The Artisan Heart

by Dean Mayes

  Hayden staggered to a stop and spun around.

  Mitch heard the cry, as well.

  He wrenched the rifle up and pressed it to his shoulder, peering through the scope. Seeing nothing but thick foliage and tall trees, he snarled.

  Hayden bobbed his head, trying to see through the trees to find the source of the cry.

  The sound had been human—it had to be her. As he searched the bush, noting the towering remnant of a tree trunk, he saw a movement of pink.

  It was an arm. A hand.

  A waving hand!

  Genevieve lifted her head above the edge of the drop and he saw her. As she urged him towards her, Hayden burst into a sprint, leaping over ferns and bush. Closing the distance to within a dozen feet of the trunk, he saw the edge she was perched on. He leapt.

  A gunshot tore down the ridge, its crack ricocheting across the mountainside.

  Hayden hit the ground, slamming his body against the tree trunk. Genevieve jumped into his arms, sobbing, sniffling, and squeezing him as he scrambled in under the lip of the burrow. He felt like he had winded himself, and took some painful breaths as he tried to recover.

  Hayden drew her back, smiling with relief as he brushed her hair from her face and checked her over. “You’re okay. You’re okay,” he whispered.

  Reaching into his jacket, he pulled Lily out and pressed the bear into Genevieve’s arms. She clutched it to her chest.

  He looked up and around them. He knew they couldn’t stay here. He was certain Mitch knew where they were.

  Appraising the huge trunk, he noted the original tree had been cut away long ago. A remnant scar in the earth indicated where the entire length had once lain. He made a quick calculation, estimating the direction from which he had separated from Isabelle and where the Holden was parked.

  He held up his hand, palm out, to Genevieve, signalling for her to stay still while he crawled out from their hiding spot. Peering over the edge of the embankment, he saw a flash of movement between the trees several dozen yards back up the ridge.

  Dropping down, Hayden clasped his hands onto Genevieve’s shoulders. “We have to move,” he mouthed.

  Genevieve clutched the collar of his jacket tighter.

  Pointing behind her, Hayden walked his fingers in the air between them. Genevieve acknowledged him and prepared to move. As she looked down, she gasped.

  Lifting her hands between them, Hayden saw they were covered in blood.

  He grabbed at her parka, searching for injury. But there was none.

  Genevieve was shaking his shoulder and pointing frantically.

  Hayden shuddered at the blood billowing across his jacket. Suppressing a lump in his throat, he leaned against the embankment and lifted his shirt. The bullet had passed through his flank, just below his rib cage.

  Beads of sweat broke out across his brow and a feeling of dread permeated him as he let go of the shirt. He blinked at his bloodstained hands. Staggering to his feet, Hayden gathered Genevieve into his arms, wincing as an intense shard of pain knifed through him.

  He pressed his forehead to hers and cleared his throat as Genevieve, sobbing in fear, took his face in both her hands.

  “We’re going to make for the road,” he said. “We’re going to get help.”

  Hayden stumbled forward and out of cover. Keeping the body of the fallen tree trunk behind him, using it to shield them from Mitch’s line of sight, he clutched Genevieve, pressing her head underneath his chin and using his body to protect her.

  Mitch appeared from around the flank of the tree trunk, just several metres away. In one swift action, he wrenched the bolt of his weapon back, chambering a round. He aimed and fired.

  Hayden cried out as the bullet glanced off his right leg. He lost all forward momentum, and his arms went slack as he and Genevieve crashed to the ground.

  Genevieve rolled away from him. She was stunned, but shook her head clear and flipped herself over to find Hayden. She saw him right away, lying face down a few feet from her, struggling. She scrambled to Hayden’s side, grabbed his arm, and with all the strength she could muster, she was able to help him over onto his back.

  Hayden’s eyes fluttered open and closed and he croaked in pain.

  A shadow crossed over them and Genevieve looked up as Mitch’s silhouette blocked out the fading daylight.

  “Get away from him!” he ordered, chambering another round.

  Genevieve shook at the sight of the rifle. She scooted up and cradled Hayden’s head in her lap. Blinking through her tears, she was beyond comprehension. How could this man, who’d claimed to be her father, be as evil as this?

  How could anyone?

  Suddenly, Genevieve felt a ball of anger coalesce in the pit of her stomach. And with that anger came defiance. She began shaking her head faster and faster, jabbing her finger towards him.

  Mitch blinked at the child, then lifted the barrel of the rifle.

  “NO!”

  The scream tore at the air behind Mitch and he spun around.

  Isabelle stood there, her own weapon trained on him, a fire burning in her features. She shook her head swiftly. “Don’t you dare.”

  Mitch stared, dumbfounded. After a beat, a vicious grin curled his lips upward.

  “There’s nowhere to go!” Isabelle took a step towards him. “The police are coming. The whole mountainside is covered.”

  “Is that right?” Mitch leered, spitting at her. He held his weapon level with his waist, but kept the barrel aimed at Hayden.

  Isabelle stole a glance at Genevieve and Hayden. Hayden lay on his back. He was pale, bathed in sweat, and panting as Genevieve held his head in her hands.

  Isabelle flicked her gaze to Mitch. She jerked the rifle to one side. “Move!” she ordered.

  Mitch stepped to his left, watching her.

  “What’d you think,” Isabelle said. “That you’d get out of prison, and just come and take her?”

  Mitch opened his mouth to reply when he became aware of the sound of several vehicles approaching from somewhere off to the right. His lip twitched. “She’s my daughter, Belle,” he seethed. “You’ve kept her from me for four years. You don’t have that right. No one has!”

  “You don’t have any rights,” Isabelle retorted. “You gave up any right to call yourself a father when you threw our child against the wall. Don’t you remember that? Don’t you remember how she bled from her ears? You could have killed her.”

  Mitch snorted at her. His hands gripped and relaxed on his weapon and he twitched like a caged animal.

  She flicked her chin at him. “Put it down, Mitch. It’s done.”

  Mitch’s pulse thrummed. Fingers of anxiety clawed at the back of his neck and he could feel the suffocating pressure of captivity trickle through him. The invisible walls were already closing around him. These sensations were familiar. They had visited many times. He had never grown accustomed to them. He raged against them.

  How dare she threaten his freedom like this?

  He had to act.

  The muscles in his arms went taut as he jerked his rifle up.

  A gunshot tore the fabric of the air and Isabelle sucked in a breath as a high-pitched whine pierced her eardrums.

  The bullet hit Mitch with an impact so powerful he was lifted off his feet. He crashed to the ground and howled in pain, slapping a hand to his left shoulder.

  Isabelle stood over him, aiming the smoking barrel at his head.

  “Belle!”

  The sound of her name permeated her ringing ears. She snapped her head up to see Gregor running towards her, followed by Max, Ivan, Andrew Parton, Chas Kraetzer, and the other members of the search party.

  Gregor had his weapon drawn, angling it down beside him, while he held out his free hand towards her.

  Isabelle felt tears sting her cheeks. The rifle shook, her finger twitching on the trigger.

  Gregor held out his hands, palms down, stopping a few feet away from her. “It’s over, Belle, it’s all ri
ght.”

  Isabelle shivered as if shaken from a trance. She blinked at Gregor and the others. She looked down at Mitch writhing on the ground. She backed away from him as Gregor closed the remaining distance and held out his hand. Isabelle surrendered the weapon to him without protest. The members of the search party surged forward, surrounding them.

  Isabelle turned and ran to Hayden and Genevieve. She fell to her knees, throwing her arms around her daughter and sobbing with relief. Genevieve refused to let go of Hayden.

  Hayden blinked, his vision losing focus as the world began to spin. An incredible heaviness settled over him, and as much as he tried, he found movement impossible.

  He felt Isabelle’s hands on his cheeks, her lips pressing to his forehead, but her touch felt distant.

  Her voice called to him but it echoed, as if from far away. He registered other presences, but he couldn’t be sure who they were.

  A bushy beard and Pastoralist hat.

  Max?

  The scent of L’Occitane aftershave. Dad?

  The edges of his vision smeared.

  A droplet of water splashed onto his lips. He tasted salt and licked at it reflexively.

  The veil descended and he plunged into blackness.

  ~ Chapter 27 ~

  ISABELLE OFTEN WONDERED WHAT THE SILENCE HER DAUGHTER EXPERIENCED MUST BE LIKE.

  There were times when she had tried to experience it herself by shutting out all sound, but while there was quiet, she never achieved complete silence. Sound was ubiquitous, be it a vibration or a hum or a gentle whoosh. She could always hear, even if it was something as subtle as the rise and fall of her chest or the beating of her heart.

  Isabelle had thought, on occasion, she might go mad in her pursuit of silence.

  The fact that Genevieve was closed off from sound presented a perverse dichotomy that Isabelle found fascinating. While the burden of her disability meant she would never experience the joys hearing afforded—laughter, conversation, the sound of birdsong—Genevieve had, in a way, been liberated from the violence of noise. She would never know the sounds of conflict or hatred. Of people shouting or screaming at one another. The sound of gunfire.

  Gunfire!

  Isabelle’s eyes snapped open as the harsh echo reverberated in her subconscious, and she jerked her head from the hospital bed.

  Disoriented, she inhaled sharply and sat bolt upright in her chair. As the familiarity of her surroundings jogged her memory and the dream subsided, she leaned back and scratched her cheek. The hospital room was quiet. It was almost—almost—silent.

  Genevieve was sleeping. Isabelle reached over to lift a lock of hair back from her face. Her daughter’s peaceful countenance filled her with calm.

  Isabelle had resisted when the doctor recommended Genevieve be admitted to the Latrobe Valley Hospital for observation. Apart from the minor cuts and abrasions, Genevieve was fine. She would have been better off tucked up in her own bed.

  It was Genevieve herself who’d gone along with the doctor and had pressed Isabelle to let her stay. She’d pestered her.

  Isabelle knew why.

  Genevieve was concerned, not for herself, but for Hayden.

  She wanted to be close to him. She wanted to know he was going to be all right.

  And Isabelle wanted to know he was going to be all right, too.

  The bullet that had struck his flank had, apparently, glanced off his liver, and he’d been rushed into surgery the moment the helicopter touched down. She had been given very little information. His wife had prevented it. For all Isabelle knew, Hayden could still be in the operating theatre now.

  As her mind began to run away with thoughts of him, fresh emotion burned inside her. Isabelle steeled herself against it, fearing she would be overcome. Thankfully, Genevieve stirred and groaned. Her eyes fluttered open as Isabelle reached across to stroke her cheek.

  Genevieve managed a weak smile.

  There was a knock at the door and Isabelle turned as Gregor Aldersea poked his head in, offering a little wave. Genevieve returned it and Isabelle smiled.

  “Come in, come in.”

  Gregor closed the door softly. “I wanted to come by and see how you are. How Genie is.”

  “She’s fine,” Isabelle reassured him. “The doctors want to keep her in overnight, just to be sure.”

  “And you? You’re okay?”

  Isabelle nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  Gregor turned his police hat in his hands as his expression became empathetic. “Ah—I thought you should know we’re going to be moving Mitch shortly. A team has arrived from Melbourne to take him into custody. He’s been cleared to travel.”

  Isabelle stiffened.

  “You won’t have to see him. I’ll make sure of it. He’s facing serious charges. Prohibited possession of a firearm, hit-and-run, kidnapping, assault. He’s facing a long time in prison—a very long time.” Gregor tried to strike a note of confidence, to put Isabelle at ease. But she gave no sense of comfort at the news.

  “Thank you, Gregor,” she said softly.

  Shifting in the ensuing quiet, Gregor smiled at Genevieve, who was watching him. He reached out and set his hat down on her head, and she sat up straighter.

  It was enough for Isabelle to brighten just a little.

  “I am sorry, Belle,” Gregor said. “I should have been more alert. I should have done more.”

  Isabelle exhaled. “You did as much as you could do. How could you have known? I don’t blame you at all.”

  Gregor’s shoulders relaxed just a little. “I, ah…was able to check in with the team looking after the doc.”

  Isabelle braced herself. Gregor saw her hand shake.

  He continued. “He’s just come out of surgery. He’s going to be okay.”

  It was Genevieve who reacted, having read his lips. She sat forward suddenly. “Can I see him? Can I, Mum?”

  Isabelle felt the tension drain from her body and she wrestled to keep the smile off her face. “You need to rest.” She signed a hasty reply. “Just rest for now.”

  Gregor’s cheeks flushed. “Anyway, I thought you’d like to know.”

  A single tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. “I appreciate it, Gregor.”

  Plucking the hat from Genevieve, Gregor gave her a wink. “I’ll leave you to it.” He turned towards the door and stopped with his hand on the handle. “If there’s anything you need, Isabelle, let me know.”

  Isabelle smiled. “I will.”

  HAYDEN STIRRED IN HIS BED in the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit and opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the light.

  Despite the pleasant fog of the pain-relieving medications, he was aware of the dull ache in his side and knee. Those didn’t bother him as much as the constant irritation from the oxygen cannula sitting at his nostrils. He’d tried to remove them several times, only for his attending nurse to put them back again.

  It was evening. Or he thought it was evening. In the hours since he’d been brought here from recovery, he’d lost all sense of time, a phenomenon that wasn’t foreign to him.

  In the frenetic bustle of working in the emergency department, he would often go for long periods without checking his watch. Time became immaterial. He just didn’t notice.

  He supposed it was this lack of attentiveness that had contributed to the breakdown of his relationship with Bernadette.

  Just one of my many failings, he thought darkly.

  He frowned and looked about the ICU.

  Bernadette.

  She had been at his bedside when he’d first woken from the anaesthetic, though he’d been too drowsy to say anything coherent. Now, he realised he was alone, with the exception of a nurse who was stationed at the end of his bed, writing down his vital signs.

  He caught her attention and she smiled. “Well, hello there. How are you feeling?”

  Hayden opened his mouth and found it dry as sandpaper. He rolled his thickened tongue over, working his jaw in an effort to coax so
me saliva.

  The nurse stood and fetched a glass from a tray table beside him. She put the straw to his lips and he took in the cool water and murmured appreciatively. “Thank you.”

  “How’s your pain?” the nurse enquired.

  “Bearable. The fentanyl appears to be working.”

  “Good. I can give you something else in a little while, if need be.” She glanced sideways, indicating in the direction of the hallway. “I ordered your wife to go and get something to eat. She was absolutely wrecked, poor love. Is this your first baby?”

  Hayden blinked, then nodded. “Y-yes. Yes it is.”

  He couldn’t smile or even feign the pretence of being happy. Being reminded of the pregnancy served only to dredge up the perilousness of the situation. Fortunately, he was able to conceal this behind the veneer of his post-surgical fog.

  Beside him, the intravenous pump delivering fluid into his arm issued a shrill beep and the nurse leaned over to inspect it. “Looks like we’re ready for another flask.”

  As she drew back, Hayden caught the scent of perfume.

  He watched her go to a room on the other side of the ICU where she retrieved a flexible flask of intravenous fluid. When she returned to the pump, she pulled the spike from the spent flask and swapped in the new one.

  Hayden continued to study her. She grinned awkwardly. “Do I have something on my face?”

  “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”

  The nurse blushed. “Do you like it? My fiancé bought it for me. It’s called Santal Majuscule. Very expensive. It’s a combination of fresh rose, bitter cacao, and sandalwood. He won’t tell me where he got it from, but I just adore it.”

  “Sandalwood.” Hayden spoke the word, letting it drift before him.

  Sandalwood.

  As though a lever had been flipped, a jumble of thoughts began to turn themselves over, like the cards of a Rolodex—slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  And through those churning thoughts, memories began to coalesce. Indistinct and fractured, like the broken shards of a mirror before his mind’s eye. They began to clear and merge into focus.