Peacemaker

by Marianne de Pierres

  Someone had been illegally filming in my park. A little wave of anger surged through me. Whoever it was, this had been here a while. The case was caked and the lens smudged. But I wasn’t going to mention this to anyone yet, especially Nate Sixkiller. Hunt might have welcomed him with open arms, might want me to trust him… but what my boss wanted from me, he didn’t always get.

  I took some photos with my phone and sent them straight to my home address. Then I removed the box from its slot and wrapped it in my handkerchief. Climbing down, I tucked it in the bottom of my saddlebag. As I was rebuckling the strap, Sixkiller and Sombre Vol came trotting between columns of rock. The rider and horse, it seemed, had come to an agreement.

  “It took longer than I anticipated,” said Sixkiller. He didn’t dismount, as if concerned Sombre Vol wouldn’t let him back on.

  “Yes, I saw you having a deep and meaningful conflab out there.”

  “Shall we continue?”

  It didn’t sound much like a request.

  “There’s a trough over by the thumb.” I pointed to the stubbiest of the rock fingers. “Give him a drink and we’ll move on.”

  He nodded then glanced at where my hand rested on Benny’s saddlebag. “Did you find something? I saw you on examining the rocks.”

  “No. Nothing. But you’ve got keen eyesight, Mr Sixkiller.”

  He gave a sparing smile. “More than you could imagine, Ms Jackson.”

  SIX

  I showed Sixkiller the extent of the home-zone territory, hectares of prime desert and iron rock, flecked with stunted bushes in some parts and just plain spinifex in others.

  “The colours are real different from my home. We’re more a yellow sand and flat-green kinder desert.” He was back using his fake cowboy drawl, but his expression was rapt and sincere.

  I’d seen video streams of the last deserts in North America. They were beautiful in their own way, but mine was so vividly red and purple that the spinifex took on a translucent green in contrast.

  My heart swelled with sudden and inexplicable pride. We did a good thing when we saved this for people to see, I told my dad silently. It was worth what you did. It was worth everything.

  Worth dying for?

  Dad would have thought so. I hadn’t given up finding who was responsible for his “accident”. I would one day.

  My mood soured. “Let’s get on,” I snapped. “Hunt’ll be waiting.”

  We checked all the regular tourist stops including Little Canyon, Lost Gorge in the middle of the flatlands, Slate Hill on the southern end of my territory, and finally the Last Corral and the Paloma station house. I put the scanner over them all and got Totes to do a secondary.

  “Looks clear, Virgin. Waiting on sat response, though; been feed problems today.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “You really want to know?”

  I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me. Totes’ explanations could be like a foreign language spoken backward while coughing. “Just tell me when it’s backup.”

  Sixkiller was standing over on the veranda at Paloma, the replica ranch/station house where the tours stopped. The inside was decked out with basic tin kitchenware and handmade tables and chairs. Even the legs of the cooling cupboard were sitting in little tins of kerosene like they used to back in the day – to keep the white ants from chewing through them.

  Outside was a set of herding yards. Mostly, it was carefully aged to look genuine, but some of the wood was straight out of the museum. Lord knows how they got permission to use it; something to do with a Percentage of Authenticity legislation.

  “We should head back,” I called out.

  He nodded and walked over to untie Sombre Vol from the railing. The horse began to edge away, but Sixkiller mounted at an unnatural speed that gave me a tingling feeling before he could take more than a couple of sideways steps. He’d seen Aquila, and then spied me examining the rock from a fair distance, and now this… freakish agility.

  Something wasn’t right here, but I was so overrun with thoughts, I didn’t know where to file these ones. So, I put them aside. Sixkiller had saved my life last night; he could be as freakish as he liked for the moment, as long as he didn’t get in my way on this murder investigation.

  We rode abreast, cutting away from the main track and following a trail I’d cut myself, out of sight of the road. It meant a bit of winding around rockfalls and through some deep gullies (or gulches as the Marshal called them), but we got to see some of the wildlife that’d learned to avoid the tourist buses.

  Sixkiller pointed out a brown tail disappearing into a low bush.

  “They’re vermin – fox and dingo hybrids. We’ve tried to trap most of them, but they’re damned persistent and breed quickly. They eat other small native mammals,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully and I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but we weren’t on those kinds of terms yet, so I kept the conversation businesslike.

  “If the sat images come back clean, I don’t know what to make of it. We been through all the places someone could be hiding in this section.”

  “If your story is accurate, then there has to be something we’re missing.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if my story is accurate’?” My moment of goodwill toward him began to rapidly evaporate.

  “You didn’t tell Mr Hunt about the eagle.”

  I pulled Benny up short and waited for Sixkiller to stop as well. “Tell him what? That my imaginary eagle friend flew in to give me a heads-up that there was a killer in my kitchen?”

  Sixkiller’s expression became very still. “These are not matters to be flippant about.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I take my mental health very seriously. It’s not something I want the whole company debating over.”

  To my surprise, he sighed and nodded. “I understand,” he said, nudging Sombre Vol forward.

  “What do you understand?”I sent Benny after them.

  The windmill and the semicircle of palms that signalled the Interchange station came into view as the horses climbed a last gully. There was a welcoming party of uniformed police standing in the shade. Hunt’s physique stood out among them, and I could imagine him mopping his brow in irritation. It wasn’t often Hunt got sand in his shoes these days.

  “Hold that answer,” I added. “And don’t mention the eagle to anyone.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence and I dismounted in front of Hunt. His gaze flickered briefly to Sixkiller when he saw which horse he was riding, and then settled back on me.

  “You’re late.”

  “We were thorough. And the horse wasn’t obliging,” I said, nodding at Sombre Vol.

  Hunt grunted. The heat had purpled his face. He didn’t get out of air conditioning much these days, either. “This is Detective Inspector Indira Chance. She’s been waiting to talk to you. Both of you go downtown with her now.”

  I looked at the middle-aged woman in khaki. She had a biggish frame with a slight paunch and wrinkled brown arms. Her expression was sharp and lively, other than the panda patches under her eyes.

  “Ms Jackson and Mr Sixkiller. Get in the van.”

  The order was accompanied by a decisive headjerk.

  I headed through the Interchange first, handing Benny’s reins to Leecey. Our heavily inked stable hand looked pissed off and tired. Her upper lip was swollen.

  “You going with the cops?” she asked.

  “Yeah. You OK?”

  She licked her lip. “Yeah, nothing I’m not used to.”

  “You want me to go to Hunt about it?”

  “Nah, just leave it. Hell, I wasn’t even here when the murder happened. What’s all the heat about? We’ve had dead bodies in the park before.”

  I loosened Benny’s saddle while Leecey slipped the bridle off. The trough was full of oat-sprinkled hay, and the horse buried her head in it. “Heart attacks and stuff, yeah, but not a murder after close. You heard I got attacked in my
apartment last night?”

  “Shit!” she said, eyes widening. “No wonder Totes is acting like he’s been skinned. Wouldn’t speak to me when I got back from the station. Said he had to get the sat feed up.”

  I frowned. “Sat’s still not right?”

  She shrugged, then winced at the movement. I knew then that they’d body-punched her in places the bruises wouldn’t show.

  Anger toward Indira Chance boiled up in me. What had the DI let happen on her watch? Or what had she turned a blind eye to?

  Caro told me that reporting channels at Aus-Police had changed and watchdogs had been set up to stamp out the more heavy-handed interrogation techniques. Obviously, no one had told Detective Chance. She looked old-school to me and proud of it.

  “You should see a doctor.”

  She shrugged. “Like I said, I’ve been there before, Virgin. No big deal.”

  But it was a big deal– to me, anyways. I’d got Leecey this job on account of her being the ex-girlfriend of my irresponsible younger brother, Johnnie. Hunt hadn’t wanted to hire her because of her police record. I’d talked him into it and I took it personally that Leecey was being victimised because of her criminal history and her appearance.

  It was probably stupid getting wound up about that right now when I was the one about to be grilled over two murders. That’s where my sense of disconnection came in. I didn’t care so much about my predicament, but I did care about Leecey. She did a good job with the horses and she was clean of illegal substances – at work, at least. Why couldn’t they just let her alone?

  “They asked me a lot about you, though. Be careful, Virgin. That Detective Chance has got a giant bug up her arse. She’s gunning.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And you lay low. They’ll probably watch you while the investigation’s on. Keep away from Johnnie.” Warning her off my little brother was part of my daily salutation, but today I really meant it.

  “You mean, no going to DreamWorks?”

  DreamWorks was Junkie Central – a precinct farther west of the Quarter. “Yeah. That’s just what I mean.”

  “I won’t. And you should go easy on the cowboy. Anyone who can make peace with Sombre Vol has gotta be someways decent.”

  I scowled. “Why? What’s Totes been saying?”

  “Nothing much. Just that you’re super fucking pissed-off that Marshal Sixkiller’s here.”

  I punched her in the arm. She winced again, and this time I didn’t feel bad for her.

  “There’s something wrapped in a cloth in my saddlebag. Can you drop it in my letter box at Cloisters on your way home? Carefully. I don’t want it damaged.”

  She glanced around. “I gather you’re not keen on sharing it with the detective.”

  “Not keen on sharing it with anyone actually, Leecey. You do this for me?”

  “Course,” she said. “You’d best get going before they come looking for you.”

  The silent ride across town in the arrest-wagon was punctuated by garble on the police band and a desultory conversation between the two officers in the front seat of the van. Detective Chance sat in the back with us, staring, not speaking, as if daring us to confess.

  Sixkiller maintained his calm, meditative mask, while I occupied my thoughts examining the array of devices neatly compacted against the walls. The new broom that had swept through the force had obviously opened the coffers for some spending. I counted no less than a half dozen species of electronic restraints.

  “You got some bitchin’ tech going on in here, Chance.”

  “Detective Inspector Chance to you.”

  “Just passing the time,” I said amiably.

  “I thought rangers only talked about horses and sand fleas,” she retorted.

  Her comment was deliberately insulting and provocative, so I shelved my attempt to make conversation and looked at Sixkiller.

  His eyes shifted to a spot above my shoulder, narrowed, then he looked away.

  I broke out in a light sweat. I’d seen that look before. Aquila was here.

  As casually as I could manage, I turned my head and took a quick look over my shoulder. Aquila was perched on the rack that held their thermo-jackets. She gave me a troubled stare and fluttered down onto the floor near Sixkiller’s knee.

  Leaning forward to rest his right arm on his thigh, he dropped his left down behind his lower leg and very subtly reached out a finger to Aquila. She inclined her head and he scratched her gently, above her ear where her feathers were grey instead of black.

  I gasped and made a poor attempt to turn it into a cough.

  “You swallow somethin’ bad, Jackson?” asked Chance.

  Sixkiller’s lips caught in a tiny smile of amusement. He’d done it deliberately, to rattle me.

  I hated him for it. Things were hinky enough today without me appearing skittish for no apparent good reason.

  “Just thinking about all the time I’m wasting when I could be in the park tracking a killer,” I said.

  “Didn’t do you much good this morning. And, of course, it could be that you are the killer.”

  I let my disdain show. “Yeah, right. I killed a man I’ve never even met before, for no good damn reason, and then pretended to find him on my work’s doorstep. Guess I’m just a dumb psychopath in ranger’s clothing.”

  Chance’s look was hooded. “Psychopaths come in all sorts of fleeces. I’ve seen plenty of them. The worst ones are the hardest to pick.”

  The conversation dried up again after that and didn’t restart until I was marched into an interview room somewhere on the edge of the Pol-Central building. Sixkiller had been taken elsewhere.

  I was surprised that the interview room was as salubrious as it was. Two couches, face to face, and a small coffee table with a plastic water jug and cups alongside. What happened to metal chairs, handcuffs and the smell of stale fear?

  There was no obvious recording device, so I figured the officer would be wearing it.

  I lounged, or tried to lounge, on the couch, as if relaxed. Truth is, I was jumpy as a feral cat in a cage. Seeing Sixkiller touch Aquila in the van had messed hard with my sense of reality. If only he and I were seeing the eagle, what did that mean? Or had I imagined that he was scratching the bird?

  Chance interrupted my crazy thoughts by entering and planting her backside on the seat opposite. She carried a small tablet, which she prodded at with the dexterity of a lame cow.

  “I want you to tell me about last night, beginning from when you went back into the Park to get your phone. We have everything on the Park cams up until then.”

  I retold my story to make out that the person who stabbed the dead guy had already disappeared when I arrived. Y’know… rather than say he turned into a bird and flew away!

  “Then why are there only two sets of footprints?” asked Chance. “Yours and the dead guy’s.”

  I laughed. “Footprints? In the desert. You are shitting me.”

  “We can tell more than you think.”

  “People come and go through that Interchange all the time.”

  “But you just happened to go back into the park without any monitoring devices?”

  “I was in a hurry to get to the airport.”

  “Aaaah, yes. Mr Sixkiller.” Chance began tapping notes into her tablet. “So you claim to have never met the deceased before?”

  “Which deceased?”

  “Which one would you prefer to tell me about?”

  “Tell you about? I’ve never seen either of them before.”

  “So you don’t know Leo Teng, either?”

  “Is that the dead guy in my apartment? Sounds like a bad alias. Nope. Never met or heard of him. Or the guy in the park. What was his name?”

  She ignored my question. “What do you know about aliases?”

  “Jeez, nothing. It was just a throwaway line.”

  Chance ahuh-ed and did some clumsy finger-play on her tablet.

  “I’ve read your statement to the duty sergeant about
the incident in your apartment. You claim the intruder was a complete stranger as well?”

  I nodded. “Bad day, yesterday.”

  “Very bad day, Ms Jackson. Possibly the worst day of your life. I think that you’re up to your neck in something. You arranged to meet someone in the park to receive or deliver an illicit item. It went wrong and you shot him. The ambush later that night in your apartment was his people trying to recover said item.”

  “You’re a vivid storyteller, detective,” I croaked. My mouth had suddenly dried up and my stomach had hollowed. Chance really wanted to pin this murder on me.

  “The only reason you’re not going to jail for a double murder is that the creepy little fuck you work with had footage of the events in your apartment showing Mr Sixkiller shot Teng in self-defence.”

  I tried unsuccessfully to swallow.

  “The park killing is a different matter. We don’t have proof that you did it, and you don’t have proof that you didn’t. So while you’re going about your business, you’ll remain a person of interest to us. I’m going to find a link between you and both these deaths, and then I’m going to send you down for so long, you’ll need a memory stick just to remember your name.”

  She delivered her homily with such flat, hard-eyed dispassion that I wanted to throw up.

  “But I didn’t do it,” I whispered again.

  She leaned over and patted my hand, her eyes full of mockery.

  I snatched my hand away and stared her in the eye. “Can I go?”

  Chance got up and walked to the door, which she opened. “Step right this way.”

  Sixkiller had already been signed out when I reached the front desk. The detective with him shook his hand warmly before leaving and slapped him on the back.

  “Was an honour sir,” the man blurted.” Can I drop you somewhere?”

  What the…?

  “We’ll take a cab,” I said shortly, and led the way out.

  Once out of Chance’s line of sight, I began to breathe a little easier. As we walked, I called Caro.

  “Sweetie?” she answered.

  “Leo Teng. Find out everything you can about him and a tattoo shaped like a crow with a circle around it.”