The Negotiator

by Chris Taylor

  Sighing softly, she turned her face back toward the open window, watching the endless stream of cars pass by them in waves of heat and exhaust fumes. So many cars and not a single roadside-assist vehicle in sight.

  “Are we cleaning tonight, Mom?”

  “Yes, honey, we are. We’ll have an early dinner and then get going. Provided we get the car fixed, that is. Otherwise we might be taking the train.”

  “I don’t mind. The train’s pretty cool. Lots of people to look at and I love going through the tunnel.”

  She smiled: To be ten years old again and see the world through unjaded eyes. For her, innocent pleasures in the simple things had come to an abrupt halt the night she’d told her father his teenaged daughter was having a baby.

  “’Scuse me, luv. You been waitin’ for roadside assistance?”

  A burly head, covered in untidy gray hair, thrust itself through her open car window.

  Cally gasped in surprise. Her thoughts scattered like the wind. The mechanic had arrived.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You got a spare?”

  The man who spoke with the rough Australian vernacular, grinned at her. He wore dirty blue overalls with an embroidered name tag that identified him as “Mike”. His teeth were yellowed with tobacco stains and he chewed a piece of gum with ferocious concentration.

  “In the trunk,” she replied, thankful he’d finally arrived, even if he did look like he needed a bath.

  He moved away and then yelled out from behind the car, “You might have to flip it open for me, luv.”

  Cally flushed with embarrassment and fumbled around the side of her seat for the lever, grateful he couldn’t see her. She heard him work the spare tire and jack out of the trunk, snapping his gum in time with his movements.

  “You might have to get out of the car, if you don’t mind. I gotta get the jack under there and even though there’s not much of you, it’ll be easier to jack it up with you outside it.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” She opened the door and stepped onto the hot asphalt. “What about my son? Is it okay if he stays in there?”

  Mike poked his head through the open back window and gave Jack a toothy smile. “G’day, mate. I’m Mike. What’s your name?”

  Jack grinned back at him, completely unperturbed by the man’s filthy appearance. “I’m Jack. Do you think I can get out, Mike? It’s getting pretty hot in here.”

  “No worries, mate. But get out on the far side, over there, won’t you? Too much traffic on this side. And better stay close to your mom, okay?”

  “Sure, Mike. Thanks.” Jack pushed open the door and stepped out onto the shoulder of the road. Cally came around to stand with him, feeling vulnerable and exposed. It was difficult to admit how much the recurring appearance of the blue Toyota rattled her—not to mention the blow to her hard-fought independence having to rely on the filthy, but friendly mechanic to change her tire.

  First thing she would do when she got a spare minute or two was to read her car manual. She’d be damned if she’d sit back helplessly a second time.

  “The tire’s in pretty bad shaped, luv. I can take it with me, if you like. Save you havin’ to get rid of it.”

  She stepped forward in alarm. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m not going to get rid of it. I’ll need to have it repaired.”

  Mike chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “You’re not gonna be able to repair that one. The wall of the tire’s been shredded. It’s rat shit, I’m afraid.”

  “But… Are you sure?” She frowned, knowing the cost of a new one would completely blow her budget.

  “Yep, and you really should put a new one on the other side, too. It’s not safe to have one good one and one old one runnin’ together. The tire around the front passenger’s side’s gonna go too, before long.”

  Desperation seeped into her bones. All at once, she was overwhelmed by the continuing struggle to keep things afloat. As if things weren’t already stretched to the limit, now she’d have to find the money for two tires.

  Aware that Mike was still looking at her, Cally forced a smile. Checking to make sure Jack was sitting well away from the road, she walked up to the mechanic until she was close enough to speak to him without having to yell over the noise of the traffic.

  “How bad do you really think it is?” She pointed to the tire on the passenger side.

  “Well, it’s fairly well worn. The spare I’ve just put on is in pretty good nick, but we don’t recommend havin’ tires with different wear on them bein’ run together.”

  “Why not?” she asked, wondering how serious the issue was and whether it could be delayed until she’d managed to save a little more money.

  “Well, it can affect your steerin’ a bit. Your car will try and pull in the direction of the worn tire.” He shrugged. “It’s just not somethin’ I’d recommend.”

  “So it’s not a matter of life or death or anything?” she persisted. “I mean, it’s not going to cause an accident, is it?”

  “Well, that’s a question I can’t rightly answer.” He scratched his stubbled chin with a grease-stained finger. “Who knows what could happen if you took your attention from the road for a few seconds and your car started veerin’ off into another lane. If you’re travelin’ beside a big semi or somethin’ you could find yourself right underneath it.”

  She tried to suppress a shudder. She’d just have to make sure she concentrated for every second she was in the car and take her chances with the tire until her finances improved.

  As Mike replaced the jack in her trunk and hoisted the ruined tire onto the back of his truck, she walked over to Jack and helped him up.

  He grinned at her and pushed his sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. “Are we going?”

  “Yes, honey. We’re going.”

  Jack called out as he climbed back into the car. “See you later, Mike!”

  Mike gave him a cheerful wave. “See you, Jack.”

  Cally came up to where Mike stood outside his service truck. She gave him a weak smile. “Thanks for all your help. I really appreciate it.”

  “No, worries, luv. You take care now and make sure you get yourself a couple of new tires as soon as you can.”

  She didn’t reply, but gave him a small wave of thanks and headed back to her car. She couldn’t bring herself to confess to him she’d be happy to buy a couple of new tires—if only she could afford them.

  Sighing heavily, she turned to check that Jack’s seatbelt was secure before she switched on the ignition and headed back into the afternoon traffic.

  * * *

  “Come on, honey, we’re going to have to get a move on. I need to be down at the police station in half an hour. We lost a fair bit of time waiting on the side of the road, and I don’t want to be late on my third night.”

  “Okay, Mom.” Jack finished the last piece of sausage on his plate. Picking up the glass of milk near his elbow, he drained it in a few quick swallows before setting it back down on the table with a triumphant sigh.

  “Thanks for dinner.” He smiled over at her where she stood at the kitchen sink loading the dishwasher.

  “That’s fine, honey. Now hurry up and have a quick shower and change into some clean clothes. It’ll be time for bed when we get back.”

  He began to undo the buttons on his school shirt. “Can I take my Zac Power books with me?”

  “Of course. It’s been taking me a couple of hours to clean the building, so it’d be a good idea for you to bring something to amuse yourself.”

  “Maybe I could help you?” A hopeful look filled his face.

  “You probably could and I appreciate your offer, but just let me get settled in for a bit first. This is only the end of my first week and I need to get a feel for it, all right?”

  “Sure.” He turned away and tossed his dirty clothes in the direction of the laundry.

  “Hey, what’s this?” She pointed toward the pile of clothes on the floor, well shy of the washing machine
.

  He shot her a cheeky grin. “I’m just trying to help you get a feel for it, Mom. Cleaning, I mean.”

  “Very funny.” She bent down to pick up the dirty clothes.

  “Well, washing clothes is a cleaning job.”

  “Jack.” Her voice held a warning, even as laughter bubbled up inside her.

  “Okay, okay, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  She came over and put her arms around him. His near-naked body looked longer and thinner than it did when it was concealed beneath his clothes. “You need to put a bit of meat on your bones, my son.”

  “Yeah, so you keep saying. Maybe it’s just who I am.” Turning suddenly serious brown eyes upon her, he added quietly, “Maybe my dad was tall and skinny?”

  Cally drew in a shocked breath. Apart from the very occasional vague question about his father, he’d never before directly asked her anything about him. She’d always known the issue would have to be dealt with at some stage, but she suddenly felt completely unprepared.

  Feeling like a coward, she changed the subject. “Hey, how about that shower?”

  His shoulders slumped and he looked away. He mumbled a response and turned and left the room.

  Cally’s heart clenched. Swiping at the hot tears that pricked her eyes and threatened to spill over, she finished tidying the kitchen. Their small cottage, tucked away behind a row of much larger, grander homes in Chatswood, one of Sydney’s leafy northern suburbs, was pretty snug with only two average-sized bedrooms and a sleepout.

  It may have been small, but the cottage was surrounded by stately old gardens filled with enormous ancient fig trees which meant their modest backyard was shaded from the heat for most of the day.

  As far as she was concerned, it was perfect. She’d loved it from the moment the realtor had unlocked the door and motioned her across the threshold.

  “Now, it might seem a little cozy,” the man began as he led her through the modest rooms, but she’d barely heard him. The immediate feeling of familiarity had overwhelmed her.

  This was it. She was home.

  The kitchen was vintage 1950s—old and worn, but the scrubbed linoleum floor gleamed and the mint-green laminated countertops reminded her of her Aunt Mary’s house in Armidale; a house where she’d felt wholly and completely loved. A house where she’d raised her son for the first eight years of his life. A house she would never have left if fate hadn’t intervened.

  Even now, more than two years later, she could recall, as if it were yesterday, the smell of star jasmine and honeysuckle that had filled the warm spring air the day her aunt had sold the only home Jack had ever known.

  Glancing at the clock on the wall of the kitchen, Cally gasped. She was going to be late.

  So much for trying to make a good impression. The way things were going, she’d be lucky to get there at all. What, with the flat tire setting them back over an hour and now wasting time reminiscing, her day didn’t look like it was going to end well. With no time to shower and change, she headed quickly toward her bedroom, calling out to Jack as she did so.

  His tousled head, still wet from the shower, appeared in the doorway of his room. “I’m in here, Mom. Is it time to go? I thought you were going to take a shower?”

  “Yes, sweetie, it is and I was, but we don’t have enough time now, so I’ll go as I am. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, you look fine.” His gaze swept briefly over the soft cotton sundress she’d worn to work. “A bit rumpled, maybe,” he added with a grin.

  “Gee, thanks, buddy.” She grinned back at him. “You’d probably look a bit rumpled too if you’d had the day I have. I swear, every boy in the third grade had ants in his pants today. Talk about unable to sit still. I thought I was going to have to get them all to run a few laps around the oval to wear them out.”

  He rolled his eyes at her. “We’ve only been back to school a few weeks, Mom. It takes a bit of time to get used to it again.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she laughed and pulled a brush quickly through her short, straight bob, thankful her hair was so easy to take care of. Once upon a time, she’d never have taken a pair of scissors to her trademark long hair—the hair her father had been so proud of. But that was a lifetime ago…

  Refusing to allow her thoughts to wander again, she picked up her keys and handbag. “Okay, honey, let’s go. Grab your books or whatever you want to take with you and I’ll meet you at the car. Let’s hope we don’t have any more mishaps along the way.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Andy Warwick’s heart pounded and the blood pulsed in his ears, making it almost impossible to hear. Rivulets of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. Ignoring everything, he remained focused on the man who stood a few feet away from him.

  Precariously balanced on what felt like a microscopic window ledge, Andy battled to keep Wayne Tucker from throwing himself to the sidewalk, thirteen floors below. The late afternoon sun beat fiercely against Andy’s face. His eyes burned from the salty perspiration. He didn’t dare move a muscle. With his gaze fixed on the portly, middle-aged accountant, he tried again.

  “Wayne, keep talking to me, mate.” To his relief, his voice remained calm and firm, in stark contrast to the turmoil swirling inside him. He prayed for a response—something, anything—to indicate the man was still listening.

  Nothing.

  He held his breath. The only movement came from a wisp of hot air that lifted Wayne’s longish, lank hair. Fear slid insidiously through Andy’s veins.

  “Why don’t you move a bit closer, Wayne? We can talk better that way.” He swallowed against the urgency that had crept into his voice.

  The man lifted his head and slowly turned it toward him. “What are you still doing here? You know I’m going to do it.” Tucker’s pain and anger reverberated between them over the stifling air.

  Andy kept his gaze steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Go away!”

  “Mate, listen to me. I want you to slide your foot over a bit. Move a little closer. It’s hot as hell out here. Don’t make me yell in this heat.”

  “I’ve already told you. You’re wasting your time. Just leave me alone.”

  Andy’s stomach tensed at the anger in Wayne’s voice. It wasn’t a good sign. Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to stay calm. The next few minutes would be crucial. If he had any hope of saving the man, he had to convince him to move close enough to fit a rope around him and clip him to the safety harness strapped to Andy’s back.

  Filling his lungs again, he forced himself to speak evenly. “I’m not going to do that, Wayne. I’m not going anywhere without you. If you jump, I’m coming with you.”

  Wayne’s gaze narrowed on Andy’s face. His voice sharpened with suspicion. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re not going to jump. You’re full of shit.”

  “Mate, it’s me. Andy. I’ve been sitting up here talking to you for the last three hours. I’m not bullshitting you. You jump, I jump.” The lie fell easily from his lips. He prayed he sounded convincing.

  Members of Andy’s team, all elite officers of the State Protection Group, stood behind him, tense and watchful from inside the safety of the double glazed glass of the steel-and-concrete North Sydney skyscraper.

  Andy waited.

  Had he said enough? Had he managed to penetrate the fog of anger and pain that had muddled Wayne’s reasoning and turned a completely ordinary man into a potential tragic headline for the six o’clock news?

  Not daring to breathe, Andy was almost paralyzed at the thought he might fail. An image of his dead sister flashed through his mind and he bit down hard on his lip. He needed to concentrate. He couldn’t fail. With his chest tight, he tried again.

  “Tell me, Wayne. How old is your boy, now? Six? Seven? And your daughter, Sophie? She’s going on ten, isn’t she?” Andy prayed the information he’d been given was correct.

  “He’s seven. Marcus is seven.” The reply was soft and hesitant. />
  Andy’s breath eased out between his tense lips. Conversation was good. It was progress. He had to keep it going.

  “Marcus. That’s a fine, strong name. I bet he’s a good kid. With a name like that, he’d have to be.”

  A fleeting smile crossed Tucker’s face. “Yeah,” he whispered. “He’s a good kid. So is Soph.”

  Andy’s gut tightened in anticipation. This was it. This was his chance. “Come on, Wayne. Come over here. Come closer, so I can help you back inside. Marcus and Sophie need you.”

  It seemed to take a lifetime, but eventually Tucker moved. One step. Two. Each one brought him a little closer. Andy almost collapsed with relief. Standing rigid, he waited as the man placed another foot gingerly along the cement ledge and brought himself within arm’s distance. His tortured eyes burned into Andy’s.

  “That’s it, Wayne. That’s it. Keep going, mate. You’re nearly there.” With quick efficiency, Andy unhooked the rope at his waist and slid it over Tucker. Within seconds, the man was secured. As if the bravado that had kept him on the roof ledge for the best part of three hours had suddenly evaporated, Wayne slumped hard against him. Andy braced himself against the additional body weight.

  Moments later, members of the SPG surged forward. Arms reached out for both of them, dragging them through the open window to safety. The tension drained from Andy’s body. He slumped forward onto the carpeted floor, dragging Tucker with him. Similarly affected, the man gulped in great lungsful of air. Tears poured down his cheeks.

  Two paramedics who’d been standing by, leaped forward and began assessing Tucker for injuries or other physical health concerns. Andy looked away and did his best to restore his heartbeat to normal. Detective Sergeant Tom Munro strode over, relief flooding his swarthy features. He unhooked the steel link that tied Andy to Wayne.

  “Good work, Andy.” Tom’s voice was low and rough with emotion.