by Garry Disher
The note was snatched away. ‘Got you,’ the valet said, understanding that this was some kind of harmless prank. He shot the Lexus towards the parking booth.
Then Pepper was in the driver’s seat, edging out on to Hastings Street, and Wyatt was grinding the barrel of the Ruger into the back of his neck. ‘Hello, Jack.’
Pepper jumped in fright, almost losing control. ‘You fuck,’ he shrieked.
‘I want you to turn left, down to the spit,’ Wyatt said patiently. ‘Keep your cool, drive slowly, take your time.’
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘It’s a narrow street, so mind the pedestrians and parked cars. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’
Pepper dug into his jacket and tugged uselessly at his pistol. It caught in the pocket. The car shot left, hit a Range Rover, shot back across the road and mounted the footpath. Wyatt didn’t want to risk a head shot at this range. It would mean an exit wound and blood and brain matter over the glass. He lowered the pistol to a point under Pepper’s armpit and pulled the trigger. Pepper said, ‘Oh,’ and coughed and writhed and seemed to shrink against the door.
Wyatt tucked the pistol in his waistband, pulled the shirt hem over it and climbed out of the car. Pedestrians gaped at him. He said shakily, ‘Has anyone got a phone? I think my friend’s had a heart attack.’
People swarmed the car and he took a step back and another until he was merely another bystander. He saw a woman open Pepper’s door. Hands reached in. Wyatt edged further back.
And then he was on the outside of the circle, slipping through a gap between the bayside buildings and up over the low dune onto the harder sand at the edge of the water. He walked to the spit where the sea boiled between Noosa Sound and Laguna Bay and there was the Corolla, locked, nothing inside it and no one in sight. He felt around under the wheel arch and found the keys resting on top of the tyre. Wyatt straightened, glanced around the semi-deserted area, registering nothing, and stepped to the rear of the car. Lifted the hatch, the floor mat, and there beside the spare tyre was his Hans Heysen and a brown paper bag containing his $50,000.
That was pretty much the best outcome he could expect, the business he was in, and far from home.
