by Helene Young
Kait was already stowing the hose so they could move the truck. He liked how methodical she was. She almost looked slow, but she did it right first time. Hare and the tortoise, he thought, priming the torch.
‘Good to go?’
‘Certainly.’ She buckled up again, even though they were driving a relatively short distance and not on a road. Safety-conscious all the way.
For the next half an hour they worked in companionable silence, pushing a line of fire up towards the area they’d only an hour ago fought so hard to extinguish. He knew to the untrained it didn’t make a lot of sense, but firebreaks were standard containment measures. The fire crackled now, its roar muted. Flames snaked along the ground with only an occasional flare-up.
By the time the second team returned Speedy and Kait’s tank was almost dry. The pair took their leave. The others would fill the graveyard shift if needed. Kaitlyn slumped against the door as they drove up the hill.
‘You okay?’
‘Yep,’ she sighed, pushing herself upright. ‘I just hope this isn’t the work of an arsonist, or someone’s going to get hurt before the wet season.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right. If the police catch him there are some who’d turn up to lynch him.’
She grimaced and ran a hand over her face, pushing back damp hair. ‘That would make them just as bad as the arsonist.’
‘Maybe he’d deserve it.’
She was silent for a minute. ‘Except that sometimes things aren’t always as they seem. That’s what our justice system’s all about: innocent until proven guilty.’
Irrationally, it made him angry. He turned into her driveway a little too fast and hit the brakes. ‘Sometimes it takes a strong man to right a wrong.’
‘Or a strong man to make a mistake,’ she said with a weary smile. ‘No offence, Speedy. It’s been good working with you tonight. I learnt a lot. Thank you.’ Her touch on his arm was fleeting. Then she gathered her bag and coat and got out of the truck.
Her touch had stopped him dead. ‘No worries,’ he called through the window. ‘I’ll see your kid in the morning.’
Driving away, he watched her outside light go out in his rear-vision mirror. She was going to bed, and that thought made his body tighten with want. Even without her history she was desirable. With that history she was damn near irresistible.
Chapter 14
‘HERE’S your uniform and your ID. Final assessment will take a week or two to organise and you’ll be buddied up with someone at Oakey Creek meanwhile. It’s a newish team out there, but they’re committed.’
Ryan nodded, holding the bright orange overalls under one arm, thankful his induction had been straightforward.
‘Welcome to the team.’ The training officer on the other side of the desk held out his hand. ‘It’s not often we get seasoned firefighters joining us. Hope you stick around.’
‘I plan on it,’ Ryan said. ‘Pace of life in the big city got a bit too much to handle.’
‘Know what you mean,’ the man replied, coming around to open the door for Ryan. ‘It’s a quiet place up on the Tablelands. Not a lot happens. You’ll get called in for car accidents if the full-time guys at Atherton or Mareeba are tied up. That can be hard, but I guess you’ve seen that all before.’
‘Yeah, done a bit of that.’
‘Hopefully not too much more then.’
Ryan added a silent prayer for that, then thanked the training officer and headed for his car. The furnace-like heat almost knocked him backwards as he opened the driver’s-side door. His pocket vibrated. He slung the gear on the back seat and dragged his phone out.
‘Hello.’
‘Ryan.’
‘G’day.’
‘Where are you, buddy?’
He didn’t recognise the voice. ‘Out and about. You?’
There was laughter. ‘We’re watching you. Just remember that.’
The phone went dead in his hands and Ryan shrugged, kept talking as though it hadn’t. He leant back against the vehicle, forcing a laugh, and ran his hand through his hair, eyes scanning behind his glasses. Nothing, no movement anywhere.
He opened the rear door of the four-wheel drive, pulled a bag out and took it around to the passenger side, still with the phone glued to his ear in animated conversation. There was no sign of anyone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t in one of the surrounding buildings, biding their time.
On days like today he had to leave the gun hidden in the car, and he felt naked and exposed without it. The trial of the Nemesis members had commenced today in Sydney. Was this call connected to that?
Finally, satisfied he’d done all he could, he lowered the phone. It could just be someone messing with his head.
As he drove out of the car park and turned left to head south out of Cairns, he dialled.
‘Ryan.’ He rattled off a code number. ‘Another trace.’ Again he gave them the number, rapid-fire. ‘Let me know.’
The traffic was heavy until he cleared Edmonton, then the road opened up. Cane fields still flanked the highway. Ahead, a pyramid-shaped hill jutted through the rich green fields. Walsh’s Pyramid. This time last year, when Ryan had found himself stuck in Cairns in the aftermath of the Nemesis mess, he’d hiked up the Pyramid.
His phone beeped with an incoming text. Sitting at a red light he thumbed through it. As he suspected, they had nothing on his mystery caller. The problem with technology was that over-the-counter gadgetry was often years ahead of the government’s procurement process.
He turned off before Gordonvale, heading up into the hills. The Gillies Range was part of the Great Dividing Range, a weathered spine running the length of Queensland. To the east lay fertile coastal plains. To the west lay the drier lands. Atherton sat at almost 800 metres’ elevation: nights chilly, the days pleasant. Ryan appreciated that every time he drove back up the range. What he didn’t appreciate was the winding, twisting road to get there. Lucky he didn’t get carsick.
As he rounded another hairpin bend, back in second gear, it struck him this would be the perfect place for an ambush. He’d need to be vigilant. In the rear-vision mirror he saw a ute, closing on him fast. He checked that his gun was in the side pocket of the door. The next overtaking lane was 500 metres ahead. He upped the pace, trying to see into the other car. The tinted windows made it impossible. He memorised the registration number.
A truck roared past, going downhill, compression brakes hammering against the incline. Ryan almost flinched. Without realising it, he had the gun in his hand as he pushed down on the accelerator. He wanted maximum torque if this got ugly.
Yellow signs warned of the next sharp bend. He pulled left into the passing lane, easing his foot off the pedal and letting the car decelerate rapidly. The ute swerved out and surged past him. A laconic wave from the passenger said thanks as the vehicle hurtled up the hill.
Sweat trickled down the middle of Ryan’s back. He shook his head, trying to shake the adrenalin clear. ‘Damn it,’ he muttered. ‘You’re seeing shadows.’ The phone call had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
The rest of the drive was uneventful. He swung through the pretty hamlet of Yungaburra at the top of the range. The ute from earlier, with its twin wide-diameter exhaust, was parked outside the pub. The sticker across its rear window proclaimed ‘JetPilot’. Two young men wearing jeans, tight T-shirts and wrap-around sunglasses were drinking beers under a white market umbrella. They didn’t raise any alerts on Ryan’s radar. And neither of them showed any interest in him.
His phone chirped again as he neared the main roundabout in Atherton.
Incoming message. Crusoe. Check your mail.
He needed his encrypted line. It could wait until he got home. He pulled into the shopping centre at the back of Atherton’s main street. Thirty minutes later he turned into Happy Jack Road, loaded up with groceries.
He’d found himself reassessing the new house every time he drove past. It’d grown on him. At dawn and dusk it c
hanged colour, glowing pink in the soft light like a modern-day Taj Mahal.
Dan wasn’t hanging off the fence this time. Ryan ignored a twinge of regret. He’d always claimed to be allergic to kids, but Dan was disarming.
According to Dan, his mother, Kaitlyn Scott – she of the flat tyre – was a mission commander for Border Watch so spent a lot of time away from home. There was definitely no Mr Scott. No need to question why that made Ryan smile.
Driving around the ridge, he admired the views. Even with smoke in the air he could see all the way to Mareeba and the end of Lake Tinaroo. Beyond was shrouded in haze as the wind swirled and eddied around the mountains.
It took him two trips to get all the shopping plus the firefighting gear upstairs and his left arm was aching by the time he’d finished. Reaching into the fridge he snagged a cold beer and twisted off the top. After a deep drink that sent a cooling rush through his stomach, he lifted his computer out of its case and onto the table. It took a few minutes for it to load and find a connection. He dragged a chair over and swung it round, resting his arms on the back as two emails arrived. The first one was the urgent information.
Dave Tyson was now the third member of Nemesis to be released on bail, pending some legal argument. The club still had clout. Dave ‘Weasel’ Tyson was not one of the hard men of the gang, nor one of the brightest. A risk, rather than a threat. Ryan figured he’d see him coming a mile off. Even if Weasel shaved off the handlebar moustache and changed his haircut from a mullet, the lightning bolt tattoo up the side of his neck was going to be hard to hide.
The other information Crusoe had provided was more interesting. He’d been busy in the Feds’ database. Apparently Derek Barton, one of the main suspects in the earlier fires at the Greentrees plantations in Victoria and New South Wales, changed names like most people changed cars. He’d been christened Derek Barton, but when his mother remarried he’d been given her new husband’s surname. Jackson, Derek Jackson. Sometime later he’d reverted to his birth name of Barton. His prison record listed him as John Derek Barton. That record showed he was released five years ago, after serving three years for an arson attack. He was now forty-two.
Mr Barton had plenty of supporters. His crime had been to burn down the house of a known paedophile. That made him a hero to some people. The prison psychologists had been very happy with his rehabilitation and his interactions with other prisoners. That fact alone made Ryan uneasy. He knew firsthand you could lie to a psych.
After his early release, Derek disappeared. Nothing, no trace for two years. He then made a brief appearance, before vanishing again. No bank accounts accessed, no Centrelink payments claimed, no tax returns lodged. His mug shot from jail was typically bland. Change his hairstyle, gain or lose some weight, grow a beard, and he’d be a different man. Ryan knew it wasn’t hard to alter appearances.
Crusoe had dug up some other possible photos of Derek. They were three years old and lifted from CCTV footage at a petrol station. The police had confiscated the footage at the time of the last Greentrees plantation fire. The images were distant and grainy, showing a slim man with a ponytail, wearing a cap and sunglasses. Could be anyone. The police investigating the arson on the plantations had made hard work of fingering any suspects back then. The only reason Derek Barton’s name had even cropped up was because a local barmaid had given them such a good identikit photo that the computer had tagged Barton as a match. The barmaid had then identified him from the prison mug shot, but before they could pull him in for questioning he’d vanished. The trail was now three years cold. Derek Barton had stayed off the radar.
One theory said he’d picked up a new identity. Or he’d been caught in one of his fires. Ryan suspected it was the former. In the age of computers it was relatively easy to reinvent yourself. A man like Mr Barton, with contacts from jail, wasn’t going to find it hard at all.
If he was here on the Tablelands, then the most likely way for Ryan to find him was to visually identify him.
Ryan added the latest photos to his phone gallery. ‘Derek Barton, I’m going to find you before you do any more harm.’ He stretched his arms above his head, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders. Needed a good run to loosen up. Give him a chance to scout out the neighbours some more. First thing tomorrow.
Something landed on the roof with a thump and Ryan was on the floor with his gun out before he could identify the noise. The sun had set while he’d been trawling through Derek’s files. At least the only light in the house was now the glow from his computer. Of course, that also pinpointed where he was.
He lay on the floor, straining to hear the direction of movement. Nothing. He took a shallow sip of air, breathed out and rolled over to sit up. Still nothing.
Getting to his feet, he edged towards the sound. This time, when it started to move, he was ready, tracking it to the rear of the house. When the noise changed from a thump to a long slide, he stopped walking and shook his head.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, tucking his gun into his waistband again. The noise reached the guttering at the back. Ryan grabbed the torch and headed to the veranda.
He spotted the odd shape hanging down from the roof as soon as he opened the door. A brush-tailed possum with impossibly large eyes peered at him, unblinking, in the beam of light. It sparked a memory of Jerry teaching him to feed possums.
‘Okay, my little beauty, I’m not going to hurt you.’ It didn’t move.
‘What do you think, little one? An apple? Strawberry?’ The possum just hung over the edge, looking inquisitive. Ryan left the door open and went to rummage in his fridge.
When he returned, the furry marsupial was sitting at the top of the stairs. It looked nervous but defiant, like it was bolstering its courage. That amused Ryan. He applauded the bravado. An undercover used it every day he, or she, went to work.
‘Here you go.’ Keeping his movements slow he slid a piece of apple and a strawberry across the wooden floor. He stepped back to the doorway and watched as the animal’s nose quivered, scenting the air. If Ryan could smell the sweet fruit then the possum definitely could. It inched over and delicately grasped the strawberry, then backed away. Rocking back onto its hind legs it held the fruit in both paws and proceeded to devour it with tiny nibbles.
Ryan smiled. He’d done this before in a time of innocence. The memory was strong. Some of the day’s tension eased. He should stop being so jumpy. Nemesis was a long way away from North Queensland.
Chapter 15
‘ARE you sure you didn’t just leave it at school?’ Kaitlyn tried to keep her voice patient. She could hear Julia playing scales on the piano as she walked into the house. Dan followed, dragging his heels.
‘I rode it home. How could I have left it at school?’ He looked mutinous, not guilty. ‘Someone stole it.’
‘Did you see anyone around?’
‘Yes. Ryan, the guy from over there.’ He flung his arm, pointing across the valley. ‘The big white car.’
‘He’s been here at the house?’ She couldn’t believe this. Surely Dan didn’t mean their neighbour had stolen the bike?
‘No. He waves when he drives by.’ Dan shuffled his feet. ‘But someone stole it. They must of.’
‘Must have,’ she corrected him automatically. ‘Just let me put my bag away and get out of my uniform.’
The music stopped and her mother’s subtle perfume drifted into the room a second before she did. ‘I’ve already looked everywhere I could think to, Kait.’ She pressed her cheek to her daughter’s in welcome and patted her shoulder. ‘It’s vanished.’
Kaitlyn resisted the urge to rub her temples. This week it felt like everything was turning into a disaster. The daily drive up and down the range was taking its toll on her. Tony was being a pain in the arse and interfering, even though he had no experience at all with fires. By his own admission he’d never even been close to one. Thank goodness for Morgan and Lauren or Kait would probably have told him he was an incompetent, micro-managing b
oss who should trust people instead of spreadsheets. She pushed all that aside. She was home now. ‘Give me time to change. We’ll find it.’
Even walking into her bedroom, her sanctuary, with its floor-to-ceiling view of the McAllister Ranges, didn’t soothe her today. She screwed her work shirt into a ball and aimed it at the laundry basket, temper in the toss. She felt bitchy as all hell and just for once didn’t want to have to deal with everyone else’s problems. For two days she’d been playing phone tag with Immigration, still trying to sort out Dan’s passport issue.
She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror as she hopped from one foot to the other, dragging on a baggy pair of shorts. That stopped her. Her skin was more pale than usual, her jaw tight and jutting, the frown lines between her straight brows furrowed deep. Anger and frustration radiated from every curvy inch of her. Not a good look. She straightened up, fastening the shorts and trying to organise her logic.
Was Dan was capable of lying about this? Or had he been careless with locking the bike up and knew he’d be in trouble? But who would take his bike? Borrowed, stolen, trashed? If she reported it to the police, the chances were nothing would happen. Insurance was next to useless. The excess always seemed to equal the amount they paid out.
Leaning closer to the mirror, she patted her cheeks and unlocked her muscles. He’s seven, she reminded herself, and fatherless. Go easy.
She shrugged into a gardening shirt missing half its buttons. The old, long-sleeved corporate number was a leftover from her days in Canberra, before the fires, when an air-conditioned office was her workstation, not the endless blue of a northern sky. It hung on her more than it used to.
Dan was eating biscuits in the kitchen, his feet hitting the kitchen cupboard as he swung them back and forth.
Julia, immaculate as ever in a loose, buttoned dress, leant on the counter, leafing through a newsletter from the clogging society she’d joined. She looked up at Kait and smiled. ‘A wine?’ The glasses were already lined up, waiting. The smell of roasting meat filled the room.
