Northern Heat

by Helene Young

  ‘Reckon that cyclone’s going to come this far south?’ Joe asked.

  ‘I hope not. I really don’t wish to spend days locked up in the Cooktown hall with every man, woman and child for a hundred k’s jammed in together. Public health risk right there.’

  Joe chuckled. ‘At least we’d be able to road-test the bloody thing. It’s been up for four years now and the most serious workout it’s had was Ita last year.’

  ‘I saw that on the news. The worst we got at Ruby Downs was a bit of welcome rain.’

  The automatic cuff inflated on Bill’s arm and Joe took the readings. He grunted and his glance shied away from Kristy. 110/45 wasn’t healthy at all. The vehicle swerved and the driver cursed. ‘Friggin’ roos. They’re everywhere. Sooner it rains, the sooner they’ll get back to the bush.’

  Until the monsoon rains came the countryside shrivelled beneath the searing sun. Moisture from vehicles meant the tiniest of new grass shoots grew on the crumbling edges of the bitumen. From dusk to dawn the kangaroos congregated to feed. Hitting one of the big bucks could be fatal for everyone at this speed, including the roo.

  Behind the ambulance, the lights of her car swung as Conor swerved too. One of the monitors started beeping, and for the next ten minutes she forgot about everything except keeping Bill alive. The safety officer met them at the gate of the airport, shining his torch to attract their attention. He was still wearing his pyjama top, shoved into a pair of olive-green work pants. The helicopter squatted on the pad, blades doing lazy circles in the yellow tarmac lights. A helmeted crewman sprinted across to the ambulance as they shuddered to a stop. Within ten minutes the rotors were winding up again and Bill was on his way to Cairns Base Hospital. His fate was in someone else’s hands. Kristy realised hers were shaking. She ran them down her pants and brushed the hair back from her face.

  The sky to the east was slate grey; to the west midnight blue. Lightning exploded from a storm to the north, but it was too far away for the rumbles of thunder to be heard. So many times over the Christmas break her dad pushed his battered felt hat high on his forehead and scratched his sparse dark hair as he eyed off towering thunderheads lit by constant lightning. ‘Dry storms,’ he’d muttered. ‘Neither use nor bloomin’ ornament.’

  ‘You okay?’ Conor was beside her. She hadn’t realised he too had driven onto the airfield. There was just the right amount of space between them, yet she caught the tiniest trace of diesel and soap. It was tempting to reach across and place her hand in the middle of his broad chest and suck in some of his strength. Her hands stayed by her side.

  ‘Fine. And thanks. Sorry you had to drive this far, but when the call came . . .’ She shrugged as she ran out of words.

  ‘I figured the medivac was on its way. At least I’ve seen him loaded aboard and heading somewhere safe.’ He paused, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Will he make it?’

  Kristy felt her jaw tighten at the sudden misplaced well of tears. She shook her head to give herself time to muster her voice.

  ‘No?’ he asked, his voice raw. ‘Or you’re not sure?’

  ‘I hope so. He’s getting the best possible care.’ She went with an easy platitude, but in her heart she thought the damage was too great and Bill’s will to live had been dwindling since Leonie died. Who would visit him in Cairns? Who would keep his spirits up?

  Conor shoved his hands in his pocket. ‘I hope they catch the bastards.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell the police everything now.’

  ‘I’m not going to hide anything after this. Arseholes.’

  He half turned towards her car and she straightened, pulling her shoulders back against the weight of fatigue. The keys jangled in his pocket, but he made no move to hand them over. ‘No offence, but I’d rather drive.’

  Before she could protest, Joe called out from the ambulance. ‘You take it easy on the drive back, Kristy. The roos’ll be even worse now the sun’s coming up.’

  ‘I’m definitely more awake.’ Conor’s tone brooked no argument.

  ‘Great idea,’ Joe replied. ‘See you later, love. Thanks for your help, mate. See you at training.’

  Conor gave half a wave and turned towards the car. The safety officer saw them through the gate. The paramedics would take longer to pack up their vehicle.

  With his right elbow propped on the trim of the door, Conor guided the steering wheel with a grace she didn’t normally associate with driving. His left hand rested on his leg, long fingers relaxed, nails dirty from a hard night’s work, but cared for. Since when had a man’s hands become erotic? She swallowed and looked out the window, remembering too easily the way those hands had glided over her body, touching intimately, tenderly. Restless, she shifted in the seat.

  Ahead, the sky had the palest blush of pink and the sun cast what she always thought of as rays of God from behind the glistening thunderhead to the north. In a matter of minutes it would burst out and dazzle them. They were well on the way back to Cooktown before she broke the silence.

  ‘Why did he leave the hospital in such a hurry? Are you doing something illegal on that trawler?’

  ‘You always this grumpy in the morning?’

  ‘It depends on how the night panned out.’

  ‘Sorry.’ His frown drew those dark eyebrows together over the hawkish nose. He reached across and squeezed her hands for the briefest of instants. ‘I know it must be tough to lose one.’

  She didn’t reply. Rare tears welled in her eyes, threatened to spill over her lids. She sat a little straighter, breathed a little deeper. This wasn’t just about Bill, but about the impotence she’d felt holding her baby’s hand as the life support was switched off and that vibrant spark of life dwindled and faded, the small pale chest rising and falling one last time. It was the most painful, most humiliating experience of her life. All those years of training had been worthless in the face of death.

  The silence settled. It gave her time to swallow the tears before they could fall. The sun topped the horizon and flickered in the window, glistening on the hairs on his arms, turning his skin translucent so she could see the life pumping through his veins, strong and steady. He turned into the car park. Bill’s ute was still wrapped up in police tape. The Lady Leonie strained against her mooring lines as the incoming tide flooded the Endeavour River.

  He turned the engine off. ‘I’d bet my life that Bill’s the innocent bystander caught up in something much bigger than him. For the record, we’ve done nothing more illegal than lay a couple of extra crab pots.’

  ‘So was it a warning shot or was it meant to kill him?’

  ‘If they’d wanted him dead it would have been so easy to drive over him again.’ Conor hesitated for a moment. ‘What if it was meant to be me? They saw me drive up to the hospital with Bill so maybe they assumed it was me in the ute. The lights are crap down here. Hard to tell.’

  ‘Is it related to Danny’s killing?’ She knew her voice was shaky.

  His big shoulders moved under the dirty shirt and he met her gaze across the car. ‘Maybe. The gunman could be worried I saw enough that morning to identify him.’ There was regret in his eyes. ‘Or maybe it’s karma. Life has a habit of catching up with you.’ He was out of the car and striding towards the dock before she could think of a response.

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Her mobile phone rang and she dug deep in her pocket to find it. ‘Abby, I’m sorry, sweetie. I got held up at work. I’ll be there soon.’

  ‘You scared me. I woke up and you weren’t here.’

  ‘I know, baby, I’m sorry. I’ll be there in five.’

  The phone went dead and she eased herself across the park brake and into the driver’s seat. The rising sun bathed the deck of the trawler in gold. Conor was already heaving blue crates into stacks.

  She swung into a tight turn and turned the air-con up as the humidity began its steady rise. The weather report was on. There was an increased risk of the cyclone in the Coral Sea crossing th
e coast near Cooktown, but no one wanted to commit. For now, that meant blue skies in the morning, towering thunderheads in the early evening bringing awe-inspiring lightning shows, followed by sultry nights. The big air-con in the house had been turned on mid-October and not turned off. That meant the humidity drowned her when she walked out the front door.

  She headed up the hill past the pub where two police cars were parked nose-in to the kerb. Would they find any witnesses?

  Conor. That instant awareness when he’d walked into the hospital had blasted away her control. Getting naked with him had been a really crazy idea – as if scratching an itch like that was going to make it disappear. But the memories of that stolen day had her waking from deeply erotic dreams some nights, her sheet twisted around her legs.

  Tyler was thirty-eight going on fifty when they’d first met, a grieving widower who fell in love with one of his eighteen-year-old med students. He’d been old-fashioned, courtly even, with his conservative clothes and studious demeanour. His first wife had died in a car accident. They’d had no children. There was an air of vulnerability about his serious but beautiful face and dishevelled hair.

  Boarding school in Cairns hadn’t prepared her for the frenetic pace of university life. She’d very nearly failed her first year, caught up in a social life she’d never dreamed existed. Tyler called her in for a meeting, sat her down, made her a cup of tea and talked to her about the difference she could make as a doctor.

  It had been the perfect strategy. He’d shared stories of past students whose lives had changed through medicine, of people who went on to do great things because medical science made a difference and saved their lives.

  He wasn’t a practising doctor any more, but he brought perspective to her confusion. The next year, when she returned from a summer holiday at Ruby Downs she’d sought him out after class to say thank you. They’d gone for coffee, which six months later turned into something else. She’d just turned twenty-one when she realised she was pregnant. Tyler didn’t hesitate, and they were married in a registry office. She knew her parents were devastated, and hindsight showed that they’d been right, that the warning signs were there already. What she believed to be understanding, caring and nurturing, turned out to be controlling and dominating. It had taken her seven years to work that out and another three to have the courage to change it.

  He knew how to wound without slamming her head into a wall. The threat of losing her daughter was bad enough, but then there was Finn.

  She rested her forehead on the steering wheel, remembering the short, sharp labour that had forced Finn into a cool autumn world, with rain rattling the windows. Their beautiful, sunny boy had a perfect mix of their features: his mother’s dark hair and his father’s honey-brown eyes. Finn had brought more joy with one of his throaty chuckles than Kristy believed possible. She’d thought her heart would crack when Finn stroked featherlike fingers down her cheek and planted smacking kisses in their wake. Abby was besotted with her little brother, Tyler so proud of his heir.

  ‘Mum, what are you doing?’ Abby banging on the car window brought her back to the present. She mustered a smile for her daughter, a living reminder of Tyler, her wide eyes currently red-rimmed and swollen.

  Kristy pushed open the door. What was she doing, sitting here remembering the past when the present needed her?

  13

  Sweat stung Conor’s eyes and dripped off his chin as he manhandled the trolley back up the dock after the last run of empty crates. The demand for prawns had been high this morning. Good money to be made. The dull ache in his lower back had turned into a knifepoint. Nothing time wouldn’t fix; time and a good stiff rum.

  Something about the tropics had turned him into a rum drinker and less of a fine-wine man. He was rougher, readier than he’d been. The stubble on his jaw had flashes of silver now that hadn’t been there the last time he’d slept between silky sheets. He tipped the trolley on its end to drain, ever optimistic that the rain would come sheeting down this afternoon from the thunderheads that would build with the energy-sapping heat of the day.

  One last check of the Lady Leonie’s mooring lines and he slung his backpack over his shoulder. His dinghy was tied up amid a jumble of other tenders, an unremarkable grey. But it would float no matter what damage was done to its inflatable sides, the motor encased in a bulletproof jacket and way too powerful for the hull. ‘Over-engineered’, the man who’d built it for him had said with a shake of his head, ‘and a waste of money’. Conor had smiled and paid the exorbitant bill. What price freedom?

  He eased out of the shallows before opening the throttle. The wind dried the sweat on his skin, blew the hair clear of his ears and off the back of his neck. He almost closed his eyes in delight and a vision of a dark-haired doctor swam into view. That deep, visceral pull he’d felt hadn’t lessened with making love to her. It had been a long time since a woman had made him feel that way. Last time he’d ended up married. But hadn’t he vowed never to do that again? He couldn’t risk bringing danger to someone else’s life. He groaned out loud. And then he’d promised to keep her and Abby safe that afternoon on the boat, promised that he wouldn’t hurt them. But hadn’t he already done that, starting something he’d have to end?

  It was probably a good thing that she was shoving him away with both hands. It didn’t stop regret settling in the pit of his stomach. He should have known from the start he was playing with fire.

  He reached the Veritas, the clear water fluttering around her anchor chain with the ebbing tide. The dinghy bumped against the transom and he flicked a rope around the cleat, stilled the motor and started to climb aboard. With one foot on the deck, he froze. Someone had been visiting. He always left a fishing rod over the side with the line conveniently stretched across the access. It was gone. He eased back into the dingy and reached into the pocket of his backpack. The small gun fitted comfortably into his hand and he thumbed the safety as he pulled it clear. Were they still aboard, waiting below decks for him? Or had they come to check on him, case the vessel? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of exhaustion, use the shot of adrenaline to his advantage.

  The only sound was the slap of water against the hull of the smaller vessel. He inhaled and held his breath, straining his ears. They would have heard him arrive if they were still there. No murmur of voices, no shuffle of feet on the teak deck. He let out his breath and tasted the air, trying to pick up any foreign smells.

  Nothing.

  He swung aboard, kept the weapon trained on the companionway that led down to the cabin. Nothing moved. He picked up a cushion from the cockpit bench seat and lobbed it into the darkness.

  Nothing.

  His bare feet whispered over the deck as he edged towards the stairs, concentrating on the gloom as his eyes became accustomed to the low light below. Nothing seemed to have been moved in the kitchen. His waterproof jacket still slumped on the bench, its bright red contrasting with the sober cream of the seat’s leather. The stripy cushion lay on the floor against the small stainless-steel oven next to the sink.

  Silence.

  He was poised on the balls of his feet now, ready to run or fight. He swung the backpack around and lowered it down the stairs. Still no movement.

  Right. He tossed the backpack after the cushion and followed it down the stairs, swinging the gun in an arc. The cabin was empty, but he could see immediately that someone had searched the vessel. Books were askew on his chart table. The lead from the radio microphone trailed across the desk, instead of being neatly coiled as usual.

  In four strides he was in his bedroom. The cupboard doors were closed, but his bed no longer sported crisp lines. He whirled at a sound behind him, crouching low, the gun still rock solid in his hand. The sound came again, but this time he identified it. The dingy was knocking on the stern of the Veritas. The teak was cool beneath his feet as he tiptoed to the aft cabin. Everywhere there were signs that someone had been aboard. His guitar lay face up rather than resting on i
ts side. But there was nowhere to hide in the compact cabin. It seemed like they were gone, for now. He clicked the safety catch back on and shoved the gun in his pocket before flicking the light switch.

  ‘What were they looking for?’ he mused out loud. ‘Who was it?’ Something to do with Bill and the drive-by shooting and whatever the hell had gone on in the car park? Danny’s killer, maybe? But then there was always the possibility that his past had caught him up.

  Back on deck he scanned the nearby boats. Had anyone seen anything? Most of the yachties moored in the Endeavour River at this time of year were the diehards – live-aboards with no other homes. The only sharks were in the water and a man’s word and his handshake were still enough to do business.

  Cairns was five hours away down the narrow strip of bitumen, and that was if the road was open. Heading north there was nothing but Aboriginal settlements, cattle properties measured by the thousand square kilometre, and Lockhart River, until you reached the very tip of Cape York and gazed out across the Torres Strait at Horn and Possession islands. He’d sailed there once, eighteen months ago. On the run after his witness protection identity had been blown, and still mourning for Annabel and Lily, he’d been certain he was seeing Australia for the last time. But the universe had other plans.

  The dinghy bumped the side again, breaking into his reverie. He glanced across the deck to the fishing rod lying neatly against the gunwale. It hadn’t got there on its own.

  He tied the dinghy on more securely. At eight o’clock in the morning not much stirred on the river. The fishing boats were all at anchor, crews trying to sleep. The cruise boat wouldn’t be out for another hour with its loudspeakers and load of tourists. The whine of a two-stroke motor in the distance sounded like a mosquito.

  Conor slipped below deck again and straightened the cabin as he waited for the kettle to boil. No point in going to the cops. What could they prove? They’d be after him again over Bill anyway. He rested his hands on the cool marble benchtop and looked at them, at their ingrained dirt and blunt-cut nails. He needed a scrub more than anything right now. The kettle whistled and he poured water into the plunger, the smell of rich, dark coffee filling the cabin. Leaving it to brew, he turned on the shower and stood under the hot stream of water, soaping his aching muscles. Fatigue washed over him as steam filled the compact cubicle. Mindful of the water tanks, he reluctantly turned the tap off.