Already Dead

by Jaye Ford

  Jax’s heart thumped. Trained people who won’t stop. He was tall, wide across the shoulders, lean. Mid-to-late thirties. Collar and tie, black-framed sunnies. He seemed cool, composed, alert: bad guy or bystander? Maybe he had a white coat in his back seat.

  She jumped as her locks released, scooted sideways as Brendan reached around her for the door handle. He held her in place with the flat of his palm in the centre of her back, opened the car, pressed her forwards. Two seconds and she’d be in the car again driving God knew where, possibly to Brendan’s death. Or hers.

  As she reached the doorway, she reeled her head around. She figured the man would have looked away again, that she’d have to get his attention, wave or shout and risk getting shot. But she didn’t have to. His gaze was already there, as if he’d been waiting for her to turn. He’d lifted the sunglasses and the eyes she hadn’t been able to see were light in colour, steely and focused on her. Not Brendan, not both of them. Just her.

  She met them with her own, felt a buzz of connection, as though his vision had an energy that had reached out and touched her. And without thinking about who he was or what he wanted, Jax mouthed two words across the space between them: Help me.

  8

  Then Jax was in the car, shunting across the passenger seat, lifting her legs over the gearstick with Brendan close behind. She glanced sideways as she pulled her seatbelt on, couldn’t see the blue-sedan guy from there, wondered if she’d made things better or worse. Or whether they’d changed at all.

  ‘Come on. Start the car.’ Brendan was anxious again. Not the nano spider angst, just in a hurry to get out of the car park.

  She backed out, caught sight of the guy. His sunnies were back on and he was talking into the phone again as he watched her vehicle pass. Brendan saw him too, turning his head to stare as the dark sedan disappeared behind them. God, she hoped the guy was talking to the police. Hoped the person on the other end wasn’t ‘trained’ and waiting for Brendan on the motorway.

  She paused at the exit, unnerved and ticked off that she was behind the wheel and heading for another suicidal round with traffic. Last time, she’d only had her imagination to scare her. This time, she knew life and death were on board and fighting over the navigation.

  ‘Jax, come on. We can’t sit here like this.’

  She flicked her eyes at the rear-view mirror, saw the nose of a dark-blue car edging out of the lane she’d just left. It was him – it had to be. He was following? Maybe it wasn’t safe to sit too long.

  Hitting the accelerator, pushing the car to 110, she slipped onto the motorway between a flat-top truck and a bus. There were only two lanes now and Jax merged into the faster one, staying with the pace, wanting to keep ahead of whatever was behind. For ten minutes, she saw nothing but a mishmash of the same fast-moving flow she’d watched for more than an hour. Then, half-a-dozen cars back, the dark-blue sedan moved left between the two lines of traffic. Two minutes later it slid right again. Two cars behind her. Speeding up, getting closer. Shit.

  He was probably continuing his journey, she told herself. That’s what people at service stations did. He’d called the police then got back on the road. He’d stopped for petrol and … what? Moved his car to the cafe parking to make a few phone calls. Who did that?

  Brendan’s earlier angst had turned to stillness: gun in his hand, upright in his seat, his attention on the small mirror on the outside of the passenger door. Maybe he’d seen the blue sedan, too.

  They passed a turn-off, then another one.

  ‘Change lanes,’ Brendan snapped. He waited two beats. ‘Now.’

  ‘There’s a car beside us.’

  ‘Get ahead of it.’

  Speeding up, flicking the blinker, she slid left. As Brendan swung his head to the rear window, she watched the traffic in her mirror. A white ute slipped into the hole she’d made while other cars moved up. About thirty seconds later, the blue sedan merged. Three vehicles behind her.

  ‘Move back again,’ Brendan told her.

  She didn’t want to jockey in and out of the fast lane. Didn’t want to argue either – and she wanted to know what the guy from the car park was up to. She tapped the blinker.

  ‘Hit the pedal,’ he ordered.

  As she pulled ahead, the blue sedan stayed where it was, let four cars pass, then merged right.

  ‘Fuck.’ Brendan spun around, ducked his head, checked the sky.

  Jax looked too – no clouds, no choppers. What was real and what wasn’t?

  He swung to the back, to the front, lifted the gun, lowered it to the seat. ‘Fuck.’

  Alarm fired inside her. ‘What?’

  ‘They found us. They’ve got us. We’re fucked.’

  Why was she fucked? They were after him, weren’t they? ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We’re being followed. Dark-blue Falcon. Five cars back. See it?’

  Jax lifted her chin as though it was the first time she’d checked. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was in the car park. Arsehole driver was watching us when we left. I should’ve fucking stopped him then. Fuck. Fuck. We’ve got to get off the road.’

  ‘It’s the motorway. We can’t just get off.’ Her voice was high with fright, his panic infecting her. Had she done this? Was it real? She remembered the man’s gaze on her in the seconds before she was pushed into the car, the buzz as their eyes touched. No smile, no hostility. Possibly a question.

  Possibly she’d just been desperate for help.

  ‘We might be able to lose him if we can get off,’ Brendan said. ‘When’s the next exit?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Shit.’ Head front then back then front again. ‘Drive, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, stand on the fucking pedal!’

  His agitation scared her. The thought of it turning violent scared her more. The speedo climbed to 130, 135. She didn’t have a lead foot, didn’t spend her driving life over the speed limit hoping a camera didn’t pick her up. Her hands were clammy, shoulders tight, teeth locked. Two vehicles back, a four-wheel drive opted out of the race and moved into the outside lane. The blue sedan closed the distance.

  A sign. To Newcastle, to every major stop between here and Brisbane. No exit coming up.

  ‘Fuck,’ Brendan said.

  ‘He’s behind us,’ Jax said. ‘What can he do from back there?’

  ‘There’s more than one.’ He said it as though she was stupid. ‘And I’m not the only one with a weapon. They’ve got them. They’re prepared. Guns and knives and … fuck, I didn’t, I swear I … and … and fucking missiles.’

  Jax pressed her lips together, blinked hard. He was going to lose it while she was twenty k’s over the speed limit. She’d been a news reporter once, had seen the wreckage of fatal car crashes, and her memory was throwing up horrific images she’d tried to forget. Of crushed and charred vehicles, of covered bodies on roadways. And images that would never leave her, that the police had shown her: Nick’s body, covered and photographed without a vehicle in sight to explain it.

  She clenched her teeth, eased her foot off the pedal. The car behind, a silver BMW, almost kissed her bumper before dropping back.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Good thinking. Do it fast with this guy in the way. Catch him off guard,’ Brendan said.

  Do what?

  He spoke with his face turned away, twisting to his left. ‘Now.’ The front end of a semitrailer was lumbering beside them, its load two car-lengths long. What was he thinking? ‘Get in front of it and do it, Jax.’

  She hit the accelerator, moved in front of the huge engine, scanning the motorway ahead. There was no exit. Did he want her to get off the road here? It ran straight for at least a kilometre and the verge was narrow, bordered by bush and a low metal guardrail. Not a good place to pull over, not with an eighteen-wheeler on her arse.

  ‘Where is he?’ Brendan asked.

  As she glanced at the rear-view, the blue sedan slipped in behin
d the semi. ‘Just merged. A couple back.’

  ‘Okay.’ He faced forward, spine pressed into the seat, slid the pistol chamber back and forth with a chnk-chnk, something proficient and practised in the way he did it. ‘Listen up. We pull over, let him fly past, give him a head start and get back on the road. Then we take the first exit. Ready?’

  ‘No, wait. I can’t pull over here. It’s not wide enough.’

  ‘We have to work with what we’ve got.’

  According to what manual? ‘We don’t have to do it here,’ she said, hearing the plural ‘we’ and wondering when they’d become a team. ‘He’s behind us. He probably can’t even see us around the truck. We can wait until there’s somewhere better.’ Where her side of the car wouldn’t be taken off by the grille of a speeding truck.

  ‘Fuck!’ He swung his head to the rear window. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cop car. Heading south. Lights on, no siren.’

  The north- and south-bound streams were separated by a wide strip. For much of the distance up the coast, the space was filled with bush or cut rock, blocking the view of oncoming traffic. Sometimes there was a gap – dirt and rubble or a stretch of tarred surface where RTA vehicles could turn around and highway patrol cops sat with radars. Jax glanced across a clearing at the sparse flow heading south, craned her neck for a view in the mirror, but couldn’t see through thick scrub.

  ‘But it was going the other way,’ she said.

  ‘They’re coming from Newcastle, not Sydney now.’

  Who? The police? The cops were trained and wouldn’t stop. They had guns … but missiles? ‘You’re worried about the police?’

  ‘Cops will fuck it up. That arsehole’s back there now.’ There was a jerking tremor in his gun hand as he wiped it across his upper lip. ‘I wanted to see Katey. One more time. Just one fucking time.’ Jax jumped as he lashed out with a foot, kicking the floor under the dash. ‘I’m not going to make it. I’m not going to get there. It’s coming. It’s coming soon.’

  But he was starting to fall apart now.

  Jax wiped a clammy hand down her thigh. She’d thought she had it worked out. That Brendan had bad guys in his head. That he wanted to kill himself to stop them, wanted to see his wife and son first, maybe take them with him. Now she had no clue. Perhaps it was pointless trying to make sense of it.

  They were approaching another RTA clearing. On the south-bound side, a big white sedan, similar to the dark-blue one behind them, was gunning it in the fast lane, riding low, flying past other vehicles. Small red lights danced along the bottom edge of the windscreen. Police. She glanced in the rear-view. Had she been slowing without realising it? The semitrailer was in the inside lane now. Only one car between her and the guy from the rest stop.

  He sure as hell wasn’t a bystander. Had he called the cops and was keeping tabs, hoping to catch it on his phone and upload it to YouTube later? Or had someone else in the cafe seen her distress and called Triple-0, and the driver with the sunnies was the arsehole Brendan was worried about?

  And where were the damn police cars? If the ones they’d seen were looking for her, how bloody long did it take to turn around and head back? Maybe she should pull off like Brendan wanted. Take her chances on the verge, let the blue sedan go past, and wait for the police – or just run for her life. Any of that might be safer than staying in the car with Brendan.

  The road up ahead disappeared around a bend. She had no idea what lay beyond it – possibly more narrow verge. But this was a motorway, and drivers had to stop sometimes – road workers, emergency services, people with car trouble – and traffic engineers made sure there were safe places to do it. She didn’t need a whole damn car park, though. Another metre-width of verge would be fine. It would be fucking fabulous.

  ‘We’re on, Jax.’ Brendan’s voice was a taut mixture of alarm and efficiency. ‘It’s happening.’ He was sideways in his seat again, shoulder pressed to the upholstery, face tucked behind the headrest like a TV cop hiding around a doorframe.

  Her eyes snapped to the mirror and fear grew hot in her gut. The blue sedan was behind them. She could see sunglasses and dark hair, a black and white top. No shirt and tie. Had he taken them off or were there two men?

  ‘Shit. Shit.’ Brendan crouched forward, eyes angled up.

  Jax followed his gaze and panic surged through her veins like fire. A helicopter was hovering above them.

  9

  She hoped the buzz inside her was adrenaline pooling, preparing her for flight when she finally pulled over. Because whatever the hell was going on, she wanted to be out of the car and away from Brendan and whatever else turned up.

  In the mirror, she watched the man in the blue sedan lift a phone to his ear. She wanted him to be talking to the cops. Wanted him to be sending a mayday to the military to pick up their damaged soldier. But maybe he was calling reinforcements. Maybe she needed to get the hell away from him too.

  ‘There.’ Brendan saw it before she did.

  They were around the bend and it wasn’t an extra metre of verge. It was a stopping zone with an emergency phone. Wide enough to get right off the roadway, long enough to slow down without skidding and sliding into the guardrail. Enough bush behind it to hide. She hoped.

  She didn’t flick the indicator, just hit the brake and veered off the blacktop, clenching her teeth and holding on tight as the tyres fought for purchase on the dirt. Gravel sprayed the chassis in a deafening clash. Then they were shuddering to a stop, no time to check the rear-view before Brendan was clutching at her wrist, pulling on her arm. ‘Same as before,’ he yelled, already half out the passenger door.

  She grabbed for the handle on her side. ‘No.’

  ‘We stay together.’ He didn’t give her a choice. As he hauled her across the seats she hit her arm on the centre console, bashed a knee into the gearstick, crushed a hip against something solid; his fingers dragging at her skin, the force threatening to tear her arm from its socket.

  Outside, the rush of air from the motorway hit like a cyclone. She glanced backwards, saw the dark-blue sedan rocking to a stop on the dirt, a cloud of dust rising from its tyres, red lights flashing on the windscreen. He was a cop? She wanted to scream for help. Wanted to run for her life.

  ‘Move!’ Brendan bellowed over the continuous howl of traffic.

  ‘Brendan, let go.’

  He jerked her arm, pulling her around the doorframe. ‘Come on!’

  ‘It’s the police.’ She hauled against him, dug her runners into the dirt, but they were slipping, sliding on the gravel as he dragged her forwards.

  ‘No. They’re here. I’m not ready. I’ve got to get to Kate.’ His voice was all but swallowed up by the roar of a truck and the vortex of air that grabbed at her singlet, sandblasting her arms and face with grit.

  Twisting, trying to break free, she saw the sedan’s door open.

  ‘Come on. We can still make it from here,’ Brendan shouted.

  Make it where? They were kilometres from anywhere. Just bush and tarmac and a wall of traffic. Behind them, a man’s head and shoulders rose above the door. His hands rested on the open frame.

  No, not resting. Holding a gun, double-fisted. Aiming it at them.

  ‘Nooo!’ she shouted. Turned her head, yelled it at Brendan too.

  Then Brendan was in her face, grabbing her by the shoulders, pushing her down and making her run bent over like they were dodging bullets. Christ, had the guy fired already? Then she saw where Brendan was heading, where he was taking her. To the edge of the blacktop.

  She fought his hold, yanking, shoving, skidding, desperate. ‘No, Brendan, no.’

  ‘We can lose him over there. We’ve just got to get across the road.’

  ‘It’s a fucking motorway.’ Wind pulled at her as though it was trying to help him.

  ‘Move.’

  ‘No. We won’t make it.’ A truck’s horn blared, a howling noise that mimicked her own cry as it passed. She coul
d see the edge of the tarmac up close now. Tiny pebbles held together by shiny black tar. This close, the airstream was a force, sucking at her, tearing at her face, filling her nose, her ears. She thought of Zoe and a wail poured from her throat, the sound disappearing on the wind.

  ‘I’ve got to get to Kate and Scotty.’ Brendan was ordering, pleading. There was terror in his voice, in his eyes. Panic and irrationality.

  Then his attention skipped away from her. Pupils moving fast, taking in what she’d heard behind her. Not just the roar of moving vehicles but tyres slithering to a stop on gravel, a helicopter up above. She couldn’t see them, couldn’t take her eyes off the man trying to drag her to her death, but she saw the flicker of decision in his and knew desperation when she saw it.

  He had her by the forearms. She turned her hands and closed fingers around his wrists, hollered into the wind, ‘Don’t, Brendan.’

  ‘They need me.’

  ‘You won’t make it.’

  He paused, the pull on her arms suddenly letting up as his focus settled on the road behind her. She turned her head, saw a minibus in the inside lane, something yellow behind it, and flashing lights further back. Then, like a leap into free air, her arms swung up and Brendan’s hands slipped through her fingers.

  What followed came in jagged, jarring slow motion. The whoosh of her own breath as she dragged in air. The incremental turning of her head as the minibus and a bright-yellow hatchback hurtled past at double the speed. The billowing white of Brendan’s business shirt as he ran. The throat-grazing force of a shriek that produced no sound. The white smoke of burning rubber on blacktop, the sideways slewing of the minibus … then screeching tyres and clashing metal and her own scream were shredded together in a single, shattering explosion of noise.