Tall Dark Heart

by Chris Krupa

  I headed in to ask.

  Heavy raindrops hit random patches of my shirt and smacked against my shaved head. The drops felt cool against the mugginess. I made my way up a long ramp, and a singular automatic sliding door opened to reveal another ramp, which led to a front desk. A mezzanine area looked down over a half Olympic-sized swimming pool, and adjacent to the reception, seen through glass, men lifted weights on various machines.

  A tanned woman in her twenties with ‘Kylie’ on her name badge smiled a perfect smile. ‘Hi! Is this your first time at Bull’s Gym?’

  I said it was, and Kylie proceeded to give me the basics. I asked about personal trainers, and Kylie said there were three: Michael, Anastasia, and Fern. She confirmed all three would be at the gym tonight if I was interested in starting a program with either of them. I got acquainted with the machines—an orbital trainer, and a treadmill for forty-five minutes—all the while scouting the reception area and anyone who came into the gym.

  I climbed off the orbiter, wiped it down, and took a tour of the gym.

  A woman wearing an official Bull’s Gym uniform spotted a man on the leg press. It was Tamsin. She’d cut her hair into a bob, and had gained muscle in the shoulders, arms, and legs.

  After grabbing a pair of dumbbells, I lay on a rack and did three sets of twelve reps straight up.

  Tamsin spoke with an encouraging, patient voice and counted each rep along with her client. They made a round robin of the equipment as I kept myself occupied and out of the way. With the session over, she updated her client’s file and walked to the front counter.

  I followed a sign down some stairs to the men’s room, where I toweled down, checked each cubicle and shower recess, and then returned to the mezzanine. I smiled and waved goodbye to Ally behind the reception desk.

  Outside, I walked around the building and found another entrance on the western side. Stairs led up to an automatic door that opened into the reception area from another angle. I picked a Gatorade out of a fridge, paid for it, and crossed the mezzanine to survey the pool. I watched as a woman dried off a child’s hair. My eyes went up to the gym, where three men worked the lat pull-down machines. Each had different styles: the one on the left lifted too heavy and dropped the weights with each turn; the middle one lifted in long graceful movements both ways; the last one had stopped, and the angry eyes of Gavin Poulson stared directly at me.

  Chapter 27

  I held his eyes and felt a growing sense of dread. I’d lost the element of surprise, and he no doubt thought the same. It felt as if a timer had started a countdown and our inevitable collision course had been set in motion.

  He climbed off the machine in one deft movement, wiped his forehead with a towel, and left the gym.

  I watched his head disappear as he quickly descended the stairs, then I rushed out of the mezzanine and took the same stairs two at a time, and entered the men’s change room. All three toilet stalls were empty. I turned to check the shower stalls as Poulson rounded a corner.

  When two bodybuilders came in chatting about work, Poulson turned to the vanity and washed his hands.

  I looked for something to do while both men claimed bags and started to undress whilst talking about work. I stepped to a part of the bench unoccupied by bags, and sat down to check my shoes, keeping Poulson in my peripherals.

  He dried his hands at a dryer, then approached me. He took the bag to my right and walked out.

  I got up and side-stepped with one of the men who stepped the same way I did. After our dance, I went out and took the steps two at a time.

  I ran through the reception area and stepped out into the hallway as a lone figure hurried down the ramp to the car park. I broke into a run, my footfalls heavy against the carpeted floor. The figure turned, and a flash or worry swept across Poulson’s face. The angle of the ramp gave me some momentum, and I launched at him quicker than I expected. I rammed him against the wall, and the wind left him.

  He jabbed at my crotch, and it distracted me enough that he broke from my grip and sprinted outside. As he sprinted to the left, he wrenched car keys out of his gym shorts.

  I did the same as I ran to my car, parked to the extreme right of the car park, which had become a little busier since I’d arrived mid-morning.

  From my car, I craned my neck to see which car Poulson got into. As he ran, he furtively looked behind until he stopped at a black Toyota Corolla.

  I unlocked my door and watched.

  As soon as the top half of Poulson’s head disappeared, I got in and started it up, reversed out from between the bollards, and drove in his direction. I needed him back in my sights, and peered through windscreens and car windows for any movement. I followed the arrows to the exit, checking each row of parked cars as I went.

  When the Corolla pulled in front of me, I pulled out sideways onto the street, on high alert for stray dogs or toddlers on the footpaths.

  We negotiated a series of roundabouts and cut in front of traffic already making their approaches. Poulson cut in front of an SUV, who locked their brakes up, sending a waft of smoke blowing across two lanes. I accelerated and passed on the inside shoulder, and the acrid smell of burnt rubber wafted through the vents.

  He eventually pulled into a motel called The Pink Flamingo, jumped out, and disappeared into a room before I had the chance to park straight.

  Being the off season, the car park was clear of people. I watched the door he went into, and waited. Thunder cracked somewhere close, and three black cockatoos flew overhead, screeching at the top of their lungs. It either meant days of rain, or imminent death.

  After a handful of minutes, I got out. A cool breeze tickled my arms, and I struggled into my jacket. I had no cover between the car spot and the motel. I felt exposed as I walked across the pot-holed parking lot and checked for any signs of movement. I slipped on my knuckle dusters and approached the door with my ears primed.

  I heard movement behind me, but I was too slow, and someone shoved a gun hard into my ribs.

  Chapter 28

  I raised my hands to shoulder height.

  A man’s voice said, ‘Put your hands down by your side. Keep your eyes forward. Don’t turn your head. Stay casual.’

  I did as he said, and he patted me down all over.

  ‘Give me the knucks and take three steps back.’

  A thick left hand came into view, palm open. I slipped off the knuckledusters and placed them in his hand. He bored the gun into my side as I walked backwards, then stopped. He rapped on the door four times.

  After a minute, the door opened, and Poulson stood with his arms crossed tight over his sunken chest, with a weary expression on his face. ‘What’re you doin’ with ‘im?’

  ‘I’ll take him out on the highway for a drive. We need to know what he knows.’

  Poulson rocked from foot to foot. ‘You gonna shoot the cunt or fuck ‘im?’

  ‘Language, please. I’ll be back in half an hour. Man the room. Screen phone calls and divert door knockers.’

  ‘Bullshit. I’m comin’, Malone.’

  ‘Gavin, I will handle it.’

  ‘Fuck that. There ain’t no one around. I’m fucken followin’ you cunts.’

  Before Malone could say anything further, Poulson slammed the door closed and jogged to the black Corolla in the car park.

  Malone exhaled. ‘Advanced primate, my foot.’

  He firmly drove the gun into my ribs, as if he’d done it hundreds of times before. ‘We’ll start walking to the Hyundai now.’

  We walked side by side to my rental. I took the opportunity to glance at my assailant, who stood around one seventy-five. He had a shaved head except for the top middle section, which was slicked back. He had a thick, dark goatee and bright blue eyes. A scar cut through one of his eyebrows. Everything about him was stocky: thick hairy hands, broad shoulders under a leather jacket, motorcycle boots, and thickly suntanned.

  ‘You drive,’ he said, and used the gun to punctuate his wor
ds. ‘Not too slow. Go with the traffic.’

  He watched as I climbed in, and slipped into the passenger side. He held the gun at a relaxed angle aimed at my stomach.

  I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the same gun that killed Warwick Fripp in Knox Street.

  ‘Pull out onto the highway. Do not draw attention to yourself.’

  As we pulled out, rain started to spatter against the windscreen, and thunder rumbled louder than the last one. Poulson followed close behind in the Corolla. I followed the Captain Cook Highway south out of Port Douglas, past dense rainforest on either side.

  ‘That looks like the gun that killed Warwick Fripp,’ I said.

  ‘I am not talking to you.’

  ‘You don’t deny it.’

  ‘I am not talking to you.’

  ‘Who paid you?’

  He squinted through the windscreen.

  I tried to join the dots in my head, based on what I knew. Maybe someone had paid Malone to kill Fripp, and now Malone was sitting next to me, no doubt thinking about doing the same to me, and possibly about killing Tamsin Lyons.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Did you take Fripp out because he talked about the book? If so, how did you know he spilled anything?’

  He gently placed the barrel of the gun against the side of my knee. ‘Just... drive.’

  I considered my options for overpowering him, but let them go. If Malone was the assassin who shot Fripp, he proved well enough that he had no reservations in using a gun.

  We drove in silence, with only the sound of the wipers scraping the glass, until we came across a line of cars stopped in front of a lolly pop man as a grader levelled the shoulder of the run. Road workers directed northbound traffic through one side of the highway, and it was our turn to wait as oncoming traffic fed through at a crawl.

  ‘Ease back,’ Malone said. ‘Turn into this dirt road.’

  A laneway disappeared into foliage on the left.

  I took it.

  In the rear-view, I saw that Poulson also took the turn. I followed the muddy thoroughfare through dense forest on either side, until it ascended into a clearing where earthworks were being carried out by a recessed riverbed. Large mounds of river sand had been dumped at the northern end of the worksite, surrounded by dense tropical rainforest. Graders, bulldozers, and bobcats sat idle around the fringes like silent monoliths.

  Malone said, ‘Pull up and park. Turn the engine off and leave the keys in the ignition.’

  As I parked the car, I considered running the both of us over the edge of the embankment about twenty yards in front of us, but thought better of it and turned everything off. We sat in silence as rain drummed against the roof. I took a breath, then stepped out into the rain.

  Malone stepped out in one move and brought the gun up in the classic aggressive Weaver stance you see in cop shows, one hand under the other for support. His right eye stared at me through the rear-sight notch as he rounded the front of the car.

  Poulson pulled up in the Corolla, got out, and joined Malone about ten yards away.

  ‘What’d you two talk about?’ Poulson said.

  I took a punt, nervousness forcing words out of my mouth. ‘Nothing. Malone mentioned the money, that’s all. I had a feeling there was something more behind it.’

  Malone shot me a confused look, but before he had a chance to do anything, Poulson screamed and plunged a knife twice into the side of Malone’s neck.

  Malone put a hand over the wound and stared at me, wide-eyed. He gulped for air and staggered forward with small, shaky steps as blood gushed from between his fingers and flowed down the front of his jacket. The blood appeared shiny and black in the dull light.

  His eyes, surrounded with white, met mine. ‘Help me.’

  A wet gurgling sound rose up from his throat as the gun slipped out of his grip and cracked against the rock-strewn ground. He managed to cover another ten meters, then fell to his knees.

  Poulson charged forward and collected the gun, then stood and watched nonchalantly as Malone struggled for air.

  Malone’s head lolled forward against his chest and stayed there. ‘Not now,’ he murmured. ‘Not now. Not now. Not like this.’

  He fell forward onto his chin, with one arm crumpled under his body and his eyes open. Blood pooled in the puddles around his head and made pinkish swirls in brown water.

  Poulson stared at me, a knife in one hand and the gun in the other.

  Chapter 29

  I ran to the back of the Tucson, popped the hatch and lifted the back panel. A vinyl case sat propped against the spare tyre. Inside, I found the wheel lug nut wrench and pulled it out. Its weight felt good in my hands. Holding it like a baseball bat, I peered around the edge of the car, my heart hammering the sides of my throat.

  Poulson eyed me cautiously and wiped his bloodied hand down the front of his shirt. My knuckledusters were in a dead man’s pocket, and an armed murderer wanted my blood.

  I didn’t need a bookie to tell me my odds. The sound of raindrops against the dense foliage almost sounded beautiful, if not for the air of menace.

  Poulson flung the Beretta into a copse of trees.

  I started walking towards Malone’s body, and Poulson stood his ground.

  I kept my eyes on the skinny Englishman, who looked more like a rabid greyhound than a man, and bent down to dig out my knuckledusters from Malone’s pocket.

  I slipped them on.

  Poulson walked in a wide semi-circle around the edge of the clearing, and ducked behind one of the mounds of sand.

  I moved to the opposite side, and kept an eye for movement in either direction. As I stepped around the hill, I saw Poulson make a run for his car. I threw the wrench at him; it missed by a few feet. I gave chase, my boots struggling for a solid toehold in the grit and rubble.

  He whirled and tried to push me away.

  I punched him twice in the side of the head, and he fell onto his stomach in the gravel. I approached him ready to drive a boot into his guts, but he sprang to his feet and lurched behind a parked bulldozer fifteen yards way.

  I’d dressed in drill trousers and boots, so I was ready for the country stuff, but water still found its way into my socks. As I vigilantly approached the blade of the bulldozer, crunching gravel caused me to turn and see Poulson coming around the front of the bulldozer with a rusted four-foot length of reinforcement bar in his hands.

  He swung it in a wide arc.

  I tried to swivel, but it clocked me square on my left shoulder. Electricity shot up my neck and into my skull. I kicked blindly and got him in the knee. The bar fell out of his hand, and I pushed him back against the track chain of the bulldozer.

  He screamed and swore, then suddenly charged me with a flurry of fists. Hard knuckles smashed my lower jaw, nose, and eye sockets.

  I raised my arms and bore out the onslaught, sparks bursting before my eyes.

  Poulson stopped suddenly, out of breath.

  I punched him square on the flesh of the cheek and he fell back, his arms pin wheeling, and landed arse-first in a deep muddy puddle. I ran my tongue over my bottom lip and tasted blood. My teeth felt as if they’d been pulled out and randomly jammed back into my lower jaw. Lights sparkled and flared, so I shut my eyes. When I looked again, Poulson had vanished.

  I cautiously circled the bulldozer, and caught movement to the right.

  Poulson ran for his car again.

  I cut across the rocky expanse, my head throbbing from the blows, and managed to get to the Tucson. He eased into the Corolla, his back no doubt a bloody mess from the impact against the bulldozer chain.

  We both started up, and he made to drive back up the dirt road, but I cut square in front of him and blocked the way. He braked hard and reversed in a wide arc, then accelerated back into the construction zone and down along the riverbank.

  I followed.

  Monsoon-like rain smashed the windscreen as we sped along the side of a half-constructed culvert. The land ro
se and fell in sections, and we approached a sharp left. Poulson’s car slid out, but he managed to straighten up and bring it back under control. I kept the three feet gap between us consistent, but he started tapping his brakes, so I eased off and immediately lost revs.

  My hands gripped the wheel as I accelerated and caught up to him again, my eyes locked onto his bumper bar. Red spots spread out and pulsated behind my eyeballs. We approached another sharp left, and I knocked the Tucson back to third gear.

  Poulson took the turn too sharp; his rear wheels lost traction and the car fishtailed, spitting rocks in a fan. He over-corrected and the car swung violently the other way, flipped twice, and disappeared into the embankment.

  I pulled up short, got out, and peered over the edge to see the Corolla resting on its side at the bottom of the river bed, the driver’s side door sanding open.

  Poulson clambered up the muddy side of the culvert twenty yards away. He spotted me as I ran towards him, and as he cleared the edge of the cliff, he dug a knife out of his jeans pocket. I charged, and he swung the knife, but it missed my chest by centimeters. He screamed and came back at me, thrusting the blade at my face. I blocked him as he went high then low. Something tore and stung below my hip. I flinched and rammed a fist into his stomach. He doubled over, his chin exposed, and I drove a hard uppercut into his jaw. Something snapped, and his teeth cracked shut. He reeled back, clutching his jaw, and fell against my car, his head face-down against the bonnet. Pain flared across my face, forcing me to squat on my haunches as Poulson moaned low and long above the sound of the rain.

  Nausea kicked in, and the four hours of restless sleep I had last night threatened to swallow me like a wave. It was an effort, just to stand up. I grabbed Poulson from the back of the shirt and pulled him off my car.

  He pivoted and came at me with a slow hook, and missed. We grappled and danced for a few meters, until we skirted the edge of the drop-off, both of us half unconscious as we gripped each other’s wet shirts like a pair of drunks.