by Garry Disher
‘Just a guy? He’s like a shark, he doesn’t stop.’
Eddie faced forward again, laying it out for her. ‘Never been arrested. Good at planning, good with a gun, a fucking incredible heist man. You can trust him, even if he never trusts you. Despises drugs and junkies. A guy who’ll kill you if you cross or attack him.’ He glanced at her sideways. ‘But not a thrill killer.’
‘What, he’s got rules?’ sneered Khandi. ‘Rules get you nowhere.’
‘Maybe. But everything just got a lot more complicated.’
Khandi gestured with her left hand, slim, brown and loaded with gold. Little tiger-stripe transfers on her fingernails, which were nicely hooked and perfect for scooping cocaine. ‘Didn’t know I’d taken up with a wuss,’ she said.
About the worst thing she could have said to Eddie. He glanced out at the blur of fences, houses and cars. Being Khandi’s lover was precarious. She’d entered his life on long legs sheathed in leather boots, fascinating, scary, alive. Beautiful, violent, unpredictable. He wanted it to last but doubted it would, and that frightened him. He didn’t know what she saw in him. It was a miracle.
Meanwhile she’d landed them right in the shit. ‘You need to know who we’re dealing with,’ he said.
‘Look,’ said Khandi, ‘your little cutie pie’s out of the way and we’re heading for Queensland, okay? The guy’s not going to look for us there.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
Khandi jammed on the brakes, leaving more rubber on the road and terrorising pedestrians and other drivers. She leaned across, opened Eddie’s door. ‘Get out.’
‘Khandi, for fuck’s sake, all I’m saying is we need to watch our backs.’
She pursed her wide red mouth and pretended to weigh a few facts. ‘I hear you,’ she said, and sped off again. Presently she laughed. ‘The look in Goldilocks’ eyes.’
Eddie was stony-faced.
Khandi sensed it, shrieking, ‘Did you tell her about me?’
‘Do we have to do this now?’
Big mistake: her slim, bejewelled hand lashed out again, reddening his cheek. ‘I’m sensing some reserve, lover boy. Were you and that skinny cunt going to pull a fast one on me?’
‘Christ, no, nothing like that,’ Eddie said. He paused, trying to find the right words. ‘But me and Lydia shared a history, you know?’
Another big mistake. Without changing expression, Khandi whacked him once more. ‘I thought you were finished with that dried-up twat, that fucking white-bread virgin, thought her shit didn’t stink.’
‘Long ago.’
‘Well, you are now,’ snarled Khandi. ‘What I meant was, finished emotionally.’
‘We’ve had this discussion.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Say it.’
‘I adore you.’
Khandi whacked him across the kisser again. ‘To adore is not to love. I’m talking about love.’
‘I love you,’ said Eddie, gulping.
Khandi’s face was always mobile. Huge smiles wreathed it and she reached out her lovely striking hand and rested it on his crotch. He was instantly excited, so she removed her hand. In that, and many other ways, she continued to wield her power over him.
She checked his expression, checking for backsliding. Irritated, he twisted to glance through the rear window again. ‘The cops will be all over this.’
‘We knew that. We factored that.’
‘We didn’t factor Wyatt getting arrested and spilling his guts. We didn’t factor the cops tying Lydia to me. Why the fuck did you shoot her? A straight hijack and we’d have been home free.’
He braced himself for another belting, but Khandi was fishing around to adjust the lie of her considerable breasts. ‘Quit snivelling.’
Khandi and her fucking jealousy. The cops would tie him to Lydia, come knocking and find his place empty, publish his photo and watch for him at airports, train stations, bus depots, seaports. Then someone at Blue Poles, seeking a bit of ready cash, would tell the cops he’d been seen with Khandi Cane, who incidentally hadn’t shown up for work recently.
His mind churned. ‘We can’t head for Queensland just yet. We need to lie low for a while.’
Suddenly Khandi was crying, wet and gusty. ‘You love Lydia,’ she gasped. ‘Not me. Not truly.’
‘Christ, Khandi, don’t do that.’
‘Then don’t be so negative,’ she said, recovering instantly. ‘Support me. We’re in this together.’
‘Together,’ Eddie said, squeezing her knee, removing his hand when the Commodore veered out of control.
Khandi recovered and kept to the speed limit. Then she yanked on the wheel and cut into a side street, stopping at a small rise half-way along. Eddie, wondering what fresh misery she had in mind for him, reached for the door handle, but Khandi surprised him. ‘Tracking device,’ she said.
‘Good one,’ said Eddie, remembering Wyatt’s warning, back at the park.
He joined Khandi at the rear of the car, where she was keying open the boot. The titanium cases nestled there but Khandi leaned in and removed the spare tyre. ‘A prop to explain what we’re doing here.’
‘You’re not just a pretty face,’ Eddie said.
The tyre against the side of the car, they turned their attention to the cases. Khandi popped open the nearest lid. She went still.
‘What the fuck?’
A bulky document wallet. Reaching past her, Eddie opened the second case. Another wallet.
‘We’ve been had.’
But Khandi was shaking the contents into the boot cavity, sheets of heavy-grain paper. ‘Don’t speak too soon.’
Bewildered, Eddie tried to read the Gothic script. ‘Certificates of some kind.’
‘Bearer bonds,’ breathed Khandi. ‘Treasury notes. Worth millions’.
A small metal object tumbled out. ‘Tracking device,’ she said, dropping it onto the asphalt, smashing it with the heel of her fine boot.
‘Now what?’
‘First things first,’ said Khandi, ‘we need to get out of here.’
Eddie directed her along side streets until they reached the Maroondah Highway, which would take them further east, away from the stink and the tension. Out there somewhere was the Yarra Valley, a region of art-and-craft towns, wineries, farmlets, hills and his aunt’s cabin. The plan had been to stay the night, start heading north tomorrow. He knew people in Sydney and Brisbane who’d give him a good return on watches and jewellery, but bank paper?
It was scary, the way Khandi picked up on his thoughts. ‘This is a bit out of our league, Eddie.’
‘We’ll think of something.’
‘What, walk into a bank and exchange the stuff for cash? They’d take one look at us and—’
‘Exactly. So we should stay here for a few days and work something out.’
‘You sure this aunt of yours isn’t going to turn up?’
‘She’s in an old folks’ home.’
Khandi shrugged as if she’d never had an aged relative or indeed any family at all. ‘Cousins?’
‘No. We’ll have the place to ourselves. We hide out until the heat dies down, monitor the news. Make, umm, wild and passionate love.’
The last phrase came out hoarsely. ‘Love’ was a word that tangled Eddie’s tongue, but Khandi, in her present mood, needed to know that sex with him was more than mere lust.
It seemed to work. She squeezed his thigh—and turned volcanic again. ‘Did you ever take wifey-poo there?’
‘Of course not,’ lied Eddie.
Khandi changed in a flash, saying softly, ‘Our own cabin in the woods.’
‘Yep.’
Eddie didn’t tell her that it was a gloomy, fibro-cement structure that sweltered in summer and froze in winter. It sat on a dirt road halfway up a hidden gully. No electricity, no running water. ‘First we stop in Yarra Junction and stock up on supplies.’
‘Okay,’ said Khandi.
&nbs
p; They drove. Khandi kept the pistol within reach and used it to scratch her calf from time to time, and once she tapped the barrel against her teeth. She was fearless and very fine. Time passed, and they left the city behind them, passing through farmland and in and out of shallow valleys before reaching the little town of Yarra Junction. ‘You stay here,’ said Eddie, pretty sure the likes of Khandi had not been seen in the Yarra Valley lately. He went from shop to shop buying eggs, bacon, milk, bread, beer, tequila for Khandi, cornflakes, and a $12 radio to keep up with the news. Back at the Commodore, he was relieved to see that Khandi hadn’t driven off without him.
She snarled, ‘What’s that look for?’
‘What look?’
‘You thought I might run out on you.’
‘No I didn’t!’
‘Don’t lie to me, never lie to me,’ Khandi said, yanking the car into drive and planting her foot.
Eddie directed her along barely remembered back roads into the hills surrounding the town. The landscape was tilled and green, but here and there were hovels with abandoned cars bedded in thick spring grass, pale nude dead trees and signs advertising New Age crackpots. Eddie didn’t dare comment: he had no idea if Khandi was into all that shit. He’d only known her for six weeks. How did she get that name? Eddie felt nervous out here. It was a world apart from the inner city and his local pub.
They arrived and Khandi said, ‘You’ve got to be joking.’
The cabin was as depressing as Eddie remembered it. ‘I guess Auntie Elsie didn’t get out here much.’
‘Fuck your Auntie Elsie,’ said Khandi, stamping around in the flowering weeds and throwing furious looks at Eddie and the grime, cobwebs, rot and mould.
But the cabin was intact. The key was up on a veranda rafter and, although the air inside was stale, there were no signs of vermin or recent visitors. Still, Eddie knew that he had to forestall further explosions so he wrapped his arms around his lover, full of tenderness and heat.
Khandi shrugged him away, heaving the titanium cases onto a wooden table coated in dust and grease. ‘Later. Right now we need to think of a way to turn these into cash.’
Eddie deflated. ‘Maybe if I put out some feelers...’
‘The less people who know about this, the better,’ said Khandi, ‘otherwise your pal Wyatt will find us.’
‘True.’
Khandi knuckled him on the chest to protect her nails. ‘No banks, Eddie, no words dropped in certain ears.’
She had an idea, and Eddie waited for it.
‘We ransom the bonds back to the man they belong to.’
* * * *
16
Wyatt stirred. The vest had saved him, but the slug had delivered a cruel punch, knocking him flat, leaving him stunned. And he’d lost time. Seconds? Minutes? Awareness of his surroundings and his capabilities returned. Hearing sirens, he pushed into a crouch and to his feet. Beyond the screen of trees were houses, people walking their dogs, joggers. They would have heard the crackling of the flames, seen the black smoke corkscrewing into the sky. Soon the fuel would ignite. He couldn’t afford to stick around.
Wyatt checked: he still had the pistol. Tucking it into his waistband he clambered up the slope, emerging from the roadside trees to find a handful of people standing around, hesitation painting their faces. There were no steps or path down into the park from this point, but a young woman in jogging shorts had stepped over the guardrail as if to slither down and investigate. She stopped when she saw Wyatt. She stared and the others stared—two middle-aged women, an old man with a dog, and a young man pushing a child in a stroller. The sirens were deceptive—close and loud, as if the police or the medics were lost or trapped on the network of side streets and bike lanes.
‘I’m a police officer,’ Wyatt called.
That would hold them for a while. He scanned the street: driveways sloping up to brick houses set in terraced gardens. There were a couple of cars visible in these driveways, but he was more interested in the pale blue Camry straddling the footpath, warning lights flashing. He strode towards it.
Lydia’s head lay propped on the steering wheel and the side window was shattered. A lot of blood. He felt the beginnings of distress, didn’t like it and tamped it down. Speculating about who and why would come later. Wyatt acted on reason and instinct: he had to know if she was dead or alive, and then he had to run.
He leaned in, the tensing of his spine and torso aggravating the bruising in his chest. A head wound: that explained the blood. A nasty crease above her right ear. She was lucky, Wyatt thought. She must have sensed the presence of the shooter at the side window and turned her head. And maybe the glass slowed and deflected the bullet. The noise, glass chips and flowing blood told the shooter the job was done. He felt for a pulse: it was strong and steady.
But she was unconscious, she was bleeding, and he figured that if he left her here the police would arrive and call an ambulance and she’d be patched up and then the questions would start. Who shot you? What were you doing near a burnt-out four-wheel-drive delivery vehicle belonging to Henri Furneaux? Sooner or later she would talk. Pain, painkillers and heavy questioning would break down her resolve and she’d offer up names.
He glanced back at the onlookers. They hadn’t yet noticed the bloody mess in the Camry so he went around to the other side of the car, opened the door and dragged Lydia into the passenger seat. Then he returned to the driver’s door, opened it and called out, ‘When my colleagues get here, tell them a four-wheel-drive has plunged off the road and down among the trees. It’s burning too fiercely to rescue anyone.’
They gaped at him. He got behind the wheel and drove away.
* * * *
Wyatt parked the Camry in the slot reserved for his first-floor apartment, grabbed Lydia’s shoulder bag and walked around to the passenger door. Perching her on the edge of the seat, he hoisted her over a shoulder in one motion and carried her to the service elevator. The underground car park was dim and toxic. Late morning; there was no one about. When the doors opened he swivelled in and pushed the button for the eighth floor, where he kept his second apartment. He was careful not to smear blood anywhere. It was all over his upper body, but he didn’t want it on the doors or wall panels of the elevator.
On eight the door pinged and he shot his head out for a quick, scouting glance both ways along the corridor. Empty. He carried Lydia to his door and took her through to the bedroom. He realised that he still wore the Kevlar vest. He shrugged it off. The relief was palpable, even if his chest still ached. Then he fetched a damp cloth, bandages and a tube of antiseptic cream and cleaned Lydia’s wound. It was a furrow as deep as the surface of her skull and the blood ran. He taped a thick compress to it, the fabric reddening before he’d finished removing her vest, jeans and shoes. She lay slackly in knickers and a bloodied T-shirt, unconscious but breathing evenly. He pulled the bed covers to her chin.
Now he had time to speculate.
One: until it was safe to do so, he shouldn’t go back to the apartment he’d been living in. Eddie knew about it and might send the shooter there—exactly the kind of scenario that had prompted Wyatt to buy a second apartment in the same building. If he was ever traced to the first-floor apartment, and no one had seen him come and go from theeighth floor, he had the perfect bolthole. Anyone watching for him to return to the first floor would eventually assume that he wasn’t coming back. It was like hiding in plain sight.
Two: what to do about Lydia? She wouldn’t die but she needed attention. He couldn’t take her to a hospital.
Three: he’d have to get rid of the car.
Four: who was the shooter? Eddie had intended to rip him off from the start, that much was evident. Eddie, wanting him dead, had stashed a shooter in ambush. Wyatt didn’t spend much time exploring this line of thought. All he knew was that Eddie and the shooter had to die. They’d wanted him dead, so that was the right payback. It was business. He didn’t feel hurt, shocked or dismayed at being cheated and left f
or dead. Those were the kinds of useless emotions that led a man to lash out and make an error of judgment. He would kill Eddie and the shooter and get on with his life.
Five: how involved had Lydia been? She was in pain and he could probably make use of that when she regained consciousness, but he didn’t think it would be necessary. She’d been crossed, too. Besides, she was unconscious and couldn’t talk yet.
Wyatt made a phone call, then left the apartment and took the stairs to the first floor, where he paused to listen. Satisfied that the corridor was empty, he walked to the shadowy end and his apartment door, listened again, let himself in. No one had been there yet. He turned on a couple of lights, figuring that an apartment that is dark for a long period is going to attract more attention than one with a few lights burning inside.
