Resurrection Bay

by Emma Viskic

  ‘Guess it’ll make the ID easier. Either way, I’ve got a copy of the photos in my email now.’

  ‘What about Margaret? Have you worked out where you know her from now you’ve seen her in the flesh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Guess it doesn’t matter now. Oops.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘Forgot to turn it off after the ambulance.’ She frowned at the screen.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing terrible. Just hang on.’

  Nothing terrible, but she was taking a long time reading the message. Re-reading it. Now thinking about it.

  ‘Tedesco?’ he said.

  She began tapping the bed railing. And now she was re-reading the damn thing again.

  ‘You trying to finish me off?’

  ‘Trying to work out what to tell you. So, anyway, Kat’s back in town.’

  He shot forward, then doubled over, clutching his ribs. ‘Kat? In Melbourne?’

  She passed him the phone.

  – Back in Melb. Staying at Mel’s studio. Her phone. No-one knows I’m here.

  No-one except Mel. Which meant Mel’s friends, Mel’s neighbours, Mel’s boyfriend, Mel’s boyfriend’s friends.

  He typed quickly.

  – It’s not safe. Lock the door and stay there. Frankie’s coming to get you. C

  ‘It’s probably fine,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Mel’s a talker, there’s no way she’ll be able to keep it quiet. And even if she did, they’re too easily linked. They’ve had joint exhibitions, they lecture at the same uni. If Scott’s smart enough to tap Kat’s phones, he’s smart enough to sniff around her friends.’

  ‘Why would he bother? He’s got your phone now.’

  ‘Why kill Gary? Or Arnie, or Spiros? He doesn’t like loose ends.’

  The phone buzzed.

  – Was letting you know as courtesy, not a conversation. Turning phone off now.

  – NO. SCOTT WILL TALK TO YR FRIENDS. GIVE ME ADDRESS AND GO WITH FRANKIE. PLEASE.

  Read it. Please read it. Still have the phone on and read it.

  – Why Frankie?

  What the fuck? That’s what she took from the message? Why Frankie?

  Frankie pulled the phone from his hand and typed.

  – Caleb can’t come. He’s in hospital hooked up to a drip. Scott’s work. He died twice. Dead. No heartbeat. Blue in the face. They’re scary people. Give me your address. Frankie

  ‘Frankie. Jesus.’

  The phone buzzed.

  – 241 Hampton St Carlton

  ‘Sometimes you have to be blunt.’ She passed him the phone. ‘Now say something nice so she stops crying.’

  His fingers hovered over the screen. No time to dick around, just say something. Anything. But make it good. Frankie was snapping her fingers.

  – The Whitsundays. Tomorrow. I’ll tell you everything.

  He pressed send.

  There was a slight shake to Frankie’s hand as she took the phone from him. Sending her out in peak-hour traffic suddenly didn’t feel like such a good idea. Cars cutting in front of her, the pressure building inside and out. Fuck the drip, he’d better drive. He sat up and a slicing pain froze him in place.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Getting. Comfortable.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be working. You need a nurse?’

  He was going to slow her down if he went with her. Next best option?

  ‘I’m fine. But listen, you should take a taxi.’

  Her face closed. ‘I can drive.’

  ‘Taxi’ll be quicker. And you won’t get a park near Mel’s studio this time of day. I don’t want the two of you hiking blocks to the car.’

  She gave a sharp shrug. ‘Car’s probably been towed anyway, it’s in a loading zone outside Naughton’s.’ She turned towards the curtains.

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that. What you told Kat.’

  She paused with her hand on the curtain. ‘Yeah well, do better. There aren’t many people in the world I love.’ She disappeared.

  He lay back and just breathed for a while. Shallowly. Everything was going to be all right. Frankie would have Kat here within the hour, Tedesco would get the photos, and it would all be over.

  Susan bustled back in and fussed around him, checking his blood pressure and pulse.

  She gave him a thumbs-up. ‘How. Are. You feeling?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘That’s good. Your mum?’ She pointed towards the curtains.

  He laughed, imagining Frankie’s reaction. ‘More like a sister.’

  Her eyes dropped to the pamphlets on the bed. ‘Good. A sister will. Keep you. On track.’ She gave his hand another pat and left.

  Sister. The word tumbled around his brain. A sister. That’s where he knew Margaret from. He’d seen her in an old wedding photo at Frankie’s house. Two shy girls with honey-blonde hair and crooked smiles.

  Frankie and her sister, Maggie.

  31.

  A fist squeezed his heart.

  He swung his legs out of bed and ripped the cannula from his hand. Shoes. Where were his shoes? Forget them, just run. He sprinted from the cubicle, shards jabbing his chest. He pressed a hand to it and ran faster. Out past the nurses’ station, through the doors: heads raising, startled looks. Down the corridor, out through the electronic doors. Dark. Later than he’d realised.

  The car. Had Frankie taken a taxi and left the car? Near Naughton’s, she’d said, the old uni pub. Not far. What could it be? Four hundred, five hundred metres? But parked in a loading zone. A loading zone in Parkville, home to the most enthusiastic parking inspectors in the world. Pain with each footfall. He fell back to a fast shuffle. Shit, shit. Had to move faster than that. He broke into a jog, knives stabbing him.

  He had to be wrong; he’d seen a lone, yellowing photo of a teenage Maggie Reynolds. No reason to think he’d recognise her as an adult. He was wrong. Had to be wrong.

  He wasn’t.

  There – the car. Thank God. He shoved his hand in his pocket.

  No keys.

  Like some kind of fucking recurring nightmare. Wire to jimmy the lock. Nothing. No time for it, anyway. He squatted and tugged at a broken chunk of bluestone in the gutter. A movement like a loose tooth. He stood and kicked at it. Should have looked for his shoes. Kicked again. Looser. Scrabbling in the dirt, tugging. It came free, sending him sprawling. Precious moments lost as the world pitched and spun.

  He struggled to his feet and slammed the stone against the rear passenger window. It cracked and shattered into soft crystals. Into the car, across to the driver’s side. He pulled the boot lever. Standard-head screwdriver should do the job. Ten-year-old Corolla, couldn’t be too different from the Holdens and Fords he’d joy-ridden all those years ago. Petronin’s gun was under the tool box. Take it? If Frankie led Scott to Kat’s hideout, he’d need it. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. All those hours they’d spent working together. All the times she’d been there for him. He picked it up. Heavier than he remembered. Heavier still once he’d snapped the clip into place. Into the car. No immobiliser; it should work. Please, God. He slammed the screwdriver into the ignition, turned it. A familiar shake, the engine rumbling into life. He threw the car into first and took off.

  He doubled-parked outside Mel’s studio and opened the high wooden gate. The small courtyard fronting the building was empty. The studio’s arched door was closed, the windows shuttered. He pressed his hand to the door, but all he could feel was the thudding of his own heart. Maybe he’d got here before Frankie. Maybe Kat wasn’t here.

  Maybe he was too late.

  He gripped the handle and flung open the door.

  Frankie, alone. Crying. Sitting on the floor with one shoe off, a rubber tourniquet around her calf. Dark dots of needle tracks specked her toes. No. That didn’t make sense.

  She stared at him, her red-rimmed eyes wide. ‘Cal.’

  He snapped
out of it. Frankie was using – deal with it later.

  ‘Where’s Kat?’

  ‘She wasn’t here.’ She scrabbled to her feet and began packing away her kit: spoon, syringe, filters. Her hands shook as she slipped it into her backpack. ‘Sorry you had to find out about this, this way. Don’t worry, I’m not a junkie, I’ve got it under control. I don’t do it often. It just helps me get through the …’

  ‘I don’t care. Just tell me where Kat is.’

  ‘She didn’t leave a note. Maybe she went out for a …’

  ‘Stop. Just fucking stop with all the lies. I know you’re Margaret’s sister, I know you’re working for Scott. So just tell me where Kat is.’

  She raised her hand as though to deflect his words, then lowered it. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cal. I didn’t want any of this to happen. I’ve been trying so fucking hard to fix it all.’

  ‘Is she …’ He got the words out past constricted airways. ‘Is she alive?’

  She nodded.

  His heart started again. ‘But Scott’s got her?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know, probably at their warehouse, that’s where they … Cal, you have to go. They think you’re dead.’

  He took a step towards her. ‘Take me there.’

  ‘I can’t. You don’t understand. Scott’ll kill me, he’ll kill us both. And it won’t be quick.’

  He raised the gun; it didn’t feel heavy any more. ‘Move.’

  He tried to do the calculations as Frankie drove. He’d left the hospital ten minutes after Frankie, another five to break into the car, so he was probably twenty minutes behind Kat. Twenty minutes. What could happen in that amount of time? No, concentrate on why, not what.

  ‘Why did Scott take Kat if he thinks I’m dead?’

  ‘He wants to know who you emailed the photos to.’

  ‘Shit, they checked my emails?’

  ‘Of course they fucking checked them. Bring down half the fucking police force if they get out. Just took them a little while to charge up your phone. Lucky for you.’

  He had a different idea of luck. ‘Why didn’t you tell them I sent them to Tedesco? Why drag Kat into it?’

  ‘I didn’t know who it was until you told me.’

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell him once you knew?’

  Her mouth moved, but she didn’t look at him.

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘I didn’t want him to know you were alive.’

  Giving up Kat to protect him. A strong chance he was going to vomit. He wound down the window and breathed in diesel fumes. They were stuck behind two lumbering trucks, traffic going nowhere.

  ‘Go around them. Cut onto the wrong side.’

  She changed down gears and squeezed past on the bike lane. More trucks. Parked cars. Jesus, fuck. What would happen if Kat told them it was Tedesco’s email address? What would happen if she didn’t?

  ‘Give me your phone.’

  She hesitated, then pulled it from her pocket. He searched for Tedesco’s number and typed, hands slick with sweat.

  – Urgent. Need help. They’ve got Kat

  He sent it. Sent it again. And again. Pleaseseeit pleaseseeit pleaseseeit.

  The phone buzzed.

  – Who? Where?

  ‘What’s the warehouse address?’ he asked Frankie.

  Another hesitation, but she told him.

  – Warehouse. 39 Arlington Avenue Footscray. It’s Scott.

  The reply was immediate.

  – On my way. 15 mins

  What else? Ring triple zero? And say what? Not as simple as at Gary’s house.

  They’d stopped moving. A green light, but no-one was getting through. A scream built inside.

  Frankie was talking.

  ‘… weren’t meant to get hurt. Neither of you were. I thought if I fed him the right information …’

  Realisation dawned, cold and unforgiving. ‘You sent Petronin to the Bay. What if Kat had opened the door to him? What if – God, you told Scott about her didn’t you? The tapped phones, the photos. It wasn’t smart thinking on his part, just good intel.’

  ‘I didn’t think he’d really go after her. It was just meant to distract you.’

  ‘He’s a fucking murderer, what did you think was going to happen?’

  ‘What was I supposed to do? I told you we shouldn’t take this job! But no, you had to sign the fucking contract, get Gary involved.’

  Her words sunk in. ‘You’ve been working for Scott from the start? I don’t … What happened? Was it your sister? Did he threaten her?’

  Her face twisted. ‘Maggie? She’s Scott’s little helper. She’s the one who introduced us in the first place, let him get his hooks into me. I’ve been dancing to their little tune for six fucking years.’

  Six years.

  Every day of their friendship had been a lie.

  ‘Why? Was it the money? The thrill?’

  She didn’t answer, her hands clenched and unclenched around the wheel. Not just needing a drink, needing a hit.

  ‘Jesus, Scott’s your supplier. You gave me up for a fucking hit.’

  She flinched. ‘It wasn’t like that. He owns me, Cal. Look at what he did to me!’ She shoved up her top. A red scar ran along her side: the letter S. His stomach heaved.

  ‘That’s what happened at the house. He was pissed off because I didn’t bring you to him. I tried to explain that you didn’t have the photos, but he wouldn’t listen. That’s why I left. That’s why I didn’t call you. I did it to try and keep you safe.’

  ‘Then why come back?’

  She glanced at her backpack by his feet.

  ‘Right. Because you needed a fix.’

  ‘I was steady for years until the bastard cut me off. Bloody Gary and those photos. Six fucking years without grog or pills, just a little fix every weekend. OK, it crept up a bit. But I never did it in work hours. And it was better than the drinking, wasn’t it? You didn’t even know.’

  No. He’d been oblivious.

  ‘I couldn’t …’

  He looked away, unable to bear any more.

  They were moving again. Finally through the intersection and onto Dynon Road. Not a big suburb, couldn’t be much further. Turning onto a smaller road: Arlington Avenue. An old industrial estate, a handful of newer buildings, a wide, quiet road. Wide enough for trucks to reverse. No trucks here now.

  Frankie was slowing down, pulling up in front of an old cyclone wire fence.

  He pulled out the gun. ‘Don’t even think about trying to warn them.’

  ‘Cal, I wouldn’t.’ Her face was haggard beneath the sheen of tears. ‘You have to believe me – I didn’t want any of this to happen.’

  He climbed from the car without answering, hesitated at the sight of her backpack. Throw her kit away, make her suffer. But that familiar look of desperation – she’d shoot up immediately if he gave it to her. No fear of her alerting Scott if she was drooling in the front seat.

  Frankie grasped his sleeve. ‘Cal, I’m s–’

  He wrenched his arm away, ran.

  The gate was padlocked. No barbed wire along the top of the fence, though. He started to climb. Tearing pain in his chest, impossible to extend his arms. He clawed his way up with tiny movements. A brief moment of panic at the top, then a scrambling descent to the other side. He lay panting for a brief moment. No time, move. He staggered to his feet and ran across the weed-filled car park. A stab of panic – there were no cars here. Had Frankie betrayed him again? Brought him to the wrong address? It was all over if she had.

  There was a cluster of tin sheds straight ahead, the shape of a larger warehouse looming beyond. Dark, only a sliver of moon. Anyone could be lying in wait. He reached the first shed and peered around it. There: a HiAce van with tinted windows. Ideal for transporting people without their consent. How had they got Kat into it? Kept her quiet during the trip? No, don’t th
ink about it. Stay calm and concentrate. Where now? The warehouse or one of the six tin sheds? The yard was gravel – that’d probably make a bit of noise, so choose well. He closed his eyes and started counting backwards from sixty to let his vision adjust to the darkness. He cracked when he got to twenty. Good enough; he could see pinholes of light coming from the warehouse roof. Any neighbours were hundreds of metres away. You could make plenty of noise there without fear of disturbing anyone.

  He skirted around the sheds towards it. A solid brick building, with high, boarded windows. Old roof, but a new steel door. The framing looked solid. If it was locked, there was no way he was going to be able to get it open. He turned the handle. It twisted easily in his hand.

  A shift of air behind him.

  He whirled, gun pointing. Tedesco stepped back, the whites of his eyes catching the moonlight. Caleb suddenly realised he had the gun aimed at the detective’s chest. He lowered it.

  Tedesco followed the movement. ‘… fucking gun?’

  ‘It’s Petronin’s,’ he whispered.

  The news didn’t seem to reassure the detective.

  ‘… how … use it?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘First rule.’ Tedesco unholstered his own weapon. ‘Only … someone … want dead.’

  Caleb nodded and reached for the door handle.

  Tedesco put out his hand to stop him. ‘…’

  ‘What?’

  The detective held an imaginary phone to his ear and mimed flashing lights. Help was on its way. Not soon enough. He shook his head and edged the door open. An anteroom: a single bulb burning, throwing long shadows onto the walls. Two doors led from it, both closed. He slipped inside, Tedesco close behind him. The detective tapped his shoulder and pointed to one of the doors, mimed people talking. He nudged the door open. A dark corridor, rooms leading from it. He followed Tedesco down it. Four doors, all closed. Which one? Tedesco seemed to know: he stopped in front of the second-last one and held up two fingers. Two people. Two was good – they could take two.

  Tedesco gestured for him to wait, then stiffened. A sound; high, just out of reach. Was it a voice? Something mechanical?

  ‘What?’ he mouthed.

  Tedesco shook his head, but his hand had tightened on his gun. Fuck, what was happening? Was Kat crying? Screaming? He knelt and pressed his eye to the keyhole. A glimpse of long, dark curls: Kat kneeling on the floor. A man’s fist gripping her hair. A sudden motion, the bright flash of a knife. Caleb was on his feet, reaching for the handle. Tedesco pulled him back, but he broke free and slammed open the door.