8 Hours to Die

by JR Carroll

Sammy jumped out again and opened the gates that looked secured but were not. When the Volvo and its long load were clear, he fixed the chains and padlocks back in place, locked them and pocketed the keys. Then he jogged to the Volvo, idling patiently down the road a ways.

  He climbed in, shut the door. Dingo switched on the headlights. The road ahead was flooded with bright light. He gave Sammy one more grin, shoved the pistol down the front of his pants and pulled his shirt out over it. Then he engaged the transmission.

  They were on their way to Warwick Farm.

  Sammy sat quietly, staring straight ahead into the twin cones of bright yellow cast onto the road by the Volvo’s headlights, as Dingo wound his way through a network of roads—left, right, left again—into Banksmeadow on Botany Bay where the Caltex oil terminal loomed large. It wasn’t a part of Sydney Sammy knew well, but he was impressed with Dingo’s driving.

  ‘You’ve driven these things before,’ he said to break the silence.

  ‘Used to drive a car transporter, delivering new cars to dealers,’ Dingo said. ‘Then I got into the tow-truck business. That was a total rort. Been driving these fuckers all me life.’

  ‘How do you know Rafe?’

  ‘We were cellmates,’ Dingo said. ‘Long time ago. Rafe’s a top guy, life of the party, give you his last cent, but … he’s got no guts. That’s the fact of the matter. He should be sitting where you are now, but he pulled the pin. He’s got two suspended sentences hanging over his head. He gets busted he goes back inside for seven years. He hasn’t got the stomach for that.’

  ‘Seven years is a long time,’ Sammy said. ‘I did half that. Thought it’d never fucking end, one day after the next, tryin’ to walk in wet cement.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dingo said. ‘Wet cement. That’s about it.’

  They reached Mascot and got onto the M5 motorway. Dingo opened up until they hit a hundred. He was constantly checking his mirrors, looking out for a patrol car that might just happen along and spoil their party. Couple of bored cops on the swing shift might spot this semi cruising along in the middle of the night and decide to pull it over for a routine check.

  ‘We run into any cops,’ Dingo said. ‘Don’t say or do jack shit. Sit tight. Follow my lead. If they just want to see my licence, that’s cool, but if they’re highway patrol and they want to see my log, manifest, any of the paperwork I should be carrying, that’s not cool, we’re in the shit. Pray we don’t run into any.’

  There was traffic, but no cop cars. Dingo drove carefully, only overtaking when he had to, not going too fast, both big arms gripped onto the wheel.

  ‘So what’s it worth, all this stuff?’ Sammy said.

  ‘All this stuff?’ Dingo said with a grin. ‘Quite a bit. What would you say, at a guess?’

  ‘I got no idea. Hundred thousand? Two hundred?’

  Dingo laughed out loud. ‘Try a million. Retail value, that is. Wholesale, take off twenty-five percent.’

  Sammy took a moment to digest that figure. Sounded a hell of a lot to him, but he concealed his amazement. ‘Where do we sell it?’—deliberately inserting we into the question.

  ‘Nightclubs and strip joints in the Cross’ll take any amount. Since it’s hot goods, we’ll offer a generous discount on wholesale. Bastards’ll queue up for it. We should clear maybe a half mill by the time dust has settled.’

  ‘Million bucks worth of Scotch,’ Sammy said. He gave a silent whistle.

  ‘Not just any old Scotch,’ Dingo said. ‘This is top of the range. Nightclubs charge like wounded bulls for a single shot. Imagine the profit they make per bottle, when they’re buying it for half price. They’re happy, we’re happy, everyone wins.’ Then, an afterthought: ‘Well, almost everyone.’

  It was a straight run to Casula, where they made a right onto the Hume Highway towards Liverpool and then reached Warwick Farm. Far as Sammy knew, it was a racetrack, nothing more; he was surprised to see it was a proper town, houses, a shopping centre, everything you’d see in a normal suburb.

  When they passed the sign that said WARWICK FARM, they’d been on the road maybe forty, forty-five minutes. It was dead quiet; most house lights were off, citizens asleep as they ought to be at 1am on a Tuesday night.

  They passed by the white-fenced racetrack and then turned off the highway, down a secondary road that seemed to go nowhere. Eventually a sign loomed in faded paint: COMMONWEALTH OF AUSTRALIA, and beneath that: DEPARTMENT OF DEFENCE RAASC.

  There was a sagging chain-link fence and an entrance that used to have a boom gate once upon a time. The driveway was gravel overrun with weeds; it was bordered by rocks that had been painted white years ago.

  Dingo drove right on in, headed for some dilapidated timber and red-brick buildings at the end of the driveway.

  ‘Let’s hope Rafe’s managed to get off his arse and do his bit,’ Dingo said.

  Right at that moment, just as Dingo finished saying those words, Sammy had a feeling—a shiver in his entrails.

  Something wasn’t right.

  24

  At 7.20pm Jimmy Raines was strapped into a regional airline propjet as it taxied towards the runway. It had already been delayed ten minutes; now they were finally moving. Its destination was Merimbula, ETA 7.40pm. Light rain was still falling, but conditions were otherwise OK. He could only hope he would be able to rent a car from the rudimentary airport, where he had never been before, at that hour. At airports bigger than Merimbula, car rental desks often shut down at five or six, or whenever the clerk wanted to go home.

  As the Super King Air angled sharply and noisily aloft, Vicki’s question echoed in Jimmy’s mind: What in hell are you getting into? He had no answer.

  Too late now.

  His fellow passengers were a mixed bunch: some suits, a young family, a handful of roughnecks drinking cans of beer; they laughed and ribbed each other over the loud drone of the plane’s engines. They were having a good time of it. Going by bits of their conversations, they might’ve been fishermen.

  Jimmy felt alone—and nervous. He had that exposed feeling, as if he’d been set up somehow, but the wheel was in spin and there was no backing out of it now.

  He wished he had his gun.

  The twenty-minute flight seemed much longer than that. Soon as the doors were opened, Jimmy beat the other passengers out and hurried across the tarmac. Misty rain dampened his face. He made for the Hertz desk, which was the only one still open. The last off-road vehicle they had was a Subaru Forester, an all-wheel drive. It would have to do. Jimmy gave the young woman his MasterCard and filled out the necessary documentation. It all seemed to take a long time.

  Ten minutes later he was inside the vehicle, familiarising himself with the instruments and general layout. They were all pretty much the same these days. There was no GPS. Instead he consulted the map the Hertz woman had given him, tracing his route with a felt-tipped pen. Then he turned the key and cruised out of the lot, out of the airport, into the second leg of his journey.

  During the flight he’d considered going to the Merimbula cops, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble and time it would eat up. They wouldn’t take his claims seriously without credible evidence—evidence he couldn’t produce without exposing Pat O’Dwyer and Strike Force Unicorn. He could ask them to ring Pat, but that seemed a no-go as well; why would they bother? So they could drive out to the Pericoe Valley on a cold Friday night on the off-chance there was something in it? They might even give him a hard time if he pushed the issue. Towns like this, cops just want to do their shifts and go home. They certainly don’t want big-noting Federal cops bringing them problems. Inter-force rivalries were always a difficulty in policing.

  No. Jimmy was flying solo on this one.

  He’d been to Merimbula before and knew his way around. It wasn’t that hard a town to get out of. Soon he was on the open road, en route to Pambula. A light, misty rain was falling. Jimmy drove fast, too fast, as he shot by the Ben Boyd National Park. It was old whaling country around here; g
hosts were everywhere as he put his foot down even harder. He bypassed Eden and was soon on the A1. There was little or no traffic; the road was poorly lit except for the Subaru’s headlights that cut through the rain.

  Soon after he hit the Towamba Road, the bitumen ran out and he was forced to slow down. He was in the home stretch.

  As he carved a passage through the night, Jimmy considered his prospects. According to the CD Pat had sent him, the hit was to go down ‘over the weekend’. That could be any time between now and Sunday. Ideally, Jimmy would arrive at the house, find nothing out of the ordinary, warn Tim and Amy … and that would be it. They would have to take evasive action. Confronted with the evidence, they’d have no option but to play safe, pack up and clear out straight away.

  Jimmy knew Tim well. He didn’t take unnecessary chances. When they were cops together, Tim wouldn’t charge anyone unless he was absolutely certain he’d get a conviction. The evidence tells the story, he’d say. As a lawyer, same thing: follow the evidence. He was also security conscious to a fault, with an unlisted number and a state-of-the-art alarm system. Once confronted with the evidence, Tim would not stick around.

  That was the best-case scenario. But if the killer or killers were already there … Jimmy closed his eyes momentarily. What if they’d already been and gone? What if he was presented with a scene of devastation and carnage? His mind would not go there. Logically, a hit team would wait for the victim to settle in, perhaps make their move during the night when the target is at his most vulnerable.

  Maybe. But killers don’t often act logically—Jimmy knew that from his years as a homicide cop. Hired killers are usually fuck-ups who find a way of botching even a simple hit. They kill the wrong person, leave evidence at the scene, go home with blood all over their clothes, mouth off in pubs … Organisation is rarely a murderer’s strong suit. The number of top-level, professional executioners was very few indeed. The great majority were rank amateurs, often first-timers who think it’s easy to murder someone and get away with it.

  Dale Markleigh was not a first-timer, however. If he was behind it, this would be a well-planned job, carried out by professionals. If it was Markleigh.

  Markleigh was a seasoned, ruthless rogue ex-cop who could carry a grudge for a long time. He was not the forgiving type; nor was he shy about killing or harming people. He routinely beat up suspects during his career. Perhaps he wasn’t involved, but he was at the top of Jimmy’s list because he’d been doing surveillance on the man, and because of his recent release and mysterious visit to Canberra just when this threat to his ex-mate and now bitter enemy had come to light—well, it all seemed a bit of a coincidence.

  He headed west along the Towamba Road. Jimmy had been to the house once and was confident he could find it again with no trouble. He certainly wouldn’t need the map, which would be useless in any case. He pushed the car up to a hundred-twenty. At this rate he figured he’d be there in about half an hour.

  When he arrived at Gus’s store on the junction with Pericoe Road, Jimmy stopped and got out of the car. He tried the front door, but store was shut up tight, as he knew it would be. There was a light on somewhere at the back of the building. If Jimmy could raise Gus he’d ask him if anyone had come by apart from Tim. This was the only way into Tim’s place, and nothing escaped Gus’s eagle eye. He’d also pick up a hunting knife or some other weapon that might even up the odds a little.

  He went around the back, through a rusty gate, and knocked on the back door.

  No response. Crusty old bastard’s probably in dreamland by now.

  He knocked again, harder this time: still no answer. He peered in the window, through the gauzy curtains. There was a single bed, but no one was in it. Through the doorway, into the shop, he could just make out some racks of merchandise. But there was something else, too: a rolled-up rug or carpet on the floor. He could just see the end of it, near the doorway.

  Sticking out from the carpet were two feet.

  ‘Christ!’ Jimmy said. He looked again to make sure. No mistake—a pair of shoe-clad feet.

  He tried the back door, but it was locked. It contained frosted glass quarter-panels, so he smashed one of them with a fist wrapped in his jacket. Then he reached inside and unlatched the door.

  Soon as he stepped inside, Jimmy knew he was in a bad place.

  Kneeling, he carefully unrolled the carpet. What he saw made him gasp and grab his throat.

  Gus had been savagely beaten, stabbed, or both. There were gaping wounds all over his body: chest, stomach, upper legs. Thick, dark blood had pooled on the carpet and the floor, slowly moving towards the side of the building.

  Jimmy didn’t touch anything apart from the carpet. He was knee-deep in a major crime scene.

  There was a blood trail leading into the shop.

  He got up, found a light switch and followed the trail. It led to more patches of spattered blood near the rear of the shop. Jimmy surmised that this was where the murder took place, before the body was dragged to its present location and rolled up in the carpet in a crude bid to conceal the crime. Jimmy could only begin to imagine the fear and terror Gus must’ve felt in the moments before his death.

  Moving forward, past the counter, he saw that the wall phone had been smashed to pieces—doubtless to cut off Gus from any help.

  This was the phone Jimmy was going to use to call Vicki—the only one in the area he knew of. So much for that. But he’d had a growing feeling he was never going to make that call anyway, the way things were shaping up.

  He pulled out his mobile phone and, more in hope than expectation, dialled triple-O.

  No signal.

  Jimmy knew Gus’s murder and the threat to Tim were part of the same scenario. The killer or killers called into the shop for whatever reason, to buy something, maybe ask for directions, then decided Gus was a potential witness.

  The blood was still fresh. Jimmy was no forensic expert, but he knew enough to estimate that Gus had been murdered maybe a couple of hours ago, max. Maybe even less than that.

  He unlocked the front door and went outside.

  All perfectly quiet. Idyllic, really. He heard an owl hoot somewhere.

  He stood there for a minute, hoping someone might come by—someone who could carry a message to the cops in Eden.

  No one came by.

  It was all on Jimmy’s plate.

  He went back in, shut the door. He found a fishing knife, a hefty one with a curved bone handle and serrated edge. It was in a leather sheath. He put it down the back of his pants. Then he grabbed a claw hammer.

  Returning to Gus’s body, he wondered what to do about it. It seemed wrong to just leave him there in that state. Gus’s eyes were wide open; they had rolled up and only the whites were showing.

  Jimmy closed the eyelids.

  After some second and third thoughts, he rolled up the carpet again, leaving the scene as he’d found it. Then he went back through the shop, switching off the main light, left the building and shut the door.

  He stood outside a moment, lowering his face—a man had been murdered, and you didn’t easily walk away from that. Not when you were a cop.

  By the time he reached his car, a sense of urgency had filled his chest. The killers—and there must’ve been more than one—had a good start on him. They were probably already at Tim’s house.

  He had a clear duty to notify police—but that would eat up precious time. By the time they got to the scene …

  He had a terrible feeling that he might be too late.

  Jimmy sat in the car to collect his thoughts. He could feel his heart beating.

  Looking back at the shop, he realised he’d made some basic errors. He’d contaminated the crime scene. Not only that, but he’d put himself in the frame. He’d handled the carpet, the door knobs, light switches, other things. He’d left footprints around the building, outside the back door where he’d broken in. The ground was soft; the prints would be clear.

  He’d even
tracked footprints into the shop.

  He’d touched the body with damp fingers. There might be DNA.

  He’d taken—stolen—a knife and a hammer from the shop. They could be construed as the murder weapons.

  He couldn’t have done much more to incriminate himself.

  If he were the lead detective on the case, he’d reckon he had a slam-dunk. People had been convicted and sent away for many years on the strength of less circumstantial evidence than this. As if he needed one, he now had extra incentive to bring in the bastards who did this.

  He dismissed these concerns and tried to focus on the job ahead. Reaching into the backpack by his side he got out the beanie and put it on, pulling it right down over his ears. He checked himself out in the mirror.

  Not as fearsome as he would’ve liked.

  He started the car and moved off into the darkness. He was getting too old, too soft, for this caper. Jimmy had put in a couple of years in Special Operations, the so-called Sons of God, he had that going for him, but he was a young cowboy then. He’d also served in homicide and other elite squads at different times in his career. But now—now he was a young cowboy inside a middle-aged man’s body.

  He pressed on. Not far now. The broken bitumen gave way to loose gravel. Then it was just dirt. Jimmy felt his anxiety level rise dramatically as he neared his destination.

  After another ten minutes, he arrived at the turn-off to Tim’s place. In the headlights he could see that at least one vehicle, maybe two, had negotiated this track recently. Wet shrubbery splashed against the car. On he went. As a precaution he switched off the car’s lights. Then he slowed down almost to a stop. There was a vehicle parked at the end of the track, fifty metres ahead, blocking his way: it looked like a BMW four-wheel drive. Jimmy let the car idle forward under its own steam until it was about twenty metres from the BMW. Then he switched off the engine.

  The BMW was right at the edge of the bush that bordered Tim’s front yard. Jimmy calculated that the house was about eighty metres away. Tim’s Kluger was out front, between the generator shed and the house. Jimmy sat still in his car; watched and listened. He was surprised that there were no house lights; not even the sound of the generator. Why wasn’t it on? There was no other source of power. But there was activity of some sort near the house. He could hear raised male voices, two or three. None of them was Tim’s, he thought. Now and then a torch beam slashed through the darkness.