Life or Death

by Michael Robotham

  ‘Is he going to be OK?’ asks Max.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Maybe we should call an ambulance.’

  ‘Let’s give him a minute.’

  Tony opens his eyes and looks almost serene, loaded up on whatever drug keeps his heart beating regularly or stops the pain. He smiles at Max and asks for another glass of water.

  ‘Heart disease,’ he explains, still heavy-lidded. ‘They say I need a bypass but I don’t have no insurance. My daughter’s been saving but it’s gonna cost $159,000. She’s doing two jobs now but I’ll still be dead twenty years before she can pay for it.’

  He wipes his face with a handkerchief, which is little more than a rag. ‘That’s why I go fishing, to put a bit of food on the table. I borrow the Halligans’ boat, which they don’t know about.’ He looks up at Audie. ‘Guess they don’t know about you neither.’

  Audie doesn’t answer.

  ‘So who are you and what’re you doing here?’

  He studies Max and Audie, his eyes travelling south until he spies the tambourine between Max’s knees. An idea occurs to him and his eyebrows jump. ‘You’re that boy they looking for. It’s all over the news.’ He frowns at Audie. ‘And they say you’re a killer.’

  ‘They’re wrong.’

  ‘So what are you going to do with me?’

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘I won’t be going fishing.’

  ‘Not today. When was your daughter expecting you home?’

  ‘Around dusk.’

  ‘Do you have a cell?’

  Max interrupts. ‘There’s none in the bag.’ He glances at Tony and something passes between them.

  ‘My daughter keeps wanting me to carry one,’ says Tony, ‘but I never got the hang of them.’

  ‘You feeling better?’ asks Audie.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You should take him to the hospital,’ says Max.

  ‘If he gets worse,’ says Audie, checking the windows and flipping the safety on the shotgun.

  ‘What about my daughter?’ Tony asks. ‘She’ll be worried ’bout me.’

  Audie look at his watch. ‘Not until dusk.’

  59

  Desiree runs the gauntlet of reporters and TV camera crews who dance around her like dogs waiting to be fed. Their broadcast vans and media cars are blocking the street outside the Valdez house, drawing spectators and grief tourists who have come to watch the news being made.

  A police family liaison officer opens the door with one hand resting on her sidearm. Sandy Valdez is standing behind her in the hallway. Eyes wide. Hopeful. She’s dressed in a faded T-shirt and jeans, her feet bare, hair tousled, face free of make-up, showing her lack of sleep. They talk in the living room where the curtains are closed and blinds lowered. Desiree sits. Eschews coffee.

  ‘Is your husband at home?’

  Sandy shakes her head. ‘You can’t ask someone like Ryan to sit still. He wants to be out there shaking the trees and yelling from the rooftops.’

  Desiree says she understands, although Sandy seems to doubt that.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that Max was adopted?’

  Sandy pauses with the tissue beneath her nose. ‘What difference does it make?’

  ‘Did you withhold the information on purpose?’

  ‘No! Of course not!’

  ‘When did you adopt him?’

  ‘When he was four – why is that important?’

  Desiree ignores her question. ‘Through an agency?’

  ‘We went through all the proper channels, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Sandy perches on the edge of the sofa, her knees together, working the soggy tissue in her fingers until it starts to break apart. ‘Ryan said he’d been abandoned. Somebody found him wandering in the woods. Dirty and freezing. Ryan took him to the hospital and tried to find his momma. Afterwards he stayed in touch with the DFPS.’

  ‘You fostered him and then adopted him?’

  ‘We’d been trying to start a family. We went through it all – injections, egg harvesting, IVF – but nothing worked. We’d never really talked about adoption until Max came along. It was like God delivered him to us.’

  ‘Does Max know?’

  Sandy glances at her hands. ‘We were planning to tell him when he was old enough.’

  ‘He’s fifteen.’

  ‘There was never a right moment.’ She changes the subject. ‘Do you know he never uttered a single word for five months. Not a sound. Nobody knew his real name. We called him Buster for a long time – after the dog that found him – but then he started talking and said his name was Miguel. Ryan didn’t want to call him that, so we settled on Max and the little boy didn’t seem to mind.’

  Desiree doesn’t answer. ‘Did Miguel tell you his surname?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say where he came from?’

  ‘Once or twice he would point at pictures or say something that could have been a clue, but Ryan said we shouldn’t push him.’ Sandy screws up her eyes. ‘I used to be so scared that somebody would come looking for him. Every time I heard the phone ring or a knock at the door – I thought it was going to be his mother wanting him back. Ryan said it wouldn’t make any difference because Max was legally ours now.’

  She looks at Desiree, her eyes brimming. ‘Why are we being punished? We did a good thing. We’re good parents.’

  Audie looks in the kitchen cupboards, stocktaking. He’s going to run out of time before they run out of food. Tony is watching him, his face pale but no longer shiny with sweat.

  He’s a talker – making observations that segue into stories about his life. Maybe he’s read somewhere that hostages should try to bond with their kidnappers. Either that or he’s trying to bore Audie to death.

  ‘You ever serve?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was in the Navy – too young to fight the Krauts or the Koreans, too old for Vietnam. They made me a welder. Used to do the plumbing and insulate the engine rooms with asbestos. That’s how Maggie died – my wife. They said I brought it home on my clothes and she washed ’em and the fibres got in her lungs. Didn’t affect my lungs but it killed her. That what people mean when they say sumpin’ is ironic?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Just bad luck I guess. I’m not complaining.’ He pauses, his lips thin lines. ‘No fuck it! I am complaining, it’s just nobody ever listens.’

  ‘Don’t you get medical insurance if you’re a veteran?’ asks Audie.

  ‘I didn’t serve overseas.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘Knowing what’s right don’t make it happen.’

  Tony flinches and thumps his chest as though restarting a non-existent pacemaker. He should be in a hospital or at least see a doctor. Audie doesn’t want another death on his conscience. The next part of his plan was always going to be problematic. It could be argued that he didn’t bother with an exit strategy because he didn’t expect to get this far. Max knows the truth now. He may not believe some of the details, but he has that choice. It’s like taking a kid to church and Sunday school, giving him a faith he can accept or reject.

  Audie has a hundred and twelve dollars left. He counts the money and puts it in his front pocket. Unzipping his rucksack, he takes out his cell phone and installs a new SIM card before turning on the power and looking for a signal. First he calls the Texas Children’s Hospital and asks for his sister. Bernadette is on the ward. Somebody has to fetch her.

  Audie glances at Tony. He and Max are talking to each other. Nodding. Maybe they’re plotting. It won’t matter soon.

  ‘It’s me. I can’t stay on the line very long.’

  ‘Audie? The police have been here.’ Bernadette is cupping the phone and whispering.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Are you going to hurt that boy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give yourself up. Let him go home.’

  ‘I will, but I need you to do so
mething for me. That file you’ve been keeping for me, do you still have it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I want you to give it to someone. Her name is Desiree Furness. She’s a Special Agent with the FBI. You have to give it directly to her – not anyone else. Face to face. You understand?’

  ‘What do I say to her?’

  ‘Tell her to follow the money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’ll understand when she reads the file.’

  Bernadette’s voice is shaking. ‘She’s gonna want to know where you are.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What do I say?’

  ‘Tell her the boy is safe and I’m looking after him.’

  ‘You’re going to get me into more trouble. I keep telling people that you’re a good person, but then you prove me wrong.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘How are you gonna do that if you’re dead? Let that boy go home.’

  Where’s home, wonders Audie. ‘I will.’

  Ending the call, he makes another. The only person he can vaguely trust is the one who helped him survive in prison. He doesn’t understand how Moss got out of Three Rivers and managed to find him, but the grave that Audie was digging in the woods was supposed to be for both of them.

  A woman answers: ‘Harmony Dental Service.’

  ‘I’m looking for Crystal Webster.’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘My name is Audie Palmer – we’ve met once or twice before.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ says Crystal, nervously.

  ‘Have you heard from Moss?’

  ‘He calls me most days.’

  ‘Do you know why they let him out of prison?’

  ‘He was supposed to find you.’

  ‘Then what?’

  She hesitates. ‘Hand you over. They said he could have the money if he found it.’

  ‘There is no money.’

  ‘Moss knows that, but he was hoping they might commute his sentence if he did what they asked.’

  ‘What does he think now?’

  ‘He knows they were lying.’

  Audie gazes out the window where seagulls are floating above the waves, beating their wings and uttering strange deep-throated cries. Sometimes they sound just like human babies.

  ‘When you hear from Moss, tell him I have a plan. I want him to come and get the boy. He can take the credit. Give him this address. I’ll be here for another six hours.’

  ‘Can he call you?’

  ‘I’ll be turning this cell phone off.’

  ‘Is the boy OK?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I just call the police right now and tell ’em where you are?’

  ‘Ask Moss. If he agrees, let him call the police.’

  Crystal thinks about this for a while. ‘If my Moss gets hurt, I’m gonna come looking for you myself. And let me promise you, Mr Palmer, I’m a lot scarier than he is.’

  ‘I know that, ma’am. He told me so.’

  60

  Pilkington raises his eyes to the scudding clouds, squinting into the glare. The air has a damp feral odour with a breeze blowing out of the west. Two vehicles stand on the narrow access road to his house, parked in the scant shade of a dead tree with branches like bleached white bones on a dry lakebed.

  ‘We’re going to do it properly this time,’ he says, chewing on the sodden end of an unlit cigar. ‘Nobody cuts and runs.’

  He glances at Frank Senogles, who is checking a rifle, raising the telescopic sight to his right eye, closing his left. Valdez shuts the trunk of the car and unzips a black rifle case. There are two other men wearing black cargo pants with pockets stitched on the thighs. Mercenaries with made-up names, Jake and Stav, they won’t speak unless they have something to say. They’ll do their job as long as they’re paid. Jake has long hair tied back in a ponytail, but he’s receding at the front, as if the tide were going out leaving his eyebrows behind. Stav is shorter and swarthier, with a buzz-cut and a nervous habit of wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. He has scars down his neck like a burns victim.

  Pilkington can’t help staring at the buckled skin.

  ‘You got a problem with my face?’ asks Stav.

  Pilkington looks away, mumbling an apology. He doesn’t like to be pushed. He doesn’t like losing control of things. This isn’t his world. His father had gone to prison for securities and wire fraud and had emerged with an unexpected respect for criminals and miscreants. In that violent world, people valued power more than money. Violence was an end not just a means. Wield a bigger stick. Hit harder. Hit sooner. Hit more often.

  Pilkington slaps his gloved hands together as though geeing up a little league team. ‘All for one and one for all, eh?’

  Nobody answers.

  Senogles glances angrily at Valdez. ‘Well, I think the guy who created the problem should fix the problem.’

  ‘I shot the guy in the head,’ counters Valdez. ‘What else was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Shoot him twice.’

  ‘Stop your bickering,’ says Pilkington.

  ‘Palmer is like a fucking vampire,’ says Valdez. ‘You can stab him in the heart, burn him and bury him, but somebody keeps digging him back up and bringing him to life.’

  ‘So the prick is hard to kill,’ says Jake.

  ‘He bleeds like anybody else,’ replies Stav, who slips his arms into a black bulletproof vest and fastens the Velcro straps.

  ‘What if the kid remembers?’ asks Senogles.

  ‘He won’t,’ replies Valdez.

  ‘Why else would Palmer take him? He must want the kid to back up his story.’

  ‘Max wasn’t even four years old – nobody is going to believe him.’

  Senogles isn’t convinced. ‘What about DNA tests, eh? What if Palmer can prove he wasn’t part of the robbery?’

  ‘He can’t.’

  Valdez removes and reattaches an ammunition clip to an automatic pistol. Senogles looks at Pilkington, wanting reassurance.

  ‘Max won’t say anything. He’s a good boy,’ says the older man.

  ‘He’s a loose fucking end.’

  Valdez interrupts. ‘Nobody touches him, OK? I want that agreed.’

  ‘I’m not agreeing to anything,’ counters Senogles. ‘And I’m not going to prison because you adopted some spic kid.’

  Valdez body-slams the agent against the truck, which rocks from the impact. His forearm is forced against his throat.

  ‘He’s my fucking son! Nobody touches him.’

  Senogles matches his stare, neither man blinking or backing down.

  ‘OK, let’s relax,’ says Pilkington. ‘We got a job to do.’

  Valdez and Senogles eyeball each other for another few seconds before Valdez loosens his grip and they shove each other apart.

  ‘OK, Frank, talk us through this,’ says Pilkington.

  Senogles unrolls a satellite map on the hood of a Ford Explorer.

  ‘We think the house is here, on Canal Drive. There’s only one road in or out. Once we seal it off he’ll be trapped unless he has a boat.’

  ‘Does Palmer know we’re coming?’ asks Pilkington.

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘Is he armed?’

  ‘We’re going to assume so.’

  ‘What’s our cover story?’ asks Pilkington.

  Senogles answers. ‘The family got a ransom demand and Sheriff Valdez took matters into his own hands because he was concerned for Max’s safety.’ He turns to the others. ‘I was never here, understand? If we get stopped, the sheriff does the talking. No cell phones, no pagers, no GPS trackers, no transponders, no identification – keep your weapons hidden.’

  ‘I need my cell in case Max calls,’ says Valdez.

  ‘OK, just your phone.’

  Inside Valdez’s head is nothing but conflict and doubt. Every killer has to live with images he cannot expunge from his dreams – murder scenes that are indelibly inked onto his subcons
cious. For three nights he had been visited by the images of Cassie Brennan and her daughter Scarlett. He didn’t know either of them when he shot them dead. He thought Audie was in the bathroom but it was the little girl. Once she was dead he had to kill the mother. It was the only choice.

  And now he can’t tell anyone, not his wife or his colleagues or his priest or his bartender. Audie Palmer is to blame. It has nothing to do with the money – that was spent long ago. This is about Max, the boy who had saved his marriage, the boy who had made his family complete. Yes, they could have tried again, and there were adoption agencies and surrogate services, but Max had been delivered to them by chance, the happiest of accidents and the answer to his prayers.

  Now Audie Palmer has him. The big question is why. If he had wanted to kill Max he could have done it that first day outside the house. No, he’d never kill the boy – that’s the whole point – but what if he tells Max what happened or helps him remember? What if he turns Max against the people who raised him?

  If only Audie Palmer had died when he was supposed to.

  61

  Bernadette Palmer is still wearing her nurse’s uniform, a brightly coloured shirt and tailored trousers, as she waits in the foyer of the FBI building.

  Just look for the shortest person you’ve ever seen, Audie had told her.

  That must be her, thinks Bernadette, as Desiree Furness comes out of the elevator. Even in high-heeled boots, the Special Agent doesn’t come up to Bernadette’s chest, yet everything about her is in proportion, like a scaled-down model of the real thing.

  Desiree suggests they sit down. They take a seat at opposite ends of a leather sofa. People glance at them as they walk toward the elevators, making Bernadette feel self-conscious. The sooner this is over the better. She retrieves a manila folder from her shoulder bag.

  ‘I don’t know what it means or why it’s important, but Audie told me I had to give it to you and nobody else.’

  ‘You’ve heard from him.’

  ‘He called me at work.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘An hour ago.’

  ‘Where was he? Did you tell the police?’

  ‘I’m telling you.’