The Final Deal
ALMOST INVISIBLE
M OSSON WALKED DOWN THE PATH TOWARDS THE Commodore. He knew he should have waited for Hannie, but she was still ignoring him and he wasn’t in the mood to make peace. Although the migraine had quieted to a dull ache, he felt like a frosted-glass screen was up between him and the world. He peered through the back window of the car, but a heavy tint smudged the occupants into dark shapes. What if these PMS guys were gung-ho crazies? Hannie didn’t really know anything about them. She was taking Dudley’s word that they were good guys. It could be a trap.
Mosson ducked his head down again, trying to take the measure of the men through the darkened glass. Could he take them? It looked like there were only two, but he hadn’t been in a fight for a long time. The DVC strap dug into his tense shoulder muscles. He gripped it, ready to swing the heavy bag off his shoulder as a weapon. What if they had guns? He couldn’t fight guns. He stopped at the edge of the curb, adrenaline rocking him up onto the balls of his feet. Let them make the first move.
The driver’s door opened. Mosson saw spiky gray hair, small round glasses, an ironic smile.
Mrs. Tricorn.
“What are you doing here?” Mosson said, his voice snapping with thwarted action.
“I’m taking you to see Regina.”
“You’re the PMS?”
He had been expecting a man. Not an old woman. How could someone like Mrs. Tricorn save Regina from a killer? He stared through the tinted window at the other figure in the car. Small and slim. Another woman? This was ridiculous. Maybe it was time to cut the crap and just call the police.
“Well, I’m not the whole PMS,” Mrs. Tricorn said, smiling. “I lead one of the Melbourne cells.”
Hannie walked up to the car, her face wide with surprise.
“She’s the PMS,” Mosson said acidly.
Mrs. Tricorn nodded briskly. “We’ve got about twenty cells across Australia.” She turned to Hannie. “I heard about the break-in. Are you all right?”
“You heard about it?” Hannie looked back at the house.
“One of my people told me,” Mrs. Tricorn said.
Suddenly, the front passenger door opened. Dudley Wilcox swung his legs out, his upper body still caught by the seat belt.
“We’re off to see Regina, the wonderful Reggie of Oz!” he sang loudly, the words slurred.
“Dudley, get back in the car,” Mrs. Tricorn ordered.
Dudley fell back into his seat and pulled the door shut. Mosson could still hear his muffled voice singing “because, because, because, because, becauuuuuse…”
“He’s been drinking all afternoon with a friend,” Mrs. Tricorn said. “I nearly didn’t bring him, but this is his last chance to see Regina for quite a while.” She opened the back door and waved Hannie into the car.
Mosson dumped the DVC pack on the backseat between him and Hannie. She stared at him, then pushed her thigh against the bag, edging it out of her seat space. Dudley’s singing dropped to a tuneless humming.
Mosson leaned across to Hannie. “It seems a bit amateurish to me,” he whispered. She shrugged. He returned to his side of the barricade and buckled his seat belt.
“So, how does this PMS work?” he asked as Mrs. Tricorn pulled out of the parking space.
She met his eyes in the rear-vision mirror. Mosson could see a tolerant smile in the reflected strip of her face.
“It stands for the Post-Menopausal Society,” she said, her eyes moving back to the road. “Women who are fifty and over who want to do more than volunteer at thrift shops or go to charity lunches. We’ve got a network of safe houses and transport to help women get away from abusive husbands and stalkers. You know, when the shelters or the law can’t do anything else for them. We’ve also got some refugees out too.”
“So why do you go around writing PMS on footpaths?” Mosson asked. “Seems silly if you’re trying to keep a low profile.”
Mrs. Tricorn shook her head. “We don’t know who’s doing that. Although I’ve got my suspicions.” She shot a look at Dudley, who was fiddling with the glove-box catch.
“But that strange website is yours, isn’t it?” Hannie said. “The black page with the white log-in?”
“For sure. It’s managed by one of our members who was in I.T. We get a lot of cases by word of mouth, but sometimes one of our contacts at a shelter or court will use the website to let us know about a woman at risk.”
“I tried to guess the password, but I couldn’t get in,” Hannie said.
Mrs. Tricorn shrugged. “Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have it now.” She paused for effect. “This month’s password is methane.” She met Hannie’s puzzled look in the mirror. “Because we’re a bunch of old farts.” She snorted a deep laugh, her whole body shaking in the car seat. “That was my idea.”
Beside her, Dudley giggled. Mosson looked across at Hannie; even she was smirking. Was he the only one who thought this was a serious situation?
Hannie leaned forward. “How did the PMS start?” she asked, her voice dropping into the deeper tones of professional focus. Mosson could see her already planning the outline of a PMS documentary.
“You won’t have experienced this yet,” Mrs. Tricorn said, turning her head to quickly smile at Hannie, “but when a woman gets over fifty, she becomes almost invisible. No one looks at her, and if they do happen to look, they don’t really see her. The women who started the PMS knew they could capitalize on that invisibility to do some good. It’s amazing where you can go and what you can hear when no one wants to see you.”
“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me,” Mosson said. “I see older women everywhere.”
“Did you see the woman following you in Sydney?”
Mosson frowned. No one had been following him in Sydney.
“She sat right next to you at the conference. Said you asked a very intelligent question about intellectual copyright.”
Mosson shifted in his seat. He did ask a good copyright question at one of the sessions, but he couldn’t remember any woman sitting next to him.
“When you two came to the hostel and said you were looking for Regina, I thought it best to keep an eye on you,” Mrs. Tricorn said.
“I saw you at the hostel,” Dudley said, turning around in his seat to look at Hannie. “You came to see me. And then I went to your house.” He took a large bite of a Snickers bar and chewed.
“They know that, Dudley. Sit back in your seat.” Mrs. Tricorn pulled Dudley round to face the front again.
“Has someone been watching me?” Hannie asked. Mrs. Tricorn nodded. “Did they see who trashed my place?”
“No, she didn’t. Shirley was following you at the time.”
They veered off Punt Road, onto the long curving ramp that led down to the Eastern Freeway.
“Where are we going now?” Mosson asked.
“One of our safe houses in Box Hill,” Mrs. Tricorn said. “We’ve been hiding Regina for about two months. Moving her from suburb to suburb. But it’s time to get her out. We’ll have to hide her and the baby interstate for a few more months, until little Romy is old enough to fly, then we’ll link her up with some organizations overseas.”
“Do you know who’s after her?” Hannie asked.
“I’ve heard a name, but I can’t verify it,” Mrs. Tricorn said, glancing at Dudley. “All we know is that there’s a contract out on her. Regina thinks her boyfriend, Byron, is behind it.”
“Byron?” Mosson said. An image of the man curled and shivering in pain flashed through his mind. “No. It’s not Byron.” He looked at Hannie, who nodded her agreement.
Mrs. Tricorn frowned. “What do you mean?”
Hannie leaned forward and quickly explained about Dr. Lomas and the freeze-frame list of dead women with Regina’s name on it.
Mrs. Tricorn was silent. “Sounds like it’s a lot bigger than we thought,” she finally said. “It’s a good thing we’re getting Regina out of here tonight. I wish we’d known about the other women. We could have saved them too.”
Mosson rubbed his temple, trying to massage away the post-migraine mist. Could he and Hannie have prevented any of the deaths? They’d known about the list before Dr. Lomas was killed, but they hadn’t realized its importance. By the time they did, Dr. Lomas and at least two others were dead. And the doctor’s file and Hannie’s tapes had been stolen. All the evidence was gone. The best they could do now was interview Regina, write up a statement, and send it to the police. Then he would have done his duty—he could make a clean break. Quit his job, sell up, travel a bit. He looked across at Hannie. She was gazing out the window, nervously separating the strands in her thick plait. Maybe he would finally meet someone he could trust and start a family. Start a real life.
Hannie turned her head and caught Mosson staring, but he immediately looked away. Hannie sighed—he certainly knew how to sulk.
“Do you think Regina knows anything else?” she asked Mrs. Tricorn. “Is that why she wants to be interviewed?”
“Like I said, she told us her boyfriend had hired someone. If she does know something about this list, she hasn’t told anyone in my organization.”
They exited the freeway and joined the traffic on a busy road lined with brick-veneer houses and clusters of local shops. Dudley had fallen asleep, his humming and loud remarks replaced by wet sinusy breathing. Hannie watched Mosson out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t even beginning to thaw. For the first time since their fight, Hannie had a glimmer of Mosson’s disillusionment. She stroked the end of her plait. How was she going to make it up to him? Obviously, apologizing wasn’t going to be enough. They’d have to talk it through, come to some kind of understanding. But this wasn’t the time or place for it. She’d have to wait until they’d finished with Regina and the police.
Mrs. Tricorn suddenly pulled to the side of the road as a loud siren heralded an ambulance swerving through the traffic. It turned into the Emergency driveway of Box Hill Hospital. As the Commodore drove past, Hannie watched the ambos jump out of the cabin and fling open the rear doors. She turned to look out of the back window, but the buildings already blocked her view. Had the ambulance made it in time? She shivered, thinking of the times she had been in hospital, vulnerable and dependent on strangers. Regina must be feeling the same way. Especially with a baby to worry about.
“We’re nearly there,” Mrs. Tricorn said.
They parked in the driveway of a well-kept cream-brick house. The bare bones of a winter rose garden hemmed the long porch. A woman with dark hair cut in a precise bob was standing at the wrought-iron railing, her thin body wrapped in a long sheepskin coat. She held her hand up in tense acknowledgment then hurried down the porch steps.
“This is the head of the eastern cell,” Mrs. Tricorn said. She opened her car door. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Hannie watched Mrs. Tricorn meet the woman halfway along the driveway. They hugged, the brunette leaning into the solid strength of Mrs. Tricorn. They bent their heads together, the woman talking quickly and Mrs. Tricorn nodding, a frown deepening on her face. From the looks of it, something had gone wrong. Hannie wound down her window as Mrs. Tricorn walked back to the car. She looked worried.
“Okay, everybody out,” she said. “We’re switching cars.”
Through the front window, Hannie saw the dark-haired woman open her garage door. The back of an old white Mercedes gleamed in the sudden flickering of a garage fluorescent.
“What’s happening?” Mosson demanded. “Isn’t Regina here?”
“The eastern cell’s had a tip-off, so we’re on alert,” Mrs. Tricorn said. “That means moving Regina every few hours. But she’s still adamant about seeing you, so we’re going to catch up with her at another safe house.”
“All that moving around will be rough on a newborn baby, won’t it?” Hannie asked.
Mrs. Tricorn looked at her watch, then back at the preparations in the garage. “She’ll be okay. We’ve given her some Phenergan.” She opened Hannie’s door. “Come on, let’s get a move on.”
Hannie climbed out of the car. “What’s Phenergan?”
“A sedative.” Mrs. Tricon ducked into the car and leaned across the seat, shaking Dudley. “Come on. Wake up. Time to go.”
Ten minutes later they were in the Mercedes-Benz, driving back past the hospital. Hannie looked for the ambulance, but it was gone, the driveway empty. Along the roadside, the jaundiced streetlights made the dusk seem thick and threatening. Dudley had already fallen asleep again. Mrs. Tricorn glanced at Hannie and Mosson in the backseat.
“It’s possible someone might try to follow us,” she said. “Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
Hannie immediately looked out of her window, studying the cars. Every one of them looked sinister. She turned to look out the back window, but Mosson was already on watch. She longed to reach across and feel the warm reassurance of his touch. Instead she dug her hands between her knees and stared out at the dark shapes and bright headlights.
They drove for an hour, the suburban cramp easing out into larger bush properties. But for all their vigilance, none of them saw the dark green Ford that was expertly keeping its distance.
SITTING DUCKS
I TURN OFF MY HEADLIGHTS AND LEAN FORWARD, the white lines on the dark mountain road becoming my guide. Way up ahead, I catch glimpses of the Mercedes as it takes the curves, creating sudden spotlights of dense bush. We’ve just gone through Emerald: huge blocks of land, big houses, and everybody hiding behind their own bit of bush. Now we’re passing a lot of vacant blocks and uncleared land—probably a new estate. No streetlights, no people, no traffic.
The trick to tailing someone in a car is to look like part of the scenery. People notice a car that stays behind them in the same position or turns when they turn. You have to allow one obstacle in between you and the target and change position and distance every now and again. Mix things up. It works best in medium-density traffic. Heavy and light traffic have their own obvious problems. But when you’re the only two cars on a mountain road at night, that’s a completely different story. You need skill, good eyesight, and a bit of luck.
Ahead, I see their headlights flicker through the trees at an angle. They’ve turned onto a side road. I take the corner carefully, in time to see them turn right again. This could be tricky. I approach the turnoff slowly. As soon as I see the street sign, I pull over into a vacant block, and cut the engine. Kakadu Court—they’ve gone into a dead end. I open the window halfway and hear the low rumble of the Mercedes motor. It cuts out and then the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut echoes through the quiet.
I touch the butt of the Browning holstered under my arm. One gun, an extra mag, a blade, and a garrote. Not much. Almost wish I hadn’t given Dug the tsuba. In a pinch, it was a handy cosh. I know Dug is pissed at me for not going to the boy’s funeral, but I’ll pay my respects in my own way. The tsuba on his gravestone and Jie Chee dead. They’ll be Teo’s memorials. It’s not quite what Hong had in mind for his kid. Not what I had in mind for him, either. Hong was right—a father shouldn’t outlive his son.
I slide over to the passenger side and open the door. The night air is freezing and my breath puffs out. I ease out onto the overgrown nature strip, leaving the door resting on its catch. I’m about twenty meters away from the court, on the opposite side of the road. That’s a lot of open ground to cross before I get to some cover. It seems to be all vacant lots except for one house on my left. But there are no lights, no signs of life. The area seems secure. I cross the road, keeping to the grass, and drop behind an outcrop of bushes at the mouth of the court.
The Mercedes is parked opposite me, at the bottom of a shallow cul-de-sac made up of four large vacant blocks. The big bald bloke and the two women are heading over to a path fenced off between the two middle properties. Dudley is weaving back across the tarmac, towards the car. I push further into the cover of the bushes. He must be pissed as a newt after this afternoon’s effort. He didn’t even notice when I stopped matching him after the first two bourbons. I just hope two will be enough to hold off the shakes tonight. The three up at the path look back, finally noticing that Dudley isn’t following them.
I recognize the redhead from this morning, and the old woman is from the hostel, but Baldy is new to me. He was definitely keeping watch out the back window of the car all the way up here, but he didn’t see me. If this is Dudley’s secret organization, they seem like a strange lot. An unlikely mix of amateur and professional. But it’s too early to make any judgments. I’ll keep to my plan: reconnaissance, then Regina.
The bald bloke is running back to get Dudley. He’s carrying some kind of bag—looks like a computer, or maybe a video camera. He grabs Dudley’s arm and steers him back towards the path. The two women have already walked out of sight, their torchlight bouncing off the trees. Baldy and Dudley follow quickly. I wait a few beats, just to make sure they’ve gone, then run the short distance to the Mercedes. The windows are already beginning to frost up, but there’s nothing useful inside.
The path is going to be a risk. It’s new gravel, the forest on either side held back by a wire fence. The alternative is to go through one of the vacant lots and follow them along the fence line, but I don’t know the land. It could dead-end me. I take the path slowly, straining every sense to judge the distance between us. I hear crunching footsteps, the skittering of a startled animal. The path is sloping downwards. Place smells of wet dirt and rotting plants. The crunch of gravel stops. The echoing sound of shoes on wood and the rush of water. I edge around the curve in the path. It’s a small footbridge. I wait until the torchlight dips out of sight then cross the narrow creek.
The fence and gravel path have petered out. Only a dirt track, almost hidden by the tree ferns and undergrowth. A handmade wooden sign is nailed to a post. Private Property, Please Keep Out. Not much of a security system. Track must be going uphill now—can feel it in my legs. No noise up ahead anymore. Just light flickering through the tree trunks. Their torch? I stop. No, too bright. Too high. Must be a house or something. Is this where they’re keeping Regina?
The undergrowth is getting scrappy. I duck down behind the last bit of decent cover. It’s a house, all right. One of those double-story mansions that’s supposed to look like a log cabin. There’s a fenced pool and a barbie with outdoor furniture. The whole Aussie dream. The place is lit up like a Christmas tree; every light’s on in the house, and the barbie and pool are surrounded by floods. It’s so bright, Dudley and Co. are just dark silhouettes against the bright green of the lawn. Sitting ducks. None of them have noticed the back door is wide open. I pull the Browning out of the holster. They’re amateurs. This job just got four times more complicated.
Hannie shielded her eyes and followed the chunky shape of Mrs. Tricorn across the lawn. The woman had set a fast pace through the forest, and Hannie was panting, her breath clouding up into the cold air. She looked over her shoulder. Mosson had finally let go of Dudley’s arm and was hugging the camera bag to his body. In the glare of the floodlights, she could see the grim look on his face. Maybe she should have offered to take the bag. She squinted at the house. Too late now, they were here. Hannie took a deep breath and picked up her pace, drawing level with Mrs. Tricorn.
“I really admire what you’re doing with the PMS,” she said. “Helping women out of bad situations. It’s very noble.”
“It’s not all noble,” Mrs. Tricorn said briskly. “We get something out of it too. We feel like we’re still making a difference. That’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? To make a difference.” She slowed her pace and glanced across at Hannie. “Isn’t that why you want to make your films?”
Hannie stared at the brightly lit house and nodded. Making a difference was part of it. The other part was a seething mass of anger, ego, and ambition. All shot through with the fear that she could never create something memorable. She looked back at Mosson, a few meters behind them. He had created something beautiful and important, and she had stolen it. Not just to get her break, as she had told herself all those years, but because she had been lazy and envious and desperately afraid. She stumbled on the thick grass, her joints stiff with shame. Mosson had a right to be angry and disappointed. He had a right to walk away from her betrayal. All she could do was offer him the knowledge that she had hurt him, that she was sorry, and hope that he’d choose to stay.
“Too many lights. I don’t like it,” Mrs. Tricorn said.
“Maybe they’re expecting us,” Hannie said. She looked back at Mosson again, but he was avoiding her eyes.
Mrs. Tricorn shook her head. “It’s not normal procedure, and Jan’s usually a stickler for procedure. We’ve used her place lots of times and she’s never turned on all the lights before.”
They had reached the edge of a paved path that led to the back steps. Mrs. Tricorn grabbed Hannie’s arm, pulling her to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” Mosson asked, coming up beside Hannie. He put the bag down on the ground. “Have we missed Regina again?”
Dudley stopped beside Mrs. Tricorn, hugging his arms around his thin body. “Why aren’t we going in?” he demanded. “Reggie’s in there, isn’t she? I want to see her.” He pushed past Mrs. Tricorn.
“Dudley, wait!” she said.
But he was already taking the steps two at a time.
“He’s going to scare the shit out of Jan,” she said, and sprinted after him.
Hannie and Mosson were halfway up the steps when someone screamed. The long shrill keen cut and dropped into a yell. Hannie recognized Dudley’s voice. Then a lot of shouting, a lot of voices. She ran up the remaining steps towards the noise, a second behind Mosson. They burst into a laundry, past the humming heat of a clothes dryer, along a wide white hall, their progress echoing on polished floorboards. Three steps down to a kitchen. Hannie took them all at once, clipping Mosson’s heels. Gray marble and wooden cupboards. Baby bottles on the sink. A table set for a meal. She heard Mosson grunt as his hip slammed into the edge of a counter.
“Where are they?” she gasped, leaning over the marble top. The room reeked of scorched metal.
“Don’t…” It was Mrs. Tricorn’s voice. Ahead of them, through the archway. Hannie pushed off from the counter, following Mosson across the tiled floor, up a shallow step, into a cream and beige lounge room.
Mosson stopped so suddenly that Hannie was pushed into the side of a leather armchair. She saw people on the ground, people kneeling, people with guns. Then the crazy jigsaw of bodies separated out: Mrs. Tricorn and Dudley on their knees, hands behind their heads, necks rigid against guns pressed into their scalps; two men holding the guns, one tall, with a beard, the other broad and wearing a beanie; and two women, facedown on the carpet, a young blonde and an old blonde, twisted and still.
“Get on your fucking knees!”
The voice was loud. Behind her. She turned, straight into the end of a gun. She flinched away from the dark hole of the barrel. The face behind it was a blur.
“Get down. Now!”
Beside her, Mosson dropped to his knees, his hands behind his head.
“Now!”
Hannie felt a hand against her neck, forcing her down. She would do what he said, then it would all be okay. She would be okay. She knelt, her eyes fixed on the cream carpet. Just in front of her was the buckled leg of the young blonde, the jagged shin bone spiking through the pale skin. It must be Regina. She’d broken her leg. Hannie raised her hands, linking them behind her head. It’ll all be okay, she thought, her eyes dropping from the shiny bone to the dark stain that was congealing on the carpet.
Mosson looked up carefully, keeping his head still. Hannie’s breathing was too fast. Was she hurt? He risked a small lift of his head. She looked okay—it was probably just shock. Across the room, Dudley was whimpering. Mrs. Tricorn was in a bad way: gray skin, glassy eyes. She was staring at the two bodies on the floor. Mosson knew they were dead. He could see the back of the young woman’s head: bloodied pulp. He looked quickly back at the carpet, swallowing the retch in his throat. He was an idiot. A stupid, stupid idiot to run straight into the room. He should have realized. He should have gone for help.
“Kenny, come over here,” the voice behind them said. “Cover these two.”
The stocky man wearing the beanie pulled his gun away from Dudley’s head and walked behind Hannie. Mosson straightened his back slightly and watched the leader come into view. Black boots, combat trousers, army jumper, peroxide crew cut. Crazy-man uniform. He stopped beside Mrs. Tricorn.
“You, Grandma. Where’s the kid?”
Mrs. Tricorn shook her head. “What kid?”
“Not this fucking shit again,” the man shouted. He pushed Mrs. Tricorn’s head closer to the bodies and held it there. “See your dead friend? She tried the same crap. Now, where’s the fucking kid?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Tricorn said. “I don’t know!”
The blow to her head was loud. Metal on bone.
“She doesn’t know,” Mosson yelled.
Mrs. Tricorn fell onto all fours, blood spraying up into the air. Hannie started forwards, her head snapping back as Beanie Man grabbed her plait.
“No, you don’t, Red. You stay where you are,” he said. Mosson felt the gun press against his neck, hollowing out his spine. “You too.”
The leader put his mouth close to Mrs. Tricorn’s ear. “Where’s the kid?” he shouted.
She shook her head. The vicious kick to her ribs curled her into a ball. She tried to cover her head as he kicked again, but it caught her in the temple. Her body slumped.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He aimed one more kick that pushed Mrs. Tricorn over onto her stomach.
“I reckon she’s out of it,” the bearded gunman said.
“You’re a genius, Spit,” the leader said. He looked down at Mrs. Tricorn. “Stupid bitch.”
“I can go look,” Spit said.
“You couldn’t find your own cock in your jocks.” The leader rubbed the top of his crew cut. “What I need is someone who wants to find the kid real quick.” He looked at Dudley hunched and crying, then stepped over the bodies and stood in front of Mosson.
“You’ve been watching everything, haven’t you,” he said.
Mosson looked up into the pale blue eyes. The leader smiled and pointed his gun at Mosson’s forehead.
“Kenny, take Red over there,” he said, nodding to his right. “Spit, you take that sniveling kid. Make them kneel facing the wall, hands behind heads. You might as well drag the old bitch over too.”
Mosson sensed the movement around him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the gun.
“And you,” the leader said, pressing the gun between Mosson’s eyes, “are going to look for the kid. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Or are you going to play dumb, like Grandma here?”
Mosson kept his head very still. “Regina’s baby,” he whispered.
“Well done, Chinko.” The leader patted him on the head. “Kenny, come here.”
Mosson saw another pair of boots walk up in front of him.
“You’re going to go with…” The leader pushed the barrel harder into Mosson’s skin. “What’s your name?”
“Mosson Ferret.” He wanted to lean back, away from the cold metal.
The barrel jabbed upwards forcing Mosson to tilt back his head. The leader was studying him.
“You’re the filmmakers, aren’t you?” he said, glancing across at Hannie. “Aren’t you?” He jabbed the gun up again.
“Yes,” Mosson whispered.
The leader snorted. “How about that. I’ve been looking for you two.”
“What do ya want me to do with this guy?” Kenny asked.
“You’re going to follow Mosson the Filmmaker here, and make sure he tries real hard to find me the kid.” The leader leaned down and smiled. “What do you say, Mosson? Will we make it a bit more interesting? How about every five minutes you don’t come back with the baby, I’ll kill one of your little friends.” His eyelashes were blond, like Hannie’s. “Every five minutes, dead friend. You got that?”
Mosson nodded.
“Well, get going, then. Time’s already started.”
Mosson looked up. The bastard had turned his back. Mosson pushed himself upright, his knees stiff from kneeling. What if the baby wasn’t in the house? What if he couldn’t find it? Only a few meters away, Hannie and Dudley were kneeling, their heads bowed. Mrs. Tricorn was lying next to them, her face wet with blood. Mosson stared at the soft white nape of Hannie’s neck. If he found the baby, he knew they’d kill it. They’d probably kill everyone. There was no way to win. The grim realization crushed the breath out of him.
“Better get moving, Mosson. Red here might be first on my list,” the leader said, touching Hannie’s hair. She jerked her head away.
Mosson tensed, his powerlessness like a scream through his body. He had to find the kid. Where would a mother hide her baby? A bedroom. She’d put it in a bedroom, wouldn’t she? Probably upstairs. Mosson took one last look at Hannie, then ran for the far arch.
“Oy, Mosson, before you go…” the leader called.
Mosson stopped and looked back. The leader had pressed Hannie’s head against his thigh, his fingers stroking her cheek.
“You’re a real time-waster, aren’t you, Mosson?” he said. “I wouldn’t want to be Red here, waiting for you to save her life.” He smiled down at Hannie. “What do you say, Red? Would you rather spread your legs and save yourself?”
Mosson felt his rage drum through his temple.
The leader looked at his watch. “Twenty seconds gone already.”
Mosson turned and ran through the archway. Which way were the stairs? On his right, a sliding door, closed. On his left, a passage that turned a corner, a long mirror on the end wall reflecting his indecision. Which way? He turned left, sprinting past narrow hall tables and rows of neat miniatures. In the mirror, he saw Kenny following him, gun leveled. Could he tackle him? Get the gun? Kenny was shorter, but a lot heavier. Their eyes met in the mirror and Mosson knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. The man was a thug. Mosson grabbed the edge of the wall and propelled himself around the corner of the corridor, Kenny close behind.
They ran into a large foyer, a wide staircase rising along the far wall. To the right was another room, the door closed. What if the kid was in there? What if the kid was at the other end of the house? Mosson felt his muscles lock with panic. He could be going the wrong way. He moved towards the room, then stopped. He had to be methodical. Had to stick to his plan—upstairs first. He took the steps three at a time, pulling himself up by the banister, his leg muscles burning. He heard Kenny’s heavy breathing at his elbow.
“One minute down,” the leader called out.
Mosson lunged up the last steps onto a broad landing. Five doors, and a huge blazing chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. The far left door was open. Mosson ran into the room. A large white bed, and a built-in wardrobe along the wall, the sliding doors open. Mosson yanked them along the tracks to search the corners, the plywood shuddering. The racks were empty, the shelves clear. A spare bedroom. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. Nothing. He crawled over to a white dresser, the three long drawers already pulled out, hanging on their runners. All empty. He spun around. There was nowhere else to hide a baby. He pushed past Kenny, standing at the door. The bastard was just watching.
The next door was a bathroom. White and gold. All the cupboard doors were open. Mosson scanned the shelves. Towels, medications, shampoos, deodorants, makeup. He tore the lid off a laundry basket: wet towels. He burrowed through them, pushing his hand down to the rough wicker base. Nothing. The shower? He pulled at the frosted door. The tri-fold jammed. Mosson pulled again, shook it, but it wouldn’t move. He slammed his shoulder against the flimsy construction and ripped the first screen off its track, the other partitions hanging at an angle. The cubicle was empty. Mosson felt a sob of frustration close his throat. He ran back out onto the landing.
“Three and a half minutes.” The leader’s voice was faint.
Mosson shouldered his way through the next door. A girl’s room; pale yellow walls, rose cushions, and a brass bed with a stripped-down mattress. The wardrobe doors were open, like the other room, the racks empty. He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. A large white box. Big enough for a baby. He pulled it out, flipped open the top. Reams of tissue paper and the cream satin of a bridal gown. He shoved it away. Behind him a dressing table. He shuffled over on his knees, pulled out all the drawers. No baby. He stood up and scanned the room. Anywhere else?
“Me and Spit have already done upstairs,” Kenny said from the doorway.
Mosson stared at him. “What?” He stepped forward. “You fucking bastard.”
“I could’ve let you do the other rooms too, you know,” Kenny said.
Mosson slammed his hand against the wardrobe door. It buckled and sprang back. “I’ve wasted so much—”
A sharp gunshot vibrated through the air, its half-formed echo sucked away by carpet and bricks. Mosson flinched, turning towards the dying sound.
“That’s a relief,” the leader yelled. “Couldn’t stand his fuckin’ sniveling anymore.”
Mosson fought for breath. Dudley. Not Hannie. The skip of relief in his body was flattened by hot shame; Dudley was just a kid. He leaned against the wardrobe door, anger and shock spinning into a sharp pain through his head. He didn’t have time for grief. He had to get moving. Mosson jammed the heel of his hand against his temple and focused on Kenny’s face.
“Where else have you looked?”
Kenny glanced uneasily down towards the lounge room. “Nah, Pauley likes his games.”
“Pauley wants the baby,” Mosson said, his intuition grabbing at the leader’s name.
Kenny shifted his feet. “I s’pose.” He licked his lips. “We done all up here, and the lounge downstairs, but that’s about it. That’s when you all came.”
Mosson stared at Kenny’s heavy face. Was he telling the truth? If Mosson believed him, he was gambling with two lives downstairs. Kenny looked stolidly back at him. He had to take the risk.
Back on the landing, Mosson felt the pull of the three unsearched rooms. What if he was a making a mistake? The fresh stink of gunpowder coated his throat. He gripped the banister for support and ran down the stairs. Dudley was dead; Pauley was going to kill them all. Mosson swung himself around the end of the rail, towards the side room. He wouldn’t get a chance to tell Hannie that he was sorry. He shouldered open the door, pausing to get his bearings. A study. A computer on an old writing desk—no drawers big enough for a baby. He spun around, panting razor-sharp breaths. A cupboard at the back of the room. He sprang forward and pulled open the doors. Computer paper, stacks of envelopes, pens. He slammed the doors shut. Beside it a squat filing cabinet. He heaved the drawers open, but it was just full of neatly labeled files.
“Maybe it’s not in the house,” Kenny said. He was standing beside the desk.
“Help me look!” Mosson rubbed the burn in his chest. “Please, help me look.” He hated pleading with the bastard, but he had to try. He was running out of time.
Kenny wiped his mouth then looked back over his shoulder.
“Please,” Mosson said urgently, sensing a shift in the other man.
“Pauley told us to search upstairs, so me and Spit did,” he said. He looked over his shoulder again. “But the blond chick, the young one, she was at the other end of the house when we first come in.”
“Fuck,” Mosson said. He was at the wrong end of the house.
He ran back into the foyer, along the passageway again, past the mirror and the miniatures and the hall tables. Past the lounge-room archway. He glimpsed Pauley standing over Hannie, then an afterimage of him touching her face. Mosson slammed back the sliding door at the end of the corridor, a surge of mad energy carrying him to the center of a bathroom. Pristine white tiles, a bath, two basins set in slate, another sliding door. And a wall-length storage cupboard. This had to be it. He jerked opened the door, digging through stacks of towels and bath mats, letting them drop to the floor. No kid.
“Three minutes gone,” Pauley called.
Mosson dug his fingers into the vicious pain above his right eye. He only had two more minutes. Stepping back, he craned to look at the top of the cupboard. There was something there. A basket. Big enough for a kid. He climbed onto the surround of the bath, one hand on the wall, the other snatching at the wicker. But even as he dragged the basket down, he knew it was too light to hold a baby. He looked in it anyway, then threw it across the room, feeling a tiny release of his anger as it spun and hit the wall. But he was wasting time. He had to keep moving.
He jumped down from the bath and shoved open the other sliding door, the force rocking it on its runners. It connected to a dining room. In the center, a large oval table surrounded by plush upholstered chairs. Mosson pulled out the nearest chair and bent down, ducking his head under the table. Nothing on the floor or on the seats. He straightened. To his left, a corner bar with two glass shelves lined with bottles. He hoisted himself across the black vinyl counter and hung over the edge, searching the shelves below. More spirits, liqueurs, glasses. He dropped back down. One more possible place—a long sleek bureau under the window. He ran to the end of the room, barely pausing to pull open each door and check the contents: linen, china, glass.
He spun around to Kenny, standing beside the bar.
“Did you check the kitchen?”
Kenny shook his head. Mosson thought of all the cupboards and gritted his teeth. He stumbled down the small step to the kitchen, fell onto his knees, the hard tiles jarring his kneecaps. He scrabbled upright, the pain in his legs stopping him for a second. It had to be in the pantry. He hobbled across to the double doors and threw them open. Only cans and jars and boxes. Mosson felt his breath stutter into a sob. He turned to face the row of cupboards. The next five minutes were almost up—he could feel it. He dropped to his knees, moaning as the bruised joints rolled and settled. Crawling along the floor, he opened the doors, sweeping out pots, pans, dishes. A trail of crashing, rolling kitchenware. But there was no baby. He slumped on his hands and knees. Dear God, where was it? For a crazy second he thought of looking in the fridge.
“Five minutes!”
The explosion of the gun was so loud, both he and Kenny flattened down, ducking away from the reverberating sound. Mosson froze against a cupboard, waiting for the mocking voice.
“Too late for the old woman now,” Pauley yelled.
Mosson gasped for a breath. Mrs. Tricorn. His fault. He couldn’t find the baby.
“Come on, Mosson, I’m running out of people here,” Pauley said. “You little girlfriend’s losing hope.”
Mosson blinked away the fog of rage and pain in his eyes. The image of Hannie kneeling, Pauley stroking her face, pushed him forward. He grabbed the edge of the bench and hauled himself up. Where would they hide a baby? He had to think. Think. Where would he hide a baby? Somewhere you wouldn’t think of putting a kid. Somewhere a bit dangerous, a bit desperate. In the washing machine. He took the three shallow steps as one and ran along the long white corridor that led to the laundry, Kenny’s heavy footsteps keeping pace. The dryer was still turning. Mosson flipped up the lid of the washer. Empty. They wouldn’t put a kid in a dryer, would they? Mosson pulled it open anyway. Full of hot nappies. He slammed it shut. It started turning again and he leaned his head against the warm vibrating metal. He’d been through the whole fucking house. Where else could he look? Outside? He looked through the open back door. No, too cold for a baby. The garage? Yes, he’d hide a kid in a garage. He took a deep breath, then forced his burning, aching body down the hallway once more.
I close the window and crouch on the workbench, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Someone is shooting in the house. Two shots so far, each cracking boom sending a spike of adrenaline through me. Finally, the block shape of the car becomes a Lexus. Squares by the roller door—neatly stacked tea chests. I push off and land on the concrete floor. I was right—there’s stairs and an access door up into the house.
The sound of fast footsteps and voices. Coming closer. I need cover. Under the car? Too awkward. Workbench? Too open. The tea chests? Just enough room beside the roller door. It’ll have to do. I press myself into the small space, hand on the butt of the Browning.
The access door slams open. The fluorescent light flickers on and steadies. I blink away the bright pain in my eyes. The sound of hard breathing and a car door opening. One man. Maybe two.
“Where’s the boot lever?” The voice is strained, panting.
The click and release of the hatch.
Two men, their backs to me. One is the bald guy. I move forward slightly. The other one’s familiar too. He steps back and I see his face. Kenny the Chunkman. Fuck it, I was right. Pauley’s upstairs. And Kenny’s down here, with a gun.
Baldy peers into the deep luggage compartment. “It’s here! The baby’s here.” He pulls out a beige plastic baby capsule.
Must be Regina’s kid. Part of Pauley’s cleanup. A good bargaining chip—he wants the kid and I want Regina. I slide my hand off the Browning and feel for the wooden ends of the garrote. Should be straightforward. Only one possible problem—Baldy. If he loses it, I’ll have to kill him too.
“What’s that?” Kenny says, pointing into the boot.
Baldy reaches inside. “It’s a video camera.”
Kenny turns towards the stairs. “Hey, Pauley,” he yells. “We found the kid.”
I push myself forward and slam my knee between his shoulder blades. Lasso the wire around his throat. Pull back, all muscles straining against the soft resistance of skin and cartilage. Riding the buck of his body, keeping the tension. The wire is through: a squelching gag as the voice box halves, then the pumping arc of blood from the open arteries. I let go of the ends, thrust the body away with my knee. It falls forward onto the concrete, blood pooling around the throat. I step back, still locked into the raw feel of death, watching the body twitch. Baldy is over against the workbench, the baby capsule held against his chest. But he’s quiet. And he’s still.
A soft hiccuping. It shatters into a sob. The kid. Baldy looks at me, his face bleak, the camera poised to throw. He’s close to losing it.
I force an even tone into my voice. “What’s your name, mate?”
The baby is bawling. It seems to shake him out of his shock.
“Mosson.” He lowers the camera.
“Is Regina alive?”
He shakes his head.
I’m too fucking late. Whatever she knew about the client is gone. I stare at the floor, trying to breathe out the anger. Regina’s dead—my contract’s done. Finished by Pauley. Again. I should just cut my losses and get out of here. Kill Jie Chee then go straight to Hong Kong. Only one problem: Pauley will come after me. And if it’s not him, it’ll be someone else. No, this has to be finished between us now. And any loose ends cleaned up.
I step forward, blocking Baldy’s view of the body. I need him coherent.
“How many more up there?” My voice is too sharp, too dangerous. I try again. “Mosson, you with me?”
He nods.
“Mosson, I need to know how many more are up there waiting for us.”
He tries to form a word, then swallows and starts again. “Two. They’ve got Hannie. Going to kill her if I don’t find the baby.”
“And Kenny is supposed to take you and the kid back upstairs?” I look down at the still body. And the beanie.
“I think they’re going to kill the baby.” Mosson shifts nervously against the workbench. “You’re not a cop, are you?”
“I’m a friend of Regina’s.”
I step over the growing red puddle and pull the beanie off Kenny’s head. One edge is soggy with blood. I turn the wet edge to the back, and pull the beanie on low. Like Kenny wore it. Mosson is watching me. He’s pulled himself together.
“Do you want to get your friend out alive?” I ask him.
“Yes. She’s…”
“We’re going to have to go up there. Me pretending to be Kenny, you carrying the kid.”
He licks his lips. “That’s not going to work. They’re going to see you’re not Kenny in a second.”
“I only need a second.” I pick up the Beretta, a 92F, and slide the mag out—fifteen rounds.
Mosson is shaking his head. “I can’t take the baby up there. It’s too dangerous.”
I reload the mag. “You can’t leave it here making that racket. It’ll tip Pauley off. Look, all you have to do is walk up to the door in front of me. Then you get the kid out of the way, and I go in.”
“Oy, Kenny,” Pauley’s voice is faint. “Bring that fucking kid up here.”
I tuck the Beretta against the small of my back. “We’ve got to move now. He’s going to kill your friend if we don’t.”
Mosson stares down at the kid. “All right.”
I pull the Browning out. Thumb the safety lever off. “Where did you see Pauley last?”
“In the lounge room. Near the right wall. I don’t know about the other guy.” His eyes flick over Kenny’s body. “You’ll get Hannie out, won’t you?”
“Top priority, mate.”
He seems satisfied. We walk over to the stairs. He pauses at the first step, jams the camera into the bottom of the capsule, then nods at me. We’re ready. I flex my hand around the grip of the gun. It doesn’t feel good. Feels heavy. The trigger, stiff. Jesus Christ, it’s happening already. I close my fingers around my wrist and squeeze hard. No tremor yet, but I won’t be able to aim much longer. Got to finish this as fast as possible.
The kid is quiet again. I follow Mosson up the steps. Does Pauley know who’s behind my contract? And his? Probably not. They would’ve hired him the same way they hired me. But it’s possible he might know something. Maybe I should just shoot him in the gut and see if he’s got anything to say. But he’ll be shooting to kill. I may not have any choice.
“Kenny, where are ya?” The voice is coming closer to us. It’s not Pauley. Must be Spit.
Mosson stops and looks back at me, his face rigid with panic. I put my hand on his shoulder and pull him back down to the bottom of the stairs.
“Let him see you, then move back,” I whisper. We both hear the footsteps coming closer. Mosson’s shoulder stiffens under my hand, but he nods.
I move deeper into the garage, flattening myself against the wall on the other side of the stairs. I’m in dark shadow, but it is still going to be less than a second before Spit registers me. And if this is going to work, it has to be done quietly—I don’t want to tip off Pauley.
I reholster the Browning and pull the Sykes Fairburn out of its sheath. Throwing is not an option: too risky. I close my hand around the blade’s molded metal grip and feel a tremor along my arm. Holding it too tight. Just have to relax. I glance back at Mosson. He’s looking at me. Dead giveaway. I point at my eyes then jab my finger back up at the doorway. He swallows and nods, fixing his eyes upwards. I feel the adrenaline sharpening me.
“Pauley’s getting real pissed off,” a voice says. He’s at the top of the stairs. “Kenny, you there?”
Mosson moves back, jolting the kid. It starts screaming again.
I hear Spit walk down the steps, see his shadow reach the garage floor. Then his back. He senses me, but it’s too late. I swing my left arm around his chest, brace him, and thrust the knife into his left kidney. Soft tissue, no resistance. He gasps, his body arches back against mine, the flex of his throat blocking his vocal cords. I pull the blade and plunge it around into his chest, jamming the full nine inches up into his heart. I hear a wet breath, smell the release of urine, feel his muscles relax. His gun slips out of his hand and I grab at it, pressing it against his thigh before it drops onto the concrete. I ease his body down onto the floor. Pull out the knife. There’s hardly any blood, but I wipe it down on his sweatshirt and slide it back into its sheath. His gun is a Browning too. Full clip. Things are looking up. I pull my own Browning out of its holster and replace it with Spit’s gun.
“Christ, you killed him too.”
I swing around, gun leveled, safety off. Mosson flinches. I’m still riding the adrenaline spike. I take a deep breath and let the barrel drop.
“Let’s get moving,” I say. “Before Pauley gets suspicious.” And before this adrenaline turns on me.
Mosson rocks the capsule and murmurs to the baby, soothing its shrill screams into breathy sobs as he edges past the body and follows me up the stairs. I stop at the doorway and strain to hear any movement. It’s impossible to hear anything over the kid. I raise the gun and take a look around the jamb. A kitchen. No one around.
“It’s clear,” I say softly, pulling back. “Go.”
Mosson steps into the kitchen and I follow, covering the room. The air is caustic with gunpowder. All the cupboard doors are hanging open. A marble-topped bench juts out from the wall, separating the kitchen from an eating area with a pine table set for a meal. To my right, a long white passageway and the faint rhythmic hum of a clothes dryer. Mosson nods towards an archway on the far left. The lounge room. I hear a man’s voice and catch a few low, jeering words. “One minute left….”
Pauley.
Another charge of adrenaline rushes through me, edged like a blade. I picture the man, the target: about five foot nine, dark hair, medium build, and those strange pale blue eyes like a husky dog. I dig my fingers into the tendons of my right wrist to stop another tremor.
“Come on, Kenny,” Pauley yells. “We haven’t got all fucking day.”
I motion Mosson forward with the gun. He stares at me for a moment, handing over responsibility—for his friend, for the baby, for himself—then walks towards the archway. He’d do better to put his faith in himself. I’m balancing on a thin line between peak and overload, and it’s not going to take much to push me over. Mosson’s arms tighten around the capsule. From behind him, I catch a glimpse inside the lounge room; walls, furniture, bodies. And then he dives.
Pauley. Gun at a woman’s head. Watching the doorway. I fire, twice, the action heavy. He’s already moving. Fuck, he’s fast. A spray of blood—his left arm. He’s down behind an armchair. Poof has bleached his hair. The woman is moving too. I jump for the couch and flip onto my back, pedaling behind it for cover. I check the mag—eight left. The kid is shrieking. To my right, broken breathing. I spin onto my stomach, gun leveled. It’s the woman, behind an armchair, edging towards a cabinet near the other archway. She freezes and looks at me, just like Sylvie when she’s waiting to be hurt. I push up into a crouch. If she breaks for it, Pauley will go for her. I might have a clean shot.
“Carmichael,” Pauley calls out.
How hurt is he? I massage my wrist. It’s definitely weaker. I’m running out of time. The woman has pulled back. She’s not going to move.
“Hey, Carmichael. You’re too old, man.” There’s a thread of pain in his voice. “You should’ve quit after Marron.” He laughs.
Little prick.
“Hope you’ve already spent your fee,” I yell back, swapping the Browning for the Beretta. More power. I brace it in both hands. “You know what they say—can’t take it with you.”
The archway to the kitchen is three meters away. I take a deep breath and throw myself forward, firing. So does Pauley. Chair and couch stuffing flies up into the air. The woman screams. I skid onto the kitchen tiles, pushing back against the wall. Right thigh pulsing with blood. I dig my fingers into the pain. Two holes. Always better than one, Hong used to say. A hunk of charred trouser has been dragged through into the entry wound. A fast track to infection. I press my wet hand back around the gun grip. It’s shaking. I grab my wrist with my other hand, steadying it.
“Hey Pauley, you little fuck,” I shout.
Did I get him? All I can hear is the kid bawling nearby.
The punch of a bullet showers me with plaster. Fucking Christ, almost through the wall. What is he using now? A .44? I scrabble across the floor to the end of the bench and pull myself behind it. Every heartbeat sends waves of pain through my leg. I place the gun onto the floor and pull out my blade. Have to get the cloth out of the wound. The boom of his .44 shudders through the kitchen. I duck as a large chunk of marble explodes off the bench and spins into the wall behind me. Got to do it. I thrust the knifepoint into the jagged hole, scraping and flicking out wet gobbets of cloth, my jaw straining against a scream. The room starts to fade. I stop. Suck in a breath. The hole isn’t totally clean, but it’ll have to do. I clamp my hand over the wound and lever myself up into a squat, stifling another yell as my thigh muscle stretches. Another hunk of marble hits the floor and shatters. The angle is different. He must be at the archway. Left side. The next bullet blows a huge hole in the side of the bench.
It’s time to move. Behind me, a passageway with a back door, wide open. To my right, another archway into a dining room. Do I retreat or advance? No advantage in drawing him outside—not with this leg. But there’s no cover if I cross the kitchen to the dining room. How can I get him to move? I put the blade back into its sheath and pick up the Beretta.
Silence. Even the kid has stopped crying. All I can hear is the whir of the dryer down the end of the passageway. What’s Pauley playing at? Is he trying to force me to break? A yell. A scream. Then a window shatters. He’s shooting in the opposite direction. At the woman. I push off for the dining room. My leg buckles. I stagger. Plaster explodes next to my head, showering me with dust. I twist and shoot from the floor, pumping bullets into the other archway. Flash of khaki, spray of blood, muffled yell—clipped him again. I dive for the dining-room arch and land heavily on the carpet, rolling behind the wall.
The Beretta is empty. I sit up and the room lurches, my vision graying into fog. I blink away the dizziness. Got to finish this quickly. I switch the Beretta for Spit’s Browning and scan the room: large polished table; bar with a shelf full of bottles; a sliding door, closed. And someone to my left, in the corner. I drop down again, fog still in my eyes, and aim at the hunched figure. Pauley? No, it’s Hong. Alive? I shake my head, trying to clear it. Of course it isn’t Hong. It’s Mosson. Crouched in the shadow, body shielding the capsule. I pull back the gun. Hong is still dead.
“Where’s Hannie?” Mosson says. “I heard her scream.” He’s looking at me as though I should have her under my arm.
“Pauley got her.”
His face tightens and he draws the capsule closer to his body. A father protecting his child. The planes of his face flatten out. My old friend. Watching me. Accusing me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I yell. “It’s not my fucking fault.”
The anger rips through me, clearing my vision, clearing my head. It’s Mosson, staring at me as though I’m mad. It must be the blood loss, the shock. I sit up slowly, swallowing back vomit. Fighting the urge to just lie down. It’s not over yet. I can’t lie down.
I look at the sliding door between us. “Do you know what’s in there?”
“A bathroom. It goes right through.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s another door. To the passage on the other side.”
Bingo. I grit my teeth and stand up, using the wall for support. It’s not just my hands shaking now. I flatten myself against the cool plaster and nudge the door. It slides open a few centimeters. I peer through the crack: white tiles; open cupboards; towels heaped on the floor; and a doorway to the passage. Is Pauley still in the lounge room? He could be coming up behind me. I look back, listen. Nothing. I push the door to the end of its track. Do a quick check of the area. All clear. I cross the tiles to the other door, each step like a hot rod shoved through my spine.
The lounge-room archway is three meters away. I slide my back along the wall, both hands holding the gun grip. There’s movement at the other end of the corridor. I swing the gun towards it. Aim. And see myself. It’s just a mirror. Christ, I look like death. How much blood have I lost? I look down at my thigh. The whole trouser leg is dark with blood, the wall smeared red.
I edge closer to the archway. A floorboard creaks. Not me. In the lounge room. From this angle, I see an armchair. I take another step. A cabinet. With glass doors. Light flickers across them. A reflection, coming towards me. Pauley. It’s now or never. I swing around the archway, firing. He’s right in front of me. Gun in both hands. Pale eyes bulging as my whole mag slams into his body. The force pushes him backwards, his gun strafing the ceiling. By the time the reverb echoes out, he’s on the floor, his chest and gut torn into red jelly. I brace my left hand against the archway, trying to keep aim, waiting for the body to stop convulsing. But I can’t hold the grip anymore. The gun hits the floorboards, the clatter loud in the sudden silence.
Another minute and I’d have been useless. It’s all just luck now. I look down at Pauley—at the combat gear, the stupid hair, the oversized gun. That’s me, twenty years ago. Except I had someone watching my back. I lean against the wall, the agony in my thigh suddenly sweeping through every nerve. I press the heel of my hand into the wound, sharpening the pain. Got to stop the bleeding and get out. Cops will be here soon.
Movement, down the corridor. This time it’s not the mirror. I pull out my Browning, the effort making me sway. I squint through another haze. It’s the woman, the redhead. Thought she was dead. That makes things difficult. Two witnesses. And Regina’s kid.
This time I’ll be finishing Pauley’s contract.
ONE TINY THUMBNAIL
H ANNIE PRESSED HERSELF INTO THE SUPPORT OF the wall and chanced another look around the corner. The man was still standing in the hallway. The man who was behind the couch. The one who was shooting at Pauley. She pulled back. She should just run. Get out of there. Run. But what about Mosson? The question kept her flat against the wall.
“Pauley’s dead.” The man’s voice echoed up the hallway.
Was he talking to her? Was it some kind of trick? Hannie had seen the way he’d handled the gun, the way he’d looked at her as though she hadn’t mattered.
“So are Kenny and Spit,” he said. “You’re all right now.”
Hannie tensed, seeing Pauley aiming at her, hearing the bullets whining past her head as she ran. She shut her eyes against the image, but the dark was filled with the jump of Mrs. Tricorn’s body as the bullet hit, and the spray of Dudley’s blood against the wall. She pushed the heel of her hand against her mouth, forcing back the sudden taste of vomit.
“Jesus, you’re really bleeding.” It was Mosson’s voice. And another sound—soft whimpering.
She looked around the corner. Mosson was standing in the corridor, clutching a baby capsule against his chest. He was alive. She ran forward then staggered, her fear dropping too sharply into relief.
“Hannie! I thought you were…” He was beside her, holding her up, pressing his face into her hair.
She shook her head: She wanted to curl against him, but the baby capsule was in the way.
“You okay?” Her voice was a croak.
“I’m all right.”
“Who’s he?” She stared down the corridor at the man. He was limping towards them, using the wall as support, a gun in his other hand. Even hurt and slow with pain, he made Hannie think of a wolf—gray and watchful, every movement loose but strangely precise.
“It’s all right. He’s a friend of Regina’s,” Mosson said. “I think he needs an ambulance.”
Mosson shifted the capsule onto his hip, preparing to put it down, but the soft whimpering hardened into a sob. Hannie looked away from the gray man, away from her unease, and lifted the blanket off the baby’s flailing arms. The little face was rigid and red, the dark almond eyes wide with distress. Hannie touched the soft, clawing hand then saw something metallic jammed at the bottom of the capsule.
“What’s this?” She pulled out a sleek digital video camera.
Mosson shrugged. “I found it with the baby.” He was trying to pull out his mobile phone without moving the capsule.
Hannie turned the camera over. A shiver of possibility made her hands clumsy as she pulled out the tiny view screen.
“Do you think this is Regina’s? Do you think she filmed something?”
In her mind, an image of short blond hair matted with blood and brain. Shattered bone. She gripped harder onto the camera, grounding herself, resisting the madness of memory. She saw Mosson’s face drain and hollow. What images were playing through his mind?
“Check the file list,” he said roughly, pointing to a button on the top.
The soft sobs became more urgent. Mosson lowered the capsule onto the floor. He stooped and awkwardly picked up the baby, holding it against his chest. “Is this right? Am I holding her right?”
Hannie glanced at him. “You have to support the head.”
He cupped his long fingers around the delicate skull. Hannie turned back to the camera and studied the array of buttons, letting the familiar procedure cocoon her from the smell of blood and fear and guns. Was there a video file? She pressed the button. One tiny thumbnail picture of a woman appeared on the screen.
“Is that Regina’s?” The gray man was beside her, his voice hoarse with pain.
Hannie flinched. She looked down at his hand pressed into the wound on his thigh, the blood seeping through his fingers. His hands were shaking.
“Maybe she knew who sent Pauley,” he said, leaning heavily against the wall. “Play it.”
Hannie looked away from the tense expectation in his face. She pressed the button, holding the camera up so they could all see the screen.
VIDEO STATEMENT—
REGINA WILCOX
UNCUT
…you see the face of a young woman, about twenty-five years old. She has short blond hair, the boyish cut framing wide-set brown eyes and broad cheekbones. Her skin has the yellow tones of an olive complexion kept too long indoors.
“Is it on?” she asks. The sound is tinny and small, but doesn’t mask the nasal burr of her voice. The camera moves as though the operator is nodding. The young woman shifts and straightens. She smiles tightly.
“Hi, I’m Regina Wilcox.” She pauses. Clears her throat. “This is for Hannie Reynard. Mrs. Tricorn said you wanted to talk to me for your film. About the resorbing thing. She said it was going to be on tellie. The only thing is, Jan and the other PMS ladies say I gotta move again. So I don’t reckon you gonna catch up with me in time. But Jan said I could use her camera and tell you my story that way, so I could still be on tellie.” She bites her lower lip. “I don’t really know where to start, though.”
“Why don’t you start at the time you found out you could resorb?” an older woman’s voice says.
“Yeah, good idea.” The young woman nods. Her eyes flick upwards as she remembers. “I s’pose the first time I knew for sure I could do it was when I was twenty-one. I got pregnant by this guy who said he was gonna marry me. I thought we’d get a house or something together. You know, happy families and all that.” She shrugs and looks away. “Anyway, I got to about four months and then he just pisses off. Said he didn’t want to be tied down. I was real upset, so I went down to Apollo Bay and stayed at this caravan park by the beach. You know, to sort myself out. I didn’t want to bring up a kid on my own, ’specially not his kid, so I decided to get rid of it. ’Cept I didn’t have enough money left.” She leans forward towards the camera. “That’s when things got weird. I was just sitting in the caravan, crying my eyes out and wishing I wasn’t pregnant and I started to feel real funny. Kinda sick and edgy, like I was chock-full of energy, but too tired to move. I thought maybe I’d eaten some bad fish or something, but I wasn’t chucking. I was just lying there. I was like that for three days. Couldn’t move. Then the guy who ran the caravan park came looking for his money. He saw how bad I was and called an ambulance. When I got to the hospital, they did tons of tests but they couldn’t find nothing wrong. I told them I was pregnant, but they said I wasn’t. Said my blood test came back negative. Then, when I kicked up a fuss, they gave me an ultrasound and there was nothing there.”
The young woman sits back. Crosses her arms.
“I’d had a ultrasound a couple of weeks before that and I’d seen a baby in there. So, I knew something strange was going on. I tried to tell the doctor, but he just thought I was mental. Wanted to put me on Prozac and send me to some shrink. So I got out of there and came back to Melbourne. I kinda ignored the whole thing for a while. I mean, it was just too weird. Then a year or so after that I met Byron. It was great. He spent tons of money on me. After we been going out for about three months, I got chucked out of the house I was sharing so I moved in with him and his mum and sister. It was okay. His sister was a bit of a bitch, but we sorted it out. Then one night me and Byron went to this party and got totally maggoted. We screwed in Byron’s car and didn’t use a condom and I got pregnant. For a while I thought I’d have it, but Byron and me started fighting and I figured we weren’t gonna last. So I did it again—went down the coast for a bit and just let the baby go away. It was right after Christmas. I was about five months gone by then, but it still worked. I felt sick for a lot longer, though. Almost a week.”
She presses her lips together. “I think…” She stops, shakes her hair back. “I think Byron was pissed off at me, but…” She shrugs and stares down at the floor.
“What happened then, love?” the other voice asks.
“This doctor rang me. Dr. Lomas. She asked all these questions about whether I’d ever miscarried and stuff like that. When I said I had, she got all excited. Wanted to know all about it. So I thought, why the hell not. Told her the whole story and she believed everything. It was kinda nice having someone believe me after that other quack at the hospital. Dr. Lomas said I had some kind of rare gene thing. That I hadn’t been sick, I’d been doing something called resorbing. She reckoned it was a special gift. Then she said she wanted to do some tests on me for research. And I thought, Whoa there—no one’s doing no tests on me. So I told her I wasn’t interested. She wouldn’t give up, though. Kept trying to make me say yes. In the end I told her to piss off. That made her shut up. She gave me her phone number and said to call if I changed my mind.”
You hear a baby start to sob. The young woman looks down again, her face softening. “Hang on a sec,” she says. “Let me just pick her up.” You see her duck out of frame, then appear again, holding a baby wrapped in a pink blanket against her chest. She jiggles it against her shoulder, soothing the sobs into hiccups.
“Where was I?”
“Dr. Lomas gave you her number.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I kept it. Don’t know why. Maybe ’cause she believed me. Anyway, Byron starts being real nice again and I get pregnant again. But nothing had really changed—he was still screwing around with other girls—so I figured I’d just resorb it, like before. Then I thought maybe this Dr. Lomas would pay something to see me do it. So I rang her and she jumped at the chance. I stayed with her for a couple of weeks. She was a bit weird, kind of nervy and pushy, but her place was real nice. She attached me to this ultrasound machine and made a video of the whole thing. I could watch it happen on the screen. It was sorta getting sucked back up through the cord. Real slow. It was kinda gross seeing a baby disappear back into me. But I got five hundred bucks for it.” She pauses and shakes her head. “Probably should have hung out for more. It was real gross.”
She lifts her shoulders as though shrugging off a memory. “She rang a few months after that. Tried to get me to do the tests again. Said she had found some other girls who could resorb and wanted to compare us. But I wasn’t interested.” She strokes the baby’s head. “I’d met this other guy, you see. He’d just joined the same gang as Byron. A bit younger than me, but he’s real mature. Sweet too. He doesn’t hit and he really loves kids.” She presses her lips against the baby’s head and looks into the camera. “I reckon he’s Romy’s dad. Not Byron. I’m not dead cert, but I think so. Byron would kill him if he found out. You know, all that blood brothers shit. Probably kill me too. So when I found out I was pregnant, I just let Byron think it was his kid. He was real pleased when I said I was gonna have it. Didn’t stop him fucking around, though, did it?”
She holds the baby up and away from her, shifting it into the crook of her left arm. She looks back at the camera.
“When I was about seven months gone, I met this girl I knew from way back and she said she’d heard that someone was after me. She didn’t know who, but it was someone professional. Well, that scared the shit out of me. I thought maybe Byron had found out it wasn’t his kid after all and cracked the shits. Got one of his gang buddies to come after me. So I decided I’d better take off for a while. Lay low. But first I went round to see my brother at his hostel. You know, say good-bye and give him some dough to tide him over. Anyway, I get talking to Mrs. Tricorn, the supervisor at his hostel, while I’m waiting for him to turn up. Basically spill my guts and end up bawling on her shoulder. She’s real nice about it and says she knows this group that could hide me from Byron for as long as I needed. Reckoned they’d been hiding women from bashers and stalkers for years. So I said okay. That’s how I got hooked up with the PMS. I was a bit suss at first. I mean, you don’t think a bunch of old ladies can do much, do you? But they’ve been great. Moving me from house to house while I was waiting for Romy to come along.” She kisses the baby again. “And now she’s here, they’re going to take us interstate. I just wish I could get word to her real dad. He’d be so stoked. I’m not supposed to phone anyone without their say-so—they reckon it’s too dangerous—so I was hoping maybe you could go see him for me.” She chews on her lip. “I did call Byron about a week back—stupid thing to do, I s’pose—but I just wanted to see if he’d call it all off so I could go back to my normal life. He swore he hadn’t set anyone on me. But who knows, hey? Anyway, the lady who was looking after me totally freaked, said I’d compromised the whole network. That’s why we had to move to another house again. So I was hoping you could maybe…”
The frame jerks from the young woman’s face to a cream wall.
“Did you hear that?” It is the older woman’s voice.
The screen goes black then flickers into static.
Hannie pressed the Stop button. Beside her, Mosson was swaying gently, the baby finally quiet against his warmth. The gray man was still staring at the tiny screen.
Hannie had finally found the Rabbit Woman of Melbourne. And she was too late. She stroked her fingers across the body of the camera, a mute apology to the young, practical, opportunistic woman who had recorded her truth then died for it. Hannie’s first instincts had been right: the Rabbit Woman story was a career-maker. But this time, Hannie felt no elation—only the faint beginnings of a driving fury that pushed at her protective numbness. There was no longer any room for self-indulgent doubt or recrimination. Regina’s story was too important.
The gray man’s hand suddenly closed around Hannie’s wrist, his hard grip wet with blood.
“Play that last bit again.”
“What bit?” she said, pulling her wrist away.
“The bit about the kid.”
She forwarded through the film to where Regina kissed the baby’s head, then let it play. The gray man’s impassive face tightened.
He looked up from the screen. “Let me have a look at her.” He pulled the blanket away from the baby’s face.
“Be careful, she’s asleep,” Mosson said, shifting her slightly.
The gray man stared at the infant, then nodded. “Half Chinese.”
Mosson twitched the blanket back into place. “I think we should call the police,” he said. “Someone’s got to look after her. Find the father.”
“The father’s dead,” the gray man said. “He was killed about three weeks ago.”
“You knew him? Who was he?” Hannie asked.
“Just a kid.” The gray man’s voice was hollow.
“Has she got any other family who can take her?” Mosson asked quickly.
The gray man paused, as if running through the options. “None that would want her. None that could keep her safe.” He looked up the passageway. “And if you give her to the cops, she’ll be dead in a week.”
Mosson frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The people who hired Pauley to kill Regina, they hired him to kill her baby too. They won’t give up. If these people think the kid is still alive, they’ll just keep coming.”
“Do you know who they are?” Hannie asked. “Why they’re doing this?”
The gray man shook his head. “All I know is that it’s coming out of Africa. And it’s probably corporate.”
Hannie felt a domino fall of logic: the drug company that was funding Dr. Lomas had their headquarters in Africa—in Harare—and they had money and access to the list. But why would they want to kill their own research subjects? It didn’t make sense. What was going on? Why would they kill these women? Hannie knew she had to find out the truth. She had to go to Harare. To finish the film, to finish Regina’s story.
The gray man leaned forward. “You know who it is?”
“I think so.”
“Tell me.”
“Osagi-Fowler Pharmaceuticals,” she said. “I’m not sure why they’re doing it, but it must have something to do with this resorbing thing.”
He nodded once, the acknowledgment of a professional. Hannie looked away and saw her reflection in the long mirror at the end of the corridor: she was leaning towards the gray man, the camera between them, Mosson at the edge of their collusion. She straightened and stepped back.
Mosson looked down at the tiny face pressed against his chest. “Do you really think they’d keep coming after a little baby?” He tightened his hold and the baby whimpered.
“Certain of it,” the gray man said. “Pauley Barker’s already killed seven women for these people.” He glanced over at the lounge room. “And your friends in there. Whatever this is about, the kid’s part of it. They’re not going to leave a loose end hanging around.” He stared at Mosson. “Someone needs to take the kid. Get it out of the country. Someone who’s not connected to all this.”
Hannie saw Mosson nod. What was he thinking? That he could take the baby himself?
“The baby should go to Child Protection,” she said.
All of Mosson’s attention was on the gray man. “I was thinking about going to Japan,” he said softly, then glanced uneasily at Hannie. “To live.” He turned back to the gray man. For a long moment, the two men stared at each other; some kind of silent male appraisal. Then Mosson said, “I have money. I can look after her.” He gave a quick strained smile. “My family has a history of saving kids.”
The gray man nodded and pulled himself upright. “About three minutes from now, this house is going to be on fire. I’d get going if I were you.” He limped slowly up the hallway.
“Jesus, he’s going to set fire to the place,” Hannie said. “What about Mrs. Tricorn? And Regina? We can’t let him just burn everything.”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Mosson said, stooping down and settling the baby back in the capsule. “Now.”
Hannie snapped the view screen back into place and slipped the wrist strap of the precious camera over her hand. “Then we go straight to Child Protection. Right?”
“No,” Mosson said flatly. He lifted the capsule, holding it against his body. “I’m not going to hand her over so she can be murdered.”
“We haven’t got time to discuss this,” Hannie said through her teeth. “Let’s just get moving.” She ushered him forward.
“You heard what he said. They’ll just keep coming after her.”
“Why on earth would you believe him?” Hannie hissed, wary of being overheard, but the gray man had already disappeared through the archway. “We don’t even know who he is.”
A tiny sigh made them both look down. The baby yawned, her fingers spreading then curling shut. As Mosson reached in to stroke the tiny hand, Hannie watched his face soften and she suddenly understood.
“You’re going to believe him, aren’t you?” she said. “Even if he’s lying, you’re going to believe him so you can take the baby.” She grabbed his shoulder, stopping their momentum. “How are you going to look after a kid?”
Mosson eased his shoulder out of her grasp. “My aunt was a baby nurse—she’ll help me,” he said, and Hannie heard the tone of a decision already made. “I’ve got an apartment, a house. I’ll sell everything. My mum’s place will bring in a packet. It’ll be a good memorial—she understood starting over.” He met her eyes. “You could come to Japan too.”
For a moment, the possibility hung between them—another country, another life, a child.
Hannie looked away. “What if he’s lying. What if…”
Mosson shook his head. “You have to believe in something, sometime, Hannie.”
“I can’t.” She’d meant it to be a bold declaration, but it came out soft and wretched.
They stared at each other; they both knew it was the wrong time.
“I know,” he said, just as softly. “You’ve got a film to make.”
Hannie looked down at the camera in her hand. He was right. She had to go to Harare. Find the truth and film it. Show the world. Then maybe the kid would be safe. Maybe Mosson would be safe.
The sound of smashing glass made them both jump. Hannie smelled the sharp tang of alcohol.
“If we go through that bathroom up there, we can miss the lounge room.”
Hannie nodded. A good idea. They walked quickly along the passage, their eyes on the floor as they passed the archway and Pauley’s body.
Hannie stopped. “We haven’t got the car keys.” She knew where they were—Mrs. Tricorn’s pocket.
They looked at each other.
“I’ll go,” Mosson said.
“No. You’ve got the baby. I’ll go.”
She moved before he could protest, the video camera still in her hand.
The lounge room was freezing, a cold night wind blowing through the smashed window. Hannie decided fast would be best. She knew exactly where Mrs. Tricorn had fallen; it was imprinted on her soul. She would run over to the far wall, keep her eyes off the floor, grab the keys, and get out of there. It almost worked. But the keys were in a front pocket, and Mrs. Tricorn had died facedown. Hannie had to turn her over. Had to touch the skin that was still warm. Had to see the slack face robbed of brisk efficiency and dry wit. Had to smell the death release of piss and shit. She knelt over the body, the keys in one hand, the video camera in the other, and knew that she was their only witness. Their memorial. She gritted her teeth and looked across at Dudley against the wall, at Regina curled on the carpet, at Jan, on her back. She would make sure the story was told. It was her job to film the truth. Her responsibility. It would not be beautiful, but it would be memorable. And maybe it would make a difference. Hannie forced back the choking pity and anger—emotions could come later. She lifted the camera and flipped out the tiny screen. Bracing her shaking hands, she pressed Record then panned across the bright, silent room, her jagged breathing the only soundtrack.
VIDEO OF PMS SAFE-HOUSE
UNCUT
…you see thick cream carpet, a congealing dark stain, a foot in a dirty trainer, old jeans. A young man’s body lies facing a beige wall, long hair matted, the back of his head a pulp of blood and bone and brain. The camera moves up, past a wet red spray pattern on the plaster, then across to an older woman, lying on her back. The right side of her face is swollen, and smeared with blood, bright against the pallor of death. The camera moves slowly past a cream leather armchair, the stuffing blown out of a fist-sized hole. Two more women are on the floor, both blond, both with dark haloes of drying blood beneath their heads. The dark shadow of lividity is already forming on the cheek of the younger woman. Her leg is buckled, broken, the opalescence of bone poking through skin and dried blood. The camera jerks upwards, as though the operator is standing, then tracks across the carpet to a blond man lying faceup, pale blue eyes open and blank. His stomach is ripped and minced, the silvery edges of intestine visible in the pooling blood. He is still holding a large handgun. The camera shakes and you hear the sound of retching. The image of the gunman becomes gray static.
Hannie wiped her mouth and walked out of the lounge room, the camera held against her chest. The smell of alcohol and burning cloth was already mixing with the stink of gunpowder. Mosson was waiting for her at the bathroom door.
“I’ve got them,” she said grimly, holding up the keys.
Mosson nodded and she followed him into a bathroom. They walked through, into a dining room, and a rush of heat prickled across her skin. The curtains and bar were on fire.
Mosson shifted the baby capsule further from the flames. “Come on, this way,” he said, pulling Hannie around the corner into the kitchen. She crunched over smashed bottles, sliding on the wash of pungent alcohol. Behind them, the fire was already at the archway.
Mosson led her along the white hallway into the laundry, the fumes of burning plastic and smoke searing her lungs. The back door was still open. Hannie ran out to the top of the steps, breathing hard, the cold night air painfully clean after the stench of death. She looked down at the backyard. The floodlights were edging the forest with sharp shadows. One of the shadows moved. The gray man. It was as though he’d been waiting for them to come out of the house. She watched him limp between the trees, his gray form flickering through the foliage until he merged into the darkness.
They ran down the steps, onto the lawn, and stopped, a strange compulsion to stay with the house, with the dead, keeping them still. The fire was pulsing against the dining-room window, curling around the ceiling, creating its own rushing wind that ripped and spun the burning curtains.
Hannie touched Mosson on the shoulder. “Your work. I’m sorry for stealing it,” she said. In all this huge violent wrong, she wanted something to be right.
Mosson tucked the blanket more securely around the baby. “It’s not really important anymore,” he said.
Hannie looked back at the blaze. Mosson was wrong, it was important. Through the open back door, the white hallway was glowing with spinning red embers and orange smoke. She tightened her hold on the camera and flicked out the view screen. With all the floodlights and fire, she should get a reasonable shot.
“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” Mosson said, lifting the capsule against his chest.
Hannie positioned the camera up to her eye, framing the brutal cremation. She felt Mosson move away from her side. A window shattered, bright flames exploding into the air, the low roar of incineration punctuated by the sharp crack of failing supports. Hannie knew it would make a dramatic opening for the documentary.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I have to film this.”
There was no answer.
She looked over her shoulder. Mosson and the baby were gone, already deep in the shadowy protection of the forest. Hannie turned back to the burning house, her breath solid in her throat. She raised the camera again and steadied her hands against the molded grip. It was her job to wait for the perfect shot.