by Rhyll Biest
‘That sounds like something straight out of one of your de-escalation manuals.’
He blinked at the challenge in her tone. ‘You’re right, I’m not a fan of vigilantism. My parents lost most of their family and friends in the former Yugoslavia to that sort of eye-for-an-eye bullshit.’
She inspected a cuticle to show him she really didn’t give a shit. ‘That’s nice.’
Was she for real? Or simply talking tough? ‘Kat?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Does caring about others make you feel helpless, by any chance?’ People who were afraid of other people believed that caring gave others power over them. It made them feel manipulated.
‘Fuck you, Belovuk.’
I hope so. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ He gave her a lazy wave before reversing down her driveway. He caught a glimpse of her in his rear view mirror, her frame slight, the puppy a thick mass—almost a baby bump—in the sling she wore. A crazy arrangement for a crazy woman. But also courageous, clever in her wary fox-like way, and growing on him by the second.
He was grateful for the opportunity to learn more about her. He’d bet she’d shown him more just now than she’d been willing to show anyone in a long time. Her fear of messing up. Her regret at not telling the truth sooner. Those things, in combination with the way she challenged fear with aggression and used confrontation as a cover for bone-deep doubt, told him plenty.
They all suggested a vulnerable heart, and that cast an awful long shadow of doubt over her Kevlar-underwear, Miss Invincibility act.
Chapter 12
Another bullet-ridden speed sign flashed by.
There were some really dedicated road sign hunters around Walgarra. Kat hoped they limited themselves to road signs but doubted it.
Eucalyptus oil rising off the gum trees formed a blue haze on the horizon, matching her blue mood.
She didn’t know how to deal with Belovuk’s interest, his caring. Casual friendship, the sort that never required one to inquire too much about the other, or to feel too deeply, she could manage. But caring? Caring about people was as alien to her as spa treatments and manicures.
The letterbox number on her list flashed into view forcing her to stomp on the brakes. ‘Shit, Stumpy, where’s my head at today?’
He paused chewing on his vehicle restraint to cock his head.
Not only did she have a headache from worrying about love troubles, but Beth hadn’t been able to puppy-sit. Something about a family emergency. Kat hadn’t even bothered asking Sharon. She really needed to find a back-up puppy-sitter and soon.
She turned down a long, rut-riddled dusty driveway and it didn’t take her long to spot them. Five horses, visible from the road.
She parked under a tree close to the house. For some reason the grass had been allowed to grow unchecked around the house, the waist-high stalks making her wonder if the owners had ever heard of snakes, bushfires or ticks.
It was too hot to leave Stumpy in the car, even in the shade. Dogs—physically unable to regulate their body temperature—could suffer severe heat exhaustion and die in under six minutes.
She picked the puppy up and settled him in his sling, allowed him to lick her neck. ‘I love you too, Stumps. Let’s go check out these neigh-neighs.’ She’d have to check him for ticks once she got home. Good thing his coat was short.
Five minutes later she regretted leaving the car.
I’m melting. My brain is going to dissolve any second and run out my ears, dribble down my neck and then coat my super-ugly RSPCA uniform in grey goo.
Stumpy bounced, a solid three kilos, against her belly as she waded through the waist-high grass. Sweat plastered her shirt to her back, the sun a burning skull cap as she approached the horse paddock.
Insanity.
Inside the paddock there wasn’t a blade of grass, or a single tree to offer shade. And yet just two metres outside the paddock was a dozen trees and more grass than a turf farm. All the owners had to do was let the horses out of the paddock and they’d be fat, happy and sheltered, but no, much more sensible to leave them in a shadeless, waterless, foodless enclosure.
‘You know what, Stumpy? People suck. The world sucks.’
Stumpy sneezed.
‘Except you, mate. Not you.’
Her foul mood was, in part, caused by Belovuk being so nice to her. To her. She was the last person to deserve nice. There was her lying, her general defensiveness, her evasiveness and her inability to do the right thing—like staying away from Belovuk. That’s all she had to do, stay away. Just because her upbringing had been a greasy, steaming shit-show did not mean she got to fuck up other people’s lives willy-nilly. Unless they deserved it. Like the owner of the horses.
At the gate to the paddock she scanned for drink troughs, found none. The only thing keeping them alive was the rainwater caught in the rusting car bodies sharing their paddock, one torn off fender serving as a pathetically inadequate water trough.
When she came closer to inspect them, the horses—two chestnut mares, and three bay geldings—were too apathetic to run away.
Given the way their pelvises and spines protruded, the RSPCA shelter would need to take them away for supervised nutrition and care before rehoming. But she was getting ahead of herself. First she needed to find the owner. No, first she needed to find a bucket and fill it with clean water. They looked so damn thirsty.
Stumpy bouncing against her belly, she plunged back into the jungle of grass leading to the farm house. Nothing out the front. She circled around to the other side.
As she searched for a tap and bucket she listed all the things that needed doing. Water for the horses, a detailed assessment of their condition, notes on their paddocks and their lack of food, water and shade. The danger of injury posed by the rusting car bodies. The act of making the list eased the tension in her scalp—there was sedation in action, serenity in lists.
She rounded a water tank and froze.
A marijuana plant her height leered at her.
Belovuk’s words rang in her ears.
Take care. Be careful out there when you’re on the job. Because I care what happens to you.
In a daze she took out the notepad she carried in her pocket and wrote large amount of cannabis growing on the property. Very large. She underlined the words.
The plant in front of her led to more and more plants, rows upon rows of Mary Jane. Very green, very well- watered.
‘Water for the weed but not the horses, Stumpy.’ Pressure swooped to fill her ears and a headache bloomed in her right temple, stabbed her right through the frontal lobe.
Stumpy wriggled in the sling, sniffed the air.
‘That’s right, Stumpy, that’s the smell of ganja.’
That amount of cannabis couldn’t be for personal use, which meant she was standing in a drug dealer’s yard. Her brain flashed to True Detectives. Hadn’t those crazy meth cooks booby-trapped their property with trip wires and explosives? What if she stood on an explosive? What if they had a cage somewhere with children inside it? Her heart stalled with each question.
Calm the fuck down. This is not a television show.
With numb fingers she retrieved her mobile phone, called the shelter and got Beth rather than Sharon—thank Christ. ‘I need some help.’
There was clacking as Beth typed something on her computer. ‘How’s that?’
‘I don’t think it’s safe where I am.’
The clacking stopped. ‘Why?’
She hesitated. ‘There’s a lot of weed on the property. Should I call the police?’
One, two, three beats of silence from the other end.
‘Probably. Are you in immediate danger?’
Maybe. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Okay, I’m calling them right now.’
She reluctantly switched her phone off. The silence of the farm pressed down on her, the shrill of crickets ominous.
When her phone buzzed against her hip she jumped before answering it
in a whisper. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Luka. Beth said you might need some help.’
Relief blew through her. Though it cost her to say the words, she took a mortgage out on her pride. ‘Yeah, I think I do.’
‘I’m on my way, where are you?’
‘I’m about forty minutes out of town, by Wattle Creek. At one nine four Creek Road.’
‘Is there a name on the post pox?’
‘Anderson.’
‘Shit, I know where you are.’
His tone rattled her but she refused to let the panicky feeling in her chest escape out into the wild.
‘What’s the situation? Anyone else around?’
She cleared her throat. ‘I can’t see anyone. I went around the side of the house looking for some water for the horses out here but …’
‘But what?’
‘There appears to be quite a large amount of cannabis growing on the property.’ Pleased with how steady her voice was she waited for his response. Given the ice problem she half expected him to say ’Cannabis? So what?’, but instead tension crackled down the line with such force it nearly zapped her.
‘Go back to your car. Get away from the house and leave.’
The direct command gave her another jolt. Oh, god, she was in trouble. She should have taken home economics in school instead of animal husbandry and then she wouldn’t have found herself standing in a drug dealer’s paddock too afraid to move in case she tripped an explosive device and all her good intentions were reduced to dust and intestines.
‘Kat, do you hear me?’
‘I hear you.’ His deep, calm bass provided a measure of anti-freeze for her limbs.
‘Just get in your car and go. Come back for the horses later.’
She nodded, remembered he couldn’t see her. ‘Okay, bye.’
The phone screen flashed a message—call ended. It may as well have read ‘now you’re alone, bitch’.
Retreating to the car, her steps ginger as she scanned the ground for booby traps, took forever. Picking up on her tension, Stumpy grizzled and fretted.
‘Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay.’ It so fucking wasn’t okay. She didn’t have a weapon on her other than the capsicum spray, she needed to retreat.
Her fingers found the car door but a voice pulled her up before she could open it and dive into the safety of the vehicular womb.
‘Hey!’
Every nerve in her body jumped.
She looked up and wished she hadn’t. A bearded monster, hairy armpits peeking out from his singlet top, advanced on her with rifle raised. He was the type to kidnap backpackers to preserve as light snacks.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ It came out as one word: hoothefuckarya?
Two enormous shotgun barrels—each about the size of that tunnel one reportedly followed to the afterlife—threatened to swallow her.
Mouth turning dry, she covered Stumpy with both hands. Not that her hands would provide much protection against a shotgun blast.
‘I asked you a fuckin’ question, lady.’
She stared at Blue Beard in overalls, her tongue thick with paralysis. What was the correct answer, the answer that wouldn’t get her shot?
Should she raise her hands like they did on television? Reach for her pepper spray? No, he might shoot her just for moving. A hundred years later she managed to speak. ‘Hi, I’m Inspector Kat Daily from the RSPCA and—’
‘The RSPCA?’ His bloodshot eyes narrowed. ‘Isn’t that some sort of charity? Are you collecting money?’
He shifted the weight of the rifle. Both barrels bobbed an inch lower so that they aimed at her teeth. Now was not the time to correct him, nor to mention the horses. No, now was the time to thank her lucky stars Farmer Armpit had an IQ lower than a lizard’s dick. ‘Yes. Would you like to make a donation?’
‘Hell, no, now git.’
‘Okay, sorry to bother you, sir.’
He watched as she got in her car. With fingers made shaky by the hostility in his eyes, she started the engine—or tried to at least. It gave a wheezing groan, a couple of hearty coughs, a giant fart, and died.
No, no, no, no, no.
The armpit monster approached, mimed rolling down a car window.
Crap cupcakes.
At least he’d lowered the rifle.
‘You wanna use the phone to call a tow?’
She glanced at the gently decaying farm house, the foundations doubtless built on the bodies of several dead wives. ‘I’ve got a mobile phone.’ Thank Christ.
‘Reception ain’t great here.’
Best not to tell him she’d already used her phone to call someone. She fished in her pocket with fingers made clumsy by need. If he goes away I’ll never lie again. I’ll even tidy my bedroom more often and attempt cooking once in a while. I promise I’ll be nicer and kinder and swear less.
She dialled directory and when a receptionist answered she looked up at Farmer Armpit, giddy relief stretching her lips into a smile as she waved him away.
He grunted and lumbered away, the tufts of hair on his shoulders bound to appear in future nightmares.
Usually she categorised people according to what they might try to smuggle in their luggage, but any airport security screening process that would allow Farmer Armpit onto an aeroplane defied imagination.
As she called and waited for the tow truck, or for Luka to arrive, she made despondent calculations. Tow and repair would put a dent in her bank balance and she’d have to hire a car in order to keep working while the other one was being repaired—if there were such a service as car hire to be had in Walgarra. Still, she’d recover. Not as quickly as when she’d been working in quarantine, but she’d be okay so long as she delayed buying a new bed and fridge as planned.
Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. Christ, it was so freaking hot, even in the shade. She wound the window down lower, wiped sweat from her brow.
Her gaze flicked to the farm house. What if Farmer Armpit came back? Make a plan. She’d hide Stumpy on the back seat floor to protect him, unload a can of pepper spray in his face and then run for it.
To pass time she played tug o’ war with Stumpy but every other minute her eyes strayed to the house to check for signs of the armpit monster. What was he doing now? Watching? Playing with his cut-out dolls made from human hide?
Stumpy grizzled.
‘Shhhh.’
Wired, alert for any sign of Farmer Armpit’s return, she felt a familiar whisper tickle her ear.
You belong here.
Shut up.
Ekaterina Galina Daily, sometimes called Katka or Galenka by her mother, flashed a switchblade smile. Kat pictured her playing hopscotch, tossing a tooth instead of a pebble into the chalk squares.
Katka, this is your place, among shotguns, monsters and death.
She wiped sweat from her brows. Unless you know how to start the engine, bugger off.
Galenka hopped three squares to where the tooth lay, stomped on it, ground it into powder. You love it here, you know you do. You belong.
The pressure in her ears swelled to monstrous proportions.
What felt like hours later, the crunch of tyres on dirt filled her chest with giddy relief. The tow truck.
At last.
But instead of a truck with a winch, three police cars bounced their way up the unsealed driveway, and from the size of the driver inside the first car, Kat could tell it was Luka. He must have driven fast. May have even switched his siren on.
This is man-man, Galenka whispered.
Kat had to agree on that one.
Luka rolled his car to a stop by hers, lowered his window. ‘Why are you still here?’
The dark shadows had returned to his eyes.
‘My car won’t start.’
‘Get in.’
She eyed the police wagon. The urge to dive in and be whisked away was strong but she had her pride. ‘I’ll wait for the tow truck.’
There was a long silence as he considered
her refusal. ‘You’re killing me. Did you see anyone on the property?’
Just an armpit monster. She patted Stumpy. ‘Yes.’
‘Who?’ He glanced around, presumably looking for signs of life. ‘Anderson? Big guy, hairy.’
‘Farmer Armpit.’
His gaze snapped back to hers. ‘Say again?’
‘His name is Farmer Armpit and he thinks I came here to collect money.’
A beat—one, two, three—before he spoke. ‘Like for the Girl Guides?’
Was he fucking with her? With his deadpan expression it was hard to tell. ‘Yes, like that, except he was carrying a rifle.’
His face hardened. ‘Did he point it at you?’
Before she could answer he was out of his patrol car.
Shit. ‘It might not have been loaded.’
‘That doesn’t matter one fucking bit.’ He scanned the area for Farmer Armpit, scowl deepening to emphasise the scar slicing his brow. While other men’s furrowed brows she would shrug off, on Luka’s habitually calm face a frown signalled the coming of the Apocalypse.
‘De-escalate, dude.’
He glanced down at her, unamused. ‘Pointing a weapon at someone is aggravated assault.’
She’d always thought that term meant the victim had been aggravating. Apparently not.
After another thorough scan of the area he slid her a sideways look. ‘I don’t see him anywhere. You sure you didn’t scare him off with your Girl Guide schtick?’
The unexpected quip disarmed her. ‘Believe me, I was the only one scared.’
His frown further deepened. She couldn’t let him approach Farmer Armpit looking like that, the man would shoot Luka and call it self-defence.
She glanced at her watch, conscious of the fact that she was falling behind on her day’s case load.
He raised his brows. ‘You got somewhere else you need to be?’
