by Jaye Ford
She didn’t want to get back in the car, didn’t want Brendan Walsh shouting at her while she drove, but it was too hot to walk up the hill to Tilda’s. And she wasn’t sure it was where she wanted to be – not like this, not with her aunt’s concern and Zoe’s worried eyes. Shaking, her insides cramping, she sat in the doorway with the engine running until the air-conditioner was blowing cold, then steered the car to the beach, working her way along the foreshore to the harbour, turning around and working her way back again, the sight of the ocean smoothing out her breathing and heart rate, something tight and angry steeling her bones against the trembling.
Aiden bloody Hawke. An inside scoop is a good way to get one. Bastard cops. Anita Lyneham was a woman but she still had the credentials.
Eight months after Nick’s accident, when her damn Homicide unit hadn’t come up with anything fresh since the first weeks of the investigation, when the inquest was rushing at them with no evidence, Anita Lyneham had accused Jax of keeping the story alive for the sake of her own ego. The TV interview had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with trying to push the questions into new ground. She’d talked about Nick, their life together and the tragedy of his unexplained death, in return for a public appeal for information. Nick had been respected by a lot of people and the story created more coverage than Jax dared hope for. It also intensified the battle of wills with the detective: Anita Lyneham accusing Jax of using Nick’s death for attention, and Jax refusing to see why a public appeal for information was undermining the police. Whether it was the blunt talk between them or protocol – or sheer obstinacy – the detective had refused to share the breakdown from the stream of calls that came in after Jax’s interview. And now Anita was in Aiden Hawke’s ear. Fucking cops.
Jax pulled her car into a parking area across the road from the beach, found a spot facing the water. There were vehicles either side of hers, a couple of surfers laughing as they dried off, a runner melting in the heat. She had an urge to get out and walk, to let the salt air fill her lungs and clear out the souring panic, but it fought with an opposing pull to stay hidden and safe within the metal around her. In the end, she wound down the windows and let the afternoon nor-easterly cut a swathe through the car. It blew hair across her face, tugged at her shirt, sent the occasional sting of airborne sand, but her anger hung on, stubborn and determined.
This isn’t about Nick.
She’d seen the way Aiden watched her before he said it. He had a Psych degree under his police badge and had staked her out a bazillion years ago, and now he thought he had her all worked out. He’d done all right at the station the other night, realising her questions were about reassurance. Yeah, and how hard was that? She’d just survived a damn carjacking, who wouldn’t need reassurance? Today, at Kate Walsh’s house, he was way off base. He thought she was there because of some sick desire to keep Nick’s tragedy alive. He had no idea.
A year ago, her life had been torn open and beaten to death without an explanation. She and Zoe had never been given a reason why their future had been rubbed out like unnecessary words on a whiteboard. For more than twelve months, the same unanswered questions had been on a relentless circuit in her brain. She’d wasted whole days in police stations begging for information; walked streets, knocked on doors, asked people what they’d seen that morning; transcribed notes, opened files, filled them with words, read them until she knew them by heart – and still she had no answers.
Then Brendan Walsh changed the wiring in her head. There were questions in there but different ones and Aiden Hawke had no idea how good that felt. This wasn’t about Nick. She didn’t want to think about Nick, couldn’t bear it any longer, was worried that something inside her was close to breaking.
This was about her and what she needed.
Okay, yes, if she was honest with herself, it was possible Brendan Walsh had broken something else. The nightmares were ugly, she had a constant low-level buzz of anxiety, and she’d just thrown up in a gutter. But it wasn’t the same worn damaged part of her she needed to protect for Zoe’s sake. She needed to focus on the new questions and give the others a chance to rest.
She grabbed her bag, wound the windows up and stepped out of the car. Crossing the road, she bought a bottle of water from the cafe at the top of the beach stairs, kicked off her sandals, went down to the sand, sat in the cool shade of the sandstone beach wall and pulled a notebook and pen from her bag. She drew a line down the page and marked one side ‘Real’, the other side ‘Not Real’, and started writing.
It didn’t take long; there wasn’t much. The Real side had: army, Afghanistan, interview/quote, Kate + Scotty, and a lot of blank lines. Not Real was an empty column.
Kate said Brendan had worried about threats he couldn’t see, but that didn’t confirm anything he’d said as Not Real. Aiden told Jax there was no evidence someone had followed Brendan – again, not confirmation. Then there were the nano spiders and missiles. Okay, something for the ledger. She lifted her pen and paused.
Nick had tracked money, lies and liars through mountains of numbers, correspondence, emails and memos. The evidence had been stacked around his office in colour-coordinated and tabbed files. Printouts of notes, lists, tables and handwritten pages. And he’d never moved anything onto the ledger until it was confirmed. She flipped the page, wrote ‘nano spiders’ on the top line, ‘missiles’ on the next, and stared at the waves gathering, cresting and crashing to the sand.
She’d ribbed Nick about going overboard on the research, of prolonging the agony of the detail because he couldn’t bear the process to end. When their lives were overrun by a story, it was his saving grace that he could joke about it. He’d tell her he made little piles because a large one would topple and bury him, that he’d found a shopping list buried beneath the paper and some guy was going to be in big trouble for forgetting the carrots, that he wasn’t sure if he was looking for a needle or the straw that would break his back. And he always told her the only way to understand the detail was to see the whole picture.
So she closed her eyes, looked at her memories of Brendan and wrote a list of everything he’d talked about: something stuck in his head, Already Dead, the confusion over her phone, helicopter crashes, being lied to, the friend who’d hit a pedestrian, getting the gun, holding things off for two days, Scotty learning to read before he went to school, the something Brendan didn’t know that made him cry. And the bit she most wanted proved as Not Real: that people had been following him, trained people who wouldn’t stop – and that she’d been in their sights too.
It was a long list, two messy pages, by the time she’d added notes and drawn lines to remind herself of the connections. And it was late. Not dark, not even close, but the shadows from the flags and the few remaining beach umbrellas stretched long and dark along the sand. She must have been sitting there for more than an hour. Pulling her phone from her bag as she stood, she dialled Tilda’s mobile. ‘Hey, it’s me,’ she told the recording. ‘Sorry, it took longer than I expected. Be home soon.’
From the top of the beach stairs, Jax could see the parking area was almost empty, just a line of vehicles in the row that faced the water, hers included. She didn’t bother pulling her sandals back on, dangling the straps from her fingers as she crossed the road.
A woman in shorts and a bikini top lifted a collapsed stroller into the back of the first vehicle in the row. Two-thirds of the way down, a man had his back to Jax, unlocking a driver’s door. He was wearing a business shirt, the end of a tie blown over his shoulder. Maybe he’d stopped to enjoy the view and the breeze before heading home from the office. As she stepped up to the footpath, a second man in shirt and tie appeared, standing up as though he’d been squatting at the boot of the same car. She watched them as she followed the curve of the path. Her car was somewhere near there. She couldn’t remember how far down the row, couldn’t see the colours and shapes past a chunky ute that was between her and them.
Glancing around, she wa
sn’t sure what she was checking for, just curious … no, cautious and suddenly itchy with sweat. She went wide on the path, trying to find the green of her car further down the row, reminding herself Aiden Hawke thought she was safe, that there was no-one after her, that she’d had a panic attack this afternoon and her reactions weren’t entirely objective at the moment. Nowhere near objective, if the palpitating of her heart was anything to go by.
And then the pounding got louder. Her car wasn’t further down the row. It was right there where the two men were standing. One on each side of it. The man facing her said something. Not to Jax, to the other guy. He lifted his head, turned and looked at her. She stopped, three car-lengths away on the lip of the gutter, watched as his eyes took her in before he stepped up to the footpath.
‘Hey,’ he called. Deep voice, nothing in it but confidence. ‘You Miranda Jack?’
She flicked her gaze to the other guy. He looked right back. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Can we have a word with you?’ the first guy asked.
She stayed where she was, swallowed in a dry mouth, fingers tightening around the straps of her sandals. Police? A pulse tapped in her temple. Had they recognised her car? Did they have something to tell her? That Brendan was being followed? Her breath came faster, her heart beat louder. Maybe she was paranoid. Maybe Brendan hadn’t broken anything but infected her.
‘Do you mind if we talk in the car?’ the guy said, pointing at it.
She glanced at her car, at the second guy, at the first one now smiling at her. There was no spark of decision, no planning. Just instinct. She took a giant step off the gutter, grabbing for the bag on her shoulder, casting a look at the people mover heading her way – and leapt in front of it. Running to beat it, reaching the footpath on the opposite side before swinging her head to see if she’d just made a fool of herself.
The people mover had braked in front of Guy Number One. He had his palms flat on its windows, watching her through them, dodging to get around it as the driver stopped and started, not sure whether to stay or go. Possibly the guy was a cop, possibly he was reacting as any cop would. Possibly, but …
Her legs moved like they belonged to a wind-up toy. On one side of her, the path dropped two metres to the sand; across the road, the car park was behind her and she was passing big, expensive houses. Guy Number One was in the road behind her, tie blowing in the breeze, pelting along in her wake. No shouting, no orders to stop, no identifying himself as a cop. Just gunning for her.
23
Jax flung her sandals away, slung the strap of her bag across her body and pumped both arms. Up ahead, people blocked the path: a woman with a dog, a man overtaking on a bike. They could protect her. Or they could hold her up and let the other guys get to her.
‘Move!’ Jax shouted, keeping to the middle, pulling her elbows in and wincing as her bag smacked the cyclist.
There was a clatter of bike metal behind her and, ‘Fuck.’ She didn’t know if it came from the rider or Guy Number One, whose shoes were still hitting the roadway with firm, steady beats.
Her breath was jumping and jerking, her chest barely filling, her steps short and panicky, bare feet slapping flatly on the concrete. She had no chance if she didn’t get it together. Come on! She pulled air through her nose, pushed it out through her mouth; dropped her shoulders, softened her hips. And suddenly her pace felt slow, too relaxed, but she knew it wasn’t. She hadn’t run for a year but she had twenty-five more of track and trail experience, and her body knew what to do. It had hit its rhythm, knees high, stride long, oxygen powering her muscles. A tiny part of her high-fived herself, while the burning that was starting in her thighs and lungs warned her not to get cocky.
Lifting her eyes to the long white line of concrete that looped over the next headland, that went all the way to the harbour, she knew she had to get off. She was a sprinter; she’d run the four-hundred in school and at uni – the longest, hardest sprint in competition. Back in the day and going flat out, she could beat Nick over the distance, but add another two hundred metres to the equation and he’d catch up and wave as he passed her.
There were runners and walkers heading in both directions on the path. She could stop a big, burly one and cry for help but by the time she’d caught her breath and explained her problem, the guys on her tail could have picked her up and carried her away … or pulled guns and shot her. Guns and knives and fucking missiles.
Across the road, houses and apartment buildings lined the streets that angled away from the water, forming the blocks of a suburb where she used to park on trips to the beach. It was a long time ago but what she needed would still be there: hedges and yards to disappear among.
A glimpse over her left shoulder told her Guy Number Two wasn’t in the race. Wasn’t anywhere she could see in a brief glance. Guy Number One looked like he’d settled into a comfortable, steady pace well behind her, probably figuring there was no reason to kill himself sitting at her shoulder because she’d run out of puff soon. He was right – but he’d given her room to move. She changed direction by forty-five degrees, leapt onto the road and headed for the far-side kerb of the next cross street, wheeling out wide from him, trying to ignore the hot, pebbly bitumen that cut into the soles of her feet.
The two-lane road was short, with maybe a dozen houses both sides before it met a busy street at its other end. It had a right-hand angle halfway down, a kink like the bend in a dog’s hind leg, enough to hide the front of the homes on that side of the street. If she was fast, she could be around there before the arsehole behind her made it into the street.
There was no footpath here, just the tarmac, a row of parked cars and a strip of uneven, unmown grass. Jax skipped between a van and a ute, picked up her feet and bolted for the bend. Toes grateful for the cool lawn, thighs screaming, lungs in spasm.
Around the curve, two driveways ahead, a huge waste skip straddled the verge and roadway like a shipping container that had washed ashore. There was no room between it and a sagging timber fence, she’d have to circle around into the centre of the road where she’d be easy to see. She glanced behind, tried to hear beyond the dragging of her own breath – no movement, just a steady slap-slap-slap of shoes on bitumen.
Sensing the pool of adrenaline that had got her this far was almost dry, she pushed once more, legs like weights, feet stinging, expecting a shout or a shot as she looped around the container. At its far side, she grabbed at the ribbed metal, stumbling, grimacing with pain as she flattened against it … mouth dropping open when she saw what was in front of her.
The shell of a massive house sat in the centre of a deserted building site. A portaloo, upended wheelbarrows, pallets of bricks, and the deep, rectangular hole of an unfinished in-ground pool.
The footsteps stopped. Was Guy Number One watching or leaving? She didn’t wait to find out. The back end of the container faced a makeshift driveway – hidden, she hoped, from the street. She took off again, headed for the softer dirt around the edges of the construction space, trying to avoid discarded strips of metal and hard blobs of dried concrete. Chest heaving, heart thumping, she flicked her eyes around, searching for a hiding place. The yard was more rubble than soil and stripped of anything shrub-like, the abandoned machinery too small to disappear behind. The house was wide open front and back, probably waiting for panels of glass. She darted between a side wall and the neighbour’s fence, eyeing the two storeys as she reached the rear of the block. The second level would offer views of the ocean; below it, a floor was partially laid on bearers and joists, its timbers supported by foundations rising up from the sandy soil.
Jax threw herself forward, dropped to her elbows and knees, and belly-slithered under the floor. A cool, earthy smell filled her nose as deep shadow closed around her. The handbag that had swung at her hip dragged over the dirt beneath her; the bruises on her shins and knees found solid objects; her forearms and the tops of her feet scraped over rough bumps and sharp edges. Pulling her heels under the la
st rows of laid flooring, she heard a whistle. A single, loud whip of sound, the kind of noise only made by lips pursed around a couple of fingers. It sent a chill scuttling across her scalp, forcing her faster, deeper under the house.
A long way in, finally stopping, knees to chest, huddling into the rigid column of a brick foundation, she listened for noises from the yard. All she heard was the rasp of her breath coming hard and fast, and blood pounding like reverb in her head. Sweat ran into her eyes, pooled in her bra, trickled into her knickers, squelched behind her knees. Whatever skin was exposed was now caked with dirt. Old and new bruises ached. The soles of her feet felt like they’d been ripped off. Maybe they had.
A car engine slowed, idled somewhere close. Moved on.
Twisting her neck, she watched the daylight where she’d crawled in – the only view she had of the yard. She’d assumed the whistle was a signal, but maybe it’d marked the end of the chase.
Then a crunch. On the rubble in the makeshift driveway. She held her breath, listened, waited. Heard the constant low rumble of cars from the main road; a caw of seagulls; the faint, distant thump of the surf. A scratching on the other side of the foundation she was pressed to.
No footsteps, no voices, no movement in the strip of yard she could see.
Cooling sweat tickled her skin, dirt shifted and scratched in uncomfortable places. Her legs were wasted, heart and lungs still working hard as she kept still, watching the daylight and thinking about Brendan. No sudden, unwanted words in her head now, just his certainty and insistence.
Oh, don’t worry. They’re out there.
There’s more than one.
I can’t see them, but they’re there, I know they are. You can’t escape them.
Were they looking for her now?
Was Guy Number One on the other side of the house, standing, listening, waiting for her to show him where to look?