by Finn Bell
“How about you?” Tobe says in a gentle tone to Annabelle, who seems transfixed, staring at the picture of Remu Black’s face.
“No, I’m sorry,” Annabelle replies. Then, with her voice shaking, asks, “Is this him?”
“I’m afraid we don’t know yet Annabelle, we’re still trying to figure things out,” Tobe answers.
“Dad will be ok,” Kylie says, reaching across her mother to put her hands on her sister’s.
“But it’s so cold and dad didn’t take his coat. I saw it there when they took us away. He needs his coat! It’s his good one and it smells like him,” Annabelle says with growing emotion as she wrestles her hands free of her sister’s and grabs the print out of Remu Black’s face with both hands.
“Bella honey, let go,” her mother says gently, but doesn’t try to take the picture from her.
“It’s so cold,” Annabelle repeats, a note of anger in her voice now, eyes never leaving Remu Black’s picture as her knuckles turn white, gripping the edge of the image.
They don’t train you for this. About how to lie to kids. Especially when you know it’s much more than likely that the last, awful memory they have of seeing their father is going to be their last memory of their father.
Tobe’s better with people than me, he says nothing, does nothing. So I follow his lead.
“It’s Dad, remember? Everything is going to be ok, we just have to keep believing,” Kylie says to her sister, the conviction in her voice and the determined smile stubbornly refuting the tears streaming down her face.
Andrea Chen winces visibly as she brings her arms up, slowly pulling each child closer to her.
“What does Dad always say?” she says to them in a soft, intimate voice.
“If we love each other as much as we can—” Annabelle says before choking on her emotions as she finally lets go of Remu Black’s picture.
“—everything will be ok,” Kylie finishes as they hang their heads together, creating a sad, intimate moment of peace not meant for us.
Tobe collects the images and puts them back in the folder without a word. He steps away, nodding to me.
“We’ll do our best to find him, I promise,” I say to them as we make our exit, putting as much false faith in my voice as I can muster. But I’m not as good at believing as they are. As I reach the door I look back at them, but their eyes are already back on the picture book. Where everything is going to be ok in the end.
As I close their door behind me my hands start shaking again. I can’t help but think of those poor kids, that poor woman. Because they’re fucked. You can already feel it. There’s a momentum to tragedy we all know. Nobody likes to admit it but we’ve all seen it, seen things happen to people we know did nothing to deserve it. Secretly relieved that at least it’s not happening to us. Like sometimes the world just gets a taste for hurting you. It doesn’t matter what you do. First you start to lose your son, your brother. You give up everything, your whole life – houses, money, friends – just to save him. Only to have the world take him a different way as soon as he’s better. Then you lose your husband, your dad.
I wonder if they’ll still believe what he always told them when this is over.
Standing in the busy hospital corridor, Tobe and I share a tired, wordless look when my phone rings and I see Becca Patrick’s name on the screen.
“Somebody should make an app that lets you delete your number out of other people’s phones,” I say to Tobe before I answer.
“Nick, it’s Becca. It’s been hours and no media conference, what gives? And then I have to hear, on the fucking news thank you very much, that there’s an abduction call out for James Chen. What are you guys up to?” Becca asks.
“Oh, you know, walking the path of light, but with breaks for donuts,” I reply.
“Come on Nick, we had a deal,” Becca says.
“And we still do, but like we said you can have whatever comes through GIC. Nothing has yet. That report went out from the main office,” I say.
“Fine. But I’m not feeling the love Nick. You and Tobe better take care of me or I’m done sharing my toys. And as it happens I have just found the very best-est one,” Becca says.
“Ooh nice pitch, please hold while I confer with the judges,” I say before putting my hand over the phone.
“Becca Patrick says she’s got something; she sounds way too pleased with herself. But she’s going to want something for it,” I say to Tobe as we move to a quieter part of the hospital.
Tobe takes a moment to consider things before saying, “Give her Remu Black. Confidential source within the investigation. Identified as the main suspect in the likely abduction of James Chen.”
“Going public like this could really hurt us if it all goes sideways,” I counter.
“Nick, we passed that point this morning when that house exploded and we killed all those people. Odds are already against us of finding James Chen alive or at all. The only lead we’ve got is Remu Black. We push it through Becca and it’s on every TV, radio and cell phone. Plus, she’s got money to bribe the wrong people, which means we are increasing the odds of Remu hearing about it before he pulls the trigger,” Tobe replies.
“Yeah, but if we’re wrong and it’s not Remu holding him and the real kidnapper hears the report, it may just make him comfortable enough to put James in the ground, thinking that we’re after the wrong guy,” I say.
“No bounce no play,” Tobe says, looking back at me steadily.
“Thank you for holding caller,” I say as I get back on the phone with Becca. “Ok, so you’ve got something. Turns out we do too. What do you say we put all this pettiness behind us?” I ask.
“Deal, but I’m skittish now Nick. You go first,” Becca replies.
“Ok. I’ve got the name of the main suspect in the current kidnapping of James Chen ready to be leaked by a confidential source,” I tell her.
“Oh, and I’ve got the only man in the south missing this morning that nobody is looking for,” Becca shoots back.
“Provocative,” I remark. “Time to give it up I guess.”
“Remu Black,” I say.
“Sam Black,” Becca says.
“Eek! I fucking knew it!” Becca says with the excitement of a true journalist busy turning other people’s tragedy into her own career success.
“Could you bubble slightly less and run that by me again,” I say, putting the phone on speaker so that Tobe can hear it as well.
“Look, I’ve got a few nurses we pay for emergency room tip offs, you know, embarrassing pictures of the rich and famous coming out of the hospital after that inconvenient DUI or domestic bust up. A while back one of them gets transferred to the palliative care wing. Anyway, she gave me a call this morning to tell me that Sam Black, terminal with cancer and on twice-a-week dialysis for his kidneys, is missing from his hospital bed this morning. Best guess is he disappeared sometime last night. I didn’t think much of it at first but then I remembered the surnames of the dead gangsters Tobe kindly shared with me this morning and it didn’t take long to connect the dots. Aren’t you lucky I like you guys?” Becca finishes happily.
“Let me get this straight, and adding in the word ‘allegedly’ for shits and giggles, you’re saying it looks like Sam Black, currently dying and former gang hard man, and all round horrible person, who is what, in his eighties now? Goes missing from his hospital bed on the same night that two of his three sons get themselves killed in a botched hostage drama while his last surviving boy runs off into the wild with Andrew Chen?” I state, looking at a faint smile of satisfaction forming on Tobe’s face.
“Damn it, it sounds even better when I hear somebody else say it. Especially now that I can throw Remu Black’s name and scary face in there too. You’ve got to let me run with this! It’s just too fucking big. This will be breaking news. I can have a TV spot together in about 15 minutes. Pretty sure it’ll get us a special bulletin, maybe even all channels,” Becca says, laughing.
&nb
sp; “Becca, knock yourself out,” I say as I hang up, wondering what is going on here.
“Call Maud, I’m doing Martin,” Tobe says as he leads the way down to the palliative care wing, phone already pressed to his ear.
“Maud, Nick,” I greet when he answers. “I hope you’ve got enough nicotine gum for Martin.”
* * *
“How’d Martin take it?” I ask Tobe as I finish my call with Maud.
“He seemed angry but in a good way,” Tobe replies. “You’ve got Maud briefed?”
“Yup. He’s getting the whole Tech team plus about 20 extra Uniforms to trawl through the camera feeds for last night across the whole city. He’s confident there’s no way Sam Black could disappear from here without us seeing it. It’s just a matter of time before we find it,” I say. Although I’ve got no clue what it will mean when we do.
“Given the balance of considerations I’d say we can conclude that Remu Black is indeed our key suspect,” Tobe says as we get in the elevator.
“True, I’ll give you that, but what’s going on? It’s like the more pieces of the puzzle we get, the less any of them make sense. And none of this gets us closer to saving James Chen,” I say. My mind flashes back to Andrea, Kylie and Annabelle huddled together, looking at the picture book.
“Between pushing Albus Maihi and getting word outthrough Becca, I believe we are doing all we can for now,” Tobe says.
As the elevator doors open on the palliative care wing we’re immediately greeted by Miha, our favourite nurse. A Māori woman in her late fifties with a big smile on top of a huge heart, set in an even bigger body. The kind of person who would have made it all the way to the top of her profession if only she wasn’t so fearlessly honest in calling bullshit bullshit. It seems an odd thing, finding nurses and doctors, people fighting daily to keep others alive, who at the same time themselves eat, drink and smoke like there’s no tomorrow. Like it doesn’t really matter. But you encounter it quite often. Maybe that’s what seeing people die every day does to you.
“Yeah, Sam Black, of course I know him. Crazy old bugger,” Miha nods after we explain why we’re here.
“I wasn’t on shift when it happened. Last time I saw him was last night at seven. But it’s been all the talk here. They checked on him at midnight and he was asleep, then they do the 3:00 a.m. rounds and he’s gone. Left everything behind – shoes, clothes, even his paintings. Already had the cops here middle of last night. Hospital manager is shitting bricks of course, and we hear the lawyers are going at it up in administration. But they can’t pin this on us. They’re the ones who made all the staff cut backs,” she adds, sounding happy with the thought.
“His paintings?” I prompt.
“Yeah, he paints landscapes, people, anything really. It helps distract him from the pain. He was getting pretty good. Usually his family takes them home but they haven’t visited this week. I don’t think he’s coming back,” Miha says.
“You think he left on his own?” Tobe asks.
“Don’t know if he could manage it on his own, he’s pretty sick now. But maybe,” Miha says.
“When you saw him last night did anything seem different, did he seem upset? Anything happen recently? Anything out of the ordinary about last night or the last few days?” I ask.
“Well, he’s dying and in pain and his family can only afford to come see him once every few weeks so he’s pretty much always upset. I don’t reckon there was anything different to him last night. Just old and tired and getting worse. It’s the dialysis machine you see. He’s on twice-a-week drains now, wears them out. Once you’re on that it’s basically all downhill. You keep hurting more, keep getting more tired and then you die,” Miha states.
“Without treatment, how long has he got?” I ask.
“He’s pretty frail already but he just had a drain yesterday so I’d say if he can stand the pain, maybe six or seven days before he dies. But really, it’ll be over long before then. See, if he doesn’t get on the dialysis machine again within the next three days, his blood will go toxic past the point of saving him. Dead man walking,” she answers, then continues in a happier tone. “I’m happy he ran honestly, and I don’t care who knows it. Good or bad he’s old now, he’s had his life. Nothing we can do for him and he knows it. Why lie here waiting if you can be out there living to the last? I hope he gets drunk and laid and dies laughing.”
* * *
THE TWO MEN IN THE DARK
The rope around my wrists is finally loosening. I can feel a sliver more space between them each time I flex my arms. The skin on my wrists rubbed raw hours ago, burning in the cold. It will take a long time to free my hands but I can feel it happening. I know it’s real now. I have a chance. He’s still talking to me, doesn’t stop. I reply when he prompts me but mostly I think he talks because he has things to say, things he’s telling himself more than me.
Getting rid of the blindfold would be quick and easy; it’s the rope around my neck he’s leading me with that’s important though. It’s some kind of slip knot, something that can get bigger and smaller. I’ve felt it tighten chokingly when he pulls on it but when we’re walking it becomes slack again. What I don’t know is whether it will allow enough slack for me to free my head. Or how long this would take. I would need to get it off fast, before he notices. There’s no way I could fight him off or escape if he still has his hands on that rope. He mostly keeps in front of me, close, only ever a few steps away. I can’t tell through the blindfold how often he looks back at me but from the sound of his voice I guess it doesn’t happen much. I know he has a gun. And I’m cold and tired and I don’t know where we are, but I don’t have a choice.
My family needs me.
We’re moving across rough country. The best time to make my move would be when we’re going downhill, somewhere steep. When he’s in front of me and below me. I plan things in the dark behind the blindfold: wait for the path to drop down, get my hands free, rip off the blindfold, free my neck, then attack from behind. As he keeps up the grinding pace I go through each step in my mind. Again and again. Loosening the rope around my hands with each thought. Hands, eyes, neck, attack.
* * *
THE STORM
The fire now sits low and angry on top of the fuel tanks, having rapidly consumed everything else in reach. Cinder-black skeletons creaking in its wake as the cold freezes them brittle. Turning red-hot ember to grey-white coal so fast it barely has time to smoulder as the flames wink out again.
But the heat has found a home now, roiling orange and red below a solid pillar of black smoke as it gnawingly melts its way past the main tap seal on the tank.
The air itself strains as it’s pulled in from all sides. Dragged from close to minus 40 degrees Celsius as it speeds in over the ice to near 1000 degrees at the inferno’s heart. With nowhere else to go the immense energy spears straight up in a massive whirlwind of spiralled, dirty smoke flung up thousands of feet into the frozen sky.
Here it’s caught by the high winds, which themselves now take the first, stirring steps in an ever-increasing sprint as gravity pulls them from the heights of the South Pole’s landmass and flings them out and down onto the flat ice shelf below. Where they howl across the vast whiteness, climbing still, pushed higher as the cold world below pushes away the alien heat.
* * *
TOBE AND NICK
It should have warmed up by now, but the windless cold outside the hospital entrance hits us like a wall. So harsh it tightens around my chest, shortening my stride, shallowing each breath. It seems darker than earlier too.
“It’s getting worse,” I say, checking my watch to see that it’s already well past midday.
“Unusual this close to Easter. Let’s hope it doesn’t snow,” Tobe says, limping ahead of me and peering at the heavy clouds.
“If it does, the search and rescue will become a search and recovery,” I say. There’s almost nothing between the South Pole and us, with both ocean currents and high win
ds willing and frequently able to dump massive amounts of cold on us almost without warning. Temperatures here can drop as much as 15 degrees Celsius in less than an hour, which can easily turn even the most earnest kidnapping attempt into someone eventually finding frozen bodies thawing in the wild.
“At least the cold will slow them down, maybe make catching up to them easier,” Tobe remarks.
“That’s assuming we find the trail again. But yeah, maybe, put this cold on top of last night’s rain and the early morning frost and there’ll be a whole lot of frozen mud out there for them to get through wherever they’re going,” I say as we get back in the car.
“Speaking of frozen mud,” Tobe says as he checks the computer screen for updates. “Our names are on the priority all-assist call for the search and rescue.”
“Please tell me we’ve got some priority left,” I say, already knowing we don’t. A priority all-assist call means it’s important and urgent and you’re only allowed to ignore the call if you’ve got something even better to do. Which right now we don’t.
“Can you see any angle we’re not working?” Tobe asks.
“Nah, if we had more time I’d say let’s lean on smaller gangsters, maybe some family, but not now,” I answer.
“Agreed, nothing left for us to do to further things here and now,” Tobe says. “We’ll head out to Lawrence again. See Martin and then link up with the search teams.”
“Third time’s a charm,” I say as I head to Lawrence. Again.
* * *
We find Martin in muddy gumboots and a bright, oversized daffodil-patterned hat among a smattering of pop-up tents and emergency vehicles in the Lawrence sports grounds, banging on the side of a megaphone. He’s looked happier.
“Welcome to our fucking nightmare,” Martin says as he spots us through the busy crowd of similarly flower-hatted people, before yelling over his shoulder, “Maud! Get me one that works.”
