by Jaye Ford
Jax wasn’t yelling words now. She was just yelling. Mouth open until her lungs were empty, then filling them up and starting again. She couldn’t see Brendan anymore. The minibus and yellow hatchback were locked together. He was somewhere in there or on the other side: maybe he’d made it. Maybe he was in the bush and escaping.
She wanted to run over and help, wanted to run away, wanted to be sick, didn’t do any of it. Just stood rooted to the ground, swaying one way then the other, like a tree buffeted by indecision and disbelief and horror.
‘… randa Jack.’
Her name. Someone shouting. She looked to where Brendan had gone. There was screaming coming from over there now. Frightened faces peering out of the minibus.
‘Drop the weapon!’
Male voice. Loud, aggressive. She turned, saw him. The guy by the blue sedan, except he was in front of it now. Pointing his gun at her.
Her body went rigid. Her brain tried to sift through a barrage of information. Cars stopped in the pull-over zone. Flashing lights. A chopper overhead. Brendan’s words: Trained people who won’t stop. Guns and knives and fucking missiles. They’ve got us, we’re fucked.
The man yelled, ‘You need to drop your weapon. Now!’
She glanced behind her, expecting to see Brendan with his gun. What she saw was the black ribbon of motorway stretching into the distance without a single car on it. She swayed a little.
‘Is your name Miranda Jack?’
She lurched back. The man was closer, a couple of metres away, holding the pistol with two hands, elbows locked straight, the words a slow, deliberate shout, as though she might not understand English. She tried to look at him but all she saw was the gleam of silver off his weapon in the afternoon glare and the black of a bulletproof vest. She wished she had one.
‘Yes,’ she cried.
‘Miranda, you need to put the gun down now.’
It was only then that she felt the hard, flesh-warmed metal of the pistol tucked inside her left palm. She stared at it, trying to figure out how it got there, remembering the lightness in her arms as they’d swung free of Brendan, the knobs of his knuckles as they’d slipped through her fingers. Had he lost his hold on it or given it to her?
‘Do you know the man who was in the car with you?’ the man called.
She lifted her eyes from Brendan’s pistol, her hand firming on the grip, a finger finding the trigger guard. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Miranda –’
‘Are you what he’s afraid of?’ It was an accusation, borne on a new fear that was hardening in her chest. ‘What are you going to do to me?’
‘Jax.’
The name made her pause. Her name. The name friends used. How did he know it?
He took a step closer. She refocused on the physique behind the weapon: long legs, narrow waist, wide shoulders under the vest. Tall, fit, fast, strong. She flicked a glimpse at the bush on her right. She was closer. He had a gun.
‘Miranda, I think I know what happened. A man was seen in Wahroonga with a pistol.’ His voice was still loud but there was less urgency and demand in it. Now it was filled with a message, a warning: I’m the one in charge, so pay attention. ‘We can sort it out. But nothing’s going to happen until you lose the gun.’
Behind him, uniformed cops had spread out in a semi-circle, their weapons drawn from holsters, identical double-handed grips like a rehearsed manoeuvre. Patrol cars were blocking the motorway, lights flashing blue and red.
‘Jax. Let it go. Just open your hand and let it fall to the dirt.’ He took another step. ‘Now.’
10
Whatever else was going on, this guy was a cop, backed up by a lot of other cops. A headline ran through Jax’s mind like breaking news: ‘Woman draws weapon on police, shot dead on motorway’. She unlocked her fingers and the pistol dropped to the earth with a dull thud.
‘Kick it away.’
She found it with the toe of her runner, sent it sideways. Away from both of them.
‘Good.’ Two steps closer, gun still firm in both of his hands. ‘Are you carrying any other weapons?’
If he was asking that, he had no idea what had happened. ‘It wasn’t my gun. It’s his. His name is Brendan Walsh. He made me drive.’
He spoke as though he hadn’t heard her, walking while he did, stepping in so close that he needed to bend his elbows before his pistol met her sternum. ‘I’m going to pat you down for weapons. You need to stand still and keep your hands away from your body. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ Except she couldn’t stay still. Her body trembled uncontrollably as he released one hand from his weapon and ran it around her waist. Firm, practised, efficient – the gun still trained on her. His shoulder hovered near her chin; her eyes skipped beyond it, flicking from the uniforms to the patrol cars on the roadway to the queue of traffic banking up behind them. Did they think she was the bad guy?
He stepped back and lowered his voice, a little empathy creeping into it. ‘It’s okay, Miranda. I’ve been following you for almost an hour. You tried to speak to me in the car park.’
Her eyes snapped back to him as she pulled in a sharp breath. The man in the car park had been casual, calm – this one was bristling with authority and wearing body armour. But she saw now, the black-and-white top she’d watched in her rear-view was the vest over his business shirt, and the pale eyes … up close were solid blue-grey, and resolute. The swell of fear she’d been holding at bay for hours turned to anger. ‘You saw me all the way back there, before we even reached the car park? And you just followed? I’ve been stuck in that car with him for hours. For fucking hours.’
He slid the gun into a holster at his hip. ‘You left the car park twenty-four minutes ago. Three more minutes heading north and you would’ve hit my roadblock.’
Blinking, letting the news sink in, Jax thought of a roadblock and the kind of yelling, wheel-grabbing panic it would have started in Brendan. Neither of them would have survived. ‘Oh, God. Brendan.’ She put a hand to her mouth, started to turn, to look for him.
The cop held her in place with a hand at her elbow. ‘You need to stay here.’
‘Where is he? Is he dead?’
‘I can’t answer that.’
He didn’t have to. The way he kept his eyes on her face and the grip on her elbow told her all she needed to know. That she didn’t want to see what was across the road. ‘Oh, God.’
The sob came from deep inside her, working its way up and out in a tremor that buckled her knees. The hand on her elbow became a vice at her arm, keeping her upright. Then another one, on the other side. Two people walking her forwards as her lungs grappled for air. Past the open passenger door of her car and her keys on the gravel, to the dark-blue sedan she’d watched in her rear-view mirror. She was lowered into the back seat, words being spoken but not to her. Instructions, questions, answers, multiple voices. Then a uniform was standing in the doorway, blocking the glare of the descending sun, and she was on her own in the car, watching as the man who’d held her to the spot with a gun walked around the grille. She wanted to cry, to howl and gasp and let tears pour unchecked down her face, but it wouldn’t come. She’d been holding it back for hours, for most of the day, and now that she wanted to let go, her eyes were dry and her brain felt like it was on pause.
Outside, more people had arrived. Almost a crowd: some in uniform, others in jeans, a few in suits. The cop from the sedan was pointing and talking as he walked. Not telling the others what had happened, not some kind of, I was here and she was there. He was giving orders and they were nodding and leaving with a mission. He took a brief call on a mobile, five words tops, then tossed the phone for someone to catch. Clearly in charge of whatever was happening here.
Where the hell had they all come from? She heard Brendan in her head: They found us. They’ve got us. We’re fucked. Was she?
On the motorway, an ambulance had pulled up in front of the crash site. Brendan was fucked, that was for sure. She pu
t a hand to her chest, felt her heart slamming against her ribs and her lungs dragging at the solid heat in the car, a film of sweat clammy on her forehead. A loud whining filled her ears, her head. Christ, was she having a heart attack?
‘There’ll be a bottle of water here soon.’ The sedan guy was sitting beside her. The taut authority that had bristled from him two minutes earlier had eased up, but only a fraction – and no shaking, no sweating, despite the stand-off and the guns and the crashing cars. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, his pale eyes taking in the way her arms were locked across her chest.
Jax shook her head. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Detective Senior Sergeant Aiden Hawke. I’ll be keeping you here for the moment to answer some questions.’
Name, rank and purpose. Brief and clear. It said he was in charge and they weren’t in here taking a breather now that the weapons were put away. He was a cop, Jax told herself as he turned away to speak to someone at the door. He was the good guy, right? But she was sitting in another car with another man and a gun. It was in a holster but it didn’t feel right. It felt like she was still stuck in Brendan’s nightmare – crazy, implausible events being driven by his fear and delusion. There were people coming after him, like he said; he didn’t make it to his family, like he said. He was probably already dead. What the hell next?
The detective tucked a piece of paper inside his vest as he shifted back to her. ‘Did you –’
‘Do you know him?’ she cut in. It was what the cop had asked her but … They found us. They’ve got us. ‘Is that why you were following me?’
There was a flicker of surprise in his face. ‘I saw you swerve into another lane. You almost sideswiped another car.’
Yeah, she’d done that several times but there were at least twenty cops out there – overkill for bad driving. ‘Brendan thought someone was after him,’ she said. Then, wondering again if it was the police he’d been running from, accusation firmed in her tone. ‘Was it you?’
A line appeared briefly between his brows. ‘Do you know the man who was in your car?’
‘His name is Brendan Walsh. He said people were after him, that they were trying to kill him.’
‘So you know him?’
She glanced at the ambulance across the motorway. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ She blinked at stinging eyes, trying to force tears that wouldn’t come. ‘He said they were trained and they wouldn’t stop.’
The detective didn’t answer, just watched her a moment, his expression giving nothing away except the cogs working hard behind his gaze.
A heavy pulse started up in her neck. Brendan had said the cops would fuck it up. Plural cops. Not a whole police force – that didn’t make sense. But maybe cops who could make things happen. ‘Is that what this is about? All of this?’ She waved a hand at the activity outside the car, heard the anger in her voice. ‘Was it you?’
His voice was measured and careful. ‘Why did he think people were after him?’
She paused, feeling the prickle of Brendan’s paranoia on her skin, suddenly wondering how much she should say, whether she’d already said too much.
‘Miranda?’
‘He said …’ There was something in his head he couldn’t get out. ‘He said it was their job.’ Her eyes flicked involuntarily to the gun in his holster.
The cop took in her glance, her folded arms, the way she leaned away from him. ‘Why was he in your car?’
Jax licked her lips. She’d signalled this guy in the car park. Maybe she’d fucked it up.
‘Why are you scared, Miranda?’
She clasped her hands between her thighs. ‘I don’t know. Should I be scared?’
He took his time to respond. When he did, it wasn’t to answer the question she’d asked. ‘I want to understand what happened and I need you to help me.’
She settled her eyes on his face, a luxury she hadn’t had with Brendan. Detective Senior Sergeant Aiden Hawke looked right back: no angst, no fear, no attempt to dodge her assessment. Just a silent, steady directness. The same look she’d seen over the roof of his car in the parking area.
‘He said they had guns and …’
‘And what?’
‘Missiles.’ Christ, it sounded ridiculous now. ‘He was terrified.’
The guy said nothing for a second. Maybe he was trying not to snigger, although he didn’t look the sniggering type. When he spoke, it wasn’t with veiled amusement. It was an explanation, a hint of reassurance in it. ‘I was in Sydney for work and heading back to Newcastle. I started watching you after you swerved. I thought I saw a gun in his hand and it matched reports of an armed man seen in Wahroonga. I followed you to the service station, got a visual of the weapon, but I couldn’t risk shots being fired in a car park. I’ve been setting up a roadblock and back-up since then. That’s why these people are here.’ He cocked his head at the window. ‘I’ve got someone checking his name now. If he was running from the police, he probably had a reason to be scared, but I wasn’t tailing him. We weren’t looking for him. And we don’t carry missiles.’
She waited for a mocking lift of an eyebrow but it didn’t come. He wasn’t making light of it: he was letting her know she was safe. She heard Brendan’s voice again, the rambling, irrational way the words had fallen from him – nano spiders and things stuck in his head – and something large and frightened and half-crazed fell away from her.
‘Oh, God.’ The tears came then, tipping over her lids and spilling down her cheeks as though the storage tank in her tear ducts had cracked open. No tension-releasing howling, though, just a quiet sense of relief and exhaustion and sadness. Brendan had scared the hell out of her but he’d been a man in pain who’d loved his family – she’d wanted to get help, not wished him dead.
Beside her, the detective uncapped a bottle of water and pressed it into her hands. ‘Sorry it’s not cold.’
She didn’t care less. She lifted it to her lips with shaking hands and drank like she was dying of thirst. Liquid trickled out one side of her mouth. She wiped it with the back of a hand and drank some more.
Aiden Hawke didn’t speak again until she’d slumped against the seat, rehydrated but still trembling. ‘Are you okay?’
She didn’t know the word for what she was right now. Maybe there wasn’t a word for how a person felt after being abducted at gunpoint, terrified, confused, accused, grief-stricken and suddenly safe. It was something, though, and ‘okay’ was definitely not it. So she met the detective’s eyes with an expression that tried to cover it all.
He nodded at her bottle of water. ‘Sorry it’s not stronger.’
‘Me too.’
He smiled a little. It was a nice smile. The first she’d seen in a while. Possibly it was nice any time he did it.
‘Brendan said a lot of crazy stuff,’ she told him. ‘I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. He talked about his wife and son. I don’t think they’re in his imagination. Maybe someone is after him.’
‘We’ll look into that.’
And there it was – another detective with answers that didn’t tell her anything. Was it part of their training? ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
At least she finally had the truth on that one. She batted away the tear that fell for Brendan.
‘How well did you know him?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I need to call my daughter.’
He pulled a notebook and pen from under the bulletproof vest. ‘Give me her details and I’ll have someone speak to her.’
‘She’s six. I need to talk to her.’
‘Is there anyone with her?’ The question was about safety, not who would answer the phone.
‘Yes, my aunt.’
‘I’ll have a detective call your aunt, let her know you’re okay.’
‘But –’
‘Miranda, listen.’ It was sharp, an instruction. ‘We’re not finished here. You need to answer my questions.’ His curt tone conveyed th
e rest of his message: she couldn’t call Zoe until she’d explained herself.
‘What do you think I’ve done?’
11
Something tightened the detective’s lips. Frustration, irritation, maybe a hint of amusement. ‘I think you need to stop asking questions for a while and try to answer a few. Can you do that, Miranda?’ The words were delivered with all the professional directness he’d maintained so far, with just a dash of for-God’s-sake.
After being yelled at and shoved around and threatened with a gun, it felt good to be causing the aggravation – and he wouldn’t be the first detective she’d ticked off with her questions. ‘I’ll try.’
He took a second to eye her off as though deciding how to interpret her, took down the home number Tilda had had for thirty years and passed it to someone outside the car.
‘How do you know Brendan Walsh?’ he asked.
‘I don’t. Or at least I didn’t before he got in my car at Wahroonga.’
‘Have you ever seen him before?’
‘I interviewed him about five years ago for a newspaper article.’
‘So you’d met him.’
‘I don’t remember him. He told me about it. There was a group of soldiers leaving for Afghanistan. I remember the day and the article but not him.’
‘Had he been in contact with you since the interview?’
‘No.’
‘But he knew where to find you?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘He just turned up at your car, said, “Remember me, you interviewed me once,” and asked for a lift?’
The edge of doubt in his tone made her hesitate – and remember that ten minutes ago she’d been holding a gun and surrounded by cops in bulletproof vests. This one wanted a reason and, so far, hers wasn’t making sense.
She held up a hand. ‘Can I start again?’
He pulled his brows together. ‘You want to try another story?’
She didn’t answer right away. Pulling in a breath, she gathered the facts together in her mind like notes she’d taken at a press conference, then told him. The what, where, when and how: heading to Newcastle, the gun, the shouting, the nano spiders, the trained people wanting to pick them off. She explained about Brendan wanting to kill himself and believing he was going to die anyway, about trying to get to his wife and son before ‘they’ got him first. She wished there was a why but all she had for that was Brendan’s reasoning and she wasn’t sure anyone would work that out.