Resurrection Bay

by Emma Viskic

  He lowered his hands. ‘McFarlane was already investigating Gary.’

  ‘What? Before his death?’

  ‘That’s the only reason he would’ve been there straight after Gaz was killed. And it explains why Tedesco was so quick to start accusing me and Gaz of being crooked – he walked into that house already thinking Gaz was bent.’ He thought back to the airless interview room, the questions the detectives had lobbed at him.

  ‘Drug money?’

  ‘Prostitution …’

  ‘… laundering.’

  ‘Blackmail …’

  ‘They were watching him, but they don’t know what they’re looking for. They were throwing around theories just to see my reaction. Stupid things, like …’

  ‘Like?’

  He hesitated. ‘They were asking about Anton. Gaz called him that day.’

  ‘You’re thinking drugs?’

  ‘Gaz wouldn’t. Not drugs. Not anything.’

  She held his gaze. ‘Do Ethical Standards investigate anything except crooked cops?’

  Crooked cops.

  A series of previously unconnected thoughts lined up and clicked into place.

  ‘It’s not just Grey-face,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gaz’s connections were one of the reasons I asked him to work for us. He would have talked to his colleagues, asked if they knew anything about the robberies. And Frankie … Frankie spent yesterday talking to all her old mates.’

  ‘Not a coincidence,’ she said. ‘An organisation.’

  ‘And Gaz knew.’

  Of course he knew, otherwise his family would have been under the protection of burly men with guns, and Gaz would have been down the station giving a statement. The ground dropped away beneath him: Kat’s car idling outside Broadmeadows police station while he agonised over how to say goodbye. OK, no need to panic. A single car in peak-hour traffic, no reason anyone would have noticed it.

  Except for the pornographic mural.

  ‘You have to get out of here,’ he said. ‘Someone might have seen your car. Jesus, Grey-face might have seen it.’

  ‘So what? It’s just a car.’

  ‘Just a car? People were taking photos of it!’

  ‘Yeah, they do that sometimes. But you said Grey-face didn’t see you. And no-one followed us from the station. At least, I assume that’s why you spent the drive here with your head on backwards? Then relax, it’s fine.’

  ‘Just …’ He dug his fingers into his aching skull. ‘You need to go. Go to the Bay or something and stay with your parents.’

  ‘It’s a three-hour drive, I can’t just up and leave. I’ve got a life, I’ve got work.’

  Why could she not see the danger? ‘It’s too big a risk. You have to go. Just until I work out what’s happening.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘I know you’ve got a problem understanding where your responsibilities begin and end, so let me make it easy for you. I’m not your brother, I’m not your partner, I’m not even your wife, so back the fuck off.’

  ‘Kat. For God’s sake.’ He stood up. The room pitched and his stomach slid into his throat like leftover kitchen grease.

  ‘Shit. Are you all right?’

  He slowly lowered himself to the chair. ‘Not really.’

  ‘You’re not going to throw up, are you?’

  Clammy, sweating. Hold it together. ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘Because I’m not cleaning it up.’ She dumped a mixing bowl unceremoniously in front of him and placed a cool hand on his forehead. ‘You’re running a temperature. Do you think that cut’s infected? How’s it feel?’

  Infected. Right. That’s why it hurt so much. A lifetime ignoring all sickness and this was when it had to backfire.

  ‘God, Cal, you could have said something. Come on, I’ll take you to St Vincent’s.’

  ‘No. They’ll know I’m hurt. They’ll be checking the hospitals.’

  She was still for a long moment. ‘OK. Stay there.’

  She left the room and returned a moment later holding something that looked like a laser-gun from a bad sci-fi film.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A digital thermometer. Mum gave it to me.’

  ‘Maria? So you’re going to stick it up my …’

  She pulled out his hearing aid and shoved the thermometer into his ear with unnecessary force.

  ‘Christ, did you get your bedside manner from your mother, too?’

  She winced at the readout. ‘Right, well that’s high enough for me to be worried about septicaemia. Come on, we’ll have to risk the hospital.’

  Hours in the waiting room, waiting for someone to slip a knife between his ribs. ‘No. I’ll go to a GP.’

  ‘And they’ll send you straight to hospital.’

  An idea came to him, as practical as it was unappealing. He said the words before he could change his mind.

  ‘What about Maria?’

  ‘Mum?’ Her mouth hung open for a second. ‘You want Mum to treat you?’

  No, he’d rather take his chances with whatever septicaemia was. A local girl made good, Maria Anderson was respected by all and feared by many. Resurrection Bay’s first Koori doctor, Maria was an ER specialist who’d returned home to raise a family and run the local clinic. As a mother-in-law, she’d been briskly accepting of his inability to either hear or be black, but she’d never been shy in pointing out his other shortcomings. Which now included his indefensible failure as her youngest daughter’s husband.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘She’s an outstanding doctor with excellent credentials.’

  ‘You just want me out of Melbourne.’

  ‘Happy coincidence.’

  She sighed. ‘Damn it. All right.’

  He woke with a start: bones aching, shivering.

  Kat touched his arm. ‘We’re here.’

  He squinted against the brightness. They were parked in front of Kat’s family home, a long stone and timber building designed by her father. The lush garden that surrounded it was Maria’s domain. She’d planted every tree fern and native orchid, made fruit trees grow where the ground was pure clay, and pounded crushed rock into smooth paths. Caleb wondered if she still owned the compactor.

  ‘Is your dad here?’

  ‘No, he’s in New Zealand for some conference. None of my sisters are here either, so you’ll have to face Mum undefended.’

  Losing the moderating influence of Kat’s gentle father was a major blow, but the absence of her three sisters probably worked in his favour. He was pretty sure they’d all have a bit of vitriol saved for the man who’d made their baby sister cry.

  ‘You’re looking pretty pale, even for a gubba. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Been better.’

  ‘Come on, Mum’ll fix you up.’

  He opened the door and eased himself upright, but the ground swooped up to meet him. On the gravel path, looking up at the sky. Too bright. Kat was there, kneeling over him. Her eyes were wide.

  ‘Cal. God. Hang on.’ She sprinted away.

  He screwed his eyes shut. There didn’t seem to be enough air. Where had all the air gone? Rhythmic pounding – people running. Fingers pressing against his neck. He brought their owner into focus. Blue eyes, grey-streaked black hair, a look of irritation: Maria. He tried to apologise for lying on her driveway, but couldn’t quite get the words out.

  ‘What were you thinking, bringing him here? He should have gone to the ER hours ago.’

  ‘He was all right,’ Kat said. ‘He wasn’t this bad, he really wasn’t.’

  Maria’s mouth tightened. ‘All right, Caleb, we’re going to sit you up to ease your breathing a little.’

  They hauled him up and propped him against the car. Blades of something hot stabbed his side and the sun shifted and dimmed. Hands held him upright.

  ‘… won’t be safe in hospital. They’ve killed people, Mum. They killed Gary.’

  Maria didn’t move. She was going to leave him here
to die. Hopefully, she’d speed it up a bit, hit him on the head with something hard.

  ‘Use a rock,’ he said.

  She frowned at him. ‘Can you stand up, Caleb?’

  He gave his head a small shake; regretted it intensely.

  ‘Come on, we can’t carry you.’

  They pushed and pulled and somehow got him to his feet. Once there, he wanted nothing more than to be lying on the cool ground again. His feet stumbled, only distantly related to his body. Inside. Blessedly darker. And he was lying down, the pain chewing at his side with sharp little teeth. Someone tapped his shoulder, kept tapping. He peeled open his eyes. Maria was talking, something about treatment and hospitals.

  ‘No hospital.’

  ‘Well I’m not risking … or septic shock … so I’ll be taking you … or the antibiotics don’t work … Do you understand?’

  The teeth were gnawing on his bones now.

  ‘Do. You. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Splintering his ribs.

  Kat came into view, her hands moving slowly, soothing. ‘Did you really understand?’

  ‘Think so.’

  Spitting out the shards.

  She put an icy hand to his cheek. ‘Hang on, she’s getting you something for the pain.’

  Something wrong with his eyes. Or was it her mouth? Her lips were sliding down her face. Dripping. Oh God, she was hurt. He shot up, heart pumping furiously.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Lie down.’

  ‘There was blood.’

  ‘There’s no blood. I’m fine. Everything’s all right.’

  Thank God. His eyelids closed.

  ‘Gary, too? He’s all right?’

  11.

  Kat was stirring something on the stove, her hips moving to a driving beat. Probably eighties Aussie rock. A bag of Arborio rice stood open on the bench, along with scattered mushroom ends and garlic skin – looked like it was mushroom risotto today. That was new. As were the soups she’d been making the past few days. Kat could cook: she made a great lasagna and her laksa was perfection in a bowl, but that was it. She’d mastered both recipes in high school and seemed to decide that they, along with a can opener, were enough to get her through life.

  She gave a double-fisted salute to celebrate the end of the song, and added salt to the pot.

  ‘You’ve got to let the eighties die sometime,’ he said.

  She whipped around. A smile started in her eyes, but died before reaching her mouth. She glanced at his hand.

  ‘So you convinced Mum to take the drip out.’

  He flexed his wrist. ‘Yeah, free at last. She said I’ll be good to go in a couple of days.’ Seven to be precise, but that was splitting hairs.

  ‘Great.’ Kat’s face wore the same polite mask it had that morning in Melbourne. And every time she visited the room where he’d sweated out the past four days. The longer he stayed, the more distant she seemed to become.

  He looked at her phone lying on the kitchen table. ‘Have you …?’

  ‘Five minutes ago. She hasn’t called.’

  He’d lost a couple of days, but as soon as he’d been lucid he’d started emailing everyone he could think of: Frankie’s neighbours, old work colleagues, ex-husband. No-one had seen or heard from her. No-one seemed to care. He’d even managed to track down the sister he’d seen in Frankie’s wedding photo. It had taken Maggie Reynolds two days to craft a three-word reply: We don’t talk.

  ‘Have you checked your voicemail?’ he asked.

  ‘Every half-hour, but I’ll know if she rings.’

  Maybe she just hadn’t read any of his texts. Too busy drinking to bother checking messages. Except that Frankie’s bond with her phone was her most stable relationship. She slept with it, took it to restaurants, on holidays.

  His pulse kicked up a notch. Of course.

  ‘Her phone,’ he said. ‘I can track her through her phone. There’s a website that does it, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You’d need to know her password, wouldn’t you?’

  He thought of Frankie deciding to upgrade all her passwords one slow Monday afternoon, growing increasingly irate over the different security requirements.

  ‘That’s not going to be a problem.’ He grabbed Kat’s laptop from the table and opened it.

  ‘She told you her passwords?’

  ‘Not told, shouted. And just the Apple one.’

  Please let her not have changed it in the intervening six months. He brought up the webpage and typed Ihatefuckingpasswords. She’d also yelled something along the lines of, ‘How do you like that, you fucking fucks?’ but he had the feeling that had just been an aside.

  Incorrect password.

  Think it through. Even pissed off, Frankie would have been security conscious. Swap some numerals for letters.

  1hatefuck1ngpassw0rds

  Incorrect password.

  1hatefuck1ngpa$$w0rds.

  Incorrect password.

  Damn. Had he got the words wrong? Picture Frankie at her desk, her face reddening as she shouted at the computer. Shouted.

  1HATEFUCK1NGPA$$W0RDS!

  And he was in, the little phone icon flashing happily on the map. Where was it? In the Yarra River? The local pub?

  Mary Street, Brunswick.

  Frankie’s address.

  Not too many scenarios where Frankie would willingly leave her phone behind.

  ‘It’s only been five days,’ Kat said. ‘I know that feels like an eternity to you, but it’s not long if she’s off on a bender. How long’s she been back on the grog?’

  ‘She’s been dry for six years.’

  ‘You don’t have to defend her. Not to me.’

  No, of course he didn’t. Kat had grown up witnessing the sway alcohol could hold over people. Over whole communities. There was a reason her whole family had a one-drink policy.

  ‘I thought she started the night Gary died. She was holding it together for me, but she was pretty shaken up.’ He paused, then told her the whole truth. ‘But then I saw her house. It was pretty chaotic, looked like she hadn’t picked anything up in weeks. I’m worried she’s been drinking for a while and I didn’t notice.’

  ‘No, you would have noticed. It’s what you do.’

  ‘I don’t know; my head’s been pretty far up my arse lately.’

  A smile tugged the corner of her mouth. ‘Most of the time. But you seem to get a pretty good view from up there.’ She squeezed his shoulder and went to fill the kettle.

  He didn’t move, didn’t look where her hand had been.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ she said. ‘Do you still use your old Gmail address?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think Frankie’s even got it.’

  Still, it was worth checking. He pulled the computer towards him. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask’. Awkward phrasing for Kat. Awkward posture, too: arms folded, leaning against the sink like that. Uneasy, and maybe a little bit … guilty?

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t freak out, OK?’

  Jesus, what had she done? ‘OK.’

  ‘I rang Detective Tedesco a few days ago and told him about Grey-face. He said he’d email when he had news.’

  Her words washed over him like cold water. He opened his mouth a few times before he could catch his breath.

  ‘The point – God, Kat, the whole point of you coming down here …’

  ‘Was to prevent you from dying.’

  ‘… was so no-one knew you were involved.’ His hands stabbed out the words. ‘And. Now. He’s. Got. Your. Number.’

  ‘Don’t you use that tone with me.’

  He took a moment, then crafted his sentences with slow and even movements. ‘What if he’s bent? What if he’s legit but talks to the wrong person?’

  ‘If you’ll stop frothing at the mouth for a minute, you’ll realise there’s nothing to worry about. He doesn’t know my name, or my phone number, or anything about me. I rang from a phone booth a
nd pretended I was a relay operator.’

  That was brilliant. And totally feasible. Tedesco didn’t know he never used the phone relay service. Would rather chew off his own arm than have some stranger speak his words for him.

  ‘It was still a risk. Why didn’t you come and talk to me about it? I was five metres away, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You were five metres away puking up your guts and hallucinating that the walls were bleeding. Look, if he’s bent, he’s bent, but if he’s straight, he needs to be on your side and hunting for Boxer and Grey-face. This way he’s had four extra days to look for them.’

  ‘How can he look for them when he doesn’t know what they look like?’

  ‘He does. I emailed some sketches from your Gmail account.’

  ‘What? How did you …’ A flash of the nightmare that had twisted through his waking dreams: Boxer and Grey-face at the door, Kat opening it to them. He’d grabbed her arm and refused to let go until she could repeat their descriptions. He had a feeling he’d done it several times. Fuck, fuck.

  ‘This is where you say, “Great idea, Kat. Thank you.”’ There was a warning fire in her eyes.

  ‘It’s not great. It’s not smart. It’s reckless. I don’t want you talking to anyone about any of this.’

  ‘Well, lucky I don’t give a flying fuck what you want then, isn’t it?’ She walked out.

  When he’d calmed down enough not to throw the computer against the wall, he opened his old Gmail account. The inbox was filled with the e-version of dust bunnies, but among messages promising him sex with hot single mums was a string of emails from uri.tedesco@ police.vic.gov.au.

  The messages were as blunt as Tedesco was in real life.

  – Call immediately.

  He hit reply.

  – No phone. Have to use email. Have you heard something about Frankie?

  He sent the message and stared at the blinking cursor. ‘Call immediately’: that had to mean news. Maybe Tedesco had found Frankie in a squat with a week’s worth of empties. Maybe he’d found her in a shallow grave, dirt filling her mouth and eyes. He hit refresh. When he’d hit it a couple more times, he went outside to do a lap of the house. New-foal wobbly and ridiculously short of breath. How often would Tedesco check his email? He’d used his phone a few times outside Gary’s house; not a screen-gazing stroker, but definitely a regular user. It was 1.05 p.m. Odds were, he’d check them over lunch. He sped up the last few metres.