She noted scuffmarks. Narrow trenches, more or less parallel and set in the near-dry ground.
Something, or someone, preceded her.
Minutes later, she quit the scrub and faced a brick chimney, incongruously erect while the cottage tumbled inwards. The warped rust-stained iron roof accounted for the metallic glint she'd glimpsed. The stone walls and support timbers were a jumbled mess, yet the doorway remained intact.
It beckoned Georgie. Or, more accurately, the drag marks to its mouth defied ignoring.
Self-preservation assumed second place to curiosity. Not inquisitiveness - a cheerless, gut-wrenching need to know.
She reached into her pack, desperate for a cigarette. Then she paused. A smoke changed nothing. This wasn't a time to procrastinate. Georgie tugged the strap over her shoulder and sidled through the door.
In the tiny cottage, she climbed under and over various obstacles with urgency tainted by dread. She pushed aside sticks of abandoned furniture, kicked an old pan and its lid by the hearth. Among the forest of timber and junk, it was impossible to discern drag marks beyond the doorway.
Despite the implications of Susan's vehicle in Schlicht's garage, she felt a twinge of optimism. Hunch proven wrong; Susan's not here. Yay, right?
Georgie hunkered and rescanned the ruin. She noted fewer animal droppings in one area and that the array of timber appeared less haphazard there than elsewhere.
She started to kneel, remembered the rat shit and sank into a squat. When she lifted several loose planks, her stomach lurched. And her pulse went berserk.
A hole. Access to the cellar. Close call. She slowed her breaths to clear her head.
She swung her mini-torch into the gap and cursed its tiny beam. With the Maglite clenched between her teeth, she descended. Rung by rung; each step tentative. In parts, the ladder had disintegrated and Georgie scrambled and stretched for the next foothold.
A rung broke underfoot.
'Shit!' she swore around the torch in her mouth.
She lost balance and dangled by one hand. That impact hyperextended her shoulder and elbow. She gasped with the stab of pain. Eyes wide with fear, she panted and felt around for the next rung.
A few heartbeats later, she continued the descent, her armpits damp with perspiration.
Georgie sniffed. A rank odour overlaid the cold cellar.
She thought about Michael and Ruby and Pam. She felt obligated to them, but wanted to beat a retreat.
She pictured the Noonans and Helena and was still tempted to run.
If she hadn't owed it to Susan herself, hadn't felt bonded with the woman, Georgie may yet have fled. But as her feet struck the brick floor, she shrugged off the oppression. Quick. It mightn't be too late.
Via the Maglite, she located a door. A cupboard? Or a passage? In opening it, she tripped. The torch dropped and rolled. She fell, one arm extended and the other protected her head.
Instead of the impact she expected, an object broke her fall.
Georgie shrieked.
She retrieved the torch and shone it over the floor.
Her hand quivered. She used a double-grip.
Illuminated legs splayed at impossible angles. Puffy face and neck. Rainbow of bruises.
Georgie moaned. Reluctantly, she reached and lifted a cold hand. Limp. Aware of the futility, she pressed the neck. This close, the stench made her retch. Pulseless. Lifeless. Susan's body sagged under her fingertips. Flesh slack; rigor mortis must have passed.
She just managed to turn away before spewing a stream of vomit.
Still gagging, Georgie ran the torch over Susan again.
A tyre lever protruded under Susan's hip, incongruous among the debris.
Georgie arched the beam along the woman's other arm. To her hand.
She recoiled. Made a mewing cry.
Within her musty tomb, Susan gripped a skeletal hand.
Little remained of what must be Roly Pentecoste. The dashing, silver-haired, smiling man in his navy cardigan - reduced to a gold wedding band, inert watch, snags of cloth and leathered skin.
Georgie backed up to the ladder. Slipped, banged and bruised her body in frantic haste. She dumped the timber in a guess of its original position, ducked and weaved through the ruin and into the scrub.
It was pouring rain. Charcoal clouds blocked the afternoon sun. Instinct drove her, hopefully towards One Mile Track and her Spider.
About five minutes later, unsure if she travelled in the right direction, Georgie halted. She retrieved her mobile and checked for service: weak but present.
She dialled. The phone pipped and cut out.
She ran on, desperation and smoker's lungs making her wheeze. She dropped to the ground and tried the phone again.
This time it rang. 'John Franklin.'
'Fuck, fuck, fuck. John, you have to get to Schlicht's place.' Belatedly, she added, 'It's Georgie. I've found Susan and Roly at Schlicht's place on Rampage Road, outside Castlemaine.'
'Are they -'
'No. They're both dead!'
'Where are you?' he shouted.
His voice stabbed her eardrums. Georgie pulled the phone away. 'I'm getting out of here.' She told him where she'd left the Spider and gave directions to the property.
Franklin said, 'We're actually nearby. But don't delay. Get out. Right now. And wait for me at the station.'
'OK.'
'Promise me!' he demanded.
Georgie freaked out even more. 'I promise.'
Her hands shook so hard it took both to disconnect. She sprinted and soon came to a barbed wire fence that bordered a dirt road. With luck, it was One Mile Track.
Georgie's saturated clothes dragged her body. She recognised landmarks and fumbled for her keys before sighting the Spider.
She tried to insert the key into the driver's door.
'Come on. Get in. Shit, shit. That's it. Thank-'
Both her arms were yanked from behind. She hadn't heard anyone approach or seen their shadow in the torrential rain.
She twisted. Saw Baldy and Nondescript on either side. A third assailant materialised. Slammed her skull into the car.
Georgie screamed, agony and fury equal. She recalled what an instructor had told her. The most important rule of self-defence: hit the bitch switch.
'Stop! BACK OFF, FUCKERS.'
She pivoted, tore her arms free and swiped at Baldy. He punched her guts. Winded, she gasped.
Nondescript snagged her arm behind her back. The other person, a female, laughed. It sounded cruel, vicious. Georgie's left shoulder popped. A score of red-hot darts punctured the muscle, as the tendons ripped.
Eyes smarting, she couldn't see who pounded her face. Tossed airborne, her hand crashed into the car. Glass shattered.
Loud, desperate screams tore her throat. Metallic blood merged with rainwater in her open mouth.
Georgie slumped. Her attackers loomed again. She kicked back, towards the groin. Slashed forward, contacted with someone's jaw. Raked fingernails across skin and thumped the heel of her hand to their nose.
Her other shoulder cracked, as she was pitched to the ground and kicked. To the torso, head, maimed shoulders.
She could struggle no longer. The pain was too extreme.
Rain whipped the windscreen. Set against a turbulent sky, visibility cut to eighty metres. The truck's headlights illuminated an obscure shape.
As they approached, the mass divided.
Three combatants.
And one in the middle.
Georgie, being pulverised.
Franklin yelled, 'Bloody hell. Get them to send backup here, not Schlicht's. And a fucking ambo.'
Hart radioed D24. Franklin planted his foot.
They'd cut strobes and siren before they slipped down One Mile Track, planning to confirm that Georgie's car was gone, then await backup for the advance on Schlicht's property.
That strategy detonated, Franklin hit various switches.
Colour and noise resonated. The d
istance to their target seemed impossible.
'Jesus. They're going to kill her,' Hart shouted over the clamour. He shucked off his seatbelt and gripped the dashboard.
Fifty metres.
Barely breathing. Stares intent. Eyes fixed on the black convertible and the thrashing silhouettes in its foreground.
Forty metres.
Franklin braked.
'She's down! Nooo!' Harty exclaimed and physically winced with the barrage of strikes.
Close enough. Franklin killed the engine. The cops lurched from their vehicle.
The female kicked Georgie's prostrate torso.
Franklin drew his weapon. He bellowed, 'STOP. POLICE.'
Hart darted to the right, gun raised. The attackers swore and scattered three ways. Franklin hesitated, torn between pursuit and checking Georgie. Meanwhile, his partner sprinted after the large, balding offender. The female fled.
Franklin checked Georgie's pulse and breathing. Thready but present. He scooped her into the recovery position, further from the road, clear of scattered glass and debris.
'Hang in there. Ambos are coming,' he said into her ear.
No response.
Franklin squeezed her hand but looked away from the bloodied mess.
He stood.
His gaze swept the roadway.
You arseholes aren't getting away with this.
He spotted the smaller, skinny offender scurrying towards Rampage Road and raced after him. His feet landed hard and splattered mud over the uniform already stained with raindrops. His knee popped; the ancient football injury shot pain up his thigh. Eyes fixed on his quarry, none of this mattered.
A car fired nearby, startling Franklin. He dived to the verge as an iridescent blue WRX passed by whiskers. As he hit the ground, his right shoulder took full impact. He rose, clutching his bruised side. He glimpsed the driver, the female attacker. Noted the Subaru's vanity plate began with 'SXY'.
'Got you, you bastard,' Hart yelled in the distance.
Franklin heard scuffling, assumed his partner had restrained the balding thug. He saw the skinny crook to the fore. The man gaped at the diminishing WRX tail lights. Looked like a drenched rabbit.
Franklin roared and charged. Rabbitman pivoted, though remained rooted.
He started to run, sluggish with shock.
Franklin closed.
He hurled himself and forced Rabbitman down onto the muddy road.
They squirmed. Franklin pushed his knee into the scumbag's spine. Rabbitman arched, delivering a reverse head butt to Franklin's face. Franklin ignored the pain and ground his knee into the spine below.
The man cursed and bucked. Franklin slid an arm around his neck. Applied a headlock. Squeezed the man's Adam's apple until the offender yielded. Then he slapped on handcuffs.
He pulled the bloke upright. They glared, a foot apart.
'You're fucked.' Franklin's headshake silenced Rabbitman. 'Don't worry, I'll read you your rights…and we'll do this by the book, down the station. But take it from me - you and your mates are fucked.'
PART FOUR
'A passion in a person's heart is like a spider's web. At the beginning, it is an alien visitor; then it becomes a regular guest; then it becomes master of the house.
'After the Talmud'
A Calendar of Wisdom, Leo Tolstoy
CHAPTER 12
Tuesday 23 March
Every nerve screamed as Georgie was transferred to yet another trolley. It replicated painful yet blurred memories.
Flashing lights burned. Colours flickered against the dark sky. A transitory flare added white to the blue and red lightshow. The lightning illuminated Franklin, his face grey, matching the outlook. Excruciating to breathe. Impossible to move.
The next wave of pain brought blissful oblivion.
The blackout, like the others before it, was short-lived.
I'm thirsty, she tried to say. A mumble came out. Frustrated she silently cried and drifted into unconsciousness.
'She's stirring again,' a woman said, her tone brisk and crisp.
It was all too hard. Georgie passed out.
Time elapsed. How much, she remained clueless.
'How bad is the pain, Georgie?' another female asked, her voice soothing iced chocolate.
Bad. Terrible. Worse than anything I've ever felt. Georgie prised an eye open. The white busyness overwhelmed her. She dropped the eyelid.
'Can you rate it out of ten? Ten being excruciating, one being OK.'
A hundred thousand.
'Squeeze my hand if you can't talk. I'll work up from five, OK? Five, six…seven…eight. Still not there? Nine. Ten.'
Georgie pressed the soft hand.
'Welcome back, Georgie. It's good to hear from you, even if it's just a squeeze. Ten out of ten? I'll get you something for that pain soon.'
The nurse prodded and probed. She talked incessantly. It hurt Georgie's brain. She tried to curl away, into the foetal position.
Pain stabbed from every direction.
She willed the nurse away. The lights to dim. The noises to fade. The pain to go.
It did for a bit.
My teeth are hurting. Everything hurts. What the fuck is going on?
'We're popping you into surgery now, Georgie. This is your anaesthetist. He'll talk you through the process…'
Later…'Are you all right, dear?' A male voice. Young, sympathetic, effeminate.
A tear plopped through a crack in her eyelid. It streaked her cheek into the side of her mouth. Salty. Warm.
Where's AJ? Livia? I want my mum.
'We can't have tears, Georgie-Porgy.' After an efficient swipe of her cheeks, the man crooned, 'There, that's better.'
Better for who?
The nurse left. Georgie battled psychedelic images.
Susan, Roly, an underground tomb. Her frantic call to Franklin. Key in the door, home free.
Hands rotated her body. Slam. Her head into the Spider. Panel dinted. Slam. A fist to her face. Arm flung back, shattered glass sprayed. Slam. A boot to her ribs. Another to her already raw shoulder.
Someone laughed, crazed. NOOOOOO! Her scream gurgled. Brief hope shrank to despair.
NOOOOOO! Beyond caring. The lights extinguished.
Franklin brushed past Paul Wells as he tagged behind Lunny.
'Looks like your neck is finally in the noose,' the constable goaded.
'Sorry?' Franklin challenged.
Wells smirked and sauntered on.
Cockhead, go back to the big smoke. Better yet, accidentally discharge your gun into your ugly mug when you clean it.
Furious, Franklin dropped onto a chair in the sarge's office.
'…be careful what you wish for,' Lunny commented dryly.
Franklin rubbed a hand over his jawline. Did Lunny know what he'd been thinking?
The sergeant steepled his fingers. 'It's kinda crazy out there, isn't it?'
He referred to the station, crowded by the full complement of Daylesford members, along with transients from homicide and CIU.
Franklin stifled a yawn and nodded.
He and Harty had watched the ambos whisk Georgie Harvey to Castlemaine, then drove in the opposite direction, towards Daylesford, with their two prisoners, Baldy and Rabbitman, aka Broadbent and Scott, on board.
There, he'd kept his oath to Scott and conducted the initial interview by the book. They then cleared the holding cell of the miscellaneous junk stored within and confined the crooks until they were transferred to Melbourne for further interrogation.
As uniformed members, Hart and Franklin had Buckley's of getting anywhere near Susan and Roly Pentecoste's crypt, except to direct traffic or fetch coffee for the detectives. Thus, they'd joined the search for Schlicht's lover, Ariane Marques. The third felon was on the run in her swanky blue WRX.
Their hunt proved fruitless.
So, much later on, Franklin drove by Schlicht's property, which was illuminated like the MCG and swarmed with police officials.
Next, he went to the hospital. There he camped overnight, alternately dozed and demanded information on Georgie's condition, while he avoided her gathering clan and the media vampires.
Occasionally, he phoned the station for updates. Each time he insisted on attachment to the connected homicide and assault investigations.
Be careful what you wish for. Since his secondment to Homicide, Franklin fielded tireless inquisition by the high rollers from town and now awaited an interview with the District Inspector.
Be careful what you wish for. He'd wished all night that Georgie Harvey would stabilise and, after that, for her quick and complete recovery. Next week he'd probably regret those stolen prayers, when she'd be swanning around, being the usual pain in the neck.
Then again, with Susan found, why would Georgie return to Daylesford?
'…John, are you with me?' Lunny said.
Franklin snapped out of his trance. 'Huh?'
'Inspector Knight.' The sarge jumped to his feet as the door opened.
After they all shook hands, Knight took Lunny's seat. He faced Franklin and the sergeant across the desk. 'I don't know whether to slap you, sack you or give you a medal. I'd find myself reprimanded for the first, hands tied on the second, so I may as well say bravo, John.'
Franklin forced a calm façade. He'd expected his arse hauled over the coals, not congratulations.
'What for, sir?'
'Wrapping up the Valerie Blyte-Solomon case. Tim here' - Knight's head inclined towards Lunny - 'filled me in on the matter. It seems you put it all together in the eleventh hour.'
'As it turned out, Cathy Jones had the situation in hand,' Franklin said honestly. 'I only helped with the mop up.'
'Far too modest. Who knows what would have happened if you weren't there? Jones may have continued her attack on Blyte. Or suppose Blyte recovered the knife; the outcome could've been catastrophic.'
The men exchanged glances. Lunny's eyes widened as if he'd visualised a different result.
Knight continued. 'Notwithstanding that, I'm certain the outcome for Georgie Harvey would have been dire if you and Hart hadn't arrived when you did. If you hadn't acted so swiftly. Such a brutal attack. Is it more shocking when a woman batters another woman, do you think?' He stared at Franklin. 'And she was laughing? Truly evil.'
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