rain kept falling with undiminished intensity. And Gladys Cramer kept moving, kept staying one step ahead, kept slipping through gaps in our coverage with what was beginning to feel like supernatural ease.

I grabbed the radio handset from Sarah with perhaps more force than necessary, my movements sharp with frustration, and pressed the call button hard enough that the plastic creaked under my thumb.

"This is CITY632. Do you have a visual on the vehicles again?" I asked, voice clipped and taut with urgency that I couldn't quite keep from bleeding through professional composure. Outside, the wind howled through the trees like a living thing, like something wounded and angry, making the car rock slightly on its suspension.

The reply came with the familiar crackle of static, interference from the storm, then Dispatch's voice—calm, clinical, merciless in its neutrality. "CITY632. Negative. There is no visual on either vehicle at this time."

Their words landed like a hammer blow, each syllable driving home the reality of failure. Final. Absolute. Unambiguous.

"Fuck," I roared, the sound ripped from my chest like a wound opening, like something vital being torn free. My fist slammed into the steering wheel with a dull, percussive thud that sent pain flaring up my forearm. I barely registered the sensation—frustration had numbed everything but itself, had narrowed my world to rage at the situation. I hit it again without thinking. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession. The leather left faint red imprints on my skin, marks that would darken to bruises. The wheel didn't break. Neither did I, though both came close.

The adrenaline that had carried me this far—that had fuelled the chase, sharpened every corner, heightened every sense—now had nowhere to go, no outlet for its energy. It pooled in my muscles like battery acid, making my limbs shake with fine tremors, making my breath come shallow and fast despite attempts to control it. I felt like a sprung trap with nothing caught in its jaws, all tension and no purpose.

We'd been right there. Seconds away from interception. Close enough to read registration plates. A lead that could have meant everything—that might have broken the case wide open, that might have led us to Jamie and the Owens and answers to questions that had been multiplying faster than we could address them. And now? Gone. Lost in the network of logging tracks and overgrown fire trails that spiderwebbed through this patch of Tasmania like veins through tissue. That terrain could hide a convoy, let alone two vehicles. Could swallow people and keep them hidden for days or weeks or forever.

Sarah said nothing in response to my outburst. She didn't need to. The tension between us was unspoken now, forged not of conflict but of shared defeat, of professional frustration that transcended personal complications. We sat in the quiet roar of the rain that drummed against the car's roof with relentless percussion, the car's interior dim and steaming with our combined body heat, windows fogging despite the climate control.

Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cold that had worked into my bones, mixing with rainwater that had crept down from my scalp and pooled along my collar in uncomfortable accumulation. I was soaked through completely, but the cold couldn't touch the heat that still burned in my chest—frustration and anger smouldering like coals that wouldn't quite extinguish.

I dragged a hand through my hair roughly, pushing it back from my forehead, as though the gesture alone might reset my thinking, might clear the fog of frustration and allow clarity to emerge.

Today had delivered chaos wrapped in promise and tied off with disappointment at every turn. The blood trail in the Owens' cottage leading nowhere. The goose incident that had briefly made our investigation absurd. And now this—a high-speed pursuit that had revealed Gladys Cramer's involvement but had ultimately led to nothing but this flooded car park at the end of a dead-end road.

The questions outnumbered the answers by an ever-growing margin, the gaps in our understanding yawning wider with each hour rather than narrowing. And somewhere on this storm-drenched mountainside, hidden in the maze of tracks and trails and wilderness, Gladys Cramer had disappeared into the trees like smoke dissipating into air.

But I hadn't given up. Not yet. Couldn't afford to, not with Claiborne's deadline counting down, not with Jamie still missing, not with the pattern becoming more visible even as individual pieces remained frustratingly out of reach.

I would find her. Find them. Find the truth they were so desperately trying to keep hidden.

Even if I had to tear apart every metre of this forest to do it.