by Emma Viskic
‘No, I just –’ Frankie’s expression broke. ‘I needed your help, couldn’t risk you saying no. I owe money, Cal. A lot of money.’
‘And Tilda? Did you let them take her?’
‘No! I don’t know who’s got her. So let me get past so I can find her. I’ll explain everything later, I promise.’
‘Explain it now.’
Her gaze darted over his shoulder. ‘The cops are coming. Let me go, let me help Tilda. Please.’
He didn’t move.
She swung the gun towards him, hand trembling. ‘Cal, please. I don’t want to hurt you.’
Frankie aiming a gun at him, finger on the trigger.
Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. ‘Please don’t make me hurt you, Cal. Please.’
Enough. He stepped towards her. Frankie’s finger whitened on the trigger.
He threw himself sideways.
A thud, heat plucking his arm.
Up against the edge of the pier, on one knee. Jesus, she’d shot at him. She’d really done it.
She started towards the shore, then skidded to a stop. Sprinted back the other way, down the stairs to the outcropped arm of the pier. Imogen scrambled for her jacket on the jetty’s edge.
He got to his feet, slowly walked to the top of the steps.
Frankie was at the end of the boards, looking at the sheer drop into the water. In the corner of his eye, a flash of red and blue lights. ‘It’s over,’ he said.
She spun around, her back to the water, gun low by her side. Face stark, panic in her eyes. The wind was snatching at her hair, sending it into wild spikes. Her gaze shifted to something behind him. Imogen, trying to get past, to pull him away.
Frankie raised her gun. Aiming it at the fed. At him.
Too close to miss; the width of a room, a lifetime, a lie.
Imogen stopped pulling and raised her arms, gun gripped in both hands. An awkward lean as she aimed around him.
He stepped aside.
A bang.
Frankie jolted then staggered, red blossoming on her chest. She crumpled, the gun dropping from her hand into the water.
Motionless.
Frankie lay sprawled. The smell of seaweed and salt, the sharp tang of blood.
Imogen was still aiming the gun, chest heaving. A glimpse of uniformed men on the pier beyond her. She bent to put her weapon down and turned cautiously towards the cops, hands raised.
Frankie hadn’t moved.
Down the stairs towards her. One foot, then the other, along the pier to her side. She was looking at him, eyes already dulling. Palms open to the wind-ripped sky, her blood seeping into the greying boards. Broken. Dying.
Not a friend, an enemy.
One last stuttering breath, and the light left her eyes.
He turned away.
31.
Shivering. Sitting in the gutter that faced the pier, blue and red lights pulsing all around. Lots of uniformed cops now, but no white cotton jumpsuits yet, no plain-clothes detectives. A crowd had gathered on the opposite side of the street, phones out, people pushing to get a better view. The constable beside him straightened as Imogen reappeared; a short conversation had the young man hurrying back to his colleagues.
Imogen squatted in front of Caleb. Flecks of brown in her hazel eyes – never noticed that before. She was talking to him, something about Tilda.
‘What?’
Her lips thinned. ‘Don’t. Mention. The. Girl. To. The. Detectives.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we can’t trust anyone. Just say I was meeting with Frankie, and you don’t know why.’
He nodded.
‘Show … arm.’
‘What?’
‘Your arm. Show them.’
He followed her finger. His jacket sleeve was ripped, the skin beneath it angry red. A burn, the heat of the bullet kissing him. The bullet Frankie had fired.
‘I’ll text … caught up …tomorrow.’
He nodded again. Out on the bay, a wave slammed into the pier, sending spray into the air. Frankie would be cold lying out there. No, not anymore. Not Frankie anymore.
A hand in front of his face, Imogen snapping her fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake, concentrate. Go through it – why were you here?’
Anything to make her go away: his savings, his kidneys. ‘Frankie was meeting you. Don’t know why.’
‘Why did I shoot her?’
‘She had a gun. Tried to kill me. Kill us.’ Shuddering now, teeth chattering.
‘Good. Stick to that … alive…’ She paused. ‘… judge’s name?’
His brain cranked slowly into gear. No – bad idea to give her Lovelay’s name with all these cops around. With Imogen about to be interrogated. She was speaking again; he looked away, to the police tape fluttering at the entrance to the pier, to Frankie’s abandoned backpack, the lonely mound of her body.
‘She had a gun. Tried to kill me.’
It was true: Frankie had pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger.
But he’d killed her instead. He’d stepped away and killed her.
32.
It was dark by the time Caleb finished giving his statement at the police station. Tedesco was waiting for him in the foyer, perched on a too-small plastic chair but completely at home. An uncomfortable decision to call him as character witness, but the homicide cops had gone in hard once they’d connected Caleb to Jacklin’s and Amon’s murders.
Tedesco stood. Neat slacks and polished shoes, an ironed shirt: date clothes.
‘Sorry,’ Caleb said. ‘I’ve dragged you away from something.’
‘Don’t be a dickhead.’ Tedesco jerked his head towards the door. ‘I’ll drive you home.’
***
The flat was cold. Tedesco switched on all the lights and headed for the kitchen, turning on the heater as he went. Frankie’s bowl was still on the table, soup half-eaten. Dizzy. Standing on a thin crust of earth, deep caverns below. He’d seen a TV show about that as a kid – sinkholes. Must have been young, around Tilda’s age. Haunted by it for months, the idea solid ground could open up to swallow cars, houses, whole lives.
A tap on his shoulder: Tedesco passed him a bottle of Boag’s. Good idea, a toast to the dead. Should have stopped on the way to buy a bottle of Johnnie Red, Frankie’s favourite off-the-wagon drink.
‘Thanks.’ He took the beer to the couch and skolled half it. Beyond tired, sharp blades digging into his skull. Should take some painkillers before it got worse, take the little emergency pills from Henry while he was at it. Guaranteed numbing calmness he’d only surrendered to a couple of times. Better still, he could sit here and feel every fucking thing he deserved to feel.
Tedesco was leaning back in an armchair, nursing a barely touched beer. A sense he was tamping down a very strong urge to find out more than his colleagues had told him.
‘Frankie put Imogen Blain onto me,’ Caleb told him.
Tedesco’s expression didn’t alter, but it took him a good twenty seconds to speak. ‘Why?’
‘She’s in debt.’ He stopped, tried again. ‘Was in debt. She wanted to sell Maggie’s business records, thought Imogen had some missing info.’
A rare fuck-up on Frankie’s part: he’d barely got anything out of the fed. The rest had been well planned, though. Pushing him into panic mode with that witness statement, faking her reluctance to stay. Had she even hesitated before dragging him into it?
Yes. That first night at the motel she’d apologised, maybe even felt remorse. ‘I’m sorry, Cal. I know you’re only in this because of my fuck-ups.’ But she’d done it, anyway.
Tedesco was staring at him, probably waiting for an answer.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Why you?’ Tedesco asked. ‘It’s not like you’re close t
o Blain.’
‘Guess I had an easy pressure point and a history with Imogen.’
A history with Frankie, too. Deal with it later, just focus on helping Tilda. Couldn’t do it by himself, that much was clear. He looked at Tedesco. ‘I need help.’
The detective lowered his head in acknowledgment. ‘I’ll stick around. You want me to ring Kat? Or Henry Collins?’
No idea how to deflect kindness like that. ‘No. I mean, I’m right. But I need to know who Transis were investigating. Can you –?’
‘Cal, mate. Leave it. I know it was complicated with Frankie, but give yourself a moment to grieve. You were close for years.’
‘It’s not about me, it’s Frankie’s niece, Tilda. Someone’s taken her.’
Tedesco’s face became blank. ‘A child? When?’
‘Yesterday morning. They sent a proof-of-life video last night.’
‘What the hell are you thinking? Report it.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
Tedesco set his bottle down. ‘I’ll take you to the station right now, help smooth things over if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘I don’t give a shit about me. It’s Tilda.’ He sketched the events of the past two days, trying hard to get things in the right order, having to backtrack.
Before he’d finished, Tedesco was shaking his head. ‘I’m not comfortable with this – you have to report it.’ He stood. ‘I’ll go if you won’t.’
Caleb shot to his feet. ‘You can’t! These people have got feelers everywhere. If the cops work out where she is, she’ll be dead before the rescue team’s got their boots on. Just give me one more day. Please. I’ve got leads. Twenty-four hours.’
Tedesco ran a hand over his bristled scalp. ‘I need to think. This isn’t – I need to think.’ He walked out, his undrunk beer on the table.
***
Caleb went to Kat’s. Around the back way and over her neighbour’s fence, into the small courtyard behind her terrace. Pot plants and ferns, a few discarded sculptures; a reflection of all the places they’d shared in their seven years of marriage. Kat was framed by the kitchen window. Sitting at the table with her oldest sister, Georgie, chatting, laughing.
The back steps were pine boards, each of them warped and loose. Easy to slip on the way down, break a leg, a neck, a pelvis. Madness – who’d choose a soft wood for outside stairs? The back door opened, and Kat’s short curls were haloed by the hall light, laughter still trailing from her. She switched on the outside light. ‘It’s safe to come in. I promise I’ll protect you from Georgie.’ Her smile fractured. ‘What’s wrong?’
He raised his hands to tell her. Couldn’t form the signs.
She came down the stairs, stopping on the last one so her face was level with his, her eyes wide. ‘Ant?’
Nothing as terrible as that, thank God. Not his brother, not even a sister, just a woman he’d never known.
‘No. No, everything’s OK.’ His eyes were burning. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Cal.’ She touched his cheek. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Frankie’s dead.’
She put her arms around him and held him while he wept.
33.
In the early hours he lurched awake, mouth dry, the sensation of falling. A high ceiling, sketches pinned to the walls: Kat’s spare room. She was next to him, curled on top of the bedclothes in the T-shirt and shorts she wore as pyjamas. The weight of her arm across his chest. Holding him while she slept. No memory of her coming in to comfort him, but the shadow of the nightmare lay on him like a bruise. A new one this time: the pier and lowering sky, Frankie’s fading eyes.
A car went by, headlights running across the walls and bed, the familiar planes of Kat’s face. Smooth skin and dark lashes, the hint of smile lines at her eyes. A face he used to wake up to every day.
Last night they’d talked for hours in the kitchen, drinking cup after cup of sweetened tea while he’d tried to separate Frankie’s lies from the truth. Horror in Kat’s expression. Impossible to know how much of it was at Frankie’s betrayal and how much Kat’s fear for a young child. For his part in it all.
He eased the quilt from under her and pulled it across them both. She shifted sleepily against him. He held her warmth to him, staring into the darkened room, willing sleep to come.
***
Kat’s side of the bed was cold when he woke up, but the tea on his bedside table was still hot. The burn mark from Frankie’s bullet pulsed on his upper arm. A few inches to the right and – Had she meant to miss, or had he moved just in time?
He dressed in yesterday’s clothes and put his aids in, checked the sketches on the wall. Preliminary drawings for a new work. Another white-bellied sea eagle; different from her usual style, but still undeniably fierce, undeniably hers. Plywood ribcage and legs, outspread wings. Kinetic and alive, as though it could take flight. Looked like she was playing around with moveable joints. If he was reading her scrawled numbers right, the sculpture would be nearly her height. No wonder she was excited.
As he went to find Kat, the thuds of a busy house vibrated beneath his bare feet. Georgie must have stayed the night, offspring in tow. By the time he’d got inside last night she’d disappeared, no doubt shooed away by Kat.
He didn’t get further than the kitchen doorway. A large room with a wide central table, walls filled with Kat’s pencilled doodles. No Kat here now, but all three of her sisters, along with assorted nieces and nephews. Six kids including Georgie’s neighbour’s son, all under twelve; eating toast and frying eggs, the twins stacking saucepans in the corner. A rising and falling jumble of voices. Hard to believe the place would be spotless when they left, and the fridge full.
Georgie was halfway through pouring the kettle. Dark hair pulled back in a serviceable ponytail, the same clear blue eyes as Kat’s, not quite as forgiving. Just turned forty, moving comfortably into the role of community elder. People in the Bay had already begun calling her Aunty. She gave Caleb a long look. ‘The prodigal is-he-or-isn’t-he husband.’
So Kat hadn’t told her the reason for his late-night visit, or the state he’d been in. Georgie might be terrifying, but she wasn’t unkind.
‘Hi, Georgie. School holidays?’ Not yet, surely?
‘Curriculum day. Come join the fun.’
Amelia and Helen had turned from the table. More blue eyes, more up-and-down looks. He was suddenly very aware of his three-day growth, bruised forehead, stale and ripped shirt – and the fact he was supposed to present as a good partner for their baby sister.
Georgie switched off a radio he hadn’t realised had been on. ‘Come and have breakfast. There’s heaps.’
About to be quizzed. He wouldn’t get away with pretending not to understand them: all three sisters knew how to make themselves clear. Very clear.
‘I’m right, thanks. Where’s Kat?’
‘Dunno. So, how’s it going? You good?’ Georgie’s gaze moved to the bruise on his forehead.
‘She gone out?’
Amelia patted the empty seat next to her. ‘Sit down, tell us how you’ve been doing.’ Her cheek dimpled. ‘What you’ve been doing.’ The youngest of the three, she was usually his best ally, but he wasn’t stupid: if Kat hadn’t told them why he’d spent the night, he wasn’t going to do it himself.
‘She say when she’d be back?’
Georgie ditched any attempt at being subtle. Her hands went to her hips, a pose so habitual he’d made it her sign name. ‘So you’re staying over these days?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Just last night.’
‘You’re not –?’
‘– are you –?’
‘– in with –?
‘– Katy?’
He held up a hand. ‘One at a time, or nominate a spokeswoman.’
Georgie raised a finger, waited patiently wh
ile he decided whether to see it or not. How did they have the time to be sitting around Kat’s kitchen on a Friday morning? All of them professionals, mothers, foster carers. Homes and workplaces three and a half hours away in Resurrection Bay. Defied the laws of time and physics.
‘OK, go,’ he told Georgie.
‘Does Katy want you to move back in?’
‘You’d have to ask her.’
‘Do you want to?’
They leaned forward, unblinking. Important not to actually show the fear; tricky to pull off with people who’d known him half his life, but he could do it.
‘That’s between me and Kat.’
They laughed. Georgie carried the teapot to the table, still smiling. ‘Katy’s in the shower. Think she’s hiding from us.’ She paused. ‘Or you.’
***
He found Kat’s drill and tightened the screws on the back steps while he waited, keeping them safe till he could get to a hardware store. Kat would be shitty, but at least he’d be able to cross one thing off the nightmare list.
He was finishing the handrail when she appeared holding two steaming mugs. Barefoot, wearing jeans and a loose rust-red top, hair still wet despite the chill. Never seemed to feel the cold, ran even hotter in pregnancy. She came down the steps, disregarding their lack of structural integrity, handed him one of the mugs. Her toenails were painted red, yellow and black. ‘The tiddas said you might be out here.’ Speaking out loud, but she was the easiest person to read, in words and expression: worried and decisive. Once she’d put the tea down so she could sign, she’d tell him exactly what he should be doing and why.
‘Did they use the word “hiding”?’
She smiled. ‘They did, actually. Were they being particularly mean?’
‘How would I know?’ He sat next to her as she settled on the bottom step, bracing himself when her eyes went to the drill.
She set her cup down and signed, ‘If you’re in need of handyman therapy, you can tackle the mould in the bathroom next.’
A generous pass, coupled with a warning shot. He tried the tea – black with a hint of vanilla, nothing to be deduced from it.