Changing the Script

by Lee Winter

  Fine. She opened the passenger door and waited. A second later, his furry body flew inside in a scrabble of claws. He threw himself onto the seat, then her lap, in a blur of wagging tail and wet nose.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m just as exciting to smell today as I was yesterday. Now take a seat, Mister. We need to get going.”

  She pushed him back onto the passenger seat, where he turned in bouncy circles until he settled.

  “It’s far too early for this level of enthusiasm.” Sam pulled his door closed. “Or any.”

  The sun hadn’t yet risen and wouldn’t for an hour yet. Bruce yipped and looked impatiently out the window.

  “All right, let’s get the rounds done so I can get a nice hot shower and you can sneak back in your mistress’s window and pretend you haven’t been cheating on her.”

  Sam’s elderly neighbor wouldn’t stir until eight, so they had time. Besides, Mrs. Fenley was probably all too aware of what her dog got up to each morning. Bruce didn’t hide his enthusiasm. Plus, he’d done rounds every day with Ika Whenu’s previous cop, the late Mr. Fenley.

  Sam’s first stop was farthest out of town and needed to be done before dawn. Her patrol car crept higher and higher into the remote foothills before she parked out of sight behind a stand of willows. It was beautiful out here, green and quiet, but desolate.

  “You know the drill,” she told Bruce as she grabbed her pack. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. In the meantime, no barking. No running off with any passing hussies or huskies, no matter how awesome they smell. Okay? I’ll leave the window down a little.” She gave him a ruffle under his chin. “Back soon.”

  He curled into a ball and placed his head on his paws, used to her routine.

  Sam slipped the backpack on her shoulders and tightened the straps. She crept around the perimeter wall of the Wild Boars’ the Waikato region bikie-gang compound until she reached an old puriri tree. The gang’s boss, Dino Taumata, was too damned lazy to get the shaggy green giant cut back, so a number of its long limbs hung over the brick wall.

  Sam hauled herself up into the tree’s fat, woody heights, wincing as her battered body protested. She slid along a hanging branch until she could drop a few feet onto the top of the ten-foot-high brick wall. The landing was jarring, and she rubbed her hip at the fresh stab of pain. Damn it. Maybe she should have skipped this particular stop today.

  Too late now, though.

  Peering into the compound below, Sam took in the familiar sight. A lone spotlight on the facing wall shone down, casting shadows over rusted-out car bodies, motorcycle engines, and empty brown beer bottles.

  A corrugated iron shed on the far side housed a workshop with disintegrating posters advertising motorbikes stuck to it. A larger building nearby was where the dozen-odd gang members slept, partied, and plotted their criminal enterprises. A large sign on the clubhouse building read: Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.

  For about a year, Sam had strongly suspected the growing spike in drug-related crimes around her town and neighboring ones was thanks to the Boars. Whether Dino Taumata was making his own addictive crap elsewhere and storing it in that triple-locked shed or importing it from other bikie gangs and distributing it, she had no idea. And with no proof, she couldn’t call in a special drug-raid team to find out, either. So all she could do was wait, surveil, and hope Dino slipped up sooner or later.

  But that wasn’t why she was here this morning. Today was about being prepared.

  She crawled along the back wall, her black leggings, dark T-shirt, and black jacket rendering her little more than a shadow in the pre-dawn light. A charcoal-colored beanie prevented her blonde hair from being visible, too. Right now, the only way she could be spotted was by smell, but that’s where the Wild Boars had a potent, lethal weapon.

  Four of them, to be accurate.

  Scampering sounds and a series of barks came from behind the workshop shed. Upon catching her scent, the four enormous beasts thundered around the corner and bounded over to the bottom of the wall beneath her. She could pick out each of the so-called “hounds of hell:” Killer, Hellbeast, Demon, and Brute.

  The quartet of Rottweilers were lean, mean bruisers, and plenty of rumors swirled as to why they were so vicious, but without proof of abuse, Sam couldn’t have them seized, either.

  She lowered her torso over the lip of the wall, feet dangling, lining up her landing over a springy manuka bush directly below.

  The hounds of hell circled, leaping up toward her and barking as she inched herself lower and lower, until she was hanging by her fingertips.

  She let go.

  The manuka bush cushioned her fall and she rolled sideways, coming up on her knees. Her body shrieked at the abuse. She crawled forward until she was hidden in the shadow of a rusted-out car body, then stood.

  The Rottweilers were on her immediately, flinging their heavy black bodies at her, pinning her back to the ground.

  “Hey, kids,” she laughed as Killer bounced up onto her thigh, barking happily, while Hellbeast sniffed her feet with interest. “I know, I know. I brought breakfast. Give me a sec.” She reached for her backpack as the animals clambered all over her in excitement.

  Unwrapping a bundle of raw meat—offcuts courtesy of the local pub’s kitchen—she laid it on the ground and stepped back hastily. The dogs devoured the pile ravenously.

  She looked for the battered old Toyota hubcap that was around here somewhere. Finding it under a rusting car body, she hauled it out and filled it to the brim with water from a bottle in her backpack.

  Killer bounded over and licked up slopping mouthfuls of water. Sam gave her an affectionate pat.

  “I’m sorry your master is such an asshole,” she told her softly. “I’m working on rectifying the situation. In the meantime, it’s good we’re all friends, right?” She scratched behind Killer’s floppy black ears.

  Sam glanced around, checking she was still alone. Her nose wrinkled. This smelly, run-down dump looked the same as it had four months ago when she’d first begun her pre-dawn tactical visits. Back then, she’d started by just dropping meat over the wall from a safe distance. Now, it was a full-service feed, with water and cuddles, too.

  So, fine, Sam was secretly a sucker for dogs. They were beautiful, intelligent creatures that humans probably didn’t deserve, especially humans like the Wild Boars.

  This particular gang was a royal pain in her ass. They’d been amusing themselves for years by targeting her. They loved to deface her house with crude graffiti, slash her patrol car’s tires, piss on her garden’s plants to the point she hadn’t bothered replacing them, and generally make nuisances of themselves.

  In turn, she’d dished out speeding tickets like confetti every time they went a shade over the limit. That war had all been manageable, though. Until last year when the meth started hitting the streets, along with rumors that Dino’s men were behind it.

  Suddenly crime—real crime—started going up as new addicts sought ways to afford their next fix. The local pub was getting targeted regularly by thieves bashing their way in looking for cash.

  On that note, she should get back, finish her rounds. Gina would be up soon, opening the pub’s kitchen, and looking for Sam.

  She returned to the wall. Her hands sought out the shoddy, irregular brickwork, which jutted out in places, creating a natural climbing wall. She’d gotten scaling it down to a fine art these past four months. Placing the toe of her boot on the lowest bulging brick, she propelled herself three feet up the wall, then looked to the next foothold. She was two-thirds the way up when the lumbering form of Dino Taumata exited the clubhouse.

  Crap! What is he doing up at this hour?

  Sam flattened herself against the wall. Her eye darted to where she’d laid out the dogs’ food. All gone. Thank God.

  As the gang boss’s gaze roamed the yard, Sam
sucked in a breath. Even though he knew exactly who she was, Sam wasn’t in uniform or on official business and was definitely trespassing. There was nothing stopping his thugs roughing her up, claiming they were defending themselves from some anonymous intruder they didn’t recognize.

  Her limbs were starting to tremble from the exertion of holding her unnatural position.

  Dino’s back was to her now as he paused strolling. He was staring at the ground. Had he spotted the water in the hubcap? Were the dogs still drinking from it? Wait, where were the dogs, anyway?

  Oh no. Killer was headed toward the bottom of the wall below Sam, tail wagging happily. Her eyes widened.

  Don’t bark, girl.

  What was Dino doing? Hurry up, asshole. Get your ugly bum back inside.

  Sam’s arms were starting to cramp; she’d have to let go any minute. Of course, the gig would be up a lot faster if Dino turned around to see what Killer was so interested in.

  Don’t bark, don’t bark.

  Killer barked.

  Fuck!

  The dog jumped against the wall below her, as if this was a fun new game.

  Dino’s back was still to them. He fumbled with his pants, and a second later, an arc of pee shot through the air in front of him.

  She used the distraction to slither the rest of the way up the wall. Sam had finally reached the top when Killer barked again, jumping even higher. Hellbeast trotted over to join the game.

  Dino’s neck began to crane around. The arc of urine stopped. His whole body was now shifting.

  She didn’t have time to check her landing on the other side. She simply rolled over, clenched her eyes, and let herself drop. As the wind whooshed past, she prayed there’d be some bushes to break her fall.

  WHOOMPF!

  The air slapped out of her lungs painfully as she landed on her back. No bushes. Soft ground, at least, but also one small, sharp rock. Her thump of impact was drowned out by the hounds of hell choosing that moment to bark furiously.

  Sam lay frozen, waiting for sounds of Dino reacting, calling for his gang, anything.

  Silence.

  For several, long, agonizing minutes, all she heard was her racing heart, and Killer’s occasional bark, as she struggled to get oxygen back into her lungs.

  The stench of cigarette smoke wafted through the air.

  Gingerly she turned over, biting back a gasp, and crawled to her knees. Using the wall to push herself up, she wobbled to her feet and then pulled herself along the bricks until she managed to make it to the road. She’d dodged a bullet, but probably cracked something in the process.

  Wearily, she trudged back down the hill to her patrol car and sank with relief into her seat. Everything throbbed and ached. Bruce gave her a baleful look, no doubt smelling his canine competitors all over her.

  “Yes, boy, I know, I know. I’m disloyal as hell. But it’s for a good cause. Want to drive me home now? Cos I don’t think I can.” At that thought, she sagged against the seat.

  I’ll just shut my eyes for a minute, she told herself.

  An hour later, Sam opened her eyes to find sunlight streaming into her car. Bruce was snoring comfortably in her lap, and her whole body felt like one giant bruise. Right. She needed to get to hospital ASAP. And on that note, there was no way she’d be able to work today. She dug out her phone and called her boss.

  The answering machine kicked in at Sergeant Vaughan Peterson’s home. It was just after six. She left a message and was a little surprised when he didn’t pick up mid-recording. Not like Sam called her sergeant often. Or ever.

  Still, she trusted he’d at least listen to the message. As the officer in charge of her station in Ika Whenu and two other small, local ones, he might even swing by for an hour or so this morning and take up some of her slack.

  There was no way she’d be sharing how she got hurt, though, given anything involving the bikie gangs made him twitchier than hell.

  Bruce woke, yawned, stretched, did a fresh circuit around her lap, and then headed back to his own seat. A glance out the window was followed by a pointed stare in Sam’s direction. Subtle. Breakfast time, and he wanted to be home to be fed by his mistress.

  Duty first. “Got to finish rounds,” she told him and started the car. “Gina will wonder why her delivery hasn’t turned up, and do you want her trying to go and fetch it herself? You know how she gets. And her heart is no good.”

  Bruce yawned again.

  “Responsibilities first, then food, okay?”

  His ears pricked up at the magic word, and she laughed, before instantly regretting it. Ow, damn it.

  Gina, aka Mumma G, as everyone in Ika Whenu and beyond called her, was a sixty-seven-year-old warm, bosomy, round-faced Maori woman. She bustled to the side door of the Te Wharariki Hotel, where Sam leaned against the glass, holding up a tray of bread.

  The fiercely independent Gina no longer drove, much to her frustration, so a few years ago Sam had taken it upon herself to do any delivery chores she needed each day before work. Like early-morning pick-ups from the bakery, for instance.

  “You’re late, bub,” Gina said, worry flickering in her eyes. “I’d make some salacious remark if this was one of my boys, but you? You never get up to mischief, do you, hon?” She stepped aside and waved Sam through to the kitchen.

  “No, no mischief,” Sam agreed through gritted teeth, carrying the bread inside.

  “What’s wrong?” Gina asked, eying her. “You’re walking funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Like you’re favoring one side.”

  “Oh that, yeah, it’s nothing. Bit stiff today.” Explaining she’d hurt herself while feeding a bikie overlord’s hounds wouldn’t go down well with the woman who saw Sam as the daughter she’d never had.

  “And why so late?” Gina barreled on. “I had a call from Mason saying you hadn’t been past yet on rounds and were you okay?”

  “I’m going there next.” The old farmer’s arthritic hands had gotten so bad that he struggled to open the heavy, complicated gates to his milking sheds. It was a small matter for her, and a huge deal for him, to just flip the catches on the way past each morning and close them again each night. Right now, the poor man was probably sitting around listening to his baleful cows complain that they hadn’t been milked yet. “I’d better get right over there.”

  “That’s good,” Gina replied, but her frown hadn’t disappeared.

  Sam tensed for the next round of health and wellbeing questions.

  Instead, Gina changed tack. “Did you hear about the trouble in here last night?” She nodded at the bar she’d run for decades with her husband before he’d passed. Gina now ran things herself.

  Sam scanned the room for signs of destruction. She took in the battered, dark-timber floors and old, red-brick walls studded with fading, framed photos, including the Ika Whenu district champions rugby team from 1973 and a prize-winning cow draped in a blue ribbon. “What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Sid was here. Kev, too.” Gina smiled, as she always did, at the mention of her two strapping adult boys. “They sorted it for me quick smart, eh. Besides, it was a scuffle more than anything.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know Christine and Kelly? The Duncan twins?”

  “Those sweet kids?” Sam folded her arms.

  “Well, you know how the girls got jobs on that Shezan movie? The one that’s shooting near Wairere Falls?”

  As if there were two big Hollywood movies being shot in their district? Sam gave an impatient nod. Trust the trouble to revolve around that production, just for something completely different.

  Gina leaned in. “And you know the skimpy outfits the Amazons have to wear, right?”

  Everyone did. The Duncan sisters had shown photos of themselves in the costumes after their first fitting
s, looking awkward and humiliated. The smallest sliver of brown leather hung between their legs, and even less covered their breasts. Sam had felt terrible for them. They might be over eighteen (just barely), but still, it was so wrong.

  “So in the pub last night, just before closing,” Gina continued, “that hothead Fletcher grabbed Kelly’s phone. Next thing, those costume photos were all over Twitter along with some very rude comments.

  “Kelly’s boyfriend sees the posts and races over here to find out what’s going on. And then fists start flying, the boyfriend laying into Fletch till he’s crawling under the tables to get away. The Duncan sisters were screaming, the old drunks at the back started laughing and catcalling and taking bets.”

  Sam inhaled. “And why wasn’t I called?”

  “Well, Sid and Kev aren’t exactly small blokes, are they? They broke it up and chucked Fletch out of the pub. I’ve banned him for a month. The Tweet was deleted, order was restored, and I didn’t need to bother you. Besides, I hate calling you in here on your downtime.”

  “I would’ve come, though.” Sam worried her bottom lip. “I don’t want you to ever jeopardize your safety because you think I need a break from the locals all laying their troubles on me between beers. It’s what I do.”

  “You do need a proper break, though. I keep telling you this.” She wagged a finger in Sam’s face. “When was the last time you took a real holiday?”

  “You know there’s no point.”

  She didn’t need to spell out why. This was a one-cop town. Ika Whenu, population 2,735, was too small to warrant a full-time police replacement. So any time she booked a few weeks off from the office, stuck a sign up on the door announcing it, and made plans to relax around home, fix up her bike, or binge watch Wellington Paranormal, the same thing happened. Within half a day, someone would see the sign on the police station door, take twenty steps to the right, and bang on her door instead.

  Always they’d be sort of sorry, but not sorry enough to respect her time off, while claiming an emergency that usually wasn’t really. And they knew she couldn’t say no. Besides, that was the job, wasn’t it?