by Anita Bell
He shook his head. ‘You can have everything,’ he reminded her, dangling her jewellery close enough that she could kiss the angels if she puckered her lips. ‘If you —’
She snatched at them, but he was faster.
‘Ah, ah, ah,’ he said tugging them out of her reach again. ‘The truth first or I ride away.’
She kicked him in the shin and he swore and jumped, but he held them higher.
‘If you work for Aaron Fletcher,’ she snapped, ‘you already know the truth. Quit playing stupid games.’
‘I don’t work for Aaron Fletcher. Well, all right, I do,’ he corrected, thinking that from her point of view he worked for the guy who owned the place. ‘But he doesn’t realise it’s me, or if he does, he doesn’t realise who I am.’
‘Oh yeah?’ she asked, thinking Maitland owned the land and Fletcher must have put him here to keep an eye on her. ‘And who exactly are you?’
Locklin thought about that. He was born MacLeod. He felt like a MacLeod, but all that was too complicated to get into now.
‘Okay look,’ he said. ‘You don’t trust me and I don’t trust you, but somewhere in between we both have things we want. Here’s yours,’ he said handing her the earrings and necklace as he backed off again. ‘I’ll give you the crystal coffin when I’m finished what I have to do and you can either trust me on that or forget it. Either way, I’m getting on my horse in five seconds. Now, which is it going to be?’
She only needed four seconds. ‘He’s my stepfather,’ she said. ‘I’m Nikola Renee Dumakis and he murdered my mother and tried to blame me.’
‘Renee Dumakis?’ he asked, more surprised than he thought he would be. ‘The Arts Minister? You’re her daughter?’
Nikki held up the earrings, teasing him for a change. ‘Ah, ah, ah,’ she said, mimicking him. ‘It’s your turn.’
‘I’m Jayson MacLeod,’ he said, taking a deep breath to let it out slowly. It was the first time he’d explained it to anyone and he closed his eyes so she couldn’t see how much it hurt. ‘He murdered my father,’ he said slowly, ‘and our neighbour too I think, and he fixed things to make them look like suicides.’ He clenched his fists, forcing down his grief to let his rage boil up again. Rage was one thing he could control and he gripped it quickly, opening his eyes to finish his introduction. ‘Pleased to meet you Nikola Dumakis.’
Nikki blinked hard, trying to connect his confession about who he worked for with the assumptions she’d made and the bombshell he’d just lobbed on her.
‘When?’ she asked, trying to make sense of it.
‘My dad three weeks ago and our neighbour about a year ago,’ he said, not wanting to distract her with the idea that the neighbour he was talking about was also Thorna’s first husband. She could figure that bit out for herself later. ‘When’s not important,’ he went on. ‘It’s why. Why is he doing this?’ He pointed at the jewellery in her hands and gave her the cigarette box to store them in. ‘What’s the link,’ he asked, watching her put all the jewellery inside, ‘between your crystal coffin and this land?’
‘This land?’ she echoed, as her heart tried escaping through her throat. ‘What do you mean? I chose to come here. He doesn’t even know I …’
The look on Locklin’s face told her she was wrong and her heart pounded so hard it made her skin throb. She slumped against the horse, breathing harder. He put his hand on her shoulder, unsure if she was going to fall, and she clutched at it, like a drowning sailor grabbing for a life raft.
‘Tell me what you know about your side.’
‘Well,’ she said, her thoughts more frantic than her words. ‘They were worth a lot, all handmade crystal and twenty-four carat white gold. There was a crystal church to put it all in, but I saw it smashed to pieces.’
‘Not the coffin,’ Locklin repeated. ‘I’ve got that. It’s heavy crystal, so it must still be worth a mint, yes?’
‘It doesn’t matter what it’s made of,’ she insisted, as the horse stuck his nose in the air and whinnied again. ‘It’s what it does that makes it worth something. You could recycle it from plastic and it would still be priceless to whoever uses it properly.’
‘Why?’ Locklin asked, as the horse snorted twice and stamped at the rail. He stroked its neck, noticing that Nikki’s fingers started to tremble around the cigarette packet.
‘You’ve lost someone close. You must understand!’ she said, trying not to cry.
He touched her hand, thinking that maybe he did. In the army, if you lost a mate you honoured their memory, and the angel thing sounded like the same theory.
‘How nice,’ Fletcher said. ‘But I disagree.’
‘Aaron!’ Nikki screamed, stumbling back against the horse. Locklin stepped in front of her, keen to see the face of his enemy. A second later he felt the cigarette packet pushed quickly into his back pocket.
An older skinny man with an earring planted himself in the open gateway and pointed the business end of his Winchester directly at Nikki. ‘Want ’em done here?’ he asked.
‘No, Ricks!’ Fletcher snapped. ‘We’re cleaning up, not leaving a mess — and they’re going to help.’
‘Okay,’ Ricks said. ‘You heard the man. Out here, now.’
Locklin led Nikki forward, keeping himself between her and the Winchester. He walked slowly, trying to get his feet within kicking distance of Ricks and his rifle while his eyes scanned for resources.
Nothing here, he realised, but they were headed towards the house.
‘Cut that out, loverboy,’ Fletcher said, seeing Locklin’s eyes dart left and right. ‘You’re outnumbered.’
Ricks pushed Locklin forward and confiscated the mobile phone that was hanging off Nikki’s waist. He pulled the plastic sim card and battery out of it to make it useless without call codes or power and dropped it all into the water trough enjoying the splash.
‘Two on two makes it equal where I come from,’ Locklin said, analysing them.
‘The gun is on our side,’ Ricks said smugly.
‘Rifle,’ Locklin corrected.
‘What?’ Fletcher said, screwing up his nose.
‘It’s not a gun, it’s a rifle,’ Locklin said, goading them more to find their weakness. ‘A gun doesn’t have rifling down the inside of the barrel to spin the bullet on a tighter trajectory. If you’re going to let your toy boy use it, he should at least know how it works or he might hurt himself.’
‘Get moving, smart mouth,’ Ricks said, realising that he was being baited.
Locklin did as he was told, continuing to evaluate.
‘Where’s Maitland’s wife and the kids?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Inside?’
‘They’re at the carnival, Daddy,’ Nikki heckled. ‘Want me to fetch them?’
‘Oh, you two are a nice pair,’ Fletcher snapped. ‘Shut up, both of you.’
Locklin climbed the steps behind Nikki, positioning himself slightly to the left as he went through, putting himself closest to the side with the counter. There was always something on a kitchen counter, he realised, and with two men behind and Nikki in front, he’d have the perfect opportunity to —
Damn! He swore silently. Who cleaned up this kitchen?
Ricks pushed them on through the hall, wondering which way to go next. ‘Where’s the stuff?’ he asked his boss.
Fletcher signalled that he wanted to pass and Ricks waved them up against the wall with the rifle while his boss went through to stop near the first door.
‘Here,’ Fletcher said, taking down the painting from opposite Nikki’s room. He turned to pass the painting to Locklin, confident he wouldn’t do anything with a bullet pointed at his back and Fletcher thought that the sooner he turned him into a packhorse, the better he’d feel. But he didn’t like the way Locklin was looking at him, and signalled Nikki to come forward instead. ‘Pass this to your boyfriend,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘And be careful. It’s worth more than the both of you.’
‘You don’t know him at all?’ Nikki asked he
r stepfather, needing to know.
Locklin stared at her, willing her not to reveal his identity.
‘Why should I?’ Fletcher snuffed ignorantly. ‘I’ve never taken an interest in your boyfriends before.’ He thumped his way along the hall taking down paintings, until Locklin was carrying seven that were all stacked so the frames kept the canvases from being touched or scratched. He packed three more onto Nikki and carried two larger ones himself and gave the signal for Ricks to back everyone nice and steady towards the kitchen.
‘Hardly a reverent way to carry the merchandise,’ Fletcher said, still thinking about the packing cases and the Landcruiser.
‘Paintings!’ Locklin exploded. ‘All this is over stupid paintings?’
‘You bet,’ Fletcher said with a grin on his face. ‘Eighty-four million dollars’ worth of stupid paintings.’
Guns, drugs or smuggling of victims to harvest for their bodily organs, he could understand. People involved in those kind of things were supposed to be the scum of the earth. But his father had died over a bunch of stupid paintings!
Locklin wanted to punch the wall. He wanted to smash every picture frame in the house over that cold smug face and drive that freakish grin all the way to Hell. He controlled the rage instead, feeling his muscles coil tight and his blood turn to acid. Now was not the time. The Winchester would shoot through him and into Nikki.
He forced air out between his teeth like a pressure valve releasing as Fletcher ducked into the room that he’d once called his bedroom. He heard the bedcovers rip down and saw Fletcher emerge with the two blankets draped over his shoulder.
‘We’ll use this as packing,’ he said, giving Ricks the signal to head to the car.
Ricks made the packhorses go out the back door first. ‘You want the paintings in the boot?’ he asked.
‘On the back seat,’ Fletcher said, ‘there’s more room.’ He nodded to their captives. ‘They go in the back.’
Ricks herded them down the stairs to the car and Fletcher rested his portraits against the back wheel, giving him two free hands to get things ready. He took the tow rope and the tool kit from the boot and put them on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Then he used the pliers from the tool kit to cut the internal manual boot release, and tossed the pliers on top of the tool kit. When he locked this pair in the boot, he didn’t want them getting out by using any complimentary safety feature.
He stacked his two paintings on the back seat, the first one face down, the next one face up. He continued the stack with paintings he took from Nikki, weaving blankets between them as needed to prevent damage.
‘You’re done,’ Fletcher told Nikki when her arms were empty. ‘Get in,’ he said, motioning her to boot.
He shoved her when she didn’t move, her legs stiff with fear, her skin cold with sweat. He shoved her again and she planted her feet, this time with determination.
‘No!’ she spat. ‘I’m not getting in there!’
He shoved her again and she tripped into Locklin. Locklin stepped over her, pushing the paintings into Fletcher, betting that he wouldn’t want to drop them.
‘Run!’ he shouted and she bolted.
Locklin spun on his heel as Fletcher teetered with the paintings. He threw a roundhouse kick at Ricks, but the rifle had moved.
‘Stop!’ Ricks shouted as the muzzle came up under Locklin’s ribs. ‘Stop!’ he shouted again. ‘Or the boyfriend gets it!’
Nikki skidded in the gravel.
Locklin had his arms up for balance and he moved them slowly to his head.
‘That’s better,’ Ricks said. ‘Nice and civilised.’
Locklin spat on his face, but caught a punch to the kidneys from behind.
‘Thanks, boss,’ Ricks said, driving the barrel into Locklin’s midriff and dropping him to his knees. He raised the Winchester up and brought it down hard on Locklin’s head, taking him to the ground. Then he kicked him and knocked him out before turning back to the car.
‘Where were we?’ Fletcher said, pushing Nikki closer to the boot.
‘I’m not getting in there!’ she screamed.
‘Doesn’t look like you got much choice,’ Ricks laughed.
Nikki gave him the finger right in his face and Ricks scowled. ‘Let me shoot her boss, please?’
‘No. I want to dump her out over the ocean alive. There’ll be no blood or body that way if forensics come looking.’
‘Well, he’s bleeding,’ Ricks said, turning. ‘Hey! Where’d he go?’
Fletcher, Nikki and Ricks all looked around at once and saw nothing. Fletcher kicked the wheel of the car. ‘That’s all I need,’ he said, swearing.
‘You take the girl and go, boss,’ Ricks said. ‘Farran and Kirk will be here any second. We’ll bag him and catch up.’
‘I’m not getting in that—’
‘Boot. Yeah yeah,’ Fletcher said, kicking gravel at her. ‘We’ve heard that song. Get in the front.’
‘I can’t drive!’
‘Do I look that stupid?’ Fletcher said, shoving her roughly to the other side. ‘You’re just crazy enough to accelerate into a tree. Passenger seat, now!’ he ordered, opening the door.
Ricks shoved her in and pointed the Winchester at her head. He glanced around while Fletcher tied her hands behind the seat with the tow strap and blew her a kiss as he slammed her door.
‘You sure you’ll be right here, Ricks?’ Fletcher asked, getting in and starting the motor.
‘Yeah, boss,’ Ricks said, stroking his rifle like it was his best friend. ‘There’s only one of him, against all of me.’
A latch clicked and Ricks brought his Winchester round to face the Magna. It was parked with its boot open down by the cattle yards, but the only thing moving was a horse that was tied up on the far side of the yard.
The nose of the Magna was parked under a bougainvillea, angled slightly away from him and for the first time, he noticed the specialised numberplates — six blue numbers on a white background with the RAAF rondel and the slogan ‘Power for Defence’ in little writing underneath.
He sent five rounds from his lever-action rifle through the car from tail to nose, just in case flyboy was hiding on the other side. The horse screamed on the fifth and he grinned, pumping two more into the car between them just to see it buck and try to break its lead.
He waited a second to see if the fuel tank would explode like they did in the movies, but it didn’t and he put another round through where he thought the tank should be in case he missed it. Still no fire, but he could hear fuel leaking.
‘Bugger,’ he said, realising the bullets must have gone clean through without a spark. He took a box of matches out of his back pocket and grinned anyway, pleased that his boss wasn’t here to put a damper on his fun.
He approached the yawning boot slowly, seeing a blue metal trunk inside. It was padlocked and he rapped on it, trying to hear if it was empty, but he couldn’t tell. He checked the far side of the car and found nobody, and then worked his way along the front, peering cautiously inside. Nobody there either, and he walked off a bit to light a match. Then he flicked it under the car and hit the dirt.
The explosion went over him and the horse screamed again. Wuss, Ricks thought as he got up, it barely touched you.
He turned round to check out his handiwork and admired the flames and the nice crackling effect of the sap in the bougainvillea branches exploding as the plant incinerated. If his boss could see the flames or the plume of black smoke from the boathouse over the treetops, he’d just blame it on flyboy.
Behind him, Locklin lunged into the stables with the mobile phone he’d rescued from the car. He hadn’t meant to bump the boot release, but he hadn’t meant to catch the butt end of the Winchester with his forehead either.
He suppressed the headache at his temple with one hand and thumbed a code into his mobile with the other to cancel call forwarding to his message bank. Then he dialled the number for directory assistance and followed the prompts to as
k for connection to wakeup calls and programmed the automated system to dial his mobile back in fifty seconds and again in one and a half minutes, just in case his friend outside couldn’t hear much over the fire.
He set the ring option to vibrate and set the phone down on an upturned metal bucket in the fourth stall. He added a lightweight metal hoof-pick beside the phone and grabbed a pitchfork before closing the door as he came out. He ducked quickly towards the back of the stables, crouching in a stall two doors down and resting the pitchfork on the straw beside him. Then he waited.
The phone rang — he could tell by the racket the hoof pick made as it danced around the phone on the upturned bucket.
Ricks followed the noise in on the breeze like a kid following the smell of hot dogs at a party. He burst though the door, knowing it to be a trick. The noise was too loud and too constant. He ignored it, laughing loud as he blasted three shots into the stall nearest to him, two shots into the one behind him and two into the next one along from that.
One left, Locklin thought as the hoof pick stopped dancing.
Ricks glanced around, more concerned now that the noise had stopped. He kicked open the door to the fourth stall and found it empty except for an upturned bucket. He smiled as the phone buzzed and the hoof pick started to dance again, but his smile was his last. He fell with a pitchfork through his back, but Locklin made no attempt to pull it out.
He grabbed his phone and the Winchester and ran to Jack, not surprised to see the big horse still trembling. Light from the burning wreck, blood red and burnished black, danced devils in the flickering shadows across his flanks.
‘Steady mate,’ he said, swinging up into the saddle. The cigarette pack crushed as he sat down and he moved it from his back pocket into his saddlebag beside his phone. He wheeled his big horse around and rode wide of the bonfire that had once been a Magna. Then he pointed his horse north to the boathouse, and pushed him to a gallop. But with every step, life oozed faster from the stallion where the blood ran down his rump.
Mad Murphy kissed his favourite hen and sat her up on his shoulder. He scratched his scrawny rump, flipped on the floodlights over his rescue boat and climbed up wearing mudgrey shorts and blue plastic rainboots to run the motor for a while to keep the oil up. He should have been out earlier, he realised, but Gertrude didn’t want to go to roost until he’d freshened the hay in the laying nests ready for the morning. She was fussy like that sometimes, and while folks said he was mad pampering to his chooks to the extent he did, it worked for him and he figured that was all that mattered.
