by Garry Disher
The prison library was a broad, glass-walled room at the end of the corridor. The books were in grey metal stacks, their spines colour-coded according to subject area. Most were yellowfictionand most of these were fantasy novels. There were three large tables and a couple of computers. Posters and book jackets were taped to the glass between the shelves.
The room was occupied: Anna Reid and a brisk, efficient woman wearing an ID card bearing the words Education Officer. The woman said regretfully, I hope for your sake a few of the other inmates show up. It was such short notice, you see.
Wyatt gave her a careless grin. Im used to it.
Right, well, Ill leave you to it, shall I? This is my lunch break.
She bustled out, glancing amusedly at Wyatt, nodding at Van Fleet.
A moment later, three inmates slipped into the room. Annas friends. They were jittery, grinning, curious about Wyatt. Doesnt look your type, one of them said.
They moved quickly. A powerful woman nodded at him and stationed herself at the door. Her job was to dissuade anyone who thought the notices advertising the workshop were genuine. Wyatt could feel her scrutiny, her black eyes trying to penetrate him. His sex didnt interest her. His life lived in risk and walking in shadows did.
The other women took Van Fleet behind a protruding bookstack. He heard the snap and scrape of clothing against flesh. It took the women five minutes to get Anna into Van Fleets suit, blouse and stockings, shape a wig around her head, cake her face in make-up, fit the glasses to her face.
She came out looking like Van Fleet, carrying Van Fleets clipboard and satchel. Van Fleet was behind the bookstack, trussed and gagged.
Then the three women were gone. They touched Anna as they went and the lithe woman whod guarded the door said, Send us a postcard. They ignored Wyatt.
Wyatt followed Anna to the main gate. The time was ten minutes past one and the afternoon shift paid no attention as Anna scrawled in the book and Wyatt handed back his visitors pass. The gate clanged shut when they were halfway to Van Fleets car. Anna stumbled a little as though shed been shot and Wyatt heard a moan, low and relieved, in her throat.
* * * *
Forty-two
They had checked all along Broadbeach and Surfers Paradise. Stolle wasnt playing Jupiters or the Monte Carlo. That left the Flamingo, a place that didnt feature in the tourist brochures. Small, practically anonymous, the Flamingo was a casino with a hotel attached, fifty suites starting at one thousand dollars a night. Five levels, ten suites to a level, one ordinary gaming room on the ground floor and something for the high-rollers called the International Room. They learnt that Stolle was paying one thousand dollars a night for suite 306, and losing between fifty and one hundred thousand dollars a night in the International Room.
They checked in. Later Anna said, He won a million in the first week, and lost most of it two nights ago.
Wyatt ran his fingers the length of her spinal column. After a week in prison, she looked thinner. Her backside was small, tight and youthful, and as he stroked it she raised her hips from the bed.
The girl at the front desk told you all this?
With the help of a fifty dollar note. Theyre not well paid here. Management told them theyd get rich on tips but the big spenders dont like to tip.
What story did you give her?
Anna laughed, twisting her head around to look up at his face. I got the idea from Stolle himself. I said I was a private detective hired by his wife to gather proof about his level of income and spending for a divorce settlement.
Some expense account, accommodation at the Flamingo.
They had less than a thousand dollars left of the money that Wyatt had pocketed in Nurses vault. They had left Brisbane with three thousand and spent one thousand quickly buying a haircut for Anna and the kinds of luggage and clothing that would get them into the Flamingo. And a thousand for suite 506, two floors directly above Stolles. The balcony looked out on cliffs, marinas and curving yellow sand, but they werent there for the view.
Wyatts hand was ceaseless, down her long, supple spine to the backs of her thighs and slipping between them. Anna raised her rump and arched her back and reached under with her hand to find his. She clamped it where she wanted it until their hands were moving together, a ten-fingered hand pressing and probing. She said she wanted him inside her, straightaway, as she was, and he moved around on his knees, then forward and it was easy, a kind of gliding release.
She was the first to speak afterwards, leaning over him on her elbow when he was close to sleep: He doesnt keep it in his room.
He snapped awake. She saw his open eyes and went on: The hotel provides safety deposit boxes. The girl on the desk said Stolle was always going to his to buy more chips. Are you up to another raid, guns blazing?
He shook his head.
She flopped onto her back, fitting her flank to his. How are we going to do it, then?
They drifted into sleep. Wyatt woke again and this time he was clear and focused. We get him to take the money out for us.
She mumbled. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly. Not all of the strain had left her face, and her hair was very short now, like a cap on her skull, so that she looked small and drawn. He showered and dressed, letting her sleep.
She awoke while he was examining the lock. What are you doing?
He didnt answer. He poked his head into the corridor, saw that it was deserted, and began to work at the mechanism with his locksmiths picks. He gave up. The Flamingo had installed tricky locks in its doors, a deterrent to hotel thieves. It would take too long to break into Stolles room. He shut the door, Anna watching, thinking it through with him.
The balcony.
He nodded.
It was almost 5 pm, the sun sliding toward the hinterland horizon. They took a bus several kilometres to the Oasis Shopping Resort in the most garish part of the Gold Coast and bought leather work gloves, latex gloves, one pair of overalls, rope and a climbers harness.
At the hotel again, Wyatt waited in their room while Anna talked to her informant. She came back. Stolles in the International Room and has been most of the day. Apparently thats been the pattern all week. Hell stop for dinner at eight, and resume playing again at nine.
Dinner, a few drinkshell be sluggish by nine.
What now?
He picked up the phone. We type the note.
Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and a maid delivered a portable typewriter in a carrying case. Anna typed while Wyatt dictated.
You bastard, he said. I saw Mostyn before he left and he told me what the deal was. We need to talk. Im at the Sunset Strip, on the Esplanade in central Surfers. Room 101. Whitney.
Her fingers clacked over the keys. Will this work?
It will seem plausible. Mostyn and Whitney used to work together, then Whitney cleared outStolle told me so himself. Hell think Whitney followed Mostyn up here, saw what happened, and decided to put the squeeze on him. Stolle pulled a chancy hijack that happened to pay off, but he left too many loose ends behind and now hes losing and he feels far from home. Im betting hes skating close to the edge. Hell run.
Three hours. Wyatt took Anna out onto the balcony and showed her how to use his picks on the sliding glass door. When she was proficient she said, Enough, stripping him and taking him to the bed.
At nine oclock she rang the desk. Stolle had returned to the International Room. They dressed and Wyatt opened the balcony door. A quarter moon and heavy cloud cover. He leaned on the railing and looked down the black wall. Spotlights illuminated other hotels and apartment blocks in the area but the Flamingo didnt draw that kind of attention to itself.
He turned back into the room. Anna had drawn the overalls on over a black cocktail dress and was shrugging her shoulders into the harness. He tightened the straps for her, tied the rope to the metal rings.
Got the picks?
She patted the pouchy front pocket of the overalls.
Lets do it.
<
br /> She climbed over the balcony and waited while he wound the rope between the bars of the railing and fastened the other end. Then he took up the slack, braced his foot and said, Okay.
He played the rope through his gloved hands half a metre at a time. Within two minutes the rope went slack. He tugged, felt a return tug, and looked over. Anna was waving to him from Stolles balcony. A minute later she tugged again and he hauled in the rope hand over hand. The overalls and his set of picks were bundled at the end of it. She was in.
He took the stairs to the third floor. Outside Stolles door he knocked three times, then once. Anna opened the door and he slipped by her into the room. Her colour was high, her eyes alight. It was easy.
He took an envelope from his pocket. The words Mr Macarthur Stolle were typed on it. Now you deliver this.
Wyatt searched Stolles room while she was gone. Some clothing, a suitcase, little else, confirmation that the money was in the safety deposit box downstairs.
Anna knocked, their prearranged signal. Wyatt let her in. Okay?
Very posh. A young man in a white tuxedo delivered it on a silver tray. I stayed long enough to see Stolle come out and go straight to his safety deposit box.
Wyatt flicked off the light. Not long now.
Where do you want me?
Behind the door.
And when hes on the bed, I tape his wrists and ankles.
Wyatt said, Yep.
His tone sounded wrong to her. Wyatt, is that what you want me to do?
Thats what I want you to do.
She was silent. They waited. Less than a minute later, Stolles key scraped in the lock. The tumblers fell inside it, the door opened, and Stolle came in, an odour of tension and expensive cigars clinging to him. He was carrying a leather slipcase and Wyatt grabbed it, kicked the door shut, and dug the end of his .38 under Stolles jaw. The force of it bent Stolles head up and he choked.
Wyatt stepped back from him, easing the pressure. Without taking his eyes from Stolle, he held the slipcase behind his back, felt Anna take it from him.
Sit, he said, propelling Stolle back toward an armchair. He punched the man hard, doubling him over into the chair.
Wyatt, Anna said, a warning note.
Wyatt ignored her. The killing was quick. While Stolle fought for breath he was virtually helpless. Wyatt fitted his gun into Stolles right hand, angled it between Stolles teeth and pulled the trigger. Stolle jumped once and his legs trembled for some time as he died.
* * * *
Forty-three
Anna pulled on Wyatts arm. You didnt have to do that.
Yes I did.
Wyatt stood looking at Stolle, seeing him with a cops eyes. Wyatt had got powder residue on his own hand but there would be enough on Stolles. The angle indicated suicide. He turned, took the slipcase from Anna. The money still had the TrustBanks paper bands around it. He took out a bundle of fifties, removed most of the notes from it, dropped the rest in their paper wrapper on the floor by Stolles feet. There were question marks but a suicide explained away most of them. Stolle had lost almost all of the stolen money at the gaming tables. Then hed lost heart and shot himself.
Wyatt turned to Anna. We cant stay here. Lets go.
She was holding herself for comfort, staring at the body. You meant to do that all along.
Hes a killer, Wyatt said.
What does that make you?
He took her arm. Come on.
They went back to their room. She wouldnt let go of the shock. You didnt have to kill him.
Wyatt cupped her small head in his hands. He found me when nobody else could. He would have found me again. You too.
She dropped her eyes. He felt her warm cheeks move in his palms as she nodded acceptance. He released her. Lets see what weve got.
They sat on the bed a metre apart and Anna tipped the money into the gap between them. He watched her count it, the tendons working in her slender fingers and knew a sense of loss.
She said, avoiding his face, How much did you say you got away with?
One strongbox, about a quarter of a million.
Theres less than half of it left. A hundred and five thousand.
They looked at the money, not each other. After a while Wyatt heard Anna say:
They want you but they dont know who you are and they dont have prints to tie you to any of this. Methey have my picture, my prints, theyre in a frenzy out there because I walked out of their precious prison.
Yes.
Theres nowhere I can go, is there, Wyatt? Not here, at least. Id always be looking over my shoulder. Id be a liability to you.
Her hand closest to his was restlessly sifting and sorting among the banknotes. He closed his big fingers around it and at once it went slack and boneless.
You got me out of prison but Ill never know exactly why. Do you know exactly why?
He couldnt go on holding that dead hand. He let it go and for a while she left it on the coverlet between them.
Ive always led a chancy life. Never the straight and narrow. Id always thought I had your kind of nerve and calculation. She shook her head. I dont.
Then she was looking at him, a sad face. Ill learn it now, on the run. The thing is, you never learnt it, its what you are, so Id never be like you.
Wyatt tried one last useless thing. Well build you a new identity, the person youd like to be, with interests youd like to have. Ill disappear two or three times a year for a week, a month, and come home again and you need never know the details.
She laughed; she gripped his hand. Wyatt, the little wife? No. She went sombre again. No. Always looking over my shoulder. I cant stay here.
He knew she meant more than that she should get out of the hotel. Where?
Europe. There are people who can get me that far.
Then she was pumping his arm for emphasis. Wyatt, let me have the money. Ill need all of it.
He looked away and shortly after that he said, Leave me five.
Five thousand dollars in the world.
A couple of days later, when she was gone, somewhere in the Coral Sea aboard an islands steamer, he took the five thousand dollars into Jupiters, a delay of his run south. Wyatt didnt believe in good or bad luck but he thought that surely things had to get better from this point.
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