The sun lowered, heat lingering like a threat. Finally, Greaser came to him in the grey glow of sunset. She'd brought him a change of clothes and more ammo. No blood, though. Her suppliers had dried up ahead of the big meeting at Thorn tomorrow night. 'An emergency council meeting,' she said with a dramatic roll of the eyes. 'Everyone will be there.'
'Really?' he said as they headed for the car. 'Everyone?'
'Everyone important. And they've got all the streeters out hunting for you. They've upped the reward, big time. VS wants you bad.'
'Well, they might just get what they want. They mightn't like it, but.'
'There's that death wish. Do you think you should at least have a feed first? Last meal of the condemned man and all that? I can look the other way while you snack. We've got time,' she told him, but he didn't agree. He needed to find the Needle. He needed to end this.
FIFTY-THREE
Another night, another board meeting. No wonder nothing got done. Reece had barely slept, having spent all of the previous night and most of the day fruitlessly shaking the bushes for word of the Needle or Matheson. His attempt to bring Rabbit in had failed, too; she'd been tucked so far behind the skirts of the Petite Morts he couldn't get to her.
Now he was wasting time sitting in Marshall's reception room, where she'd told him to wait for her. It'd been an hour so far. He and her Familiare made a good effort of ignoring each other. A bloke, tonight. He guessed the woman would be with Marshall. Most of the board had at least two Familiares to cover the night and day shifts. Plus, variety, he supposed.
Marshall slammed through the door like a wrecking ball, making both the Familiare and Reece jump.
She turned to the man behind the desk — his hand was already poised over the telephone.
'Trappier Jensen is dead. Butchered with his lover in his love nest.'
'I'll—'
'GS is handling it,' she told him. 'Put our people on alert. Tell them to drink more coffee, because no one's getting any sleep. Reece — with me.'
In her office, she poured generous shots.
'Do we know who?' he asked.
'Campbell's blaming Matheson. Reckons he's coming for us, one by one. Tran's afraid to step outside of Thorn.'
'As if the good doctor ever leaves the building anyway.'
'Still; what do you think?'
'It's possible. But likely? I couldn't say. Matheson's interest is in Mira. Unless the incident on the island has changed that in some way, made him expand his vendetta.'
'They've put your partner, um...' She prompted him with a gesture.
'Felicity.'
'That's the one. They've put her on the case, until the other Hunters get back from the island.'
Reece nodded, drank. Tried to work the angles. Drank some more.
'The Old Man's losing it. He looked bereft, once the anger passed. And fucking Campbell was all about who would take Jensen's place as Trappier.'
'Did he have a candidate in mind?'
'A matter for the council, but he's dropped a couple of vassals' names. They're going to run a special tithe before tomorrow's meeting, try to keep a lid on the streeters.'
'Good luck with that. Treasurer's done a great job of stirring up trouble to help get his measures through.'
'Do you have any good news?' Marshall asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Reece had just about finished reporting his own lack of progress when his phone vibrated. He pulled it out, waited for Marshall to indicate he should go ahead, then checked the text message.
'Urgent,' he read, heart accelerating. His pavement pounding finally paying off? Or was even more shit hitting the fan?
He rang in, and frowned. Batcatcher wanted to see him at the rookery — urgently.
'I need to follow this up,' he said.
'I think we're done,' she said, making it sound like a dismissal and a broader statement.
Reece strode for the lift. When word got out about Jensen, the tower would become a madhouse of rumour and ambition; even more so than usual. If it was Matheson who'd killed Jensen, he'd done a fine job of putting a cat among the pigeons. But he'd also greatly reduced his chances of being brought in alive.
And that worried Reece, because the grease monkey was the only person he knew who had even a possible link to a cure for Mira. And as long as Mira remained in bedlam, his own life wouldn't be worth shit.
Whatever Batcatcher had to say, he hoped it was indeed bloody important. Life-saving, in fact.
FIFTY-FOUR
Kingsford Smith Drive was clogged as Kevin did a drive-by of Georgina's restaurant. There'd be no quick getaway there. It was a relief to turn out of the crawling lines of traffic and find a park in a residential street at the back of the restaurant. A driveway opened onto the small customer car park, with a lane running up one side of the building to the main road. A busy night, judging by the amount of cars. Stairs led to a second floor above the restaurant; there were lights behind the curtains. Steel bins smelling of garbage and wet cardboard walled in a door underneath the staircase.
Hunched and wary, he and Greaser used the cars for cover as they approached. They'd entered the lane when a door opened, emitting warmth and the clatter of cutlery and hubbub of conversation. They both jumped, enough that the man stared at them before walking toward the car park. Greaser pointed to the door but Kevin shook his head and they continued to the main road. Traffic crawled past, growling under a choking exhaust stench. Kevin eyed the restaurant through the front windows, trying to be casual about checking the menu while Greaser extolled the virtues of the scaloppine.
Georgina's was nestled at one end of a row of shops, a picture framer sharing one wall and a bicycle shop on the other side of the alley. Across the street, the river view was blocked by a conglomerate of dark concrete boxes assembled to form an apartment complex with spotlighted palm trees poking above the perimeter wall. Further down the street, where a massive fig tree shaded the bank, a CityCat ferry pulled in, its mast light blinking white, and disgorged pretty young things in party clothes, headed for the pub across the road or one of the many restaurants on nearby Racecourse Road. Some posh nosh there, Greaser told him.
Georgina's wasn't posh, what with its butcher paper tablecloths and a few Kmart pictures on the whitewashed walls. It was, however, an attractive bolt-hole, in terms of exit points. Access to main roads was good, with the highway and several of the city's main arterials within a short drive.
Kevin hoped the Needle was here, or the restaurant could at least tell him if they'd delivered any of their blood-filled specials lately, because damned if he knew where else to look.
He told Greaser to wait out the front and she scowled. 'The food's wicked good.'
'I'll bring you a garlic bread,' he said, and she flipped him the bird.
He slid the door open and stepped into the humidity of kitchen and bodies. The place was crammed with families, suits, a cluster of shrieking teenagers. An old fella sat by himself, reading the paper in another language, a tiny cup in front of him. The din echoed around Kevin, pummelled him. Something sizzled in the stainless steel maze of benches and shelves behind the counter on the far side of the room. The smell of garlic, cheese and tomato enveloped him as he walked between the tables.
A waitress asked if she could help him.
His hunger stirred and he cursed the Needle for leading him here. He was always hungry. Always.
'I'm looking for a guy called the Needle. I thought he might be here.'
She shook her head. 'Strange name. The Chianti is on special before seven, though.'
'I'm his friend. It's very important I speak with him.'
Behind the counter, sheltered by a stack of takeaway pizza boxes, a cook with a white towelling cap spoke into a phone on the wall.
'Would you like to see our takeaway menu?' the waitress asked.
'You got sangue real — reale — on it?'
The waitress stared at him, blank faced.<
br />
The cook gave Kevin the once-over, then returned his attention to the phone. Nodded. Hung up. 'Come with me,' he said, 'I have a table out the back,' and the waitress walked away without so much as another glance.
Kevin followed the cook through a door marked Private. The man pointed up the stairs and went back inside. At the top, Kevin paused, scanning: a television, omnipresent traffic, the smell of food and detergents.
The door opened at his first knock. A dark-skinned teenager held a pistol by his side. 'No one followed you?' the Snipe asked. 'No one knows you're here?'
'Only Greaser, out the front.'
'Come in,' the Needle shouted from another room, and the kid showed Kevin through.
The tattooist sat on a sofa, the television news turned down low, a glass of thick, red liquid in one hand, a paperback in the other. A Snipe sat beside him; legs tucked under her, a handgun on the coffee table within easy reach. Everyone was quiet as the Needle dog-eared the page and placed the book on the table, next to the pistol. He asked Kevin, 'Can I offer you something to eat?' The wave might have taken in the girl, might've meant the kitchen.
'I've eaten,' Kevin mumbled.
'You need to get over your reluctance. The hunger must be sated. Accidents are best avoided.'
Impatient, Kevin asked, 'Is this all the men you've got?'
'Straight to the point. You really should eat. You'll think clearer.'
'I'm thinking clear enough to find you.'
'That you are. Take a seat.'
The other Snipe finished doing the rounds of the windows; double-checked he'd locked the internal door behind Kevin. 'All clear.'
The Needle didn't acknowledge the lad, just motioned again for Kevin to sit.
He took the armchair opposite. 'Will you help me?'
'To do what?'
'I was thinking I could just sneak inside the tower and take out Mira. But I've realised that isn't enough. For anyone to be safe in this city, in this state, Max has to go, too. I doubt I can do both.'
'Still suicidal, hey.'
'I don't think so.'
'What will you do after you've brought down the house? Have you thought of that?'
'Not really.'
'You should. You don't win a chess game by thinking only of the next move.'
'This isn't a game.'
'Of course it is. Politics is the grandest game of all, never ending, always fascinating — if you can see behind the scenes.'
'Will you help me?' Kevin asked again.
The Needle steepled his fingers in front of him. For a man hiding in a restaurant with only two red-eye teenagers for security, he seemed very sure of himself. 'What have you got in mind?'
'Like I said — sneak into the tower, take them down.'
'Take them down?'
'Mira and Max.'
'Kill them, you mean. Can you do that? Given that you're too squeamish to even feed from the vein.'
'Mira killed my family. You bet I can kill her.'
'And what about those between her and you? The secretaries. The guards. The office worker who turns the corner at the wrong moment. What if their families want to hunt you down afterwards?'
'I guess that's their right.'
'Ever wonder where that ends?'
'It ends when I'm dead. There's no one to come avenging me.'
'Ah, the man with nothing to lose. Not as trustworthy as the man who has everything to lose. You might be prepared to die, but I'm not. Nor am I prepared to sacrifice my people unnecessarily.'
'Get me inside. Keep the troops off my back. Just give me my damn shot!'
'A full assault on the tower.' He indicated the two Snipes. 'I think we're a little undermanned, don't you?'
'I found Silver and Argent. Saw what you'd done. How many more have you turned?'
'Clever,' the Needle said, 'but you still aren't seeing the big picture. Killing the Old Man will not stop his troops from coming after you. You need to replace him with someone the troops will follow. Heinrich, perhaps, or Marshall.'
'Okay. Would they do that?'
'Perhaps. Things have been happening while you've been on the road. Did Greaser not tell you?'
'She said there'd been trouble, that you were on the run, that she'd been doing some shit-stirring with the gangs and they were out of control.'
'The gangs are very much in control, actually. Although the Romantics have been a concern. There was a gathering but then—' He raised his fingers, exploded them with a silent poof. 'My dear?'
The female red-eye shook her head. 'Sent a Snipe to the site of the last blip, but haven't heard back. None of them on the streets, either, boss. Just kind of vanished.'
'Without a trace.' The Needle rubbed his scarred forehead, regarded Kevin, but Kevin could only shrug. He had no idea where Blake's murder might be hanging out. Possibly driving to the island to fetch their leader. Assuming Bella and Ambrose hadn't been killed or captured, and that VS hadn't caught Blake by now.
'Relax, Kevin. We can do business. I'll help you stage your coup. Now, why don't you have a drink and we can see if we can't figure out a plan that won't end up with all of us dead.'
FIFTY-FIVE
Reece wrinkled his nose against the cloying mustiness of fruit bats. The rooftop park shared space with the helipad and antennae and industrial boxes, the branches of a Moreton Bay fig out of place against the city skyline. The air hummed with motors. Reece picked his way across the artificial lawn. A couple of benches were splattered with figs, as though the flying foxes had been playing paint ball with the fruit. The ground was littered with droppings. Twittering flying foxes hung in the branches, bulging eyes watching him like CCTV cameras.
Batcatcher looked a lot like his pets: long pointed ears, round eyes, protruding fangs, ochre fur cropped short over head and neck. He stood up stiffly from a banana lounge. He wore Bermuda shorts and a tropical shirt open to the waist, revealing a short down of dark, reddish fur. Elongated, slender fingers wrapped around a tall glass of some off-red liquid, with bendable straw. On the table next to him sat a creased Batman graphic novel titled A Death in the Family. A subtle message or just coincidence?
'What is it, Batcatcher? You said it was urgent.'
Batcatcher tsked. 'Always in a rush, Reece. Stop and enjoy the moonshine.' His head cocked to the side like a Labrador. It felt more like he was trying to get a better approach angle to Reece's throat.
Reece stepped back. 'Some of us are busy.'
'Too busy to see what's under your nose.' He touched his own, that flattened protuberance that gave him the appearance of having run into a glass door.
'Bat shit?' Reece walked to the glass fence at the edge of the park.
From below came the traffic rumble and hum, voices shouting and laughing; mundane stuff he could barely imagine. He couldn't see anything suspicious.
'The Strigoi was always close to my heart,' Batcatcher said, beside him.
Reece flinched, and the rail cut across his ribs. He hadn't heard Batcatcher approach. A bat stretched its wings and something plinked on the ground.
'Taught me to handle all those furry friends talking at once.' He gestured toward the trees, the sky.
'How many do you have?'
'We are quite the family, my pets and I. And one has followed the vehicle of your interest.'
'The Monaro?'
'Is that its name? Hornet-coloured?'
Reece stepped closer to Batcatcher, the constriction in his chest more powerful than the waft of the man's stale breath: carrot and blood? 'Where is it? Is Matheson with it?'
'With Danica gone, who then to help the Strigoi?'
'Who indeed.'
'But the boy; he might, yes?'
'He might know someone.'
'The Japanese? On the motorcycle?'
'Someone.'
'Your people, they think my bats are blind. But they are foxy, my bats. No echoes do they chase, but they follow their noses, oh yes. And their eyes, Hunter. The Snipe took
the car, from the boneyard, to a garage. And there it received a new skin. It left town last night, further out than my wings could stretch, but now it has returned.' He pointed downriver, across the city toward Reece's house. 'Over Hamilton way.'
'Fancy,' Reece said.
'I tell you first, as her favourite; as one who cares when all else have turned their back.'
'Is the Snipe still with him?'
Batcatcher's nostrils flared. His eyes closed momentarily. 'I believe so. The smell; yes, it's likely.'
He pointed to a flying fox, in time for Reece to see it unfold from its perch and flap leisurely up to circle overhead. 'Kirk will guide you.'
'As in captain?'
'Doctor.' A goofy smile.
Reece shrugged it away. 'Tell no one. And thanks.'
'Godspeed, Hunter.'
'I'm not — never mind.'
He rang Nigel as he waited for the lift. 'You back on the roster?'
'Yeah, boss, it's all go here. Council meeting's got everyone in a flap.'
'You got any cars on the dock?'
'One.'
'I'll meet you in two minutes. Grab the keys. No paperwork.'
Nigel started to ask something, but Reece ended the call and tried not to run.
FIFTY-SIX
Reece let Nigel drive, because keeping an eye on Kirk was a right pain, even when he knew roughly where they were going. Near the river, Batcatcher had said, and so they followed the main drag, out onto Kingsford Smith Drive, two lanes each way tracking the Brisbane River. The bat veered when they reached Racecourse Road but they were in the wrong lane to make the turn. At the lights, facing the river, was an Italian joint he'd been to once. And there at the front, looking pissed off with nothing but a menu and passing cars to stare at, was the Needle's Snipe. He was sure of it. Bingo.
Nigel leaned over the wheel, looking up at the bat where it circled over the restaurant.
'I can do a blockie,' he said, and Reece assured him that would be fine.
He made sure his face was turned away and low as they passed the restaurant. He made Nigel go all the way up to the next set of lights and turn. The kid made no comment. Why would he? When they worked their way back down the next street running parallel to the river, to the spot where Kirk circled overhead, they found the Monaro.
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