Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

Beck didn’t see it coming. Hale dealt him a low, left-hand jab, struck him in the side of the gut. Beck crumpled into it, dropped his arms in reflex. Hale came over the top with a big right and punched him twice in the face: mouth, then nose. He felt stitches rip, pulled back in agony.

  Rowe said, ‘Jesus, Beck. Don’t just take it.’

  The head-hits left Beck stunned and bleeding. He aimed a straight-right for Hale’s nose. It was a poor blow. The seat cramped him. His belt held him back. The shock wasn’t helping. Hale locked the guy’s wrist and held on. Rowe swung them to the roadside: a graunch as the high kerb chewed polished wheel rims, a hard lurch as he ripped the brake. Hale kept his grip on Beck’s arm. He popped his seatbelt and landed another punch. Beck caught it on the ear and slumped against the window.

  Hale’s door opened behind him. He felt hands on his shoulders, around his neck. Rowe dragged him out onto the road. He watched his own splayed legs slide backwards across the seat, dropped and thumped against the pavement. A bleaching dazzle of headlights, a panicked horn blare as a car chicaned past. Instinct made him keep his face protected: he took two punches on raised forearms, then spun and kicked out. He made shin contact. Rowe backed away and took off up Queen Street. Hale rolled over and found his feet.

  Beck was out of the car. His nose was bleeding: both nostrils gushing full on. He came in hard. Boxing tactics: arms raised to parry headshots. It left his lower torso and legs exposed. Hale kicked him in the groin. Beck retched and dry-heaved, then folded forwards, one arm raised weakly. Hale tracked around him, a crab-stepped quarter-circle. The injury slowed Beck down: he couldn’t match the move. Hale stepped high, kicked him hard in the cheek with his heel. Beck’s head boomed and bounced off the sheet metal. He spat a loose arc of blood and hit the road.

  Hale said, ‘You wouldn’t have been much work for Sugar Ray.’

  He walked around the back of the car, a man-shaped shroud across one brake light and then the other. He popped a collar button and checked inside his shirt. Dougie’s bullet wound had bled through the bandaging. He should have considered seepage before donning the suit.

  The hazard lights were blinking patiently amber. Somehow Rowe had thought to flick the switch.

  Hale looked left, saw Rowe southbound on Queen. Hale pursued. The stitches pegged his sprint back to a limping jog.

  Rowe turned and saw him coming. ‘Jesus.’ He raised an open palm, trying to ward him off. Hale swung a wide kick mid-step and swept Rowe’s ankles from under him. Rowe tripped and went down. He crashed on outstretched arms.

  ‘Christ. Don’t hurt me.’ He rolled over.

  ‘I got shot yesterday; still took you guys two-on-one. Stay on the ground.’

  He checked his shirt. It was showing evidence of scarlet ooze. He rebuttoned the suit jacket. Down the street the car stared at him, headlights a fierce white, road in vivid relief. Beck was up on one knee, leaning against the bonnet.

  Hale said, ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Hale put a foot on his throat. He applied gentle pressure. Rowe bucked and gagged, clawed at his ankle. ‘Jesus. Don’t.’

  ‘Answer the question. If you sit up, I’m going to kick your teeth in.’

  A car passed by on Queen. Alone there on the pavement they were unmistakable, but it didn’t slow down. Rowe watched with sick longing as it diminished. He said, ‘People owe me favours. You’ve got no idea how much shit you’re in.’

  ‘I’ll sleep with one eye open.’ He trod hard across Rowe’s fingers.

  ‘Fuck. That’s my tennis hand.’

  ‘Start talking.’

  Rowe snatched his hand back, brought the arm close to his chest, like comforting something feeble. ‘Beck had a thing for her.’

  ‘Your bodyguard had the hots for your daughter?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s a looker; he’s only human.’

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘Look, it’s no big deal. He made a move on her, she wasn’t interested. He got kind of wound up, roughed her up a little bit.’

  ‘Roughed-up is a bit of an understatement.’

  ‘Well. She’s okay now.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She doesn’t live with me. It’s fine; I send her money. It’s all totally, totally fine.’

  ‘You kept the bodyguard and got rid of the daughter.’

  ‘He’s good at what he does.’

  ‘I know; I saw the pictures.’

  ‘So he’s wound a little tight.’ He shrugged. ‘I took it as a good sign.’

  ‘There’s nobody around, maybe I should kill you.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  ‘I’ll tell them you tripped and broke your neck.’

  ‘No, don’t. Please don’t.’

  ‘What should I tell them then?’

  ‘Don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Why did you have me looking into the robberies?’

  ‘Just money.’

  ‘You thought I’d find the loot and give it to you? You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘No, there’s a contract out.’

  ‘How much?’

  A car had pulled up alongside the Chrysler. Hale saw a woman climb out of the passenger seat.

  Rowe said, ‘I could call out.’

  Hale shrugged. ‘It’ll take them a while to walk over here. Longer than it would take me to break your arm.’

  Rowe shut up.

  Hale said, ‘How much was the contract?’

  ‘Half a million.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell me that to start with?’

  ‘Well. It’s kind of unofficial.’

  ‘Who posted it?’

  Rowe told him.

  The dilemma: call for backup and hit the motel with armed support, or satiate the urge to finish things himself.

  Devereaux called for backup.

  The same Comms operator answered. Devereaux explained the situation. The operator told him to wait. Devereaux said the suspect had been potentially tipped off about an arrest, and he had to move now. He didn’t wait for a reply.

  The Paradise Inn was north of the Blair address, a ten-minute drive up Great South Road. It was a long single-level building paralleling the road, set back behind low metal fencing and a tarsealed stretch of parking. Devereaux drove past and stopped the car on the opposite side of the road, fifty metres out. McCarthy hadn’t lied: the gun wasn’t loaded. He found a box of nine-mil hollow points under the passenger seat, fed the magazine with damp and jerky hands.

  Come on. Get it together.

  His own advice kept seesawing. On the one hand: be patient and wait for some help. On the other: you’ve lost a lot of sleep over this. You’ve earned your starring role.

  He got out of the car, and just stood a moment watching the motel. A drape behind an open window waved at him limply. He crossed the street, shirt untucked to disguise the gun in his belt. There were half a dozen cars in the lot, no Toyota Hilux. Maybe Doug had dumped it. Or maybe he’d already fled.

  There was a double-level admin annexe at one end. He figured reception at ground level, a live-in manager up top. The door to reception was locked. He put a hand-visored gaze to the glass, saw a counter protected by drop-down security mesh. A laminated sign above a magazine rack displayed an after-hours emergency number.

  Devereaux rounded the corner of the building, out of sight of the attached units, dialled on his cellphone. A woman answered.

  ‘You realise this is the emergency number, not general bookings.’

  ‘I’m a police officer, I need you downstairs immediately. Don’t turn on any lights.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Please just come downstairs.’

  He moved back around to the door, watched the long row of rooms as he waited. After a minute a woman in her early sixties appeared behind the desk, obscured by the security grille. Glow from an adjoining room backlit her gently. He didn’t have his badge. She must have decided
he looked like a cop. She came through a side door beside the counter and unlocked the main entry. Devereaux stepped inside.

  ‘I told you not to turn on any lights.’

  ‘If I tripped and fell down the stairs, you’d have a proper emergency, I tell you.’

  Devereaux pulled the door gently. She sized him up.

  ‘Heavens. You’ve got a gun and everything.’

  ‘You had any new check-ins today?’

  ‘Two actually.’

  ‘Guy in a Toyota ute?’

  ‘That like a pickup sort of thing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘Is he still here?’

  ‘Well, I guess so. Though I wouldn’t know if he’s left during the night.’

  ‘What room is he?’

  ‘Is he in a lot of trouble?’

  Devereaux nodded. ‘Fuck-loads.’

  ‘There’s no need to talk like that.’

  ‘It’s been a long day. What room is he?’

  She thought about it. ‘I put him in twelve. Only one we had free.’

  ‘You got a master key?’

  ‘You just going straight in?’

  ‘Yeah. We’ll see what happens.’

  She moved back around the counter, removed a key from a drawer.

  ‘Any of the rooms have a chain on the door?’ he said.

  ‘Some of them do.’

  ‘Does number twelve?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ She handed him the key. ‘Do you want me to do anything?’

  ‘No. Just stay here. There’ll be more police coming soon.’

  ‘Will you be okay by yourself?’

  ‘If not, it’ll be a sign of something.’

  She didn’t understand what he meant. He thanked her and walked out. His pulse ran in double time to his step. The cold darkness and the weight of the gun in his hand. The concrete underfoot, the long row of doors, it reminded him of his cellblock visits. Maybe this was what it was like to approach the electric chair. The last dark walk before the end. He made it along to number twelve and just stood there facing the door. The neat brass numerals staring back.

  He waited and listened, square on to the door. Like summoning the guts to knock for a first date. Swap that gun for a nice bouquet. A car passed on the road and strobed him weakly. The Glock grips slick in his hand. His shirt clinging. Heart racing at blow-out tempo.

  Suicide. You should wait for backup.

  He put the key in the lock. The slightest metallic grating. He turned the key and the knob at the same time and stepped inside, gun up.

  The room was small. A breakfast bar separated a kitchen in the back from the main living area. A man was seated on the near side of the bar, a shotgun laid across a table beside him, muzzle aimed at the entry. A reading lamp on the wall above his head was switched on. The yellow glow diminished radially into a leaden darkness.

  Devereaux said, ‘Put your hands on your head and lie down slowly on the floor.’

  ‘I thought you’d be coming.’

  ‘Put your hands up.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. And don’t come closer. Just stay there. Just stay in the door.’

  He looked scared, and stressed. Devereaux tried to sound calm. ‘I just need you to move away from the gun, Douglas.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can. Of course you can.’

  ‘Don’t come closer. Just stay in the door.’

  ‘Okay. I’m staying in the door. Just keep your hands steady. I don’t want to shoot you.’

  ‘Suicide-by-cop, right? That’s what they call it.’

  ‘Yeah. But we’re not going to do things that way.’

  ‘You were lit coming to the door,’ the guy said. ‘I saw where your feet made a shadow. I could have shot you through the door.’

  ‘But you didn’t because you want it to end.’

  ‘I never thought that things would go this bad.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But they have.’

  ‘You’re a police officer?’

  ‘That’s right. Why don’t you just come away from the table?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m so scared.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen. You just need to move away from the gun.’

  ‘I saw the shooting.’

  ‘What shooting?’

  ‘In January. In the morning. I saw from the car. They were just meant to be getting the money back, but they killed everyone. I saw them shoot those policemen in the front yard. I didn’t want it to go that way. I didn’t.’

  ‘Where are they now, Douglas?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The men who did the shooting in January.’

  ‘They’re dead. I didn’t want it to go this way. They were just meant to go in the house and get the money. The money was meant to be in the house, but they didn’t find it. It was just a waste of time. They’d killed all those people, and it was worth nothing. I thought it could fix everything. But it hasn’t. It just makes it worse. I killed Leroy and that other guy this afternoon. Don’t come closer.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m still in the door.’ Sirens so far off they could be coming or going.

  Douglas said, ‘I never believed people could get to the point where they hate themselves. They can. I already do.’

  ‘Just come away from the table. It’ll be all right.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to jail. I’ve done time; I don’t want to go back.’ Siren noise ramping up.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  Devereaux wouldn’t have picked it: offering comfort at the end.

  The parking lot entry and exit were at separate ends, like a drive-through. Patrol cars converged from either direction. Everything swamped by siren wail.

  ‘Keep them back. Don’t let anyone come in here. I swear I’ll make you shoot me.’

  ‘Okay. They’re staying back. I don’t want to shoot you.’

  Huge blue and red tint patterns across the ceiling. ‘Your gun’s shaking.’

  ‘Why don’t you just come outside?’

  ‘I’ve got the truck parked against the back door, so don’t let them think they can come in through there.’

  ‘I know. Just relax.’

  Douglas swiped sweat off his brow. ‘I’m only thirty-eight, man. I’m young.’

  Devereaux heard radio chatter: Backup units be advised we have an officer on scene—

  ‘I know. Just relax. It’ll all be okay.’ Questions forming despite the mayhem: ‘Tell me who you’re working with.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who are you working with, Douglas?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. They’re all dead. Everyone’s dead. I shot them after we drove away.’

  ‘Where are they, Douglas?’

  He got no answer. Doug had tuned out. He grabbed fistfuls of hair, squeezed shut his eyes. ‘I didn’t want it to go this way. I promise this is not what I wanted.’

  Armed Offenders Squad is ETA two minutes; can we have an updated situation report?

  Devereaux took two steps closer. Douglas’s lids blinked wide. ‘Don’t. Stop. Either I kill you or you kill me. That’s how it is. Get back to the door.’

  ‘Okay. I’m backing up.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You haven’t moved.’

  ‘No, look. I’m backing up.’ Devereaux braced his shoulder against the doorframe. He looked outside. Two police cars, two officers from each, ducked behind open doors. Coiled handset cables pulled taut.

  ‘How long will I go to prison for? Will I be able to get out? How long will I be locked up?’

  ‘I don’t know, Douglas.’

  Sweat trails on an anxious face. A methodical dripping off his lower jaw. ‘I don’t want to die in prison. Please. I promise I didn’t want it to go this bad. I promise I didn’t.’

  AOS be advised on-scene officers report suspect is likely outside taser range, over.

  ‘I can’t even pick the point at which it all went bad. God.’
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  ‘Douglas, just be sensible here.’

  ‘I’m scared of prison; I don’t want to go in. Please, we can work something out.’

  ‘Not here we can’t. But you can come outside and tell me everything.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t.’

  He reached for the gun.

  Devereaux shot him.

  One round to the shoulder to immobilise the hand nearest the trigger. Douglas screamed. He reached across himself with his free arm and scrabbled for the shotgun. Devereaux shot him again. And then again, a third time. Brief flashes in tight sequence. The room in sharp orange relief. Doug took both rounds in the torso, a neat grouping below the armpit. He collapsed against the table.

  Devereaux lowered the gun, uniformed officers surging past into the room, securing the gun, checking for a pulse. Devereaux turned and walked outside. That horrid cocktail: ears ringing, the smell of gun smoke, the tense thundering in his chest. A now familiar feeling. He sat down on the bonnet of a patrol car. McCarthy’s keys tight in his pocket, McCarthy’s gun in his hand, McCarthy’s blood on his knuckles, McCarthy’s bidding on his conscience.

  Someone said, ‘Sergeant, why don’t you let me take that.’

  Déjà vu: it sounded like Monday’s script. He handed over the gun wordlessly. Doors were opening up and down the length of the building, gown-clad guests venturing outdoors. One guy was panning a cellphone camera: this’ll look great online. Nothing beats YouTube fame.

  He went back into the room. Cops clustered around the table. This strange little motel requiem. The shotgun had been relocated to the floor. A thin sheen of blood glossed the table. One arm hung slack, curled fingers grazing the floor. A small tattoo down one forearm read Mistaken for Strangers. Devereaux recognised it as a song by The National. He wondered if he’d be able to listen to that track ever again.

  He walked out, leaned against a car.

  From inside: ‘Christ, we’ve got a pulse. Get the first-aid shit in here.’

  Devereaux put his head in his hands. It was Monday evening, redux. He almost wished the guy was dead. One dosage of victim-on-life-support anxiety had been more than enough. He didn’t want a second go-round.

  People were asking him if he was okay, but he made no response. The moon was still there, high and pale, but down here in this moment everything was red and blue.