by T. J. Beach
Would the kids descend on her if she stayed away for a week at a time?
She hoped so.
God, they were lucky to have Matt.
Debbie ran her hand over his chest because she could, and it felt so good — solid, warm.
“That’s a yes, then?” he chuckled.
“A what?”
“You want more kids,” he teased.
“Bloody hell, I can barely cope with the ones we’ve got. Can you imagine them plus a screaming baby?” She shuddered at the thought. “Or two. Don’t forget there are twins in my family.”
“Nightmare. I’d have to change my job.”
What a gem. His first thought was to ease her load. “I’m not sure we could afford the pay cut if you came back to Bell’s Landing.”
“I was thinking different shifts. Twelve weeks on, four off, maybe. Jeez, woman. Debbie Haring and twin babies. There’s only so much a man could take.”
She slapped his arm. “Yes, because another child would be totally your fault, and I’d never, ever forgive you.”
He pulled her closer and kissed her hair.
Warmth shot through her. Hell, she was like a horny teenager when he’d been away. “We could practice.” She lowered her fingers to his belly. “Just in case we want a brother for Lachlan, sometime, years in the future.”
“Or a sister for Jennifer.”
“I wouldn’t want us to forget how to do it.”
Matt chuckled. “You are insatiable.” He feigned displeasure. “But I haven’t had my coffee.” He waved at the television. “I’m not a machine, and I’m dying to know what happens to … whatever her name is.” He ran his fingers into Debbie’s hair and kissed her on the lips, an all-consuming possession that reduced her to molten languor.
Her phone chimed.
Matt’s hand dropped to her ribs and slid to cup her breast.
Crap. The phone.
She pushed him away, scrambled to the side table and checked the screen. A camera alert. “Ah-ha!”
Debbie ran for the home office and booted their desk computer.
Matt stepped behind her, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “What’s this?”
“Dave McManus’s office.”
He leaned in closer. “What the hell?”
A grey Dave McManus shape on camera lifted the laptop out of the pool of illumination from a desk lamp. McManus switched off the light and left the room. The security camera recorded shots of an empty office for a minute then cut out automatically.
“Rewind it.”
Debbie frowned at Matt. Men! What did he think she’d do?
The video opened with the same empty room image, straight down onto the desk. It went dark as McManus blocked the camera taking his seat, then the lamp flicked on. The laptop screen lit up.
“Is this him doing his … thing?” Matt stabbed his finger at the image.
“Look at his screen.” The angle of the motion-activated camera hidden in the light fitting gave a pretty good view of the twenty-seven-inch — if the grub turned it on — but foreshortened the laptop screen to a fraction of its depth. “I think he’s on Google.”
“Yeah.”
“Which means it’s something innocent.”
“Mmm.” Matt frowned. “Why? Oh, I suppose he meets his pervert pals on the dark web.”
Debbie nodded. “We’ll see when he does that.”
“If he does it in his office. He took the laptop away.”
“He’d stay in the office to look at his dirty pictures.”
“Privacy?” Matt asked.
“He’ll plug in his hard drive and put the images on the monitor.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Matt wiped his palm over his mouth. “Oh, God.”
Debbie knew how he felt. Her skin crawled.
“He’s got a hard drive?” Matt asked.
“Bottom drawer.”
“And you know this …?”
Debbie gave him the stink eye. The guy might be wonderful, but he could be really thick at times.
He got the idea. “Shit, Debbie.”
“Well, I’m not going to back off.”
“No.” He squeezed her shoulder. “This is good. You’ll catch him. Christ, I hope it’s soon. Fucking insect. If there are any pictures of Lachlan on that hard drive, shit, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I do.” Cut his balls off with a blunt knife.
“Why didn’t you bring the hard drive out with you?”
“It’s password protected.”
“Ah.”
“And, if I removed the drive, he could claim we planted any pictures.”
“Damn. How are we going to get around his password?”
“He’ll type it in. We’ll get it on camera.”
“How are you getting these pictures anyway? Don’t you need wi-fi to broadcast the camera?”
“I’m using the neighbour’s wi-fi, I think. Whatever it is, there’s no security on it.”
“Handy.”
“His wi-fi is locked, of course. I took a spare phone just in case. I could hide that in his house and leave it on hotspot for the cameras, but it would be a problem keeping the batteries charged.”
“You’re a scary woman.”
“Don’t you believe it.”
Dave McManus would find out just how scary if Debbie had anything to do with it.
Austin Gould cried on live TV.
He came out onto the steps of a farmhouse in rural Victoria, looked over the phalanx of cameras beaming the news conference to the nation, and stepped in front of the microphones as if they were rifles, and an officer was about to tie a blindfold over his eyes.
“I’m …” He gulped, unable to go on for a moment. “This is such a difficult time. It’s only the caring thoughts of the hundreds and hundreds of people who’ve sent flowers and messages that have kept us going. It’s comforting for those of us who loved Sophia.” He swung to an elderly couple at the doorway.
Sophia Pendlebury’s parents, Debbie guessed. They blinked, fighting back tears. Poor sods. They’d lost their daughter. If it were Jennifer … Debbie choked down the thought.
“To know that you loved her as well.” Gould’s voice broke then, but he soldiered on. “Oh, God, we miss her so much …” Tears dribbled down his cheeks, and the cameras zoomed in.
OTT, Austin.
She’d met the man, been impressed by his easy, self-deprecating style, but he was an adult, for goodness sakes. “Man up,” she told the TV.
“What’s this?” Matt asked. “Oh, Austin Gould. What’s up?”
“He’s blubbering.”
“Fair enough, eh?”
Debbie snorted. She didn’t buy it from a professional presenter, an actor.
“Thank you, thank you, on behalf of her dad, Ned, mum, Patricia and Graham, her son. I’m afraid they’re too distraught to talk today.”
Mrs Pendlebury held up a photo portrait of their daughter: younger, dressed for dancing — a prom photo — Sophia’s lovely face suffused with joy. For all that it was so obviously staged, it brought a lump to Debbie’s throat. She pictured Jennifer again.
Then Austin spoiled the moment. “I’m going back to Western Australia. It’s too soon, but I have to go for Sophia’s sake. There’s unfinished business.”
“Yeah,” Debbie said. “More vandalism to fake!”
“The campaign excited Sophia. The opportunity to help people spoke to her heart. It’s what she would have wanted.”
“Hah! That’s what they all say.”
“It doesn’t make it untrue,” Matt said.
“He’s an actor—”
“They tend to be emotional, don’t they?”
“And able to produce tears on demand.”
“A broken man dealing with a terrible loss.”
“That’s what he wants you to think. It’ll help his campaign.”
“Turn it off,” Matt said.
“With pleasure.”
“We’re late for cricket
.”
They found Gary at the appointed exercise station, on one knee engaged in a serious conversation with Joanne and Dan. The little asshole had his arms folded and his trademark scowl, but he listened to every word from Gary.
“How the hell does he do it?” Debbie asked Matt.
“Do what?”
Lachlan rushed over to join Gary’s conversation.
“That. Gary’s got them eating out of his hand.”
“You’re jealous.”
“Damn right I am.”
“Some got it. Some don’t. A lot of teachers have it.”
“Speaking of which.” Debbie searched the field for the pervert. The boys were safe for now. Dave McManus had his head down over the trestle table with the registrar lady, dealing with an administration issue. If he stayed there the whole night, it would suit Debbie perfectly. Perhaps she should come up with some ideas for logistical spanners to throw in his works and keep him busy with the other organisers.
When she turned back, Matt had deserted her to join the Gary Hollins Fan Club and Paul’s mum, Yvette, had appeared at her elbow.
“Did you see Austin Gould on the news?”
“Yes.”
“Sad, wasn’t it? I snivelled into my tissue. Poor, poor man.”
Debbie resisted the urge to suggest he’d be exactly the opposite to poor after ten years starring in a hit TV series unless he was a complete financial numbskull.
“Isn’t it great that he’s coming back?” Yvette prattled on, oblivious to Debbie’s disdain. “So brave, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. Brave as.”
Yvette frowned. “It’s less than a fortnight since they tried to kill him. His girlfriend was murdered.”
“Tragic.” Debbie managed a little compassion. Losing your partner to a killer would break the stoniest heart.
“I didn’t get out to see Austin when he was here before, but I’m going to make sure this time. Show support, you know?”
Debbie bit her lip. Precisely what the opportunist jerk wanted. Profiting from a murder took political cynicism to a new low.
“You met him, didn’t you?” Yvette asked.
“Mmm.” Would she ever shut up? Debbie pretended to be fascinated with Gary and Matt, hoping Yvette would get the message.
“He’s so attractive.”
It didn’t work, then. “It’s kind of a job requirement.”
“A job requirement?”
“For actors.” Debbie knew Yvette could be superficial, but for goodness sakes!
“Oh, Austin Gould. He’s dreamy, yes. I meant Gary.”
“Gary.” What on earth did she see in him?
“He’s so good with the kids, especially the boys.”
Oh, God, did everyone have to remind her how bad she’d been as coach?
Yvette coughed. “Sorry, you did very well, too.”
Debbie rolled her eyes.
“Gary’s got that ruggedly handsome thing going, and, with the caring vibe, too, phew.” Yvette fanned herself with her hand, like a fainting southern belle. “You work with Gary?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s he like?”
“Annoying.”
“Really? He’s so … cool.”
“Don’t be fooled.”
“He must spend hours in the gym. Does he work out?”
“Not at the office.”
“He’s so … built.”
“Nuggety.”
“What?”
“Gary thinks he’s nuggety.”
“Mmmm. I wouldn’t mind—”
“Yvette, you’re married.”
Yvette patted her arm. “Yes, but a girl can imagine, can’t she?”
Debbie made a gagging sound. “No, thank you. Get a grip. Can I get you a cold shower? There’s a hose by the clubhouse. Sorry, I … need to go … and watch Jennifer.” She couldn’t keep an eye on Dave with Yvette bending her ear, besides the risk of bursting into laughter.
Debbie walked around to the far side of Jennifer’s game, where she could hang with the other parents and look back across the whole oval. Her daughter’s team were fielding. Jennifer danced on the spot while the bowler ran in. Where did she get that from? She must ask Matt if any of his family had acrobatic abilities.
“Hi, Debbie,” Anne’s mum said. “Did you see Austin Gould on TV?”
“No,” she lied, hoping to be spared.
Big mistake.
“Oh, you’ll have to watch the replays when you get home.”
Debbie tuned out the breathless commentary that followed while she looked for Dave McManus. He’d left the desk but should be easy enough to spot. The teacher had a distinctive walk: shoulders back, busy, short stride. He scurried everywhere as if he was late for an appointment.
“Don’t you think, Debbie?”
“Mmmm.” What else could you say when you hadn’t listened to a word the woman said? Debbie spotted her target then, steering a young lad across the oval, a hand between his shoulder blades. The kid cradled his forearm to his chest — injured? Where was his mum? “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
She ran for Gary and Matt, dodging between wandering clusters of kids swinging their bats as they changed stations. Crap, which one was next for Lachlan’s team? There they were!
She grabbed Matt’s shoulder. “Take over from Gary.”
“What?”
It had come out as a bit of a wheeze. She took a huge breath.
Gary joined them, smiling. “Did you run? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run. New fitness regime?”
“No.” Another couple of pants. She pointed at the change rooms. “He’s got a boy in the shed.”
Both men turned that way, brows furrowed.
“Go on. Gary, get …” She struggled for breath. Maybe she did need to get fit. “Get in there, Gary.”
He hesitated. “He’s not going to … right in the middle of a cricket session.”
“You know that, do you? You’re sure? Do you want to take the risk? The kid’s hurt his arm!” That made it worse in Debbie’s mind — a vulnerable boy.
“It’s first aid, then.”
“Gary!”
Matt patted her back.
She glared at him. If one of them didn’t do something, she’d go herself.
“Okay, okay, I’m going. You’ll be okay for a few minutes, Matt?”
“No problem.”
Hollins stopped to fish in his backpack.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting my Working With Children card, remember?” He smothered a grin.
“What’s so bloody funny?”
“You get really red when you’re breathless.”
“Go!”
“I’m going. I’m going.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HOLLINS COULDN’T SEE Dave McManus around the clubhouse, so he went to the lady at the trestle table. He flipped his new purple card in his fingers. The one emblazoned with the blurry headshot taken in the Post Office which would convince anyone he was a serial killer on sight.
“Can I help you?” the lady asked. “You got your Working With Children card.” She reached out.
“Yeah. I was looking for Dave. I thought I saw him come this way with a wounded soldier.” He gave her his sunniest smile.
“I can register your card.”
“I wanted to talk to Dave.”
She huffed, no doubt marking him as a misogynist who wouldn’t listen to a woman if there was a man on hand. “He went into the men’s.” She gestured over her shoulder.
“Thanks.” He handed over the card.
She snatched it with a scowl — another friend made.
“I’ll be right back.” He covered the five metres to the entrance of the male restrooms in a couple of swift strides. Taking a boy into the toilets set off howling alarm bells. If he’d joked with Deb while a pervert went to work, he might never forgive himself.
The toilets had a single stall, a urinal and an exten
ded tiled area with two shower heads, deserted.
A rustle turned his attention to a second door, through which were low benches against walls lined with hooks. Ah, the toilets were an extension of a change room. He dashed through and froze mid-stride.
The little boy sat on a bench in the corner. His feet didn’t reach the floor. His head was down, blond hair hanging over his eyes, bottom lip out.
Dave McManus knelt on the floor with his back to Hollins and his hands somewhere in the poor kid’s lap.
The teacher turned, smiling. “G’day.”
Hollins breathed again. Dave’s fingers were around the boy’s forearm, holding a mess of wet handtowels in place. He picked up the focus of Hollins’ attention. “Wet paper. Not as good as a towel full of ice cubes, but it’ll work. Do you know First Aid?”
“A bit.” Field dressing gunshot wounds, splinting broken limbs.
“Have a look.”
Dave withdrew to sit on the bench.
Hollins took the invitation. He picked the towels away from the boy’s wrist. “What’s up, mate?”
The injured party sniffed.
Dave chimed in. “Got in the way of a bigger lad’s bat, didn’t you, James?”
James nodded.
“Ooooh.” Hollins gave the red patch a reaction he felt James would appreciate. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”
The boy’s digits writhed.
“Not broken then. That’s good. Shall I get some more towels, Dave?”
“Yep, fresh is good. I think the crisis is over, hey, James?”
Hollins went back to the toilet, took a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the sink and soaked them thoroughly.
Dave replaced his improvised compress with the fresh supply, and Hollins tidied up the discarded paper mush.
“I see Austin Gould’s coming back,” Dave said.
“Yeah.”
“More work for you, eh?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve been looking at the stuff online about your camps. They’re quite a thing.”
“Thanks.”
“I want to help.”
“Yeah? You didn’t seem all that enthusiastic when I mentioned it before.”
“I know, but everyone’s been telling me how great they are, and I’ve changed my mind. You know, I’d like to put something into the community.”