Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout

by Garry Disher

  Thats me.

  He was a large, loosely built man with a face mapped by broken capillaries. Friday, four oclock. Wyatt was betting that all the man wanted to do was knock off and head for the pub.

  EPA sent us, he said, flashing his clipboard.

  The foreman was looking in alarm at the van. Didnt know we was working around asbestos. Bastards didnt tell us that.

  You may not be. This is routine, thats all.

  I mean, fuck, you been inside the place? Blokes have been breathing dust for days.

  Theres dust and theres dust, Wyatt said.

  The foreman looked at his watch. Its nearly knocking-off time. Im out of here in ten minutes myself. Locking the gate and Im gone.

  I understand.

  So you cant park your van here. Im locking up.

  Thats all right, Raymond said. Well leave it overnight, catch a bus home.

  His wife, Wyatt explained. She doesnt want the van parked out the front of the house. Nor does mine. Cant say I blame them.

  The foreman licked dry lips. Do what you like. Its no skin off my nose.

  The vans clean, Wyatt said. No contamination. Its just the idea that gets to people.

  You can say that again.

  Men began to stream from the work site. The foreman forgot about Wyatt and Raymond, and under the cover of men shouting, stripping off their overalls and cleaning brushes and rolling up flex, they loaded their arms with lengths of PVC tubing and entered the building.

  According to the floor plans supplied by Chaffey, the departmental library was on the first floor. They went up the stairs, whistling, ready to discuss the football if they encountered anyone, and found the first floor deserted and quiet, heavy with the smell of paint, plaster and sealant. They drew on latex gloves and made their way into the gloom, Wyatt counting the doors.

  This one.

  He tried the handle. It was locked. He took a set of picks from his overalls and leaned over the lock. Holding the tension pick at an angle, he teased with the raking pick, turning the tumblers. When it was done he breathed out, straightened and pushed open the door.

  They went in, locking the door behind them. It was close and comfortable in the library. The carpet was thick, the shelves crammed with textbooks, folios and theses. A few small desks, a table and chairs, a sofa. Somewhere to sleep, Wyatt murmured.

  Together?

  One sleeps, one keeps watch.

  Lighten up. I was only joking.

  There was more light here than in the corridor. The outside wall was mostly glass, and let in the lowering sun.

  Wyatt crossed the room to a door set into the end wall, between two bookcases. He heard a rustle and scrape behind him and dropped to the floor.

  Quit that.

  Raymond was in the act of closing the curtains. Well be seen.

  Well be seen from outside drawing the curtains when this room should be empty, Wyatt said.

  Now we cant turn the lights on.

  The powers been disconnected, remember?

  Raymond flung himself onto a sofa. You talk to me like I was a kid in school. Fucking well tell me what to do, then.

  Wyatt felt complicated emotions for his nephew, composed of love, hate and frustration. But some of the fire had gone out of Raymond, leaving him edgy and cautious, and that was a good thing as far as Wyatt was concerned. Keeping his voice mild, he clicked open the aluminium case and said, We work by natural light, therell be a moon tonight, plus these. He indicated a pair of torches, their lenses all but taped over. They give a narrow band. Just dont flash them toward the window.

  Raymond shrugged. It was a shrug of tiredness, of a short, spluttering fuse. One thing Ive learned, I work better alone.

  Come on, son, help me with the storeroom lock.

  Son was as close to love as Wyatt could get, but saw by the twist of his nephews face that hed chosen the wrong word.

  Time for that later. He opened the storeroom door and they went in. If you hold one of the torches, Ill start sorting.

  The storeroom was small and windowless. Shelves started at waist height and were crammed with books, journals, binding boards and gluepots. The paintings were under the bottom shelves, leaning against two of the walls.

  So far so good, Wyatt said.

  * * * *

  Twenty-nine

  Wyatt began to sort through the paintings, choosing those on Chaffeys shopping list. He saw that he was effectively gutting the collection. At least half of the works were worthless, minor drawings and prints. The collections value lay in the big name oils and watercolours.

  Darkness fell over the city. They cleared an area of carpet in the library and began painstakingly to remove each painting from its frame. Wyatt knew that it was necessary, but hated doing it. Each canvas, taut and humming, became lifeless the moment the tension was gone from it. Rolling it into a cylinder and sliding it into a PVC tube was a final barbarity. But it happened. It was what art thieves did. I cant afford, Wyatt told himself, to get sentimental over a few paintings. It hadnt always been like that for him. Hed once burnt a painting rather than let possession of it earn him a gaol sentence.

  The long night was ahead of them. Wyatt was used to the waiting game and hed supposed his nephew would be, given his experience with staking out and robbing banks, but Raymonds jiggling foot and pacing betrayed him.

  Tiring of Raymond creaking out of an armchair for another prowl of the little library, he hissed, Its nine hours until morning. Get some sleep.

  Raymond dropped to the carpet and stretched out. He sighed, he rolled onto his back and made shapes with his fingers against the moonlight. How come you never been caught? Pure fluke?

  It irritated Wyatt to hear his life boiled down to notions of luck and chance. Ive made mistakes. Things happened that shouldnt have happened, but because I hadnt thought through everything, not because my luck was bad. And if the cops didnt nab me then it wasnt because my luck was goodI made sure they didnt nab me.

  You shot to kill.

  Wyatt hated this. I go into a job knowing that the gun in my pocket is going to add ten years to the sentence if I get caught, but also knowing its there to save my life, not take someone elses.

  Wyatt saw a shadow, a kind of inwards look or memory or emotional trace, pass across his nephews face. He pursued it. Have you used a gun? Do you want to?

  Raymond shook his head violently. No, no. Just saw someone get shot once, thats all.

  Not a pretty sight?

  Raymond wouldnt look at his uncle. No.

  Wyatt let the silence mount. Then he went on. Lets say you get stopped by a cop or a guard tomorrow morning. Weigh up the situation. If you can shut him up just by talking to him, do it. Tap him on the head if necessary, but not so hard youll cause a brain injury. Better to render him unconscious by cutting off his air, one hand over the mouth, the other squeezing the throat. Hell thrash around, but that uses up energy and sooner or later hell be out cold. Anything in preference to shooting or seriously hurting someone.

  Youve shot people.

  Ive shot people who have crossed me or threatened to kill me or left me no other choice. Never a panic shooting, never a thrill shooting, never a shooting because I had a sore head that day and was easily irritated, never a shooting because it was the easy way out.

  Raymond draped an arm over his eyes.

  Wyatt watched his nephew. Youre feeling the pressure. So am I. Its normal. Id be worried if you werent.

  What if it looks wrong when we go out the door in the morning?

  Then drop everything, walk away, hang the time and effort and expense. In fact, I always expect the worst. That way I wont be surprised or caught off guard.

  They could have plainclothes out there in the morning, seeing where the paintings are going to.

  Wyatt shrugged. Check for whats not obvious. Look at body language, the way someones holding himself or walking. The way hes dressed. If everyone else is in shirtsleeves but one man is wearing a jacket, maybe h
es also wearing a concealed gun.

  Raymond laughed harshly. Aim at a cop, hit a uni student.

  You could try running at the cop.

  At him?

  It will rattle his nerves, stop him aiming properly.

  Raymond still lay stretched out on the carpet. He crossed his feet at the ankles and laced his fingers behind his head. Ill be glad when were in the van. Downhill all the way after that.

  Theres a big difference between getting away and staying away. Theres burning our clothes so we cant be tied to the scene, all those carpet fibres collecting on your back, for example. Theres wiping down and dumping the van. Theres the changeover with Chaffey. A long way to go.

  Sometimes, Uncle Wyatt, youre a sanctimonious fucking pain in the neck.

  Wyatt felt obscurely hurt. He said nothing.

  I mean, Raymond said, dont you ever enjoy what youre doing?

  To his own surprise, the words spilled out of Wyatt: Ray, if youve got the nerve and the ability, theres nothing like it on earth. I know I said drop a job if theres the slightest doubt, but I also know theres something addictive about testing the odds, being your own boss, making enough from one strike that would take a nine-to-fiver ten years to amass. But the moneys not it, not even ten per cent of it. He paused, searching for the words he wanted, then said, I like using my head and body well, doing what comes naturally to me in a risky game.

  There was silence. Then Raymond whistled ironically, raised one fist like a winning athlete, said Fucking A!

  The wrong tone to use with Wyatt. Wyatt turned away, wondering what he was doing here, with this kid. Raymond was a distraction. When Wyatt worked with another man he didnt want to have him always at the back of his mind, having to think of his safety, wondering if hed do his side of the job properly.

  A dull flash in the corner of his eye. Raymond was sitting with his back to a filing cabinet now, spinning a coin. It caught the moonlight as it rose from his thumb, reached an apex, fell into his palm again. It seemed clear to Wyatt that he was expected to notice the coin. He said, Where did you get that?

  Raymond lifted his chin defiantly. My mate Vallance. Hes a diver, found this wreck. Been there a hundred and seventy years.

  He went on to explain about the Eliza Dean. When he was finished, Wyatt reached out a hand. May I?

  He caught the coin. He recognised it as a Spanish dollar. There had been one in a coin collection hed once stolen from a house in Toorak.

  This is quite valuable.

  Vallance reckons a hundred and seventy-five dollars. And theres more where it came from.

  Wyatt let the silence gather around them. Are you and Vallance mounting a salvage operation? Is that why you need the money so badly, the business matter you mentioned the other day?

  So what if I am?

  How do you know its not a rip-off?

  Raymond flared, Give me some credit. Im not naive. I dived on the wreck myself, saw the coins there with my own eyes. Plus, this is a proper syndicate.

  If you say so.

  Fuck you. I tell you what, keep the fucking coin. I wont need it.

  The boy was a bundle of nerves. Wyatt pocketed the silver dollarfor the time being, to keep him happyand said gently, Its late. Get some sleep. Ill wake you at two, you wake me again at six.

  And so they passed the long night. At 6 oclock on Saturday morning they shared a flask of coffee and a couple of fruit pies. At 7.30 the first workmen arrived. By mid morning the R.J.L. Hawke building rang to hammers, jigsaws, whistled tunes and radios tuned to weekend sports talkback programs.

  Wyatt and Raymond slipped out of the library just before ten oclock. They walked along the corridor, down the stairs and out to the panel van with the PVC cylinders under their arms. Some of the workmen were outside the building, smoking, yarning, tipping the dregs of their morning tea onto the ground. They saw Wyatt and Raymond and went quiet and still.

  Morning, Wyatt said. He read their hostility. It was all focused on that word asbestos. With any luck, he thought, after a weekend of football replays and the pub and squabbling kids, asbestos will be all they remember.

  The foreman scowled. Didnt see you arrive. You blokes find anything?

  Clean as a whistle, Wyatt said, and felt them relax around him.

  Wyatt and his nephew loaded the stolen paintings into the rear of the panel van and drove slowly through the university grounds and out onto the depressed streets of West Heidelberg. Wyatt turned on the radio, fiddled with it, found the 10 oclock news.

  The first item was the discovery of the body of Steers girlfriend, Denise Meickle, in a shallow grave in Warrandyte. She had been shot in the head.

  * * * *

  Thirty

  Wyatt yanked hard on the wheel, bringing the panel van in a skewing slide across the path of an oncoming bus and onto the forecourt of an abandoned Mobil station. He steered down the side of the service bay and braked nose to nose with a wheelless Cortina.

  You useless little shit.

  He turned, looked at his nephew. The movement was slow and deliberate, his expression carrying a chill. He took in one aspect of Raymond after another, quartering him, finally resting on Raymonds face. You shot her.

  No way. Probably Steer, not me.

  Wyatt sidearmed his nephew in the throat, a chop with the side of his hand that rocked Raymonds head like a punching bag.

  Raymond screamed once, a choked, liquid cry of pain and fear, his eyes wild. Dont hit me. Just dont hit me. All my life Ive been hit.

  For just an instant, Wyatt stood apart from himself and didnt like the man he saw there, sitting cold and clenched, ready to strike out again. He wished that Raymond was a stranger to him. He was linked to Raymond by blood, and that was the complicating factor. He put his arm down, relaxed his fist. I wont hit you, but I want you to tell me about it.

  Raymond croaked, It wasnt me killed the bitch. Steer.

  Wyatt aimed for Raymonds stomach this time, a hard jab that drove the breath from his body. You were in a mess when I found you outside the door of your flat. A rough night out, you said, but there was blood on your sleeve and you looked bad. You shot her and it made you sick to the stomach.

  There was a tearing sob. She wouldnt shut up. Always snivelling on about Steer, had he run out on her, would she see him again, what should she doit drove me nuts. I had to get out. When I came back the place was dark and I shot her by accident. Hey, what are you doing?

  Wyatt removed the keys from the ignition. The story sounded more or less right. But even if Raymond hadnt shot Steers girlfriend, the complication was more than Wyatt was prepared to stand. He cranked down his window and tossed the keys over the dividing fence into an overgrown garden.

  What the fuck?

  Wyatt reached for his door handle. We abandon. We walk away from this like it never happened.

  Hysteria crept into Raymonds voice. He clutched Wyatts arm. We cant abandon. We got out safely, we got the paintings. Theres no need.

  It all feels wrong now. Instinct tells me to get out. You shot heryouve probably still got the gun in your possessionand that means double the heat. How do I know what other ways youve fucked up? Maybe you were seen shopping in Warrandyte. Maybe she was found a few days ago and all this time theyve been moving against you. Were walking away from this, Ray. You go your way, Ill go mine. Thats it.

  As Wyatt reached for the door, Raymond tugged the Ruger automatic from an inside pocket of his overalls. He ground the muzzle against the hinge of Wyatts jaw, hissed: We take the paintings to Chaffey, now. We get our money. Then we split.

  Too dangerous.

  I need that money.

  Walk away from it Ray, Wyatt said, reaching up idly to push the gun away, then leaning under the dash and ripping hard on the wiring.

  Sobbing, You bastard, Raymond smacked the butt of the Ruger down on Wyatts bare scalp, full force, several times. Wyatt felt a disabling blackness. Raymonds sobs receded behind a foggy wall of pain, blood pooled in the hollow
of his collarbone, and all he wanted to do was curl up and nurse the pain. He had no inclination for fighting or flight.

  Much later, Wyatt awoke, an island of misery behind the steering wheel of a stolen panel van. He shivered. He could not control his teeth, feverish and unquiet in his mouth. He remembered Liz Reddings warm hands on his poor skull. They had been two days out of Vanuatu when a rogue wave knocked him off his feet and he clipped his forehead on the mast. Sometimes she came back to him like that.