‘Help me close the door,’ I yelled in his ear, but he ignored me and started trying to undo Nick’s seatbelt. Jesus. He knew Nick wasn’t the killer, but he was going to throw him out of the chopper anyway. And I bet I was next. He’d given more of a shit about his seat covers and couldn’t let me live if I witnessed him murder Nick.
Rod tugged on the seatbelt and looked to Dean for help. Dean got on his knees between the seats, tried the belt, took a knife from his ankle strap and started sawing through the material. His weapon was still strapped over his shoulder but he’d left Watto’s gun on the mini bar between the two rear-facing seats. Just behind the seats was the cockpit. Since the privacy screen was open I could see the back of the pilot’s head and the instrument panel. I wasn’t sure if I had a plan, exactly. Maybe I was acting on instinct, or maybe I was thinking that if I was going down then everyone else was, too.
I unclipped the belt, dived across and grabbed the revolver, climbed onto the seat and thrust the top half of my body into the cockpit.
Then I fired the gun.
chapter fifty-eight
The first bullet blew into the instrument panel, the second into a throttle next to the pilot. I felt a tug on my leg and metal pressing against my neck. The assault rif le, probably. I kicked back and screamed.
‘Leave me alone or I’ll blow his fucking head off and we’ll all be fucked!’
I hadn’t a clue what I’d hit but it seemed to be doing the trick. The rotors slowed. Whump. Whump. Whump.
Rod was yelling stuff to the pilot I couldn’t understand.
‘Lower the pitch! Autorotate!’
‘I’m trying! Altitude’s too low!’
The copter started swinging around, slowly at first, then faster and faster. We were descending and moving closer to the farmhouse: I saw smoke from the burning building each time we flipped that way. For a moment I regretted what I’d done, but the spin became so intense that after a few seconds all I could think about was hanging on. I tried to look back and see what Rod and Dean were up to but the force was too great so I hooked one elbow under the pilot’s shoulder strap. He was too busy fighting with the busted controls to stop me.
The chopper was at a weird angle now and I wasn’t seeing any smoke, just flashes of blue sky, glints of sunlight and terrifyingly close red earth and scrub. The pressure was intense, and as much as I tried to hang on, my arm began slipping out of the harness. I was just wondering how many seconds were left till impact when there was a god-almighty bang and everything went black.
The drug wrenched me out of unconsciousness and I came to with a start. I was on my back, underneath a scrubby bush about twenty metres from the twisted wreck of what used to be an Agusta Grand. I wondered if I still had all my limbs, and if so, whether they were working. First I wriggled my fingers and toes, then lifted myself up on my elbows to take a look. My jeans were torn and bloody and my arms were a mess of lacerations, blood and dust. My rib cage ached and my head throbbed. Everything hurt—but I was so wired the pain wasn’t bothering me.
I heard a vehicle in the distance and sat up, suddenly remembering: Talbot and the other copper, heading straight for the ambush. I managed to stand and limped over to the wreck. The top and tail rotors were gone, the tail was askew and it looked like the chopper had landed nose first. Although basically upright, the cockpit was mashed and I didn’t stop to look inside. Crumpled metal fragments littered the stony ground and I padded carefully on the hot earth, wondering when and where I’d lost my shoes. I felt sweat dripping down the back of my head, but when I touched the spot my fingers came back red and sticky and tangled with bleached blonde hair.
The doors on both sides of the cabin were gone. I poked my head inside, smelling fuel and smouldering electricals, and wondered if the thing was gonna blow. Rod and Nick were still strapped in, not moving, but Dean, and one of the seats, was missing. I couldn’t see any guns or the suitcase with the million.
I jumped in and tugged on Nick’s seatbelt but it was still jammed. I needed Dean’s knife. Had it been thrown out along with everything else? I slid out of the opposite door and looked around, shading my eyes from the sun. Ten metres from the nose of the chopper the missing chair lay on its back, Dean’s feet sticking out. I ran over, wondering if he was still alive.
He wasn’t. His head was gone and all that remained was a jagged line of torn flesh, cracked bone and stringy, multicoloured tendon, already crawling with flies. The beige calfskin upholstery was stained red and the dust beneath the chair contained a pool of coppery-smelling, rapidly coagulating blood. I glimpsed one of the main rotor blades behind him and shuddered. I looked around for the severed head, then snapped myself out of it. Get Nick out. Warn the cops.
The knife was strapped onto Dean’s ankle so I tugged it out, undid his shoulder harness and gingerly slipped the rif le over his torso, trying, and failing, to stop it from touching the meaty gore. I gagged bourbon, managed to hold it down. Small chunks of flesh adhered to the strap, but I put it on anyway, ran back to the chopper, and sawed through Nick’s safety belt. He slumped sideways out of the door and hit the dirt before I could catch him. I dragged him as far away from the helicopter as I could and laid him in a grove of saltbush where there was a tiny bit of shade.
Flies crawled over his split lip and I thought he was dead, until his mouth twitched. I probably should have administered first aid but couldn’t remember any and didn’t have time—the bikies were about to shoot Detective Talbot and the other copper. I ran towards the burning farmhouse, vaguely aware that I was having trouble breathing. Hot, dry air seared my throat and jagged stones sliced my bare feet and I realised I still had the Joan Jett song stuck in my head, the chorus repeating over and over again like a looped tape. I wasn’t sure if anyone could see me so I zigzagged like I’d seen in movies and crouched behind a clump of spinifex when I was halfway there, lifting the gun to my shoulder and peering through the telescopic sight.
The bikies were hiding, but I could see the four-wheel-drive police car stopped at the second gate. The big bearded officer was smashing the lock with a sledgehammer and Talbot was inside, talking into a radio, hopefully calling for backup, but how long would that take?
‘Hey,’ I yelled, then ducked for a few seconds, before popping my head up again, meerkat-style. No one had reacted. Probably couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the blaze. Looking through the sight again I saw the cop bust the lock and get back in the vehicle to drive the short distance to the house. I had to do something, considered firing at their car, but knew I was too inexperienced. I’d probably disable it or shoot one of them in the face.
They pulled up a safe distance from the burning building and opened the car doors. I saw something glint behind the water tank. One of the bikies. No way could I get him, but I knew what I could hit.
I trained the crosshairs on the tank itself and pulled the trigger. It was jammed. The fuck? Must have been damaged in the crash. I studied the gun. Out of bullets? Or was it a magazine? Shit. Everything I knew about guns I’d seen in action movies. Lock and load. What the hell did that even mean? Did you have to press a button? Slide some part that went chick-chick?
The sun was scorching, sweat ran down my face and flies buzzed, tickling the wound at the back of my head and clustering around my lips and eyes. I waved them away and then I saw it. A tiny switch the same gunmetal grey as the body, easy to miss. The safety catch. Dean must have engaged it as the chopper was going down. I flicked it over, got the middle of the water tank in the sights, and fired.
I hadn’t been prepared for the recoil and the first shot went wild and thrust me backwards. I steadied, braced myself and fired again, pulling the trigger over and over and watching the tank piss water. Releasing my finger I swung the gun in the direction of the cop car. Talbot and the male cop had dived back in and were tearing off back the way they’d come, throwing up gravel. The other bikie emerged from behind the shed, and fired at the four-wheel drive. The back window b
lew out and the vehicle skidded across the road before steadying, bashing through the gate and speeding down the dirt road in a cloud of dust.
I stayed down, looking through the sight. The bikies brief ly conferred outside the shed, then took off on their Harleys. There was nothing more I could do so I limped back to the helicopter, dry-mouthed, breathing raggedly and dizzy. I needed water and so did Nick. I climbed inside and opened the little bar fridge next to the remaining rear-facing seat. What do you know, four plastic water bottles and one bottle of Krug champagne. Intact. I made a basket out of my stretched t-shirt and piled the lot in. Jumped and whirled around when I felt a hand on my back.
‘Fuck!’
‘Simone,’ Rod croaked. ‘Get me out of here. I can’t undo the belt.’
He waved his hand and I noticed it was at an odd angle. Broken wrist.
‘I don’t think so. A whole heap of cops’ll be here soon. I want you just where you are.’
‘The money.’
‘It’s around here somewhere.’
‘If you get me into the van and drive me out of here, you can have it. All of it.’
‘Dunno.’ I pretended to consider it. ‘I would, only Nick and I are going to need it for evidence. Speaking of which, can I borrow your phone?’
I dug around in his pocket and found his fancy phone, popped it in the pocket of my torn and filthy jeans and left him, taking my booty back to Nick. I swigged some water, then washed off Nick’s face and held the bottle to his mouth. He was half conscious and gulped and coughed.
‘What’s happening?’ he slurred. His mouth wasn’t working properly, one eye was swollen shut and his lip was bulging and split.
‘We’re about to give ourselves up.’
‘No.’
‘It’ll be okay. There’s a way out of this. We’ve got evidence against them and no one has to know you were involved in Elliot’s murder. Trust me.’
‘I can’t go to jail.’
‘You won’t. We’re on the side of the angels, Nick. We’re the good guys.’
Unconscious again, he didn’t respond. I unwrapped the champers, dialled a number on Rod’s phone, then popped the cork and drank from the neck as I listened to the ring tone. Sublime ice-cold liquid foamed into my mouth.
‘Hello?’ Andi picked up on the sixth ring.
‘It’s Simone.’
‘Holy shit. Where are you?’
‘Dunno, exactly. The South Australian desert, ’bout two hours out of Broken Hill.’
‘You alright?’
‘Not sure of that either. Listen, I don’t have time to explain, but me and Nick need a good lawyer, the best. You do the court rounds. Know someone?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Right. Tell him to charter a freaking plane and get to Broken Hill as soon as he can. Me and Nick’ll be there in a few hours, probably.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘What hasn’t? Get your arse up here and I’ll give you an exclusive. Bring Curtis, too. I think he’s just become a dad.’ I hung up and offered champagne to Nick. He shook his head.
‘Water,’ he croaked.
I dribbled some into his mouth, then sat back swigging from the bottle, humming Joan Jett and swatting flies. I really could have gone a cigarette, but hadn’t seen Rod or any of his men smoke. I brief ly considered wandering the desert looking for Watto’s body and his ever-present packet of ciggies, but decided not to. It was too damn hot.
chapter fifty-nine
I ended up with a skull fracture, two broken ribs, stitches on my stab wounds, and more cuts and bruises than I could count, and after the Broken Hill hospital had patched me up they put me in a private room, handcuffed and under armed guard. I was thankful for the cruisy combination of prescription painkillers and crystal meth, without which I would have had the headache of my life. Nick and Rod had both been airlifted to Adelaide suffering from broken bones and internal injuries, and Dean and the chopper pilot were, I presumed, toe tagged and lying in the morgue. The docs had explained that being thrown clear of the helicopter meant I was less injured than if I’d been strapped in when we hit the dust. Something to do with the force of the accident. I wasn’t really listening. I was just glad to be alive.
Detective Talbot and her partner, the piggy Jefferson Archer, had been questioning me for about an hour when my new lawyer walked in.
‘Caroline Swift QC.’ She introduced herself around, then nodded to Talbot. ‘Hello, Dianne.’
Talbot crossed her arms and sucked in her cheeks. ‘Caroline, fancy meeting you on such a high profile case . . .’
The comment jogged my memory and I realised I recognised Caroline Swift from newspapers and news bulletins, defending such diverse clients as murderers, drug dealers, alleged terrorists and student protesters. She looked late thirties, incredibly young to be a Queen’s Counsel, and wore a designer navy skirt suit with black, spiked, patent-leather heels. Her blonde crop had been artfully styled. Talkback radio hosts hated her.
‘Great shoes,’ I said. They were.
‘Thanks. I hope you haven’t told them anything.’
I had.
‘Nothing that would incriminate me.’
‘Good.’ She turned to the detectives. ‘What’s Simone been charged with?’
‘What hasn’t she?’ Jefferson Archer held out the charge sheet in one plump pink hand. Caroline glanced at it and handed it to her assistant, a frazzled young brunette juggling a laptop bag and a small suitcase on wheels.
‘May I please have some time alone with my client?’
‘Sure,’ Talbot said. ‘Just remind her not to try anything. I’ve got most of the local area command guarding this floor.’
The cops left and it was just me, Caroline and her assistant.
‘You feel well enough to talk?’
Talk? Could I ever. An hour later and Caroline still hadn’t managed to shut me up.
After some to-ing and fro-ing between Caroline Swift and Detective Talbot, I was uncuffed. I’d told the lawyer everything except Nick’s part in Lachlan Elliot’s murder, and as she took off to fly to Adelaide she seemed pretty confident she could keep him out of jail, if not out of court.
The docs had told me to rest up, but as soon as I was left alone I put on my torn and bloodied singlet and jeans and wandered down to maternity. The nurse who’d admitted Chloe had just clocked on for the evening shift and looked me up and down.
‘Jeez, love, you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a mulga bush.’
‘You’re not far off. Is Chloe Wozniak still here?’
‘Yep.’ She told me the room number and pointed me in the right direction. When I reached the room I peeped in and saw Chloe asleep with a little bundle wrapped up on her chest. After flirting, sleeping was her next greatest talent. JJ and Curtis sat on opposite sides of the metal-framed bed, whispering to each other across it. I hung back for a second to listen in.
‘When’d you say you met?’ Curtis said.
‘Last night. Poetry slam.’
‘So you haven’t . . . ?’
‘Jesus, man. Ten minutes after we hooked up she was giving birth. I’m not that much of a player. What are you so jealous about, anyway? Chloe told me you were going out with the famous Desiree. Had a crack at her myself a few years back, she’s one hot woman.’
Curtis lowered his voice so far I had to stick part of my ear in the door to hear.
‘That was all bullshit,’ he whispered. ‘Wanted to get her jealous so she’d take me back before the baby was born. Me, Nick and Desiree cooked it up after I got a bit drunk and . . . emotional at lunch with our publisher a few months back. It was working too, until Desiree pissed off overseas without telling me. I swear, I never even fucked her.’
‘Hey, you don’t need to get angry, man. You should be thanking me. I got photos and video of the birth on my mobile. It was beautiful.’
I chose that moment to walk in. JJ had flipped open his phone to show Curtis the foota
ge, and Curtis reared back so suddenly he almost fell off his plastic chair.
‘That’s disgusting,’ Curtis choked. ‘Put it away.’
‘You want to get back with her you might have to change your attitude, my friend. She’s one natural, earthy woman.’
Natural was not exactly the adjective I would have used to describe her, but, whatever.
‘Hey everyone,’ I said.
‘Hey.’ JJ smiled as though I’d just popped out for a second to the drink machine and wasn’t covered in filth and blood. Curtis started laughing.
‘Get the hair! You look like a total skank.’
I ignored him. ‘Is the baby okay?’ I asked JJ.
‘Fine.’
‘Girl or boy?’
‘Girl.’
‘Name?’
‘I was thinking Phyllis,’ Curtis said. ‘After my gran.’
‘Alkira,’ JJ countered. ‘It’s Aboriginal for sky, and she was born in big sky country.’
Curtis snorted. ‘Look at her, she’s white as a loaf of Tip Top.’
‘So?’
I tiptoed closer for a better look. The baby was all swaddled up in a pink bunny rug, asleep on Chloe’s chest. Chloe started to stir. I sat next to her.
‘We should leave the women alone for a while,’ JJ said.
‘Not too long. Andi’s looking for you,’ Curtis told me. ‘We need an interview now if we wanna get the copy in for tomorrow’s paper. Capiche?’
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