'I have three men on 11, all beaten to within an inch of their lives — by Bogans and Batemans, mostly. What do you make of that?' she asked.
'Campbell, extending his influence, keeping your troops spread thin and distracted.'
'Campbell? Why make the Old Man dislike the villeins any more than usual when he's pushing to get them on to the council?'
'Who else can gain?'
She raised an eyebrow.
'It could just be the streeters flexing their muscles,' he said.
'Oh, come on. It's that damn three-sided coin, Reece. I can't pick it.'
When they reached her office, Marshall retrieved a bottle from a filing cabinet and poured two fingers of neat bourbon for each of them.
'So, a manhunt for Kevin Matheson. What are his chances of being brought in alive?'
'Depends who finds him,' Reece said. 'We can presume Max's ploy of using Blake's moll to force contact with Danica worked. That they still have the girl suggests they still hope to save her from bedlam.'
'A long bow, you're drawing. They might just be nice boys not leaving anyone behind.'
'Hope springs eternal. The fact they are in contact with Rodan adds weight.'
'The Japanese?'
'For starters. But someone doesn't want Mira to come back. It was interesting that no one at the meeting mentioned the four-armed assassin and which interests he might be serving.'
Marshall sipped, watched the ripples in the top of her glass. 'You think me cowardly for not challenging Campbell.'
'Without evidence? Sensible, given what Rabbit told me about Slick doing it for the money.'
'Treasurer.' She rubbed her temple as she ingested the accusation. 'Treasurer Campbell, the slimy bastard. And he's got Bishop on his side; probably Tran as well — he's the one who called for the extraordinary council meeting.'
'Doing Campbell's work for him. Which means Campbell needs Heinrich, you or Jensen to swap sides to give him control of the board.'
'Jensen might. He and Max do go back a'ways, but he's always looking for a bigger slice of the action. Logistics is important, but ordering groceries doesn't carry a lot of prestige. The casino could just sway him.'
'I think Bishop might have expectations there; it's right up that cockatoo's alley. She's all facade; with her running the Hunters, we spent more time covering shit up than tracking down the perps.'
Reece swallowed a mouthful of bourbon, enjoying the hit, wanting it to cleanse him of the bitter taste Bishop's PR bullshit left in his mouth. But Bishop wasn't their biggest problem. 'So, if Tran called the meeting at Campbell's say-so, then it's likely that's when Campbell will make his move.'
'As soon as he has enough of his pet vassals installed on the council to give him the majority; for certain. This crisis is giving him the opportunity to stack the meeting, regardless of Jensen's support.'
'He won't be able to shift Maximilian, surely.'
'Everyone knows Heinrich is doing most of the chairman's work without having the title. Campbell could easily shift Maximilian to being just a figurehead and take the chair for himself. That'd sideline Heinrich at the same time. He's taking the empire, piece by piece. He'll be after my job next.' She huffed, drained her glass. 'I wonder why I care.'
'A shame to let the greaseballs win, Madam Marshall.'
'Pride before the fall.' She contemplated her drink, considering. 'We need proof, Reece. We need the Needle to testify to the council. If he can vouch that Campbell betrayed us by leaking the information—'
'There's no guarantee he knows that for a fact. And I don't think we can trust Rabbit to stand up. She's in Campbell's pocket.'
'Still, wouldn't hurt to bring her in. Vee might be able to extract something useful. All we need is to stir up doubt over Campbell's loyalty to prevent his takeover bid.'
'A hostile takeover?'
'That remains to be seen. We've got two nights to prevent it. If Campbell wins, we all lose our heads.'
He stood, knocked back the last of his drink and headed to the door. 'I'll get to it, then.'
Reece sat on his bunk while he ran through the files — printouts, easier to grasp; solid. But there was sweet FA about the Needle, his haunts, his known associates.
The aircon was on the blink again, the barracks thick with body odour and stale socks. He tossed the papers back in their folder and took them with him to the rec room, where he ordered a beer before stepping out onto the balcony. The air was still, the city sluggish, a cabbie below too tired to even honk at the car in front idling at a stale green light. Reece sat at a table, both it and the chair bolted to the floor. The only other people out — a couple, he behind her, pressing her to the rail as they took in the view — soon left.
On the street, a tree itched with crickets, the racket reminding him of camping trips and the deafening scratch of cicadas; and at the family home too, trees thrumming with the noise of them, the sound of summer if ever there was one. Nights like this, he and his sister used to sleep on thin mattresses on the verandah, the unmoving, damp air thick with the reek of mosquito coils and the whine of the defiant bloodsuckers taking a chunk of foot and finger where the single sheet didn't cover. And his mother would be there, nightie wet and discoloured and clinging around her neck and chest as she rolled a cold stubby or tall glass across her forehead — depending on whether it was a beer or g&t time of day — and she'd tell them to get some sleep because the cool change was gonna come. They'd watch the storms charge down from the ranges like angry Apaches in a John Wayne film, all roiling and arrowful with lightning, hollering fit to make the house shake, and that cold, wet wind would charge ahead, chilling his puckered flesh like that of a chicken straight from the freezer. His mother would study the clouds with a knowing squint and pronounce it a bad one, 'get the car under cover, there's hail in that one'. And the green rotten-meat glow would indeed foretell a next-day front page of gushing streets and suits huddled under uplifted newspapers and inside-out brollies and someone showing off a bucket of hail stones as big as golf balls or cricket balls.
Reece ran his stubby across his forehead, the cold shivering his skin and provoking a minor headache. There were clouds on the mountains and the air was thick with swamp heat. The city sweated, waiting for the cool change.
Gonna be a bad one, all right.
He flicked through the files again, careful to keep the papers away from the pool of condensation where the stubby had sat. They'd got sloppy, Newman and Petersen, more interested in stray fanny and big-noting themselves than doing their job; too reliant on the blood to reveal trouble in the making.
But blood in Reece's world was after the fact; it was evidence. The Needle was a fucking phantom. The Needle was a master of disguise. The blood didn't lie, according to the vampires' mantra, but in his case it said nothing. Nothing at all. The biggest lie: the lie of omission.
Reece gathered the papers and drained the stubby. Cast a last resigned look over the railing at the waiting city.
Nothing for it but to hit the streets and hope he got lucky.
Reece had a list of likely suspects. Emergency workers and janitors, taxi drivers and prostitutes and hobos. Vampires and red-eyes and hangers-on close enough to the Needle's gutters to be worth paying a visit and leaving a card. There were others, of course: socialites and recluses, businessmen and eccentrics who could get away with partying at night and doing business behind curtains during the day. But they weren't the types to get shiny tattoos, however novel.
No, it was the streets for him: greasy spoons and soup kitchens, brothels and servos — a tedious night of question and answer, with only the amount of aggro to differentiate one from the other.
He was on his fourth door-knock of the night and contemplating a morale-boosting beer when he got the call from Marshall: shit had gone down in some town called Maryborough. Newman was there, covering it up like a good Hunter should. It sounded like Matheson and Rodan's Japanese muscle, following on from the clusterfuck on Fraser Isla
nd the night before. She was sending him an email with what little details she had.
Reece knew of Maryborough, about three hours' drive north of Brissie. Taipan had grown up near there, under the dubious patronage of Jasmine Turner. Was it coincidence that Taipan's offspring, Kevin Matheson, had returned to the area? Should Reece have expected that?
He went to the nearest pub, a favourite haunt near the showgrounds, and got the bartender to click to a news channel where the blaze was still getting airplay. Nine people dead in a hotel fire, only a day after a light airplane crashed into a four-wheel drive while attempting a beach landing on the island — yeah, that was news, all right.
Double tragedy on Fraser Coast the ticker tape read, as footage alternated between a burned-out plane wreck awash with waves, and the burning pub with smoke and flames leaping through its blackening frame.
He drank a beer with a rum chaser and watched the footage, tried to avoid thinking of things he might've done differently or not at all. He had taken a severe dislike to Johnny Slick for fucking up his collar at the tattoo shop, but realised he was really just angry at himself. Getting old. Old and slow. And people were dying as a result.
When the news moved on, so did he, and there would be no time for another drink break. If Marshall's info was accurate and Matheson was involved in that fire, it meant two things: the kid was getting desperate, and he was on his way.
Reece had to reach him first.
FIFTY-TWO
Greaser and Kevin backtracked along the roads Kevin and Yoshi had followed into the city's northern outskirts. The winding road up the mountain seemed interminable, the farmland below a mottle of open paddocks and lightly-forested areas in the glow of the waning moon. At this time of morning, few lights showed, except when they neared the peak and the road afforded glimpses toward Caboolture and the coastal towns.
They turned off, away from the ocean, following a ridge. They entered forest, trees and scrub making a dark corridor of the narrow road.
'What makes you think the twins will tell you anything?' Greaser asked.
'Maybe they won't have a choice.'
She grimaced.
The trees fell away on their right, to reveal a cleared park with covered tables and a toilet block near the road. The Needle's Winnebago was parked on the far side.
'Look all right to you?' Kevin asked. His senses went into overdrive as he shut the engine down. Earth and wattle, the gentle whisper of trees in the breeze, a distant trickle of water. A plover. A fall of bark, clacking through the branches.
'C'mon, night's wasting.' Greaser got out, worked the slide of a pistol and tucked the gun into a pocket before resuming her familiar slouch.
They walked over, shadows grey and indistinct before them.
Kevin's back itched, his ears strained.
The motorhome's door opened. The rectangle filled with the shape of a blonde-haired girl. 'Why, if it isn't country mouse and city mouse. What do you two want?'
Greaser waved a greeting. 'You got the kettle on, Silver?'
'Long drive, Greaser? Thirsty, are ya?'
'What's with the aggro, Silver? We're just lookin' for the Needle.'
'You and everyone else. Guess you'd better come on in. Make the place look untidy, hanging about.'
Kevin's nose twitched. Something in the air. An excitation. An expectation. A hunger.
He paused, but Greaser was already up the steps. He followed her inside the dimly-lit vehicle. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink; the room stank of stale blood and pasta. The smell of ink and disinfectant pushed through from the studio on the other side of the closed curtain.
Argent guarded the studio. Silver shut the door and leaned back against it.
Kevin cursed silently. He moved Greaser to one side, so he stood between her and the two streeters.
'How long did you know we were here?' he asked.
Argent gestured at the walls. 'Listen to that.'
'I don't hear anything.'
'Exactly. So much as a roo farts, we know about it long before we smell it.'
'Good sense of smell, have you? Good hearing? Better than before?'
'If you say so.'
'Do you miss the bright colours, though?'
'Huh?'
'When did he turn you?'
'Is it that obvious?'
Argent took a step forward, into the moonlight coming through the window, and his eyes glazed green.
'Oh, shit,' Greaser said, stepping well back.
'I just want some information,' Kevin said. 'If any VS goon got a silver tatt, maybe, six to eight weeks ago. I need to know who they belonged to; who sent them.'
'Shall I consult the appointment book?' Argent said.
'No need,' Silver said with a wave. 'It's verboten for any VS trooper to be tattooed by the Needle.'
'That's right,' Argent said. 'They lose their pension.'
'And their head,' Silver added with a knowing leer.
'Listen to me,' Kevin said. 'I can help the Needle. We can help each other. We both want to same thing: to stop Maximilian.'
'I thought it was Mira you had the hard-on for?'
'Mira, Maximilian: it's all the same. Take them out and the whole bloody lot comes crashing down. That is what the Needle wants, isn't it? That's why he told Bhagwan about Jasmine Turner. The Needle knew Bhaggy would see her as a rival.'
'The boss's reasons are his own,' Silver said. 'We just follow.'
'You're his Familiares; you can't be that ignorant.'
'We call it polite. Not talking about others' business.'
'His business is mine. VS is hunting me, too.'
'Did they follow you?'
'Smell any farts?'
Argent snorted. 'Still can't tell you where the Needle is.'
'But,' Silver said, 'as it happens, there is something you can do for us.'
'Blood?' Kevin asked.
'For starters.'
They leaped. Greaser swore; Kevin fired.
Argent went down — not out, just down. Silver was too quick. She hit Kevin side on and they crashed against the table. Her hand pinned his wrist; he couldn't bring the gun to bear. Her fangs gnashed at his throat as he held her other claw away from his guts.
Greaser shot her, again and again. Silver stumbled against the door, holding her stomach as though winded.
Kevin pushed Greaser through the curtain into the tattoo studio, yelling at her to get out the back.
'What back?' she shouted.
He followed her, his pistol levelled at the twins as they found their feet and advanced.
'He turned you, didn't he?' Kevin said. 'Sent you up here, away from everyone, until he calls you in. He's going to war.'
'Mighty hungry, waiting,' Silver said.
'Mighty hungry,' Argent repeated.
They both pulled handguns. Kevin shot them and ran. The curtain fell shut behind him, blocking the twins from view. A body lay on the tattoo lounge, mauled and bloodless.
'Through the window, Greaser. Now!'
Greaser bashed at the rear window, the little sign that read In case of emergency, push out. Kevin charged through the cramped room and threw himself against the panel.
The window popped under the impact, and he hefted Greaser up and out.
The twins scrabbled after him, popping off wild shots. He fired back, making them duck. It gave him enough time to leap out, chased by bullets. Greaser was running for the Monaro.
Kevin sprinted after her. The motorhome door clanked open. Gunshots. Bullets chewed earth at his feet. One hit him in the back. He stumbled, but kept running.
The Monaro roared to life. Greaser swung it around. Kevin fell into the passenger seat and slammed the door. A bullet struck the car and he winced. Then they were away, gravel rattling against the guards as Greaser planted her foot.
'Are they following?' she asked.
'In that thing? Built for comfort, not speed.'
She eased back on the pedal.
'W
asn't really worth it, was it?'
'If I understood those two weirdos correctly, whoever spilled the beans on Jasmine is dead.'
'So what now?'
'Back to Brissie, I guess, and hope that the Needle turns up.'
'You don't mind if we stop along the way? I'm starving. What about you, Kev? Are you hungry?'
'I'm doing okay.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Somewhere with drive through, eh? It's getting late. I might have to jump in the back.'
'I could really go a pizza, but I guess it'll have to be a burger. No one else is gonna be open this hour of the morning.'
'Wait a minute. Those things the Needle liked. The cal-zon-ee. Where did you say he got them from?'
'Georgina's. It's on the north side, by the river.'
'Two birds with one stone, then.'
'Huh?'
'You get a pizza, and maybe we find our Needle.'
Dawn's pink fingers poked the Monaro when they hit the city. Following Kevin's hunch about the Needle's location would have to wait. They got drive-through, the smell of burned, fatty meat filling the car. They left the windows down when they parked at the chop shop.
Kevin whiled away the day in fitful sleep, haunted by images of violence and the faces of dead people. Mira, too. Hunter. His mother.
With a whole day to wait, doubts resurfaced. Maybe Yoshi was right. With Danica gone, maybe Kevin was no longer on the radar, just an annoyance to be scratched when the opportunity arose.
He could leave. Go west, north, even south; find someplace monster free, and make some kind of life with a red-eye to watch over him and a rotating roster of willing blood addicts to feed him. A murder in Blake's words; a family in the Needle's. Neither sat well with him.
Time droned on: traffic, the tinny radio and the conversations of the men working in the garage beneath them, the crunch and ring of metal. The urge to run warred with the need to get to the Needle, to get access to Thorn, to destroy everything in sight. Hunger scratched at his guts.
The Big Smoke Page 21
