by A. Nybo
The police station was in view, but since parallel parking wasn’t an option, Birch decided to drive up onto the sidewalk. Before he could do so, the SUV rammed them again. Trying to avoid passing the station, Birch stood on the brakes. The SUV kept coming and pushed the pickup into a parked police car, the sound of grinding metal deafening as the pickup bumped and slid against the police vehicle.
The SUV reversed, pulled out, and with tires squealing, took off. As abruptly as it had started, it ended.
“Sorry about your car,” said Henri into the sudden silence.
Birch’s heart was racing, his entire body shaking. “What?”
“Your pickup,” said Henri as he patted the dash like he was tapping on a bongo drum. “I’ll pay for the repairs.”
Several police poured out of the station, and a police car pulled up behind them.
“If you get a quote from a panel beater and….”
A policeman tried to open Henri’s door, but it was jammed shut. He knocked on the window. Henri glanced at him and held up a staying finger before turning back to Birch.
“I don’t have a stable address at the moment, but I’ll give you my phone number.”
Birch stared at him. He hadn’t even begun to think about the ramifications of their life-threatening adventure. “Are you kidding me?”
The policeman knocked again, but Henri ignored him. “No, seriously. I’ll pay for it. You were only trying to help me.”
Birch needed to be away from this crazy man. They stared at each other for a moment, and something began to push its way up from Birch’s chest into his throat. A sharp laugh erupted from him. He put a hand to his chest, which calmed him enough to recognize that chaos was occurring outside the pickup. “Wind down your window,” he told Henri when a policeman knocked again.
With his head still turned to Birch and his brow furrowed, Henri absently wound down the window. “Don’t you want my number?”
“Are you all right?” the policeman asked.
“Sure.” Henri turned to Birch. “Are you?”
“Yes.” Birch pointed at Henri. “But he may have hit his head.” There was no other explanation for the way Henri was behaving. Minutes ago, the guy had been sitting in a café having a panic attack. But immediately after someone tried to kill them, he was chatting as though they were sitting outside a shop discussing whether they needed milk or not.
“What? I didn’t hit my head,” Henri declared.
“Then you must be mad.”
Within a blink, Henri’s warm blue-grey eyes turned to icy steel. “Well, if you’re going to play with mad, you better get used to some fucking crazy, because this shit isn’t going away. You’re fucking in it now, sunshine.” Henri pressed his lips together and drew them into a smile so sharp it could have been carved with a stiletto. “Welcome aboard.”
A chill washed down Birch’s spine, and he decided to keep his mouth shut until he could get the fuck away from this guy. Henri’s mood had swung from one extreme to the other so quickly it made Birch’s head spin.
With Henri pushing from the inside and a policeman pulling from the outside, they managed to open the door with a loud crunching sound. Since Birch’s door was jammed up against the rear of a parked police car, he had to wait for Henri to get out before climbing across and exiting from the passenger side.
As they were ushered into the police station, the general chatter made it clear that someone had called the chase in, and a police car had been on its way but had only caught up as they reached the station. From what he could tell, two units were currently pursuing the SUV.
Geoff Sayer waited for them at the front counter. “You must be Henri Morgan,” he said before addressing Birch. “Birch, how are you?”
Although he didn’t know the staff sergeant well, Birch had met him a few times. “I’ve been better. How’s your daughter’s horse?”
“Not how’s my daughter, but how’s her horse?” Geoff chuckled, which eased the sting of embarrassment. “They are both well.” Sayer opened the half-door, ushered them behind the counter, and directed them to an interview room. “Would either of you like a drink?”
“Beer,” Henri said with a theatrical wave. “The bars will probably be closed by the time we’re finished here.”
The sergeant replied with a smile. “How about we settle for coffees all around?”
Birch snapped his mouth shut and turned his disbelieving gaze to Geoff. “Water will be fine. Thanks.”
“Two coffees and a water,” Geoff said to someone behind them before waving them into the room. “Take a seat.”
Birch wondered at the way the interview room was set up. Not the adversarial way they always showed on TV, but with a chair at the head of the table and one to either side. Geoff settled himself at the head of the table, leaving Birch and Henri to sit opposite each other.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Lemalu, and to Interpol, which has issued a Red Notice for Russell Andrews.”
“What does that mean?” Birch asked.
Henri gestured at Birch. “Do we have to do this with him here?”
Birch’s face heated with anger. “Who the hell almost got themselves killed trying to help you?” He considered jumping the table and smacking Henri upside the head.
Henri gave a sharp laugh. “If he wanted us dead, we wouldn’t be breathing. He was just making sure I’m aware he’s here. That was his equivalent of a wave hello,” and then he muttered to himself, “like a bullet wasn’t enough.” He looked at Birch. “But hey, I did try to stop you, remember? Regardless, you really don’t want me making a statement while you’re here; some of my crazy might rub off on you.”
“Gentlemen,” the sergeant interrupted, gesturing for calm. “Let’s get this done as easily and quickly as we can.” He turned to Henri. “We can take statements separately, but Birch needs to know what is potentially going on.”
“Potentially? There is no question!”
“Perhaps not to you, Mr. Morgan, but we can’t act on your assumptions. We have to be open to the idea it might be someone else.”
“Fuck-ing idi-ots,” mumbled Henri. “And while you’re playing around looking for ‘someone else,’ Russell Andrews is plotting his arse off.” The sergeant stared at Henri, who finally flicked a dismissive hand. “Fine!”
The sergeant turned to Birch. “I believe you spoke to Mr. Lemalu on the phone?”
Birch calmed his breathing. “Is that Jason?” The sergeant nodded. “Yes, in that case, I did.”
The sergeant continued with his explanation. “Interpol are the International Police. The man suspected of chasing you is a criminal who escaped the High Risk Management Correctional Centre in Australia and is now believed to be in Ontario. As such, Interpol has put a Red Notice on him, meaning he is to be arrested and extradited to Australia.”
“So this guy’s been after you for a while?” Birch asked Henri.
“No.” Somehow Henri managed to infuse the syllable with a patronizing punch. “If you had been listening, you would have heard that he escaped prison.”
“Being imprisoned doesn’t mean he can’t be after you.” A modicum of satisfaction swept through Birch when Henri tipped his head in acquiescence. Maybe the guy could accept reason after all.
“Birch,” began the sergeant, “when the senior constable returns, I’ll get you to go with him and give a statement. In the meantime, we need to discuss protection.”
Henri drew back and wrapped one arm around his waist. He shook his head and buried it in his other hand.
“What?” Birch’s anger was bordering on irrational, but Henri’s erratic demeanour was seriously pissing him off. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”
Rising to his feet abruptly, Henri began to pace the room. “Who is meant to do the protecting?” he asked the sergeant.
“We have a safe house, and several of my officers will be on detail.”
Henri stopped. “Police officers.” His derogatory tone shocked Birch.
“That’s as useful as a paper condom. You know this guy’s history, right? I know you are at least aware he escaped Goulburn, because you told him.” He flicked a finger towards Birch. “Police officers aren’t going to cut it. They’re not trained to deal with someone like Russell.”
“Mr. Morgan.” The sergeant’s icy tone demonstrated his lack of appreciation for Henri’s opinion of their skills. “I am well aware of the situation, and Mr. Lemalu has assured me he is on his way and will act as protection for you. And for Mr. Jacobs, if he so desires.”
“What? Why would I need protection?” Birch asked.
“In case you haven’t grasped the situation yet, a psycho is on the loose.” Henri began pacing again.
“Which one?” Because at this point Birch was thinking there was more than one of those involved.
Henri side-eyed him. “The dangerous one.” He leaned over the chair he’d sat on earlier and set both palms on the table. “I”—he waved a showy hand at himself—“am the friendly one.”
“Gentlemen! This isn’t helping.” The sergeant stood and signalled Birch from the room. “I’ll be back in a minute, Mr. Morgan.”
“I’ll be here,” Henri returned in a sarcastic sing-song manner.
“Sorry,” Birch said to Geoff once they were outside the interview room with the door closed. “But there is something wrong with that guy. Was he in the High Risk Management Correctional Centre too?”
“No, he’s not a criminal.”
“Oh, I thought the management centre might have been for, ah—” He paused to find the politically correct term. “—people with mental illness.”
“No, it’s yet another name for a supermax prison.” Geoff paused. “Birch, I’d like you to seriously consider taking the offered protection. This Russell Andrews isn’t a man to be messed with. He’s highly trained and dangerous.”
Birch didn’t care. He’d had enough and just wanted out of it. “Look, I don’t really have anything to do with this. If I’d known how hot and cold this guy ran”—he tipped his head towards the interview room—“I would have stayed right away.” Hot and cold was a polite way of viewing Henri’s mood extremes: from panic attack, to nonchalance, to dressing down the police.
“I understand.” Geoff’s tone suggested he understood on more levels than he was letting on. “But are you sure I can’t convince you to stay at the safe house?”
It all seemed over-the-top. One episode that amounted to a case of road rage and suddenly they were trying to get him to stay somewhere under police protection? It wasn’t like he was testifying against the mafia or anything.
“I think the best thing is if I give a statement and go home.”
“Well, if you change your mind, just call.” Geoff led Birch down the hall to another interview room. “Your pickup has been towed to the mechanics for assessment, so once you’ve made your statement, I’ll have Evan drive you home.”
“Thanks, Geoff. And say hi to your daughter.”
The staff sergeant smiled. “Will do. Look after yourself, Birch.”
Chapter 3
“MR. MORGAN,” the sergeant began when he reentered the room. “I understand how you must feel.”
“I doubt that very much!”
The sergeant cleared his throat. “No, you’re right, I don’t. However, Birch Jacobs was just trying to help you. He didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”
“While I appreciate his help, right now manners mean very little to me. You have no idea what you are up against in Russell Andrews.”
“I think I have some idea.” He held up a wafer-thin file that Henri guessed contained some freshly faxed papers stating some bullshit military history to cover the real one, Russell’s military rank, discharge notes, charges that led to his imprisonment, and maybe a psychiatric report or two.
“After everything that’s happened, why is it so fucking hard to impress upon you people how dangerous he is?”
The sergeant put the file on the table and tapped it. “We’re aware how dangerous he is, Mr. Morgan.”
“There is nothing that can be written on a piece of paper that can hint at the man Russell Andrews really is.” Confronted with the sergeant’s stoic expression, Henri sighed. There was no point even trying. “Okay, great. Let’s get this statement done.”
Once Henri had made his statement, and while he waited for the promised lift back to his hotel, he organized a hire car he could pick up the following morning. Although he’d been told the forensic examination on his vehicle would be conducted as quickly as possible, he was well aware how slow “quickly” could be.
Since he’d declined accommodation at the safe house, the sergeant insisted on having a detail watch the hotel. To Henri, any “protection” the OPP could offer was next to useless, but it might provide a red herring for Russell—enough for Henri to get a head start at least.
Arriving back at the hotel, Henri paid up for the next two days, went to his room, and packed his belongings. If Russell was monitoring his bank accounts, he would see the receipt for the room, which would at least give him pause.
With his long hair and a large rucksack, it was unlikely he was going to be able to meld into a crowd—not that there were crowds in a town as small as Dakib. He tucked his hair up under a hat and left via the fire escape during the small hours of the morning.
He waited in the park near the car-hire place until it was nearly opening time, then went to an ATM and withdrew a thousand dollars so that once he left Dakib, there would be no electronic trail for Russell to follow.
Once he’d picked up the car, he drove north. He didn’t care exactly where. He just needed to be far from Russell, at least until he could meet up with Jason. Since he didn’t know where he was going, there was no way Russell could know. A calling card and a car chase and he was right back to the paranoia he’d been so intimate with three years ago. He slammed his hands on the wheel repeatedly. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He had everything he needed for camping except some food, and he could pay cash for that at a town farther up, along with a map of potential campsites. Maybe he wouldn’t bother with a designated campsite; he could always go bush.
BIRCH RELEASED the colt he’d been working with into a small paddock and headed back towards the stable block.
“Birch!” He turned to find the training facilities manager, Jerry Owens, heading his way. “Have you got a minute?”
“For the man that loaned me his pickup? Anything! What do you need?” Despite his teasing tone, he was truly grateful Jerry had loaned him his personal vehicle until he could organize a cheap one. Even once the police were finished with his, the panel beater would have to assess whether it was worth salvaging.
Yesterday’s events were so surreal. A day later and he was still no closer to believing the beloved pickup that had served him loyally for the past ten years was now a wreck. Who would think things could go so wrong from simply trying to help someone talk on the phone? Henri Morgan and Russell Andrews were the only Australians he’d ever encountered, and if they were anything to judge their fellow countrymen by, he never wanted to meet another one. The pair of them were maniacs.
He didn’t envy Geoff Sayer having to deal with that problem. Geoff was probably still trying to slow his brain after dealing with mad Morgan’s mood swings.
“A mare came in the other day, and we can’t do a damn thing with her,” said Jerry once he’d caught up to Birch. Jerry gestured for Birch to walk with him.
“What’s her story?”
Jerry glanced behind him and lowered his voice. “She’s a rescue.”
“Is that a secret?”
Jerry allowed a guilty chuckle. “She’s not really supposed to be here, but I figured what old man Taylor doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
With a smile, Birch shook his head. He didn’t like dishonesty, but he was less keen on an animal being needlessly killed. “So what’s the cover story? Just in case I’m asked.”
“How about a b
rood mare sent here because the stud couldn’t handle her?”
Despite knowing very little about horses, Seb Taylor owned three horse properties in the area: the stud, the equine centre with the show horses, and this property where the racehorses and those with severe behavioural problems were agisted. “You do know I work there as well, and Seb keeps an eye on the horses that come and go. He doesn’t bother with this property often because you try so hard to keep him away from the horses here.”
“Someone has to,” said Jerry. “The man is a menace.”
“Tell me about it. He alone generates more problem horses than all my other customers put together. In fact, without Seb contributing to my workload, I’d probably have a hard time staying in business,” Birch said, only half-joking.
Jerry led him out to a round yard where a tall bay mare stood looking over the railing towards the paddocks.
“Is she dangerous?” Birch leaned against the railing and watched the mare. She could have done with a bit more weight, but otherwise she looked in reasonable condition.
“Don’t really know. I had a hell of a time trucking her here. But she kind of called to me, you know?”
“Yeah. That’s how I ended up with my dog, Cortez.” Just thinking of the wayward mongrel’s antics caused a smile to tug at the corners of Birch’s mouth.
“So what is the main problem?” Birch asked as he climbed through the railing.
“Generally, she just doesn’t like being handled. I think that was why she was on the kill list.”
Seeing the slightly odd way the mare moved her hindquarters, Birch tilted his head to see if a change of perspective helped. He moved to view her from the side. “She looks like one side of her hip is farther forward than the other.”
“I can’t see anything.”
With a soothing tone, Birch ensured the mare was aware of his presence. He hooked the rope he’d used on the colt over his shoulder and adopted a calm, purposeful approach. She allowed him near but avoided his touch. Continuing to speak gently, he tried again. This time she flinched but let him stroke her shoulder. She held her head high, the whites of her eyes showing as they rolled back in fear.
