A Time to Run (18 page)

Only one way to find out. Gerry reached down and activated the police lights. Sure enough, the ute slowed down, put his left blinker on and came to a stop on the shoulder of the road. That's it mate, let's just keep pretending it's a
normal
intercept.

He opened the car door and got out. He flicked open the safety latch on his gun holster and the clip button on the pouch holding his capsicum spray.

He walked slowly to the rear of the ute, staying a couple of paces out from the side of the vehicle. He could see the driver watching him in his rear-vision mirror. A splash of dark red on the dirt at the side of the road caught his attention and stopped him in his tracks. Another splash.

Blood was dripping from the corner of the tray of the ute, crimson on red dust. He looked back to the driver's mirror again and knew there was no way he could pretend this was a routine intercept.

Two things happened so quickly that Gerry couldn't be sure which came first. One, the driver's door swung open. And two, for only the second time in his service, Gerry drew his gun with intent.

As soon as he laid eyes on it, Gerry knew that the large dog bounding out the door was going to attack him. Fear gripped his belly. He reacted instantly and decisively, letting off two rounds, aiming between the dog's forelegs. It didn't fall to the ground, but staggered forward a couple of steps before slumping sideways and hitting the rear tyre of the ute on its way to the ground.

‘Put your hands where I can see them!' Gerry yelled.

He held his Glock straight out in front of him. The driver was leaning away from the door and Gerry could only see the back of his shoulder. Gerry inched further out onto the road so he could see more of the interior of the cab.

‘Show me your hands,' he shouted.

The driver had swung his legs out of the cab, as if to climb out, but he was still leaning away and forward. There was something under the front seat.

‘Put your . . .' Gerry was cut short as a truck passed by him at speed. It had come up behind his car, then swerved onto the other side of the road to avoid him. The driver had hardly slowed down and the gust of wind as the truck zoomed by at 80 ks buffeted Gerry. His concentration had been so focused on intercepting the ute, he had forgotten his own safety, standing in the middle of the lane, oblivious to traffic. He now automatically looked to his left for any more traffic. In the time it took for him to glance left, the driver made his move. Gerry looked back in time to see the driver now had his hand on a rifle butt, tucked under the front seat.

‘Stop or I'll shoot!' There was a note of fear in Gerry's voice, but his conviction was clear. Gerry's Glock was still pointed at the driver.

‘Fuck with me and you'll be joining your dog.'

The animal had stopped twitching and there was a second dark patch, this one staining the red dirt around the dog. The driver dropped the rifle. It fell back into the front foot well. The driver slowly put his hands out of the open door, palms facing forward.

‘Keep your hands in the air. Get out of the car and on to your knees.'

The driver followed all of Gerry's directions.

‘Lay down on your stomach with your arms in front of you.'

Gerry caught sight of another car approaching in his peripheral vision and moved closer to the shoulder of the road, his gun still trained on the driver. His eyes flicked to the left and back again. The car was pulling up on the side of the road. Another white ute.

He felt a sudden stab of fear – what if this was an accomplice? He turned and stepped so that his back was against the side of the ute. His gun was trained on the man on the ground, his finger on the trigger. A twitch of his finger and he could kill this bastard. That's probably exactly what the other man had been thinking while he was reaching for his rifle. Life and death in less time than it took to blink. He moved his index finger out of the trigger guard.

Gerry glanced back towards the other ute, and almost smiled when he recognised it. It belonged to Mick, one of the local council workers he was friendly with. Mick was getting out of the car, coming over to make sure he was OK.

Gerry felt a surge of relief and remembered again why he liked working in a small town. It was being mates with half the town and knowing they would always help out when you needed them.

Mick stopped a couple of paces from Gerry.

‘Thank god you're here,' Gerry said, his voice pitching higher than usual.

Mick took in the man lying flat out in the dirt, the dead dog, the slight shake of Gerry's hand and the waver in his voice.

‘Looks like you could use a hand, mate,' Mick said evenly.

‘Just pulling over was enough, Mick,' Gerry replied.

The simple presence of another person boosted his confidence. He hoped it was enough to make the driver on the ground think twice about trying anything stupid. Gerry had a witness now. He had the feeling the other man would not think twice about finishing him off if he had the opportunity.

He called back over to the driver.

‘I'm going to come in and handcuff you now. Put both your hands behind your back. If you're going to be a fuckwit, I'll pop you through the head. You've used up your chances,' he said. ‘Just watch for traffic,' he said to Mick.

Gerry walked around the back of the driver so he couldn't see him. He holstered his gun, pulled out his cuffs and dropped heavily, so his knees landed on the driver's back. He snapped the handcuff on his left hand then his right so he was cuffed to the back. He then immediately checked there was no one else in the cabin of the ute. He reached into the foot well for the rifle. It was loaded, one up the spout. If the man on the ground had been a second faster, or Gerry a second slower, Gerry would be the one face down now. With a bullet through his head.

He unloaded the rifle and slid it back into the cab of the ute. Whoever inspected the ute might be interested in the gun too. He pocketed the ammo, then he gestured Mick over.

‘I've got to search him now. Can you just help roll him onto his side so I can go through his pockets and his waistband?'

A systematic search located a hunting knife tucked into its sheath at the driver's belt, and then another stuck in the top of his boot covered by his trouser leg.

‘Who the hell is this?' Mick asked.

Gerry shook his head slightly and didn't answer. Only now with the search completed did Gerry notice that he had failed to put any gloves on. He had left his fingerprints on all the driver's weapons.

‘Shit,' he muttered under his breath but it was too late – it was done. He could explain it without looking too stupid. Could he really have done it any other way?

With Mick's help, he dragged the driver to his feet and walked him to the police car and shoved him in the back. Gerry surveyed him. He had dirt and small rocks stuck to the side of his face from where he had been lying on the ground. His sunglasses had been knocked off, and his dark eyes were impassive, staring straight ahead. He looked completely unfazed by what had just happened – his dog shot dead, a gun pointed at his head. Only a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead gave any hint that he had been doing anything besides sitting in the car.

Gerry grabbed the radio and kept his message brief. The driver was in custody and they needed to send a tow truck for the car. As he radioed through his situational report, he watched the slow drip of blood from the ute tray.

He had to check inside the canopy. The girl might be in there. She might be just injured, not dead, and need immediate help.

He turned his attention back to the driver.

‘What's in the back of your ute?' he asked.

The driver swivelled his head, fixing those soulless eyes on Gerry.

‘A kangaroo,' he replied calmly. ‘I shot a roo. I use it for dog meat.' He paused, but showed no emotion before correcting himself. ‘I was going to use it for dog meat, but I guess I won't be needing it now.'

Gerry felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He turned abruptly from the window and walked towards the back of the ute. He called to Mick to stay by the car and keep watch. Gerry pulled latex gloves from a pouch on his belt and carefully put them on. He could not stall. He pushed down the latch on one side, noticing his hand was shaking slightly. He reached over and pulled the other latch. He lowered the tailgate slowly, checking nothing was going to fall out. A small waterfall of blood was the only thing that escaped. The smell hit him first, carried out on the wave of hot air rushing out of the enclosed space. It was ripe and metallic, and usually reserved for the inside of butchers' shops.

He peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The first shape he made out was a motorbike strapped upright in place. Then he identified the source of the blood.

It
was
a kangaroo. Just like the driver had said. Judging by the amount of blood covering the entire floor pan of the tray, he had put the injured animal in while it was still alive, and let it die slowly in the back, its blood washing away any traces of other crimes. Relief mixed with anger as Gerry peered in and made sure there was nothing else of note in the back of the ute. There was no doubt in his mind that he was dealing with one sick bastard.

Gerry carefully latched the tailgate back up. It was over to forensics now.

Gerry looked down and noticed a dark stripe across the top of his pants. He must have bumped against the tray of the ute when he was looking inside and had marked himself with kangaroo blood. Should take the focus off the coffee stain on his shirt though. The whole uniform was going in the bin as soon as he got home. He cursed as he walked back to Mick.

‘Did you find the roo?' the man asked with a slight smirk. In that second, Gerry felt a rush of hatred so intense he couldn't restrain himself. He just let fly. One punch. A right jab to the centre of the man's nose. The other man grunted but said nothing. A little more blood was beside the point today. This time it dripped slowly and relentlessly from his left nostril.

Gerry gestured for Mick to come to the rear of the police car. They leant against the boot, so Gerry could still watch the man in the back seat, but he wouldn't be able to hear them.

‘You didn't see that, did you, mate?' Gerry said.

‘Nah, mate,' Mick replied, with a half grin. ‘Who is that cockhead?'

Gerry realised he hadn't yet confirmed the identity of the man who had just tried to kill him.

‘Shit, I better see if I can find his wallet or something. Can you watch him? Call out if he so much as twitches.'

‘Sure, mate,' Mick replied.

Gerry walked quickly to the ute. There was a canvas bag in the footwell on the passenger's side and he located a battered wallet inside. He ignored the man in the backseat as he returned to Mick at the rear of the police car. He slid the driver's licence out of the wallet.

‘Donald Charles Black.' The name matched the BOLO.

‘They think he's kidnapped a policewoman. He sicced that dog onto me.' Gerry gestured to the mound of dog flesh on the dirt. ‘If I hadn't already seen the blood dripping out of the tray and drawn my gun, it would have ripped my throat out. I wouldn't have had time to do anything. Then he went for the rifle, just before you came. He would have shot me in a second if he had the chance.'

He gave an involuntary shudder. ‘I can't believe what just happened. You're a fucken legend for pulling over.'

Mick clapped a hand against Gerry's shoulder blade, and squeezed a tough man's hug. ‘No worries. Sometimes coppers need a hand too, hey.'

‘Yeah.' Gerry took a deep breath and tried to centre himself. ‘I'll have to wait for the tow truck, and then take this arsehole to the watchhouse at Emerald.'

‘Fuck, if you hadn't already snotted him, I think I would,' Mick said.

Gerry felt deeply grateful for that offhand comment.

The tow truck took long enough for Gerry's nerves to settle and his brain to kick in again. He activated the digital recorder he kept in his shirt pocket. He should record anything the other man said, it might provide some evidence for the detectives. He went around to the side window, his emotions in check.

‘Donald Charles Black, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Samantha Willis. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used as evidence in a court. You'll have the opportunity to telephone or speak with a friend or lawyer when we get back to the watchhouse,' he said in an even monotone.

The other man made no sign that he had even heard him. Gerry opened the rear door. He knelt on the back seat and caught the sour whiff of sweat and grime from the other man. He reached past Black to pull his seatbelt across him and clip it in, more as another restraint rather than for duty of care.

As he reached past him, Black blew air out of his nose. Specks of blood sprayed across the sleeve of Gerry's shirt.

Dirty fucker.
Remembering that all this was being recorded now, Gerry simply used his shoulder to push the man's head against the headrest and let his body weight fall onto the man's face. He already had blood on his shirt. The quantity was a moot point. Gerry pressed hard for a moment, then rolled forward and felt the nose click as he moved off the man's face. No sound came from Black.

Gerry held his breath until he was out of the rear of the car. He spat on the ground, sickened by the mere sight of the man. Gerry nodded to Mick and they both climbed into their vehicles. He adjusted the rear-vision mirror so he could regularly check on the man in the back.

Neither man said anything for the hour-and-a-half trip to the watchhouse.

Sunday 11:59 am

A ripple of excitement passed through the operation room as the news came through. The barman had been located. It was a huge breakthrough. Janine's breath caught in her throat as she considered the possibilities. There might be physical evidence, DNA in his ute, scratches on his body. He might make admissions or he might lie to send them in the wrong direction. There were so many possibilities, any of which may point to Sammi's location and fate.