Hard Landing

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Gary drove south with the moon-flecked ocean on his left. He passed million-dollar mansions that stared arrogantly out at the water and slipped through sleepy holiday villages. He kept mentally replaying the shoot-out in the beach house and wondered if he was to blame for Patrick Arnott's death. Was his rescue attempt a mistake? No, don't be stupid. If Gary did nothing, Merton would have killed Arnott anyway. He had no choice: he was forced to make the play he did. Then fate dealt Arnott a lousy hand.

  After half-an-hour, he reached Terrigal, a trendy beach town that Sydneysiders flooded into on weekends. It looked fairly empty as he drove along the esplanade, past dozens of winking restaurants and cafes.

  While recalling the shoot-out, he gripped the steering wheel so hard his hands now ached. He relaxed his grip and his fingers trembled. What was his next move? He must still have gunshot residue and fibres from the beach house on his clothes and skin. Had to remove them.

  After parking his van in a car park next to the beach, he climbed into the back and found some spare clothes he sometimes changed into when doing surveillance work. He took off what he was wearing and put on a fresh pair of shorts. Then he dumped his used clothes into a nearby garbage bin and strolled across the near-deserted beach to the water's edge.

  After rubbing his body with wet sand for a while, he waded into inky-dark water laced with strands of foam. He took several quick strides and dove into a chilly wave. He ploughed through the surf for about fifty metres, until he reached calm water beyond and rolled onto his back. As he floated in a dark bubble, the shoot-out receded from his mind and he started to relax. If only he could float out there forever.

  After several minutes, he glanced at the beach and saw it was now a thin ribbon of sand bucking on the horizon. Christ. Was he strong enough to swim against the tide and reach it? A dose of fear lit up his system. For ten minutes, he swam towards the beach, trying not to panic and waste energy. He eventually reached the surf and made a few unsuccessful attempts to catch a wave. Finally, arms aching, he caught one that rushed him towards the shore.

  His feet touched the bottom and he stumbled towards the beach, utterly spent. He kneeled on the sand and recovered his breathe, before slouching back to the van and towelling off. To his surprise, the distraction of almost drowning had left him calm and refreshed. He climbed into the back of the van, put on some of the spare clothes and wondered what to do next.

  He had no intention of telling Madeline Arnott about the shoot-out or her son's death. Indeed, he wouldn't even mention that he found her son. The Homicide Squad would eventually identify his charred remains and inform her that he was found shot dead in a burnt-out house. She would be distressed, of course. But she would be even more distressed if Gary gave her a first-hand account of how he died. She would probably find some way to blame him for what happened. And, even if she didn't, she would head straight to the police and repeat what Gary said. Then Gary would high dive into a bottomless vat of bubbling shit.

  He thought about the file on Trewaley that Patrick Arnott stole from Merton & Co. Arnott told Merton that the file was on a flash drive he hid in the cutlery drawer in his apartment. Should Gary check inside the drawer? His rational half told him to forget about the Trewaley file. Why plunge into further danger for no reward? However, several people had died - including Arnott - because of that file. If it disappeared, their deaths would become meaningless. Further, Gary regarded Trewaley as the real cause of the carnage at the beach house. The politician shouldn't be allowed to escape responsibility and wander off into a bright future leading the country. For that reason alone, Gary was anxious to get his hands on the file and use it to destroy the guy.

  Gary got behind the wheel of his van and headed for the apartment in Drummoyne. He soon reached a 500-metre-long bridge that spanned the Hawkesbury River. The two pistols in his possession were the last incriminating evidence he had to jettison. There were only a few cars on the bridge when he reached the middle. He slowed and tossed both pistols over the side into the void.