Not Dead Yet

CHAPTER 20

  As Gary drove away from the commune, he decided it was time to tell Barbara Thompson that he'd found Trixie. Hopefully, she would get Trixie to reveal who killed Tony Thompson and who was following her. And when she did, Gary would listen in.

  He booked into a small motel a couple of kilometres north of Byron Bay. From his room, he called Barbara Thompson at work.

  She sounded irritated. "Where have you been? I've been calling your office for almost two weeks and keep getting your answering machine."

  "Sorry, I got a lead on Trixie and I've been following it."

  "Have you found her?"

  "Yes."

  "My goodness, where?"

  "Near Byron Bay."

  "Where exactly?"

  Gary didn't want to reveal Trixie's precise location, because he wanted to be present when Barbara Thompson talked to her. "It's hard to explain. When you get up here, I'll tell you."

  "Umm, alright. I'll be there tomorrow afternoon. Where are you staying?"

  Gary gave her the name of his motel and its telephone number.

  "Fine, I'll be there by tomorrow evening."

  While waiting for his client, Gary slept, read newspapers and went for a couple of long beach walks. The following afternoon, he stayed in his room and watched a John Wayne western on TV. Wheel of Fortune had just started when he heard a knock on the door. His watch said it was 4:35 p.m.

  Barbara Thompson stood outside, dressed in a T-shirt with a sequin pattern and jeans. It was hard to tell who lived behind her large sunglasses and heavy makeup. Whoever did saw little sunlight.

  "Come in," he said and stood back to let her enter. "How'd you get here?"

  She didn't take off her sunglasses. "I flew to Byron Bay and hired a car."

  He sat on the edge of the bed. She took the only chair and leaned forward, excitedly. "Where is she?"

  Gary remembered he was running a business and the best time to get paid was before a job finished. "I know you must be anxious to see her. But there are a couple of matters I'd like to get out of the way. First, my bill so far, including all expenses, is about $12,000. On top of that, when I tell you where to find Trixie, you'll owe me a $5,000 bonus. So, after subtracting the $10,000 you've already paid me, you'll owe me $7,000."

  "Of course. That's our arrangement and I'll honour it. In fact, I'll give you a cheque right now."

  She whipped out a chequebook and wrote a cheque for $7,000, which she handed over.

  He casually slipped it into his back pocket. "Thanks. The other matter is this: I'll only tell you where to find Trixie if I can be present when you talk to her."

  Barbara Thompson arched a heavily tweezered eyebrow. "Why do you want to be there?"

  "Because I reckon that whoever bombed my apartment is also looking for Trixie. I bet she knows who that person is."

  She nodded her head. "Alright then, you can be present. But you've got to leave the talking to me. I know Trixie so, if she'll talk to anyone, it'll be me."

  "I understand."

  Barbara Thompson leaned forward. "So, where is she?"

  A local map lay on the bed. Gary unfolded it and pointed to the right spot. "She's living in a feral commune about here, on the Bongollo Road."

  More eyebrow instability. "What sort of commune?"

  "Feral."

  A tight smile. "Hah, I'm not surprised. That sounds like Trixie. When will you take me there?"

  "What about tomorrow morning."

  "Fine. I'll check into this motel. I see it has a restaurant. Let's have dinner together."

  "Sure."

  She went and checked in. When she returned, just after six, they went down to an empty restaurant with wood-veneer walls, a thin grey carpet and plastic table clothes. They sat next to the window, overlooking a truck-stop and the highway.

  The laminated menu offered dishes from half-a-dozen countries, many misspelt, most deep-fried. Gary played safe and ordered the fish of the day. Barbara Thompson did the same.

  Gary had worried they wouldn't have anything to talk about. But, to his relief, Barbara Thompson happily prattled on about herself. He learnt that, after her husband abandoned her, she worked as an office cleaner, chicken-plucker, process worker and then nurse. Not surprisingly, she said little about her sons, who were a lousy advertisement for her parenting skills.

  Her tough life had left her bitter and small-minded: politicians were scum; migrants were taking over; the poor were lazy bums and nobody did a good job anymore. She claimed to have lots of enemies. The more she talked, the closer Gary came to joining them.

  He was relieved when she yawned and said she wanted an early night. When he offered to pay for dinner, she insisted on picking up the tab and he let her. It was the least she could do after boring him to death.

  Back in his room, he stripped down to his singlet and underpants, lay on the bed and watched a re-run of The Simpsons. It had almost finished when the door crashed open and two men wearing balaclava masks charged through it. The first waved a pistol, the other a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun.

  Gary was stunned. Fear and shock fried his synapses. His pistol lay in the bottom of his suitcase, across the room. They'd cut him down long before he reached it.

  The smart move was to raise his trembling hands, which he did. "Don't shoot. Who the fuck're you?"

  "Ya worst nightmare," the one with the shottie yelled. "Ya want to live, do what ya told. Get up."

  "Who are …?"

  The intruder with the shottie marched across the room and used the barrel to jab Gary in the stomach. "Get up or I'll spill ya guts on the floor." His trigger finger was white and the barrel quivered.

  Gary stood up, hands still raised.

  "Good. Now turn round and put ya hands behind ya back."

  Gary did as he was told. While the intruder with the shotgun pressed the barrel into Gary's neck, his accomplice tied Gary's wrists together with rope.

  Shotgun Man said: "OK, now we're goin' for a little drive."

  Gary said: "Where to?"

  "It's a surprise."

  "What about my clothes?"

  "Don't worry, ya won't need 'em."

  Gary didn't like the sound of that.

  Shotgun Man slipped over to the doorway, peered outside and looked back. "It's clear."

  His accomplice stuck his pistol into Gary's back and shoved him towards the door. "Don't even think about running."

  Shotgun Man led them out the door and over to an old white Holden Commodore. He opened the back door and ordered Gary to get inside. Gary complied. The other intruder slid in next to Gary and jammed his pistol into Gary's side.

  About 30 metres away, the over-weight manager of the motel left his office and ran towards them. "Hey, stop. You've got to check out; you've got to pay."

  Shotgun Man spun around and fired both barrels. The manager tumbled over and lay still.

  The shooter leaped behind the steering wheel and dropped his shotgun onto the floor. Acrid gunpowder fumes filled the cabin. The engine was already running. He reversed a short distance and stamped on the accelerator. The car squealed out of the car park, burning rubber.

  The masked man next to Gary looked over his shoulder. "Jesus, did you hit him?"

  "Nah, fired over his head," the driver said, before glancing at Gary. "Now you're in deep shit, mate. Not paying your bill. Shooting at the manager. Cops will be after you. Hate to be in your shoes."

  Gary was the only one who didn't laugh. Instead, he demanded: "What the hell is going on?"

  The driver said: "You'll find out soon enough. Right now, we're gonna blindfold you."

  The man next to Gary took a roll of duct tape off the floor, tore off a long strip and stuck it over Gary's eyes, blinding him.

  Five minutes later, Gary carefully slid his hand behind the back seat and felt around for anything that might make a good weapon. He felt some coins, a plastic ballpoint pen and a metal comb. Gently, he slipped the pen and comb into the back of his under
pants.

  The car stayed on a bitumen road for about twenty minutes, before turning onto a rough track that made it vibrate hard. Half-an-hour later, it stopped and Gary was dragged out. The cold night air made him shiver. Rough stones jabbed his bare feet.

  They shoved him for about twenty metres. Then they pushed him up a steep ramp for about five or six metres. He stepped onto a floor with gaps between narrow wooden slats, and smelt dried sweat and lanolin. A shearing shed?

  Someone kicked his legs from under him. He crashed to the floor. Rough hands tied his ankles together.

  Gary said: "What do you want? Why am I here?"

  The men laughed. Footsteps receded. A door closed.

  For hours, he lay on the floor, shivering from fear and cold. He wondered why he was kidnapped and got nowhere. He just hoped that, when Barbara Thompson knocked on his door in the morning and found him gone, she'd call the police. But that depended, of course, on her still being alive.

  Eventually, the door squeaked open. Footsteps came towards him. A hand yanked the tape off his eyes. He winced and wondered if he still had any eyebrows.

  Light stabbed his eyes. He squinted and tried to focus. Slowly, the face in front of him took shape. God, it was Barbara Thompson. What was she doing here? He anxiously searched her face for some sign she was on a rescue mission: a smile, a hint of warmth ... None. Christ.

  Desperately, he glanced around. They were in a large, disused shearing shed. Faint morning light poured through the doorway and gaping holes in the corrugated iron walls.

  Two men stood behind Barbara Thompson. One was her son, Alex, the ex-jailbird, wearing a sardonic smile. Gary didn't recognise the other guy, who had a crew-cut, narrow face, hooded eyes and a large hooked nose. Lifting heavy weights had made his shoulders drop and his small head pop out. Amazingly, he looked dumber than Alex.

  They wore exactly the same clothes as the two men who kidnapped him. So Gary knew what they were doing the night before.

  "Hello," Barbara Thompson said.

  Gary said: "Hi. What the hell's going on? Why am I here?"

  She frowned, stood up and pointed at the two men. "You've already met my son, Alex, haven't you? And that's Dennis, his friend, who's giving us a hand."

  Both men smiled mirthlessly. Dennis' teeth were so scattered he didn't need to floss.

  Gary bet the two met in prison and found they shared a common interest in violent crime. "They looked better in masks."

  Alex kept smiling; Dennis sneered.

  She said: "I wouldn't insult them if I was you. They've been very gentle so far. That can change fast."

  Gary looked her in the eye. "What the hell's going on?"

  She smiled, enjoying his discomfort. "You still don't get it, do you?"

  "Get what?"

  She put her hands on her hips and shook her head at his foolishness. "Why do you think I wanted to find Trixie?"

  "To ask her who killed your son, Tony?"

  She laughed and shook her head again. "That wasn't the real reason. I wanted to find Trixie to recover the money she took."

  Gary was very confused. "The money? What money?"

  "Tony had at least a million dollars when he died. That's what he told Alex. He said he'd buried it in the bush somewhere, and Trixie knew where it was."

  "And you think that, after he died, she dug up the money and disappeared?"

  "Of course."

  Gary shook his head in amazement. "So this was always about money. You didn't want to find out who killed your son?"

  A shrug. "Not really. Finding that out wouldn't bring him back, would it? I wouldn't waste money on that."

  Her eyes chilled his soul. She'd turned from being a nasty old bag into a lump of pure evil.

  He said: "But why get me involved? Why didn't you find Trixie yourself?"

  "Oh, I tried and got nowhere. So I decided to hire someone who knew how to find people - you. But, of course, I couldn't tell you about the money. So I pretended I was trying to find out who killed Tony."

  Gary was shocked at his stupidity. He forgot the first rule: never believe a client. "Well, you fooled me. But why'd you bring me to this place?"

  "So you won't get in the way when the boys kidnap Trixie. We might also need your help if they can't find her."

  "When are they going to grab her?"

  "Soon. But don't worry. We just want the money. When we've got that, we'll let you both go."

  "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

  She shrugged. "You don't. But why would we kill you? When this is all over, you two won't go to the cops."

  "Why not?"

  She laughed. "Trixie would have to explain how she got the money, and you'd have to explain how you got kidnapped by your client. The cops would think you're nuts."

  Gary saw her point. "What if you don't get the money?"

  Her eyes and mouth hardened, making Gary wish he hadn't asked. "You're both dead." She glanced at her watch and turned to Alex. "You two had better get Trixie."

  Alex said: "OK. What're you doing to do?"

  "Stay here and watch him."

  "Got your gun?"

  Barbara Thompson patted the handbag slung over her shoulder. "Of course."

  The two men shambled out.

  Barbara Thompson spent the next four hours pacing up and down, glancing at her watch, rarely speaking. When Gary asked for water she told him to shut his stupid mouth.

  He kept wondering if he'd get out of this set-up alive. He wasn't confident. He'd met some cold-hearted bitches in his time. But she outdid them all.

  Her mobile phone beeped. She unholstered it and listened briefly. "You've got her? Good." She turned off the mobile and smiled at Gary. "Not long now."

  Thirty minutes later, when a car approached, she turned and left the shed. Gary desperately looked around for a way to cut the rope around his wrists. He still had a pen and comb in his briefs. But the rope was very thick. They wouldn't be much help.

  The corrugated iron wall behind him was riddled with rust. He slid his fingers into a gap between the sheets and worked a small piece back and forward for a few minutes until it broke off.

  Though it wasn't easy, because of the position of his hands, he used the piece to saw the rope. But the iron was too flaky to cut properly. Then he noticed an old shearing comb on the floor, a metre away. He wriggled across and picked it up. Just as the shearing comb bit into the rope, footsteps came up the ramp.

  Barbara Thompson entered and glanced over at him.

  Next came Trixie, hands tied behind her back, bright-eyed with fear. She wore a blue T-shirt and khaki shorts.

  The two thugs entered last.

  Trixie saw Gary on the floor, looked puzzled and opened her mouth to speak. But Alex Thompson pushed her trembling body across the shed and into an old wooden chair.

  She glanced over at Gary, still puzzled. His smile of reassurance went straight through her.

  Barbara Thompson turned to her son. "Any trouble?"

  He shook his head. "Not much. A chick tried to stop us. We tied and gagged her."

  Obviously, Rachel. At least she was still alive.

  "You searched Trixie's room?"

  "Course."

  "Find the money?"

  "Nope."

  She looked down at Trixie and snarled: "Alright bitch, where is it?"

  "Where's what?"

  Barbara Thompson slapped Trixie across the face, splitting her lip. "Tony's money - the million dollars."

  "Don't know what you're talking about?"

  Barbara Thompson scowled. "Listen, you silly cow, Tony had that money just before he died. He buried it somewhere. And you know where it is. Tell us and we'll let you go. Otherwise, you'll be begging to die before you die."

  Trixie dabbed her bloody lip, looking fearful and insolent. Despite the situation, she was no push-over. "Don't know what you're talking about?"

  Barbara Thompson straightened and curled her lip. "Alright, have it your
way." She turned to Alex and Dennis. "Do what you've got to do, boys."

  As she left the shed, Dennis smiled and pulled on some leather driving gloves. He stepped forward and slapped Trixie with the back of his hand, knocking her off the chair.

  "Hey, stop," Gary yelled.

  Alex reached inside his jacket, pulled a pistol out of a shoulder holder and fired in Gary's direction. The bullet pocked a hole about a metre above his head. "Shut up."

  Dennis slapped Trixie several more times across the face, shutting her left eye and bloodying her features. She kept wailing that she didn't have the money and begged him to stop. Gary couldn't work out if she was lying or not. If she was, she was tough as barbed wire.

  Dennis turned to Alex. "Fill the trough."

  Alex left the shed and came back with a bucket of water that he poured into a small concrete trough. After several more trips, it was almost full.

  Dennis lifted Trixie to her feet, marched her over to the trough and shoved her into a kneeling position. "Gonna talk, bitch?"

  When she didn't respond, he used his big strangler's hands to force her head underwater. She thrashed about, but couldn't break his grip.

  Gary didn't bother protesting. Instead, while Dennis and Alex got their kicks, he sliced at the rope around his wrists.

  Dennis held Trixie's head under the water for almost a minute. She'd almost stopped thrashing when he let go. She reared back and flopped onto the floor like a landed fish, spluttering and wheezing. For a few minutes, she gasped for air. Then Dennis asked again what she did with the money.

  "Don't have it," she panted.

  Again, he dunked her head. This time, she struggled weakly, obviously exhausted. When he finally released her, she rolled onto the floor and coughed feebly a few times, before lying still, dribbling water. He slapped her several times across the face, but she didn't move.

  Gary prayed she was still alive.

  Alex said: "The bitch dead?"

  Dennis felt her pulse and shook his head. "Nah, but she's gonna be out for a while." He grinned. "Hey, maybe we should fuck her now, before she dies."

  Alex shook his head. "Not while Mum's here."

  Dennis frowned. "But I wanta fuck her, I really do."

  "So do I. But not now - later."

  Dennis shrugged. "OK."

  "You hungry?"

  "Fuckin' oath."

  "OK. I'll go into town with Mum and get some food. You stay here and watch them. We'll bring something back."

  "Sure."

  "Just don't fuck her, OK? Not yet."

  "But I can later, huh?"

  "Sure. We both will."

  "OK, no problem."

  Gary interjected. "Bring back some food for me."

  Alex snarled "Shut the fuck up" and left the shed.

  Dennis got bored with guard duty and occasionally wandered outside. When he was gone, Gary sawed ferociously on the rope around his wrists, until it snapped. But before he could untie the rope around his ankles, Dennis returned and resumed pacing up and down. Gary kept his hands behind his back.

  Dennis strolled over to Trixie and kicked her in the side. No movement. He crouched, pulled up her T-shirt, licked his lips and tweaked a nipple. "Mmm, nice titties. Oh baby, I'm gonna fuck you hard - so hard." He leaned over and sucked the nipple while stroking his crotch. Sick puppy.

  Gary's ankles were still bound, but he'd seen enough. "Hey, what about some water?"

  Dennis seemed to emerge from a trance. His lips dropped the nipple and he sneered. "Shut up."

  "Jesus, just a sip. I'm dying of thirst."

  "Good. Now shut up."

  Gary took a deep breath and played his final card. "Tell me Denise, where'd you meet Alex? In the jar? You know, you two make a great couple. Was it love at first sight?"

  There was a serious risk Dennis would respond by shooting him. But Barbara Thompson was in charge. Dennis probably wouldn't take such a big step without her approval.

  "You've got a big frickin' mouth."

  "Not as big as yours, you cocksucker. You can hit women, but I bet you've never hit a man, you gutless piece of shit."

  Dennis' face glowed with anger. He marched towards Gary, pistol drawn. Gary raised himself to a kneeling position.

  Dennis stopped a couple of feet in front of Gary and pointed the pistol at his forehead. The muzzle looked enormous. Gary's nerves sizzled and he wondered if he'd made his final miscalculation. Maybe the bastard was going to shoot him. His heart bashed against his ribs.

  Dennis lifted the pistol and chopped down at Gary's head. Gary swayed to one side. The butt gashed his left ear and hit his shoulder, which exploded with pain. Despite that, Gary grabbed the wrist holding the pistol and stabbed it with the shearing comb. Dennis screamed and dropped the pistol, which skittered across the floor.

  Gary tackled him around the legs. Dennis went over backwards and the back of his head made a loud crack as it hit the floor. It was the most sickening sound Gary had ever heard, but Dennis grunted with annoyance, no more.

  Gary scrambled on top and head-butted Dennis in the face. That produced only a wince. So Gary slashed at his face with the comb, and missed.

  Dennis pushed Gary off, rolled on top of him and started punching him in the head. Gary realised he'd been unfair to Dennis, who obviously had a lot of experience hitting men, fucking hard. The 'roid monster's forearms were like hams and his fists like rocks.

  A loud shot. Dennis' face looked extra-stunned. A red blob appeared in the middle of his chest. He pitched forward, gurgling blood.

  Gary pushed him off. The guy flopped onto his back, red chest-stain growing. Blood percolated from his lips. His breathing was shallow and laboured. He was obviously doomed. Gary braced himself to ward off pity, but it never arrived to cause him trouble.

  He looked over at Trixie, holding the smoking pistol in two hands, face bruised and bloodstained, body trembling.

  "I-I-Is he dead?" she asked through shredded lips.

  Gary crouched over Dennis, who'd stopped gurgling, and couldn't find a pulse. The guy was done. "Yeah."

  "Was that creep sucking my nipple?"

  "Umm, yes, I'm afraid so."

  Gary expected her to be upset. However, he was surprised when she ran over to the creep and kicked him savagely in the ribs. "Dickhead," she yelled and kicked him several more times.

  "Save your energy. He can't feel anything."

  "Yeah, but I'm enjoying this."

  After a few more kicks, she shuddered and started to cry. Gary untied the rope around his ankles, staggered to his feet and gently took the pistol from her grasp. He held her for about a minute, while she sobbed heavily. Then he stepped back. "How do you feel?"

  "Confused."

  "About what?"

  She dropped onto a stool. "A lot of things, like: who the hell are you? What're doing here?"

  "I'll tell you later. They'll be back soon. We've got things to do."

  Gary still wore only a singlet and underpants. He needed some clothes and Dennis, about the same size, was the obvious source. Too bad his T-shirt had a bullet hole and was drenched in blood. Gary took it off him and asked Trixie to wash the T-shirt in the tub. While she did that, he put on Dennis' jeans, a good fit, and his boots. A little large, but they'd do.

  Trixie returned and passed him the damp T-shirt. Her washing had turned the blood stain pink. The bullet hole was almost dead centre. He considered complimenting her shooting, but thought better of it. He put on the T-shirt.

  She looked down at Dennis. "We gonna bury him?"

  "Only if you want some exercise."

  "Nah, stuff 'im."

  Gary peered out the doorway. The shed was at the end of a rough dirt track running through parched scrub. No other structures in sight. Not even a fence post. Looked like a long walk to safety.

  Trixie said: "How're we gonna get out of here?"

  "In a car."

  "What car?"

  "Barbara's. We wait till she comes ba
ck and borrow it. She won't be long."

  "OK. Just let me shoot the bitch."

  "You've already killed one person today. Isn't that enough?"

  "Nope, I want to make it two."

  He was starting to like Trixie, a lot. "We'll see."

  While they waited, Gary examined Dennis' pistol, a Glock nine-mill. Carried fifteen rounds. He checked the slide and chambered a round. Worked well.

  Ten minutes later, a puff of dust appeared behind the nearest hill. Gary led Trixie around to the side of the shed, where they waited in the shade.

  The Commodore topped the rise with Alex behind the wheel, his mother next to him. It stopped about ten metres from the shed.

  Gary drew further back into the shade and waited for them to get out. But Alex honked the horn to attract Dennis' attention. When he got no response, he slowly got out of the car, pistol drawn and warily crept forward.

  Barbara Thompson also got out. "Silly bugger probably fell asleep."

  Gary stepped out and considered telling Alex to freeze. But why take the risk? He squeezed off a round that caught Alex in the right shoulder.

  Alex jumped back as if stung and dropped his pistol. He fell to his knees, holding his bloody shoulder. "Shit, I've been shot - fuck."

  Barbara Thompson screamed and opened her handbag.

  Gary pointed his pistol at her and yelled: "Don't. Drop the bag in the dirt or I'll shoot you, you bitch."

  She hesitated briefly and followed his instruction.

  He stepped forward and picked up Alex's pistol.

  Alex grimaced and squeezed his bloody shoulder. "Fuckin' hell. You've killed me. I'm gonna die."

  "It hurts?"

  "Course it fucking hurts."

  "Then stop complaining: if you can feel it, you'll live," Gary said, wondering where he got that line from and whether it was true.

  Barbara Thompson turned and started running towards the horizon with surprising speed for a woman in her mid-fifties. But Trixie raced forward and leapt onto her back, riding her into the dirt, sending up a plume of dust. Trixie rolled her over and started punching her in the face. "Fucking cow, bitch."

  Barbara Thompson raised her forearms, but plenty of blows got through. Gary felt Trixie deserved her fun.

  He looked over at Alex, still squeezing his leaking shoulder. "Give me the keys."

  Alex scowled. "Piss off."

  Gary fired a shot just over Alex's head. Alex ducked and winced.

  "I don't need a big excuse to kill you."

  Using his left hand, Alex nervously reached across his body and took a bunch of keys from his right pocket. He underarmed them to Gary, who caught them.

  Gary said: "And your wallet."

  Alex reluctantly extracted it from his back pocket and tossed it over. Gary glanced inside and saw a large wad of fifties and twenties. Most kind.

  Alex had turned very white. "What about my wound?"

  Gary shrugged. "What am I supposed to do? I'm not a doctor."

  Alex's lower lip quivered. "Then I'm gonna die?"

  "No you won't. You've got a mobile. Call an ambulance."

  Gary strolled over to Trixie, now eye-gouging Barbara Thompson, and told her they had to go. Trixie looked annoyed. After a final roundhouse slap, she got to her feet, still fuming.

  Barbara Thompson stared up, chest heaving, eyes bright, face smeared with blood, dirt and mascara.

  Trixie yelled: "Tony always hated you, you bitch." She spat at the older woman and missed; she spat again and didn't.

  Gary had misjudged Trixie. Her flakiness covered a core of hardened steel.

  Gary crouched next to Barbara Thompson. "I've met some unbelievable bitches in my time, but you take the prize. If I ever see you again, I'll shoot you on sight, understand?"

  A nervous nod. "You're not going to leave us here, are you?"

  "Yes. And before you go anywhere, make sure you bury Dennis. You don't want to explain to the cops how he got killed."

  "He's dead?"

  "He was five minutes ago."

  "What about Alex? He needs help."

  "You're his mother - you help him."

  Gary looked over at Trixie. "Come on, let's go."

  Gary picked up Barbara Thompson's handbag and got behind the wheel of the car. Trixie climbed in next to him. He did a three-point turn and headed back down the track.

  Trixie turned towards Gary, exposing her battered face. "Jesus, I didn't think we were going to get out of there."

  "I had my doubts. How do you feel?"

  She gently felt around inside her mouth. "I'll survive. I've had boyfriends hit me harder than that."

  "Including Tony?"

  "No, before him. Tony was sweet to me."

  "You want to go to a hospital?"

  "Nah. They'll just ask a lot of stupid questions. I'll buy a pair of sunglasses."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes."

  "OK. Tell me about Rachel - is she alright?"

  "Yes. They punched her a few times and tied her up, but she'll be OK." Trixie stared at Gary. "So tell me, who are you? How'd you get involved in all of this?"

  "I'm a private investigator. Barbara Thompson asked me to find you; she said you'd know who killed her son Tony. So I started looking for you. I had no idea she really wanted to find you so she could recover a million bucks."

  "You didn't even suspect that?"

  "No. I thought she'd lost her son and wanted justice."

  "How'd you find me?"

  "You used your credit card in Byron Bay. A hacker I know got into the credit card company's database. It was that easy."

  She shook her head. "Shit. I didn't want to use the card, but I'd run out of cash."

  "When you're on the run, old habits are always dangerous. So, tell me: what happened to the million bucks?"

  "I've got no frickin' idea. Tony never told me about buried money. He always claimed he was short of cash."

  "Then why was Barbara Thompson sure you had it?"

  "Because she's a flat-out greedy bitch. She couldn't accept that Tony left her nothing."

  Gary had no idea whether Trixie was telling the truth or not, and didn't care. If she had the mill, she could keep it. After what she'd just been through, she deserved it.

  He said: "Alright, I've answered your questions. Now, it's my turn. Tell me: who killed Tony Thompson?"

  She stared at him. "Why do you want to know?"

  "Because someone bombed my apartment and killed a good friend of mine. I think the bomber wanted to stop me finding you and discovering that he killed Tony."

  "OK. And if I tell you who killed Tony, what'll you do?"

  "First, I'll confirm that the guy bombed my apartment. Then I'll kill him stone death."

  She smiled. "Really? That's not just big talk?"

  "I'd kill him twice if I could."

  She nodded enthusiastically. "OK then. I'll tell you who killed Tony. But first, I've gotta explain a few things - give you some background."

  "Go ahead. We've got plenty of time."

  She looked out the window. "First, you've gotta understand that Tony sold lots of drugs: coke, eccies, blue ice, LSD ... You name it, he sold it."

  "And you helped him?"

  She shrugged. "Sometimes I made deliveries."

  "Who supplied him?"

  "Lots of people. But his main supplier was a guy called Pedro Garcia. Heard of him?"

  "No."

  "Pedro came here from Columbia about nine years ago. He often boasted that an uncle was a big drug lord back there."

  "Why'd he come here?"

  "Got into some sort of trouble: killed someone he shouldn't have, or something like that. Anyway, he had to get out of Columbia. So his uncle sent him out here to establish an Australian operation."

  Gary was getting impatient. "Yes, but what's that got to do with Tony getting killed?"

  "I'm getting to that. Tony also did business with a dirty cop called Pringle."

  "Brian Pring
le?"

  "Yes. You know him?"

  "I sure do."

  Gary worked with Pringle on the Narcotics Strikeforce. When he started, colleagues warned him that Pringle was corrupt: he ripped off dealers, stole from crime scenes and sold information to criminals. Then the strikeforce raided a meths lab, and Gary and Pringle were assigned to be the evidence officers. When Pringle suggested they record that they only seized two bags of tablets rather than three, Gary told him to piss off. After that, their relationship got nasty.

  Gary said: "What did Tony do for Pringle?"

  "Pringle often ripped off dealers and got Tony to sell the shit he stole."

  "What did Tony get in return?"

  "A commission - and protection."

  "What went wrong?"

  "Lots. Tony blabbed to Pringle that his supplier, Pedro Garcia, was importing huge quantities of coke. So Pringle, the greedy bastard, decided to rip off Pedro and make Tony help him."

  "And that's what they did?"

  "Yep. They killed Garcia in his apartment, and a guy called Morales, and stole about eight kilos of pure coke."

  Those eight kilos were worth at least $2 million, wholesale.

  Gary whistled. "Wow. What'd they do with it?"

  "Pringle hid it and got Tony to sell it off, slowly, so they didn't attract any heat."

  "What went wrong?"

  "The Homicide cops found Tony's fingerprints in Garcia's apartment and pulled him in for questioning. They didn't have much on him …"

  "But Pringle got nervous?"

  "Yep. He thought Tony would cough. So he iced him and kept all the coke."

  "You're sure Pringle killed him?"

  "Yes. Pringle rang up Tony and said he wanted to meet him in Darlinghurst. I told Tony not to go, but he wouldn't listen. He said he'd be back by five. When he wasn't, I called his mobile and got no answer. So I packed my bags and ran."

  "And came up here?"

  "Yes. Rachel's an old friend and the community was a good place to hide." She brushed back her hair. "So tell me: do you think Pringle planted the bomb in your apartment?"

  Gary remembered Robyn's description of the man who visited his apartment at noon on the day of the explosion: about fifty ... grey hair ... very tough looking. That description matched Pringle.

  "I'm sure he did. You see, Barbara Thompson employed me to find you; she said you could identify who killed Tony. At that stage, I had no idea that she really wanted to find you to recover a million dollars.

  "I bet Pringle was already trying to find - and kill - you because you could finger him for the murders of Garcia, Morales and Tony. He must have found out, from the Homicide detectives I talked to, that I'd joined the hunt to find you.

  "That news made him very nervous, because he knew that if I found you first, he was in deep trouble. So he decided to take me out of the race by planting a bomb in my apartment.

  "Which killed your friend by mistake?"

  "Yes."

  "He must think you're pretty good at what you do?"

  "He does because I am. There's also a lot of bad blood between us."

  "So, what're you going to do to Pringle?"

  "Like I said, I'll confirm that he planted the bomb. Then I'll punch his ticket."

  A hard stare. "You're not just saying that to impress me?"

  "No, he's going to die."

  She smiled. "Good. But be careful, he's an evil fucking bastard."

  "I know."

  A few minutes later, they approached a bitumen road. A sign pointed to Armidale, 100 kilometres away.

  Gary pulled over to the side and looked at Trixie. "Where do you want to go?"

  She raised a blood-encrusted eyebrow. "I'm not sure. But even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you."

  "Fair enough."

  "Just drop me at the nearest bus terminal, OK?"

  "Fine. I think the nearest one's in Armidale."

  "Then take me there."

  He slipped the car into gear and drove south along the bitumen road. "You got any money?"

  She tried to smile and winced instead. "Does it look like it?"

  Gary wondered again if she had the million bucks Barbara Thompson was chasing. "See how much money's in the handbag."

  She opened the handbag and fished out Barbara Thompson's purse. Inside was a stack of credit cards and a couple of hundred dollars. Gary told her to keep the cash.

  Trixie held up the credit cards. "Can I keep these too? I can do plenty of damage."

  "Be my guest."

  After a long silence, Gary realised he still had a few questions. "Tell me, what was Tony like?"

  "Tony was a nice guy. Yeah, he was a drug dealer. But he was good to me and I still miss him. He promised he'd eventually stop dealing and we'd have kids."

  Trixie had a fantasy that her drug-dealing boyfriend would settle down in the burbs and become a family man. The whole concept was bizarre.

  He said: "How'd you get on with Barbara Thompson?"

  "That bitch never liked me. Always thought Tony was too good for me. Can you fuckin' believe that? Tony was a drug dealer, but she thought he was too good for me. God, I hated her."

  "You said Tony also hated her. Was that true?"

  "Yes. He reckoned she was a lousy mum who screwed him up. With a mum like that, he never really had a chance."

  About an hour later, they entered Armidale. Both Trixie and Gary wore rags. So he pulled up outside a department store and, after getting Trixie's measurements, went inside and bought them both new clothes with Alex Thompson's money. He also bought Trixie a pair of dark sunglasses, to help hide her bruises.

  They spent the night in a cheap motel, in the same room, but on separate beds. The next morning, Gary asked Trixie again where she planned to go.

  This time, she was more forthcoming. "I've got some friends in Brisbane who'll look after me for a while. I'm not sure where I'll go after that."

  Maybe she was telling the truth, maybe not. He didn't care.

  He gave her most of the cash he had left and drove her to the bus terminal. He parked outside it and said: "If you need any help, give me a call. My firm is Bloodhound Investigations, in Sydney."

  "Sucky name, but at least I'll remember it."

  "Thanks."

  "OK, take care."

  As she strode into the terminal, he realised he didn't need to worry about her. She was a tough cookie - a real survivor. And maybe - just maybe - she had a cool million or more stashed away somewhere to help pay her bills.

  He filled the Commodore with petrol and headed towards Sydney. Heading home gave him a heavy foot. The stripes on the centre line leapt towards him like tracer bullets.