He left the track, crossed the road opposite the main entrance and got into the four-by-four Jackaroo he’d stolen from a supermarket car park a couple of hours earlier. He’d parked it illegally at a bus stop, but what the fuck. The view of the racetrack entrance/exit was perfect, and the distance only thirty yards. He’d sit in the vehicle and wait patiently for however long it took for Bunny to come out. He chain-smoked his Camels and cradled the Weatherby Mark V .270, feeling its smooth, hard stock, the scope, the recessed bolt assembly and the matt-finish hammer-forged barrel. It was enough to give him a real hard-on. He touched himself, feeling it thickening under his fingers, and wondered about getting a woman for the night. But who would want to come back to his filthy cesspit? Maybe he could go to her place. That could work. He didn’t want a hooker, didn’t like them much, but what was the alternative? He decided he’d check out a few places – cocktail lounges and nightclubs where single chicks cruised. Maybe one of the five-star hotels was the way to go.
In his pocket he had six magnum 180-grain cartridges, but he wouldn’t need that many. The first shot would do it, but if something went wrong, he figured he’d have time to work the bolt and get off three more rounds before high-tailing it. His strategy was to drive the Jackaroo a short distance, following a pre-arranged route, set fire to it – with the rifle inside – to cover his tracks, then transfer to a second stolen car which he’d already planted there, waiting for him. He was counting down now: nearly there. Night was setting in. He leaned against the passenger-side door, stretched his legs on the seats, folded his arms and watched the entrance. Individuals drifted in and out. They looked like riff-raff, just what you would expect to see at a fucking dog track. Edward couldn’t understand why anyone with any sense would want to spend their time watching a bunch of fucking hound dogs running around in circles after a piece of fur. Stiffs and losers, all of them.
His mind drifted back to another loser: Mick Dawes. That guy had gone so quietly to his maker you would have thought he wanted it that way. He must have been soft in the head to buy Edward’s reason for a meeting – to sell him back the guns. Either that or he was desperate for cash. But he didn’t seem surprised, didn’t buck at all, when Edward pulled the pistol on him and told him to kneel down. It seemed to Edward that the old bastard knew what was on the agenda all the time, and didn’t give a shit. He was dying after all, and Edward remembered him saying something about preferring to go out with a bullet in the head. Edward had felt nothing at all when he’d touched the barrel on the back of his shaved dome and fired once. Just before he’d pulled the trigger, he’d thought he heard the man whimper, or sob. Maybe he was saying a prayer. Some tough guy. When he was lying on his face, already dead, Edward put two more shots alongside the first one, in a tight group, the way he used to do when executing prisoners in Nicaragua.
Back inside the track Bunny’s streak of luck continued: two more winners, a place, a healthy quinella – all up, he was five hundred in front after race five. Following his leads, Barrett and Geoff had picked up a nice stake too. They went into a bar for some food and a cool drink – Cokes for Barrett and Geoff and a light beer for Bunny. They had some interstate bets on the tote and won a few of those too. Bunny was on a roll. After race nine, still one to go, Bunny counted off his cash and announced he was ready to leave anytime. ‘Looks like a big no-show for Mr Motherfucking Sly from Cleveland,’ he said. He’d won a thousand neat, and was as happy as a kid in a sandpit. Barrett had to remind himself that he was only nineteen years old. Back in the States, he probably wasn’t even old enough to gamble, or drink. So they headed for the exit. Barrett had parked his Commodore in a side street; when they reached the footpath, he would leave the other two and the extra guards and return with the car, pick them up right out front. A dark street was an assassin’s natural habitat. After that the off-duty cops would follow them back to Homebush Bay in convoy.
Edward crushed out a cigarette and checked his wrist-watch: ten forty-five. When he looked up again he saw three men, the two bodyguards and the target, come through the gate onto the sidewalk. He sat up, lowered the electric window halfway, wrapped the strap tightly around his shoulder and rested the rifle barrel on the window’s edge, a couple of inches protruding. Then he put his right eye against the rubberised ocular lens of the Nightforce scope. Beautiful: there they were. Edward could see them as clearly as if he were standing directly in front of them. One of the bodyguards left, presumably to get the car. There were some other guys hanging around too, maybe looking out for cabs. Edward pushed a cartridge into the breech and slid the bolt silkily into place: click. The round was chambered. Now he had the target in his crosshairs. He decided to go for the chest area rather than the head: it was safer, and the bullet would rip straight through him and take his heart with it, suck it clean through the hole in his back. He steadied, bracing himself for the recoil on his shoulder, then exerted first pressure on the trigger. It was set at four pounds, so he knew he’d have to pull it through hard. The target was turned partly side on, talking to the beefy bodyguard. Not perfect, but enough of a shot to blow him away. Edward took a breath, held it a second, tightened his finger –
Then two things happened.
First, all vision was suddenly obliterated. Fucking Christ in heaven, what is this? He took his eye from the scope: a fucking bus had stopped right in front of him, blocking his view. Fucking unbelievable shit. ‘Get outta the fucking way; go, go, go, go, asshole.’
But the bus didn’t move.
Next minute, there was someone tapping on the passenger-side window of the Jackaroo. Edward spun his head around, saw some prick in a uniform peering in.
‘You can’t park here, mate,’ the man told him. Jesus Christ – it’s the fucking bus driver.
‘Fuck off, shit for brains,’ Edward said, and then he saw the man’s eyes pop wide open as he clocked the rifle Edward was holding, its strap worked around his shoulder and the barrel-tip still resting on the driver-side window’s edge.
‘Christ,’ the man said, and took off.
Edward jumped out. He was angry – fucking angry. Not hesitating for a second, he sighted up on the man’s fleeing back and put one right between his shoulder blades. The bullet tore through his spine and heart, came out the other side, changed direction and sped at three thousand feet a second for another hundred yards before shattering the windshield of a parked Nissan Pulsar. The driver of the Nissan was in the process of removing a Club lock from the steering wheel; she never knew what happened as glass showered over her and the projectile drove through her cheekbone and travelled upwards into her brain, where it came to rest against the cranium wall.
Edward chambered another round, ran around the Jackaroo and sought out his target. But everyone was scattering and yelling their tits off – there were people running every where, crossing in front of him. In the dark and confusion, he couldn’t see the coffee-coloured nigger or his bodyguards – they’d fucked off too. Fuck it. Feeling oblivious to the running and general chaos in the street, Edward was black with rage as he climbed back into the Jackaroo, threw the rifle in the back, fired up the vehicle and flattened it. Rear wheels spun as he fishtailed, screaming and issuing palls of thick white haze, like a smoke grenade going off; he accelerated past the bus, scraping the near side of it and swaying and snaking away along the pre-arranged escape route. Now he had to suppress his anger long enough to lock his brain into gear so he could remember exactly where to go. Left turn, go hard, harder, then right … keep going, fucking son of a bitch, left lock around a bend, fast as the fucker’ll go, straight on, fucking asshole, left again … There. There it is. Ford fucking Taurus piece of shit. He screamed to a halt behind it, grabbed the can of gas, emptied most of it into the Jackaroo, got out a book of matches, lit them all and tossed it in: Whoompa. Go on, burn, you cunt.
He was on his way, threading through suburban streets, when he looked up at the mirror and saw powerful headlights dazzling him on high beam. It was clos
ing fast, nearly tailgating him now. Edward put his foot right down and went for it, stomping it and simultaneously unzipping the belly bag and withdrawing the .44, which he placed on his lap. In the pursuing car, Barrett was on the mobile telling Geoff where he was and trying to stay in touch with the Taurus, which was leaving him in its wake at the moment. The phone kept breaking up, so he switched it off without knowing whether Geoff had heard him or not. He had actually seen the bus driver run along the sidewalk, then pitch forward as a rifle cracked somewhere behind him – Barrett hadn’t seen the shooter because the double-parked bus was in the way. Then he saw the Jackaroo make smoke and fly in a big hurry. He’d lost it twice, then saw and heard the car go off like a fucking bomb a couple of streets away. By the time he got there, the Taurus was making a right turn at the end of the street, and Barrett had called upon the Commodore’s considerable torque and horsepower to catch it, his lights blazing. Then he’d got on the phone to Geoff, and that was when the Taurus had slipped ahead again.
Barrett was gaining, steadily making ground. He knew his vehicle could easily out-perform the Taurus, but Duane – he was assuming it was Duane driving, since he hadn’t seen him – was really hustling, taking corners on two wheels, overtaking two and even three wide without caring what was coming at him. Clouds of acrid, burning engine and brake smoke wafted over the Commodore and seeped into the cabin. Barrett was fifty yards behind when he saw the Taurus approaching a red light. No brake lights; the car didn’t slow for a second, but moved up a gear and accelerated through the intersection like a rocket. Clenching his teeth Barrett followed him. He didn’t know this area well, and sure as shit Duane didn’t either, but it didn’t seem to matter – Duane was the getaway driver from hell, weaving crazily between cars, rushing red lights, spinning into sharp turns and losing himself in rubber and engine smoke. When they approached yet another red light, Barrett watched in horror as Duane swung wildly into the inside lane and planted it in a straight line across the grid. Drivers hit the anchors and swerved out of his way, and miraculously no-one was collected. Barrett pulled up short of the lights. He wasn’t ready to die yet, not in a car wreck, even if this madman was. Better to let him run for now. He took some deep breaths, recovered, then swung the car into a U-turn and headed back to Wentworth Park.
26
‘I need to get a new battery for this phone,’ Barrett said, pressing buttons to no avail. ‘Can’t even get a call out signal now.’
‘Use mine,’ Geoff said. He was selecting one of his freshly laundered white shirts from the wardrobe. It was nearly nine in the morning and Barrett could still feel his nerves jangling from the hair-raising car chase. He hadn’t slept very well at all, kept having flashes, like phosphorous flares going off in his head, but a long, hot shower and three cups of coffee had brought him to life. A couple of hours talking to the cops hadn’t helped his cause either – he hadn’t crashed until after two. Now, however, he felt ready to face whatever the day would bring. One thing he knew now: that man Duane was completely, suicidally, insane. He had no regard for anyone’s life, even his own.
Morning papers were spread over the table in their room. The lead item was the ‘Wentworth Park Double Killer’ who had sped from the scene in a stolen Jackaroo, burnt it, then vanished at high speed in a second stolen car, a late-model Ford Taurus, which was found abandoned in nearby Chippendale. The killer was now the subject of an intense police manhunt. Detectives were unsure of the man’s motive in shooting bus driver, Colin Burge, aged 48, but it seemed the second victim, 23-year-old student Brenda Carmody, was freakishly struck by the same bullet that killed Mr Burge. Numerous witnesses had said they had only heard a single shot, and just one cartridge casing had been found. The ‘one shot’ hypothesis was strengthened by the fact that Mr Burge, who had been shot in the back, also had an exit wound in his chest. The papers were already calling this the ‘magic bullet’, as it must have changed its flight path to hit two people in a similar fashion to the one in Dallas that hit JFK and Governor Connally back in ’63. In the burnt-out wreck of the Jackaroo, police had recovered a high-powered rifle, which was currently undergoing forensic testing.
‘I just need to have a word with Bunny. Check he’s okay and staying under lock and key today,’ Barrett said. ‘Where is your phone, anyhow?’
‘Amongst the rubble somewhere,’ Geoff said, knotting his tie. ‘Shit. Maybe I left it in the car.’
‘I’ll go and look. Don’t think it’s here.’
He grabbed Geoff’s keys and went out to the hotel car park. It was a bright, warm day. He peered into the tinted glass, and there was the little handset in the console. He de-alarmed the Statesman and retrieved the phone, and as soon as he had it in his hand it rang.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Geoff? It’s Ray Ward.’
‘No, it’s Barrett, Ray. Dickhead’s left his phone in his car for the hotel thieves to knock off. And my battery’s stuffed, so a fine state of affairs that would leave us in. Anyway I’m just taking his back for him. What’s news?’
‘As a matter of fact I’ve got something interesting for you boys, I believe. How are you fixed for lunch today?’
‘I think we’ll be all right. Our client will not be moving from the village precinct after last night’s drama – even if I have to shackle his legs together.’
‘You reckon that was your contract hit man?’ Ray said.
‘Well if it wasn’t, I’m Mother Goose. Although nobody’s claimed to have seen the bastard. But … who else would be hanging around a dog track where Bunny just happens to be, with a fucking sniper rifle?’
‘You didn’t see him yourself?’
‘Nope. Just choked on his fucking smoke. It was our man all right.’
‘Well. They’ll get him soon.’
‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘You don’t kill two people in the street, then vanish into thin air. His clock’s ticking down.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ He was back in the room now. ‘Anyhow, here’s Tex. See you a bit later, mate.’ He handed the phone to Geoff, saying ‘Ray,’ then went to the bathroom and splashed a little cold water over his face. In the background, he could hear Geoff making lunch arrangements.
‘I’ve got to go and sort out some business,’ he told Barrett when he came back in. ‘And get some stuff from home. Bunny’s not going anywhere today, is he?’
‘No. I’ll make sure he’s not.’
‘You okay?’
‘Hot to trot, my man.’
‘Sure?’
‘You want a signed statement or what?’
‘You sound a bit strange, that’s all. Anyway Ray’s come through with some info of great interest to us, he says. Want to meet at the Bayswater Brasserie at twelve-thirty?’
‘Not the Bayswater Brasserie. It’ll be full of heads.’
‘Name somewhere that won’t be, mate. Anyway Ray’s booking it. Gotta fly. See you then.’ He swept up his keys and left. A moment after he’d gone, something suddenly convulsed in Barrett’s chest. He sobbed and gulped involuntarily and clutched his head to stop the taut wires inside from snapping apart. Fucking hell – not now. Not yet, please.
Barrett replaced the battery in his phone, called in at the office, read and answered e-mail, made and took a few calls, signed some cheques, attended to routine business. There was quite a bit of it, but somehow the place had jogged along without him. At a quarter past twelve, he drove to Darlinghurst and tried to park in Bayswater Road. It was out of the question, so in the end he had a decent walk back uphill to the restaurant. Geoff and Ray were already there, knocking back ice-cold Crown Lagers. Barrett sat down and ordered a double shot of Stolichnaya on ice and a Crown from a passing waiter. He was feeling more than ready for a good drink, and he didn’t put his hands on the table because he thought they might be shaking. Looking down at them on his lap confirmed his fears. When the waiter returned he only had the vodka, and Barrett told him he wanted both together, now. S
orry sir, the waiter said. Be right back.
‘So you had some action last night,’ Ray said.
‘Yeah. Call me Dick Johnson.’
‘Hair’s not white enough.’
‘Fucking should be soon at this rate. If there’s any left.’
‘I’ve got something that might make your life easier,’ Ray said, and withdrew some folded sheets of paper from the inside pocket of his sports coat. Barrett had a hefty pull on the vodka, closing his eyes momentarily as the spirit slowly burnt its way down. Then he sat forward as Ray smoothed out the sheets with his horny hand. The skin on it looked plated, like an old tortoise’s.
‘This is a fax from C. Cooper Garovich. Christ, those Yanks have some names, don’t they? Garovich is the FBI field agent in Denver, Colorado. I’d made inquiries on your behalf last week, asking if they had any leads on the contract killer. Didn’t really expect a reply, but this arrived overnight.’ The waiter, who was a Hugh Grant lookalike, came back with Barrett’s Crown, and Ray waited for him to pour it and leave before going on. Barrett took the opportunity to have another solid belt of the Stoli.
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