by Emma Viskic
Fawkes was talking again, checking the doorway. ‘… Frankie? She’s not answering my messages.’
‘She’s dead. A Transis cop killed her.’
Fawkes’ mouth opened. ‘What?’ Looking very young now, his weapons like props from a school play. People after him, his hideout discovered, co-conspirators dead.
Now wasn’t the time to pity the little fuck. Just get Tilda and go. Caleb stepped sideways towards the door.
Fawkes lifted the can. ‘Stop fucking moving. Give me the records and you can take the kid.’
So Tilda had told him where to find Maggie’s client list. Good – the sooner they were exposed the better.
‘Why didn’t you let Tilda go if you’ve got the names?’
Fawkes looked incredulous. ‘Because then Frankie would have had everything. She was trying to play me, thought I was some kind of stupid kid, but she just wanted to make money. Greedy bitch. Her and her fucking sister.’ Spitting the words. Like he knew Maggie personally, hated her.
‘You’ve met Maggie?’
‘She killed Jordy.’
And it clicked: Fawkes had hurt Maggie, not Hollywood. Easy to imagine the scene. The young man demanding Maggie’s list, distress at his friend’s murder fuelling his rage.
‘I don’t think she killed Jordan,’ Caleb said. ‘A client did, or maybe –’ He stopped. One of the alarm lights was pulsing bright red. Shit, when had that gone off?
‘The sensor,’ he said quickly. ‘Driveway entrance.’
Fawkes didn’t look.
‘It’s not a trick. They’re coming.’
Fawkes backed towards the computer. ‘There’s no gate, sometimes roos set it off.’
A bang.
Slivers of heat, glass flying. Fawkes on the floor, his head gone. A hole in the wall where he’d been standing.
41.
Another thud. Plaster dust billowing. Move. Get Tilda. He ran across the hall to the closed door, pulling at the bolt. Large bedroom, blinds drawn, a camping lantern glowing on the floor. Tilda was curled on the bed, somehow still asleep despite the blasts. He scooped her up, one arm under her shoulders, another under her legs.
She stirred and smiled sleepily at him, eyes opaque. A warm hand patted his cheek. ‘Caleb.’
‘Hey, Turnip. You OK?’
She nodded, but her face slowly crumpled and she began to sob.
He lifted her against his shoulder as he ran to the door. ‘It’s OK. It’s OK, I’ve got you now.’
Her face pressed against his neck, wetting his skin with tears. Halfway across the room, a dull thump. Glass spraying, tiny shards pricking through his jacket. Fuck, the shooter must have seen his shadow. Another bang. A hole punched in the wall ahead of him.
He hurtled into the entrance hall. ‘Just a bit of noise. It’s OK. It’s all right.’
She was already settling, heavy in his arms.
Front or back? Could be people waiting outside either of them. A jolt, front door splitting. He raced down the hallway and through the laundry. A pounding rhythm – someone inside the house. He flung open the door.
Outside. No moon. Sprinting across a charcoaled landscape to the driveway, Tilda’s head on his shoulder, arms loose. He stumbled. Eyes not adjusted after the brightness. A vague shape ahead – chicken coop. Tilda lolled sideways. Had to be drugged. How fast could he run with a sleeping child? Pretty fucking fast.
Thump. Dirt sprayed in front of him.
Fuck. How had the shooter seen him in the dark? Faster. Get behind the coop then make a dash for the –
A bang.
Slicing pain.
Falling.
Twisted to land on his back. Stunned; white heat scorching his thigh. Tilda sprawled across him, unmoving. Hurt? Dead? Patting her thin back and limbs, her head. No wounds, just the steady rhythm of her breaths. He kept stroking her tangled hair, trying to slow his own breathing. Searing pain in his leg. Shot? No, front of his thigh, must be shrapnel from the chicken coop.
A light by the house. Hollywood was in the doorway, gazing at a phone, the light illuminating his sculpted cheeks. Was Imogen here? No, she’d be out shooting, too.
Hollywood fumbled with something one-handed. Loading a sawn-off shotgun.
Fear slithered through Caleb and coiled in his bowels. A weapon like that could shatter bone and shred flesh, blast right through him and into Tilda.
Get up.
Go.
Grasping Tilda, sitting upright. Raw, lancing pain. Something sharp in his thigh, length of his hand – metal. Not near an artery. Pull it out. Do it. He gripped the shard and tore it from his flesh. A fist in his mouth to stop the scream. Clammy hot cold, the night folding in on him. Jesus. Fuck. Long seconds waiting for the ground to steady itself.
Hollywood had clicked the barrel into place, was putting an earpiece in his phone.
Get behind the coop. One arm locked against Tilda, digging his good heel into the earth, pushing backwards. Faster. Dig, push, dig, push. Nerves screaming.
Hollywood flicked off the phone. Dark.
Last few pushes, Tilda heavy, slipping. Hoisting her up. And behind the shed. Solid metal and timber, a hole blasted on one side. He leaned against it, hugging Tilda to him. Had to get her to Fawkes’ car. Fifteen, twenty metres, too far with a butchered leg. Lure Hollywood away somehow. The man was just visible through the gap in the shed, white shirt pale against the shadows. Cutting across the yard towards them. Slow, cautious steps. Be still. Couldn’t see them, not with his night vision ruined by the phone.
But he kept coming. Straight line towards them. As if he knew where they were. He’d known where to shoot in the house, too. Known to come to the house.
Fawkes’ words in the pool. ‘Everything can be bugged.’
A tracker. In the alleyway outside the hospital, Hollywood must have planted one. Listening to it now, stalking him. Where? Different clothes then, different shoes.
Same hearing aids.
An image of the man standing over him, phone in his hand. Not texting – connecting to the bluetooth from his aids. Fuck, hadn’t occurred to him. Unsecured signal, open to anyone close.
He ripped them from his ears, went to throw them. No. A possible diversion, disconnect the batteries. Scrabbling at the plastic, trying to find the latch. Got it. Now the other one. Hand shaking, couldn’t feel the bump.
Hollywood only a few steps away. Coming to a stop.
Caleb threw the live aid across the yard.
The man whipped towards it. A burst of red as he fired.
A second flash and Hollywood took off, faster now, almost running. Quick, get down to the creek, chuck in the other aid. Should give them a minute or two before it shorted.
He laid Tilda gently on the grass, every instinct against it. She didn’t stir, face a pallid moon against the grass. Leave her. Go.
He hauled himself to his feet. Swooping dizziness, clutching the shed. No time – go. Stumbling down the slope towards the bank, checking behind every few steps. Jeans sodden with blood, leg giving way. Had to be halfway there, trees just ahead.
Another check over his shoulder. A flash of movement near the house – Hollywood. Moving towards the coop. Towards Tilda.
OhGodohGod. Too far to run back, too far to the creek. Yell, make a noise. He let out a strangled cry, cut it off like he’d fallen. Running, staggering. Down to the murky line of the blackberry bushes along the creek, twigs and leaves smacking his face. The smell of damp soil. Close now, close enough. Pulling the aid from his pocket, hands slick with sweat. Don’t look back, just run. The latch, where was it? There. Clicking it closed, lobbing the aid in a high arc.
Hollywood’s pale shape still running towards him.
Caleb dropped, bit back a cry as he knocked his leg. On his stomach, arm over his face, peering beneath it. Holly
wood kept coming. The aid was cracked open, caught in bushes, dead.
Closer.
Almost on him.
It couldn’t end like this, not with Tilda lying alone.
Hollywood swung away. Darted through the trees, parallel to the creek.
Caleb let out a shuddering breath.
He got back to Tilda, somehow hauled her up. Across the yard and into the garage. Leg numb, dragging. The car was unlocked, key in the ignition. Could have wept. He laid Tilda in the rear footwell, eased himself into the driver’s seat.
A manual. Shit. Using a clutch with a fucked leg. He got his foot onto the pedal, pressed down. A knife in his thigh, whole body shaking. Into reverse, engine on. The car shot backwards out of the garage.
Lights on, looking over his shoulder, the driveway a thin ribbon between the towering gums. The back tyres slipped from the path. Slow it down. Nearly at the gate, tight gap between the posts.
The windscreen exploded. Crystals of glass, wind in his face. Skewing off the concrete into a tree. Head snapping back, blood in his mouth.
Hollywood was running down the middle of the driveway, raising the shotgun. Only used one barrel – another cartridge in there. Caleb threw himself behind the dashboard.
The car rocked, cloth and foam spraying from his headrest.
Go. Quick, before he could reload. Engine dead. Stalled. Jesus, fuck. Start it again. Foot numb, slipping from the pedal.
Hollywood coming closer, snapping the barrel into place. A car length away.
He stopped, shotgun raising.
Get the clutch in. Shoving from his hip, leg spasming. And in. Engine on, stomping on the accelerator. The car surged forward into Hollywood, slamming him onto the bonnet, gun flying. And down.
Car into reverse, skidding down the driveway, out the gate. A glimpse of Hollywood lying on the concrete. Dead? Injured? Didn't matter. He accelerated away. A narrow road, hills rising on both sides. Only one headlight pushing back the darkness: enough.
42.
He reached Resurrection Bay as dawn kissed the sky. No one around at this hour on a Sunday, just an empty expanse of road, houses nestled by a blue-grey sea. Almost there, Georgie’s place just around the corner. A computer, bed, Kat. Somewhere Tilda would be safe and cared for while he slotted the last few pieces into place.
Awake for twenty-four hours and counting. A hammering pulse in his thigh, surviving on dregs of adrenaline and drive-through Macca’s coffee. But strangely calm. A wobbly moment there, down on hands and knees in the roadside grass, puking and shaking, but he’d pulled himself together for the ninety-minute drive. Patched his leg together too, using a roll of duct tape he’d found on the back seat; a sick feeling Fawkes had used it to secure Tilda. The glass cuts flecking his arms and back would have to wait until he could get something more sophisticated, like a bandaid.
As he slowed for the turn-off, Tilda woke. Sitting upright in the middle of the back seat, looking around like a scruffy meerkat. He’d picked some of the twigs and leaves from her hair when he’d moved her onto the seat, but there were still a lot tangled in it.
He pulled over and turned to her. ‘Hey, Turnip, you OK?’
A nod, a little more meerkatting, taking in the demolished headrest and missing windscreen, his ripped clothes. Her eyes still fogged from sleep, but a lot clearer than last night.
She made two fists and tapped her thumbs together. A rending in his chest: he wasn’t ready to tell her about Frankie. Never would be. ‘Frankie’s not here. But she was looking everywhere for you. She was really worried.’
‘Did … me?’
‘Hang on.’ He eased out of the car and lowered himself beside her. ‘Sorry, sweetie, I’ve lost my aids. You’ll have to speak slowly.’
‘Did you come and get me?’
‘I did. Don’t you remember?’
‘No.’ She inspected him. ‘You’re very messy.’
‘I know.’
‘Are we going home now?’
‘Very soon. We’re going to a friend’s house first so I can make sure everything’s safe. My wife’s there – Kat. She’ll help you ring your mum. She’s finding the number right now.’
Hopefully. He’d texted Kat from a public phone half an hour ago; she was usually an early riser but might not have checked messages yet.
Tilda’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Zack said he’d let me go home if I told him about the memory game, but then he didn’t.’
An effort to keep the anger from his face. ‘I’m very cross with Zack for doing that, but he’s gone now and can’t come back. I promise I’ll take you home as soon as I can. I just need to make sure no one can ever take you again. OK?’
Tilda considered his words. ‘OK.’
He hesitated. Now was the time to ask, while she was still relaxed from sleep. ‘How do you play the memory game you taught Zack? Is it hard?’
‘No, it’s easy. You just have to make up a story for all the letters.’ She gave him a doubtful look. ‘But you might find it hard. Mum has to practise them a lot because her brain’s older than mine.’
‘Yeah, I’ll definitely need your help. What was the story you taught Zack? I could start with that one.’
‘Sam … went to the … and … net.’
Too hard without his aids, should have waited till he had a pen and paper. ‘Can you say that again. Really slowly?’
‘Sam went to the shops. And bought. Seventy-eight teddy bears. And a gold net.’
He repeated it, working it out as he went.
‘SWTTSAB78TBAAGN?’
‘Yes. I can test you later if you like.’
‘That’d be great, thanks. What does your mum do with the letters once she’s learnt them?’
‘Puts them in the computer.’ Her forehead pinched. ‘Can we go now?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah, we’re almost there.’
***
Georgie’s house was an old bluestone cottage on the edge of the town. A tangled garden of flowers, veggies and chooks, a banged-up white Volvo in the driveway. Kat ran out as he bunny-hopped the car to a stop. She’d ditched her usual jeans for black leggings, the swell of her belly visible beneath a thigh-length red top. As he hauled himself out of the car she flinched, looking at the duct-taped mess of his jeans. Her hands flew quickly as she signed. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. I really am.’ He hugged her, breathing in her morning warmth. ‘Did you get onto Maggie?’
‘Yeah, she’s back home. Happy to know of Fawkes’ death and very keen to talk to Tilda.’
‘Her phone might be tapped. Did you –?’
‘Use a blocked number and false name? Yes. I even let “slip” we were in Sydney.’
Of course she had – Kat knew too well the horrors people could wreak. She squeezed his arm and looked down at Tilda. The girl had climbed from the car and was following their signing with avid attention. ‘Hi, Tilda.’ She knelt in front of her. ‘I’m Kat. Cal said you’ve had a big couple of days.’
Tilda gazed at her without speaking.
‘Do you want to come inside and call your mum?’
‘Straight away?’
‘Straight away.’
Tilda looked towards the house and slipped her hand into Caleb’s. Two pyjama-clad boys were half-watching, half-wrestling, in the doorway: Georgie’s son and neighbour. Seven years old, with the kind of energy that could power whole suburbs. Her daughter was probably inside planning an ambush.
Tilda turned to Kat, ‘Can Cal come, too?’
‘Of course. He needs a shower – looks like he’s been rolling around the garden.’
‘The car’s really messy, too.’ She grasped Kat’s outstretched hand, and went inside.
***
Tilda sat next to him on the couch while she spoke to Maggie. Crying at first, but gradually set
tling. The kind of room that soothed: plump, mismatched chairs and multicoloured rugs, a pot-bellied stove burning. Could almost fall asleep. Head back, one arm around Tilda, leg propped on a chair. His thigh throbbed with a sharp intensity, but the painkillers Georgie had given him were kicking in nicely.
SWTTSAB78TBAAGN. What the hell did it mean? A feeling he’d have worked it out by now if his brain wasn’t unravelling into a … A what? Ball of wool? Would you call a ball unravelled?
A touch to his arm; he started upright. Kat was sitting next to him, holding two plates of food: slices of cheese and apple in a fan of alternating colours. A strong suspicion it hadn’t been done in his honour. Tilda paused long enough to take a plate and say, ‘Thank you very much’, then returned to her conversation. She was reciting everything she’d eaten in the past few days – cereal and chocolate bars, by the look of it, a mix of shock and approval in her expression. At least Fawkes hadn’t scared her unnecessarily. She’d be distressed about the kidnapping for a long time, but hopefully not traumatised.
Caleb balanced the plate on his lap and slid his arm free so he could sign. ‘Thanks. Impressive presentation.’
‘Felt I needed to up my game. Georgie’s making waffles in between hauling the kids away from Tilda.’ Her eyes swept across his face, taking his emotional temperature. She’d been doing that since he’d given her a rundown of last night’s events. ‘What’ll you do when you’ve got the names?’ she asked.
When, not if. Had to love a woman with that much confidence in you.
‘Take it to the media.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s too incendiary. The legal departments will sit on it too long. Give it to Fawkes’ hacker friends – they’ll get it out instantly. Sammi’ll know how to reach them.’
He blinked at her, dazzled by her brilliance. ‘Have I told you how smart you are?’