Wyatt - 03 - Death Deal

by Garry Disher

  Then her eyes snapped open and she freed herself. Got any good books, lawyer lady?

  Anna sat down. I havent got a thing.

  You can have a loan of my Dragonspell Saga.

  Thanks.

  Evie said, I got Dean Koontz.

  Thanks.

  They were silent. Anna could feel the force of Lauris above her, the womans fearlessness and her black eyes.

  Hey.

  Anna looked up. Yes?

  When we write letters and that, appeals, would you help us?

  Official letters?

  Lauris nodded. You need the right words. We dont know the words. A dictionarys no help.

  Anna said, Ill see what I can do.

  It works both ways. You help us, we help you, Lauris said.

  Anna looked at each of them. They were watching her. Ive already had offers of help.

  Blaze said, By Van Fleet, I bet.

  Anna nodded.

  Lauris said, If youre in with Van Fleet, thats it, finito. She made a slicing motion with the flat of her hand.

  I told her to fuck off.

  Blaze giggled. Bad news. Youll be cleaning dunnies the rest of the year.

  Anna said lightly, Well, we can always escape.

  They went still. Eventually Blaze said, You could, maybe. Youd manage on the outside. We couldnt. Where would we go?

  Anna looked up. Lauris was watching her. She was like Wyatt, a mind prober. Then Lauris said unexpectedly, Well help you survive in here.

  Survive, Anna said flatly.

  Your looks, youre dead meat, fuckin A. Lauris reached out her hand and Anna willed herself to keep still. She felt Lauriss fingers pluck at her hair; the touch was gentle. Thisl have to come off.

  Blaze giggled. You fem it up around here you wont last five minutes.

  Lauris grinned. Im the hairdresser in here. Doing my certificate.

  Anna weighed her up. All her senses were alert. The women made her feel wary but they were potential allies. She gave a short, abrupt, reluctant nod.

  Blaze and Evie went with her to the little hairdressing salon the next morning. Lauris and one other woman worked there, hours 9 am to 10 am. Anna heard the scissors at the back of her neck, saw her hair fall until she was transformed.

  After that, she wrote letters for them. She gave legal advice. She helped in other ways. Whenever she went anywhere, one or other of the three women stayed at her side. It was not a claiming gesture or an explicit warning-off, but the message was clear enough: Anna Reid is with us.

  It didnt always save her. On Thursday she was standing in the refectory queue with Evie. A group of inmates jostled Evie, said, Where you going, boong? one eye watching to see what Anna would do.

  The leader was a tall woman who called herself Petra, an athlete busted for supplying steroids. She wore a gym-slip, bottle-blonde hair cascading around her shoulders. Anna targeted her, ignoring the other women. Grinning broadly, she stuck out her right hand. This flustered Petra, who frowned, made to shake hands with Anna. What Anna did then was textbook smooth. She turned her right shoulder to Petra, simultaneously dropping, bending and reaching around with her other hand.

  If Petra had been a small woman, it might have worked. Instead, Anna staggered and fell, and Petras crowd moved in, their feet lashing. Custodial officers broke it up but Anna was bruised and shaken and for hours afterwards she could hear Petra, feel the spittle on her face: Youre history.

  She stayed in her cell. Lauris, Blaze and Evie had advice for her, not comfort. You didnt back down, thats the main thing. Youll get your chance.

  Then, on Friday, a custodial officer sought her out. You got a visitor.

  Anna had grown up in Brisbane but there was no-one from that part of her life that she wanted to see. She went because she was curious, expecting a journalist, a legal aid lawyer.

  What she got was Wyatt, dressed as a priest. And the look he gave her was not a killers look but one youd expect with the words, Ive come to get you out.

  * * * *

  Forty

  Wyatt heard her say softly, I didnt cross you.

  I know.

  She was sitting opposite him, a high flush to her cheeks, a shine to her eyes. Her whole face was alight, as though he were food and water to a dying woman.

  Stolle?

  Yes.

  You know for sure?

  Wyatt told her about Mostyn. Stolle got away.

  The cops have photographs of us. Stolle must have been watching us the whole time and saw a way to intercept the changeover and dob us in.

  Wyatt felt himself stiffen. Photographs. What photographs?

  He saw Anna check for curious ears in the visiting room. A dozen small tables and chairs, some armchairs, posters of rainforests on the walls. A couple of custodial officers joking with visitors and inmates nearby. Chairs scraping, laughter, kids running around. He was the only man but he was a priest so no-one looked twice at him. No-one was listening.

  Anna touched his sleeve. Dont worry. They dont know who you are, and the pictures of you are blurred. You interest the cops, though. They know Phelps and Riding couldnt have put this together.

  Wyatt stared at her hand. He remembered her bare skin, its colour and pliancy. Then he looked up. She wore an oversized T-shirt that concealed and flattened her body. It was torn here and there, a washed-out shade of black. Loose, worn, faded tracksuit pants hid the rest of her. Shed done something to her hairor had it done to her. A brush cut on top, shaved close to the scalp on either side, woven tendrils reaching down between her shoulder blades. It was a tough jailhouse outfit and she looked coldly sexual in it.

  What did you tell them?

  Frown lines appeared between her eyes and she pulled away. Nothing. I resent it that youd think I would tell them anything. Thats why you came back, isnt it? Not for me. You wanted to know how much they knew about you. You thought I might be a liability, might swing a deal with them or something.

  Wyatt didnt answer. He said, I want to get you out. Are you okay for the time being?

  Ive got friends.

  His stare was flat so she elaborated. Im not prison pussy, if thats what youre thinking. All this she plucked at her T-shirt and touched her hairmakes sense in here, thats all. And I kind of like it.

  Wyatt said nothing. He changed the subject. What did the cops tell you about the character who tried to jump us at the bank?

  They asked, did I do coke? Did I smoke the dreaded weed? His name was Ian Lovell and he was a dealer.

  Stolle wouldnt have sent him into the bank, not when he intended to grab everything at the university.

  Some kind of wild card?

  Wyatt played back the fiasco at the bank. He remembered the pointed way in which Nurse had emptied the banks revolver into Lovell, as if something very, very personal was going on. I guess so. It doesnt matter.

  Wyatt, Im sorry.

  Wyatt gave a short head jerk of irritation. You didnt apologise for stuff-ups you hadnt caused. And the stuff-ups you did cause should always have good reasons behind them. He said, We have to get you out.

  Again that frown, looking for his motives. I hope this isnt just so you can silence me for good.

  You want to stay in here?

  Dejection showed in her face. He realised that she was losing her natural colour, gaining a prison greyness. Her voice soul-sick and low, she said, Ill wither up and die in here. Its privately-run, but that doesnt mean much. Ive got friends but I cant watch my back all the time. She looked fully at him. I cant bear it, Wyatt.

  Careful. Father Kennedy.

  They both glanced around the room. No-one was paying them any attention. It brought back her humour. Some priest.

  Wyatt looked too weather-beaten and rough around the edges to be a scholarly priest or an ambitious one or an ingrate in a wealthy diocese. The effect he had aimed at was prison visitor, a long-faced, stoop-shouldered man who probably grew vegetables and devoted his time to the kind of heartache cases that no-one else
would touch. There had been priests like that around in his childhood.

  Just then Wyatt became aware of a shift in the rooms atmosphere. He looked across at a table by the door. A woman was talking to the people there, an inmate and her mother, and it was clear that they resented her but could not tell her to shove off. It was a curious tableau, almost like a pimp touching base with whores.

  Anna confirmed it. Oh God, not her.

  Who is she?

  She works here. She put the hard word on me the moment I came inside. Shes convinced I know where the money is and will want to channel some of it her way. You know, in case I want extra cigarettes, a Walkman, silk knickers, an office job instead of peeling vegies, uppers, downers, some marijuana to sprinkle in my roll-your-own tobacco.

  Wyatt watched the woman. She wore a mauve suit, the jacket gathered tight at the waist, the skirt slit at the back. A filmy scarf frothed at her throat and she wore big tinted glasses with fussy, angular, gold-speckled frames. Her hair was dark, permed into a cloud around her head. Somewhere under all the frills there was a calculating heart.

  What did you say to her?

  I said fuck off and the result was Ive been peeling vegies ever since and some inmates tried to heavy me.

  The woman looked up, saw Anna, saw the priest with her, and smiled.

  Brace yourself.

  Wyatt watched as the woman threaded her way among the tables. The inmates and their visitors kept their eyes lowered and stopped talking, relaxing only when it was clear the woman had someone else in her sights.

  Anna, how are things with you today?

  Anna said stonily, Go away.

  Arent you going to introduce me?

  Father Kennedy, Anna said.

  The woman gushed over Wyatt. An enamelled name-plate on her lapel read Lesley Van Fleet. There was lipstick on her teeth, cracks in her make-up.

  Annas settling in very well here, Father. She knows that if I can help her, I will. Anything at all, she only has to ask.

  Van Fleet was watching Wyatt but it was all aimed at Anna. He could see the womans love of manipulation and imagined her house, a life surrounded by pampering luxuries paid for with inmates money.

  Youre very kind, he said.

  When Van Fleet drifted off to another table, he said, Theres your ticket out.

  * * * *

  Forty-one

  At eight oclock that evening, Van Fleet said immediately, Its not enough.

  Wyatt regarded her calmly. Apparently she cast off the veneer when she went home at the end of the day. Her face was free of make-up, giving it a diminished, unprotected look, reinforced by the puffball slippers on her feet and a pair of pink silk pyjamas. She had been smoking when Wyatt found her. Hed picked her back door lock, proceeded noiselessly through the house with his gun out, and come upon her in an armchair reading a book. The cigarette sat unfinished in an ashtray and she picked up a sherry glass.

  Nowhere near enough.

  Not Get out of my house . . . Who do you think you are? . . . No, Ill never do it or Ill tell the police. He had promised her money and she had wanted it at once.

  Wordlessly he counted out another five thousand dollars. The first five, crisp twenties and fifties, was neatly stacked in front of her.

  I knew you werent a priest. I could tell.

  Shed had a few drinks. They hadnt softened her, just increased her sourness. The money and her acceptance of it reminded her that she hated herself, but she also had a kind of sneering contempt for Wyatt and knew the cards were stacked in her favour. People like you, you make me sick.

  Wyatt counted out the money a note at a time.

  Think youre Bonnie and Clyde. Youre just scum. Give me one of those poor husband-killers any day.

  Wyatt looked at her. Theres envy there somewhere, he thought. Shes stuck, thinks shes missed out. He took in the room: soft falls of curtain over the window, fluffy white hearthrug, a pink tinge in the wallpaper and plenty of cold, clean white paint on the skirting boards, doors and mantelpiece. Small porcelain milkmaids and shepherds were grouped on an antique sideboard. The lounge suite was new, stuffed cream leather couch and armchairs. She was listening to a syrupy FM station and reading a fat paperback called Siren Song.

  Ten thousand, he said.

  She sipped her sherry, staring at the second bundle of banknotes on her coffee table. Her fingernails were like talons, albino pink, and he saw her slip one between stiff, lacquered waves and scratch her scalp. The sound was audible across the room.

  She looked up at him. Tell me again.

  Wyatt told her.

  She folded her arms. Nope. Not enough. Too much risk.

  Wyatt bundled the money into one pile and put it in his pocket. He didnt look at her, didnt speak. He was in the doorway when she called out: Wait a minute.

  He paused with his back to her.

  Fifteen thousand, she said.

  Wyatt came back into the room. He sat down, put the ten thousand dollars in front of her and said, Ten.

  Make it twelve.

  Wyatt had been prepared to go to fifteen. What mattered most was that she wanted the money badly enough whether it was five or fifteen. He waited a while, then counted out another two thousand dollars.

  Theres your twelve.

  Van Fleet drank greedily and refilled her glass. Wyatt could smell day-old perfume, cigarette smoke and sweet sherry, and hated it. He wanted to get out of there but this was just the beginning.

  Van Fleet folded her arms again. Okay. Ill need three days to set it up. Well need a room, notices, the education officers permission. More than anything, the paperwork has to look right, as if I couldnt be blamed for thinking the offer looked genuine so I passed it on to the education officer.

  I understand.

  Call me tomorrow.

  She reached across to pick up the money but he got to it first. It went into his pocket and a wail of loss and privation broke from Van Fleet. No!

  Wyatt stood and looked down at her. He took the money out. Ill give you a thousand. The rest you get on the day itself.

  He could see her working out the profit and loss. In case you decide to keep the thousand and report to the cops, remember two things: twelve thousand is better than one thousand, and he showed her his gun again I kill people.

  Van Fleets mouth went down in a sulk and she snatched the thousand from him. Let yourself out.

  Wyatt changed hotels twice in the following three days. He telephoned Van Fleet several times. When she finally said that she was ready, he shaved his head and paid a pharmacist to put a ring in each ear. He bought hundred-dollar jeans, a seventy-dollar shirt, and black lace-up boots stitched with yellow thread. He bought a baseball cap in a surf shop, a scuffed briefcase in a junk shop and a bundle of second-hand books with titles like Style Manual and Plotting Your Way to Success.

  Van Fleet picked him up the next day at twelve-thirty. She did not comment on his appearance but held out her hand for the money. Instead, he counted out five thousand dollars and stuffed them into a post office jiffy-bag that had a stamp and her name and address on it. He knew that greed crawled in her and he was stringing it out. Theres a letterbox on the corner.

  She stopped the car while he got out and dropped the jiffy-bag in the slot. He got back in the car.

  You still owe me six thousand. I want it now.

  Think, Wyatt said. Theyll check you out, theyll have to. Do you want them finding six thousand dollars in your bra or in the glovebox of your car? He had a second jiffy-bag, prepaid but unaddressed. He put the money inside it and stuffed it in his briefcase. Weve reached the point where it has to be trust on both sides, all the way. If you try to warn anyone at the prison, Ill tell the cops to check your mail tomorrow. If all goes well, Ill post this as soon as were out.

  Think youre so smart.

  That was all she said. They got to the prison at twelve-fifty-five, timed to coincide with a shift change at the gate. He pocketed Van Fleets keys and tucked his gun unde
r the front seat of her car. She signed him in and he clipped a visitors pass to his shirt. They went through the metal detector, a door was buzzed open, and they were in.

  Library, Van Fleet said.

  Wyatt bounced on his toes as he walked. He wore the cap at a jaunty angle. At a couple of places in the corridor, posters had been pasted to the wall, advertising a workshop in the library, 1 pm sharp. He hoped that Anna had done her part.