Already Dead (4 page)

Jax knew now where he wanted to go but it didn't make it any better. She was delivering a man to his wife and son so he could shoot himself. In front of them.

Except he wasn't sure if he could wait that long – and if he didn't, she was the stand-by audience.

She tried to hold down the images that were going off in her mind but couldn't. She'd seen too many movies and every gory, bloody brain splatter that had ever flashed on a screen in front of her was coming back.

‘I need to know, Jax. What's it like?' he asked again.

She opened her mouth, closed it again, felt like throwing up.

‘What's it like being a widow?'

Oh Jesus
. He was going to kill himself but wanted a few details on what he was going to miss. Was he irrational for real or just playing nasty, spiteful games? With his wife and with her? She didn't answer, couldn't. It didn't seem to matter.

‘I tried to warn Kate but she didn't get it. She didn't know what I was telling her. I
tried
to train her. Before
it
got in there, I tried to … She should've listened to me. If
she'd listened, she'd know, and I wouldn't have to go up there and … Oh, Christ, it's not Katey. I've got the gun. It's my job. But I want them to understand. Before I have to … before …'

Brendan stopped but he'd said enough to make Jax realise it was possible it wasn't a death scene she was delivering him to but a murder-suicide.
Shit
. There were lots of reasons now to pull the car over and run like hell. And throw the keys far, far into the bush. She had to say something.

‘Brendan, you don't have to …'

He wasn't listening. Words were falling out of him like they were joined by string that was unravelling from his mouth. ‘I left because I love her. I had to. And now everything's fucked up. She doesn't deserve me. I'm wrong. There's something wrong with me and I have to keep it from Katey and Scotty. And now …' He thumped his head with a fist. ‘Now
it's
in here and … If I don't make it can you make sure Katey knows I love her? That I tried to get to her. That I was thinking of her and Scotty. That I didn't stop thinking about them just because I wasn't there.'

‘Brendan. Listen to me. There are other ways, people who can help you.' Not her, that was for damn sure. Nano spiders were her line in the sand.

‘No. No, it's too late for that. They're out there, they're coming, I can't stop them. I have to protect Katey and Scotty. They need me. I'm already dead but I can get to them first. I have to try.'

Tears threatened to fill her eyes again – not for herself this time but for the broken man beside her. He was stuck
in an awful, illogical mental anguish but despite it, despite the paranoia and confusion, he knew he loved his wife and child. He hadn't forgotten that. Jax had no idea what he was planning now. Maybe he didn't know himself. Possibly he thought killing himself would protect Kate and Scotty, possibly he thought killing them would do it better. Whatever he did, it was going to hurt them – whether he did it in front of them or in Jax's car. He needed a professional, probably some serious medication, but all he had was her. Miranda fucking Jack: sad, broke, unemployed, stuck … and only good for asking questions.

She didn't know what to say that wouldn't make him wave the gun in her direction or press it to his forehead and fire. Him dead or her. Fucking hell. But she had to say something. He was watching her, waiting for an answer.

‘I can hear in your voice that you love Kate and Scotty very much. You can protect them too. If we stop and get help, you can keep them safe.'

‘No, it's too late. I need to know if Katey will be okay. Will she be all right after? Tell me, Jax. Tell me what it's like.'

She wanted to stick with trying to talk him into pulling over, but he was insistent and impatient and she'd already seen what happened when he didn't get the answers he wanted. She sifted through words she could give him. She knew plenty about being a widow, was still bathing and plastering the wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. She just wasn't sure what was safe to tell him. If she invented a happy ending, some kind of life-goes-on, he'd know it was a lie. She needed something that wouldn't break his heart or make him crazy. Something that might make him rethink his role in it.

‘It's lonely,' she said.

He nodded. A so-that's-it kind of gesture.

It wasn't what she'd hoped for. ‘I mean, she'll have Scotty and he'll have her and they won't be alone, but it's not the same. He's a child and she's the parent and she'll be alone in it. She'll be there for your son, she'll try to be everything for him, but she won't have anyone there for
her
. It'll be lonely for Kate. Without you. And for Scotty too, without a father.'

He nodded again, less matter-of-fact, more thoughtful. When he spoke, there wasn't a hint of anxiety, just a calm, mate-to-mate tone. ‘Kate's the best thing that ever happened to me.'

Maybe Kate would keep him calm. ‘What's she –' Jax stopped, rephrased it. ‘I'd like to hear about her.'

‘She was there that day we flew out. With Scotty.'

‘I remember,' Jax lied. ‘But it was a while ago now. Tell me about her.'

There was silence for a long time and Jax felt the start of a cringe at the blast she figured was coming. But when he finally responded, it was a laugh. A small, throaty burble of humour – and Jax's eyebrows rose in surprise and relief.

‘My Katey's great. And smart. A lot smarter than me. She's a teacher, well, that's what she trained for except we moved around a lot and it's hard to get teaching jobs when you do that.' His happy memories seemed to drift into the beginnings of recrimination. Maybe he blamed himself that Kate couldn't get work, or maybe she had blamed him.

Jax just wanted him back at his happy thoughts. ‘And she's a good mum.'

‘Oh, yeah, the best. Scotty could read before he went to
school. That was all Katey. She's so good with him. Fun, too. She loves a party. And tough. Tough as nails sometimes. But soft, you know? Tough and soft. What about you, Jax?'

‘She sounds great.'

‘No, I mean, what are you like?'

She didn't want the focus on her. She wanted to find a nice, smooth transition back to convincing him they needed to stop and call for help. But he was as calm as she'd seen him and she didn't want to risk losing it – not with kilometres of motorway in front of them and nothing but rock face and bush at the verge.

From memory, it'd be a few more kilometres before a safer, wider place appeared – except now she was hoping she could hold out for something better she knew was looming over the horizon. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes on were twin service stations: big road stops on either side of the six lanes of motorway with petrol, cafes, McDonald's – and lots of motorists taking a break. If she could convince him they needed to pull in there, to get a drink or visit the loo, getting away from him would be easier.

But she had to get there, had to stop him losing his cool and shooting himself first, and maybe talking and sharing, reminding him of what he had, might be all he needed to hold him steady. Checking the traffic over her shoulder, she slid into the middle lane, eased her foot down on the accelerator and pushed the car to the speed limit. Maybe she could get them there a little faster.

‘Oh, I'm not tough,' she said. She used to think she was but the last year had told her otherwise. ‘I'm not much fun, either.' Not lately. ‘Kate sounds terrific.'

‘She's beautiful, too. Really beautiful.'

‘You're lucky to have her.'

‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.' He nodded, more to himself than Jax. She hoped he was thinking it would be better not to lose Kate. ‘What about your husband?' he asked. ‘What was he like?'

A small pain snagged in her chest. She didn't want to share Nick. ‘He was tall. And fit. He ran a lot.'

‘He must've been pretty smart to do that job.'

Persistent, dogged and obsessive. An involuntary smile curled one side of her mouth, making her feel a little like Brendan with his soft chuckle. She glanced his way, saw him waiting for more. Why the hell not if it was keeping him calm?

‘Not brain surgeon smart but Nick liked to understand things. He'd pull them apart and find how everything was connected. I don't mean cars or vacuum cleaners; he was hopeless at fixing anything around the house. I mean organisations, businesses, groups of people. He could figure out how they operated, where mistakes were made, how something underhanded could be hidden.'

‘Like that compensation thing.'

‘Yeah, like that.' He'd spent two years on that story, digging and asking questions, carrying around the details in his head like they'd been surgically implanted. He'd worked long hours, taken a lot of trips, mostly around Australia but once to Afghanistan, another time to Iraq – dangerous places to visit if you're a reporter. It'd been the reason she'd resigned from the paper four years ago and started freelance writing: job sharing the parenting doesn't work when one half of the partnership is entrenched in something else, something important. More important than her three days a week. ‘He hated to see people
wronged and once he knew there was a story in it, that he could do something to change it, he wouldn't let it go. Nick was a crusader.' Hard to live with at times, but he'd done good things for people who needed help.

‘Do you miss him?'

‘All the time.'

‘Has it been hard for you?'

‘It still is. I can't seem to get back on track. Any track. I feel like I'm not the me I used to be.'

‘I know what that's like.'

She pressed her lips together in a small smile of acknowledgement. He probably understood more than anyone else she knew.

‘You're moving to Newcastle, aren't you?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Is that why?'

‘No. Kind of. I couldn't afford to keep the house and my aunt has more room than she needs. She didn't want to sell, she's got a great spot overlooking the beach, so she offered to have us there until, well … until I get myself better sorted.'

‘Do you want to live there?'

‘I don't know what I want. I need to have a home for my daughter and a job to support her but I don't know what
I
want anymore.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Thanks.' She licked her lips, thought,
What the fuck am I doing having this conversation with him?
Even worse – why was she taking comfort? He'd lost touch with reality and he had a gun in his hand. Had she lost her mind too?

She checked the traffic in the lanes either side, wishing the twin service stations were closer. The grey nomads and
their caravan were almost alongside her in the outside lane, creeping up on her left as though she'd been holding them back. On her right, another P-plater: a young girl in a red hatchback, speeding along as though the colour really did make you go faster. Behind Jax was a dark-blue sedan, headlights on despite the daylight, a man in sunglasses behind the wheel. No white coats, no cops in patrol cars, no-one pointing a gun out the window. She took a quick look at the sky. No choppers either.
Just making sure
.

Oh, man, she had to get out of this car. ‘I'm not just lonely, Brendan. I'm scared.' She caught his eye for a moment, looked back at the road as she spoke. ‘I'm scared about what's happening here. I want to get back to my daughter. She's already lost one parent.'

It was the wrong tactic. Anxiety began oozing out of him again, making his body tense, his jaw tighten, his hands curl into fists. He shifted the gun from its loose hold on the edge of the seat to beside her on the centre console, his hand pushing at the lid as though it wouldn't stay down.

‘Tell me more about Scotty,' she said quickly.

Brendan dipped his head, looked up through the windscreen.

‘Seven is a lovely age,' she urged.

Maybe it was the topic or maybe the world in his head had just burst into life again, but he twisted abruptly, his whole body jerking around, eyes aimed at the rear window. From the corner of her vision, Jax saw his gun hand snap out. Felt a brief, hard swipe across her shoulder before cold metal brushed her cheek.

She flinched, ducked, cringed. It was a single movement accompanied by a desperate breathy sound that caught
in her throat. She swerved. A horn blared. Her right-side tyres were in the next lane, a car too close at her side. Grappling with the steering, pressing herself into the door and away from the weapon, she swung the wheel back again. A sharp, panicky jolt tossed them both sideways – her temple bumped the driver's window, his gun in her face. Close enough to see scratches on the silver around the black eye of its muzzle.

She should look at the road. She should watch where they were going. But all she could see was
gun
– and Zoe's life flashing before her eyes.

The moment hung in the air. Timeless, suspended, locked in place. As though life or fate or God was reluctant to move on to the next scene. The one where Miranda Jack's face was blown apart by a bullet.

Then it was over and whatever made the big decisions had changed its mind and Brendan was shoving away from her, using his gun hand and the console to thrust all the way back into his seat, gawking at her like she was the one who'd gone insane.

‘Jesus Christ, Jax. Stay in your lane or you'll kill us both.'

‘
Me?
You're the one with the fucking gun.'

He took a second to look at it. ‘Yeah. We've both got control of lethal weapons.'

Was he kidding? Neither of them had any control.

‘You need to calm down, Jax. Just concentrate on the road and keep your cool.' Something different in his voice: wise instructor to nervous beginner. How many personas were inside him? ‘You're doing great, Jax.'

She shot him a glare, made no attempt to contain the words that spilled out. ‘On what goddamn scale
am I doing great, Brendan? The terrified hostage scale or the taxi to a crime scene scale? And how exactly is almost crashing at high speed in any way great?' They were questions, a whole bunch of them that he wouldn't like – but fear and anger and adrenaline had been set loose inside her, and rephrasing or building rapport was way beyond her.

He chuckled. Not some crazy, throaty cackle, like the kind Jax thought might come out from her own mouth. It was straight out amusement. ‘You're wrong, you know,' he said. ‘You
are
funny. What goddamn scale? That's a good one. And I wasn't bullshitting, you're doing great. Just try to stay in your lane.'

Stay in your lane, he says. Keep your cool, he says. Concentrate on the fucking road while I point this gun at you. Oh, and try not to kill me with your lethal fucking car.
A small, involuntary laugh huffed out of her. Not quite a crazy cackle but close.

He raised an eyebrow, nodded: the wise instructor impressed with her powers of recovery. Oh, man, she needed to scream. Needed to shout and swear at him. To throttle the steering wheel. Open the door and bawl at the drivers who were just speeding right past. To get out and run and run. She needed to … do something.

‘My daughter plays a game.' She said it fast, teeth clamped over the fearful, frustrated, incensed swell of stuff inside her. ‘We'll be in the car or out shopping or sitting at the beach and she'll say, “Would you prefer to be eaten by a shark or a lion?” Two shit choices. Chased by a crocodile or a dinosaur? Stung by a thousand bees or dropped off a cliff? I should just pick one, you know? I should go eeny-meeny-miny-moe and say quicksand or funnel-web
spiders, whatever. I mean, what does it matter? You're never going to get a choice, right?'

They were questions but they were rhetorical and she hoped that didn't piss him off because the talking was helping. Her, not him. Making her focus on finding words, forming whole sentences, making a point, avoiding the shitty options he was giving her.

‘But every time she asks, I do this whole mental evaluation of which death would be worse. I imagine the shark and what it'd be like to be torn to pieces underwater, shaken and mauled by a killing machine, your own blood turning the water red around you. And then I pitch that against the image of being stalked by a huge cat, a tiger say, run down and ripped to shreds on the plains of Africa. You know what I mean?'

‘Shark,' he said. ‘Definitely shark.'

She glanced at him. He was serious. ‘Oh yeah?'

‘A big one. White pointer. One bite and I'm dead. Quick. That's how I want it.'

She couldn't bring herself to picture it. Or change the subject. ‘Snake or spider?'

He cocked his head. ‘Spider. I hate snakes.'

‘I killed a brown snake once. With a shovel. I'd go for spider too.'

‘Plane or chopper?' he chipped in.

This was nuts. ‘Plane. Less chance of being thrown from the wreckage and dying slowly.'

‘I've seen that. It's a bad way to go.'

In Afghanistan? Had he survived a helicopter crash over there? Did he have PTSD? She wanted to ask but figured gruesome death distractions were better right now. ‘Soldier ants or hyenas?'

‘Eaten alive? Fuck.'

There was something more sober in his tone – and a warning in the pause that followed. Jax flicked her eyes across the car. His gun hand was open, the weapon on the flat of his palm like a specimen. He spoke without taking his eyes from it. ‘Gun or knife?'

Oh no. No, no
.

He sucked in a long, dragging breath.

She tightened her hands on the wheel. ‘Brendan. No.'

He pulled in another one – a loud, gulping rasp. She wanted to snatch the gun away from him. She wanted to see Zoe again. She clenched her teeth, kept her eyes on the road.

The next sound made her jaw go slack. It wasn't a deafening blast, it wasn't shouting, nothing close to what she'd expected. It was an anguished sob.

When she realised he wasn't going to pull the trigger, when she could drag her eyes from the lane ahead, she saw his head bowed, his body slumped forward as though his chest had caved in, the curve of his spine shuddering. He was crying. Not a men-don't-cry, holding-it-back kind of thing. Not a sniffling, hiccupping wailing, either. It was a heaving, silent, internalised agony.

Jax glanced back and forth a couple of times, indecisive, anxious. Anyone else and she might have put a comforting hand on their sleeve, muttered soothing, empathetic words. But she wasn't sure it wouldn't have the wrong effect, wouldn't make him rage at her or shoot himself. Maybe leaving him alone with his distress was her best option.

Then the sound of it changed and she realised he was talking. Repeating something. She couldn't make it out
over the hum of the engine, didn't know if it was to her or to himself but as she listened, as it droned on, she understood – the words, not the meaning behind them.

‘I didn't know. I didn't know. I swear I didn't. Christ, I didn't even know.'

Was that what was stuck in his head? The
it
he couldn't get out? Going round and round in his brain until he lost his hold on everything else. Fear and sympathy pounded in her chest as his repetitions got slower, fewer, finally petering out. Then he sat mute, staring through the windscreen. Or at it. Or at something in his mind.

The rapport-building, the talking, the car games had all ended badly; there was no reason to believe desperate crying would be the forerunner to a better outcome. So she didn't disturb his silence, just inched over the speed limit, unnerved by another pendulum swing of his mood but less terrified now he was finally still and quiet and the gun was resting in loosely curled fingers.

The grey nomads were behind her again, still in the outside lane. Sedans, utes, people movers sped past on the right. The driver in the dark-blue sedan with the headlights on was still in her lane but had dropped back a bit. She didn't blame him. She thought of her phone, wished she could reach it, talk to Zoe, hear her voice, tell her she loved her.

She'd spoken to Tilda only moments before Brendan got in the car. It'd taken longer than Jax had expected to finish up at the house – more because of the pausing for memories than the actual packing – and she told her aunt it would be a couple of hours before she got to Newcastle. It might be another after that before Jax was overdue enough for Tilda to check on her – and Brendan had
turned the phone off. Would Tilda think the battery was dead? Maybe it'd be three or four hours before her aunt started to worry. If Jax couldn't stop, if she couldn't get away, if she kept driving at 110 k's, she'd be a long way from home by then.

She glanced at the glove box. Could she convince Brendan to turn the phone back on? A suggestion to check Google Maps maybe, for destinations or directions or … Would he let her answer it if Tilda rang? What the hell would she say? It wasn't a movie, there was no version of,
I'll be home late, don't wait up
, that Tilda would interpret as,
I'm in trouble, call the police
. Jax had lived with Tilda for two years after her parents died and on weekends for the two semesters she'd spent at Newcastle Uni – and until the last twelve months, their get-togethers had been haphazard and social. Her nickname was as close as they got to family code.

The twin service stations must be close now. Jax checked the clock on the radio and felt a jolt of surprise. 5.12: she'd only been on the motorway fifty minutes. It felt like days. She was exhausted. Her top was wet under the arms and down her back, and the coffee she'd bought before she hit the Harbour Bridge was letting her know it would need a release before long. Not desperate yet but another near-miss and it might be an uncomfortable story.

The last exit to the Central Coast came and went. Brendan didn't move. Neither did the gun. Then she saw the sign she'd been waiting for. Big and blue, lots of symbols: petrol, food, coffee, toilets. Two kilometres.

She waited until she could see it in the distance then took a breath, broke the silence. ‘There's a service station up ahead. I need to stop.' She figured if he flipped out, she
could hit the accelerator, screech into the parking area, throw herself out and hope to God someone came to her rescue.

‘No,' he said.

‘I had a coffee before you got in. See?' She tapped the plastic sipping lid on the cup in its holder, flicked the blinker and began to drift into the outside lane. ‘I need a bath room.'

‘No.' Firmer.

‘The next stop is another forty minutes, at least. I can't wait that long.'

He angled his face to the left-side mirror, tension stiffening his neck. Behind them, the grey nomads were well back, the dark-blue sedan in the space between.

‘I can't hold on much longer. We have to stop.'

His breathing sharpened, his fist closed around the gun. The entrance was up ahead. She was taking it, whether he liked it or not.

He didn't try to stop her. Just watched the road and the mirror as she slowed on the entry road and bumped over a speed hump, her heart pounding as petrol bowsers came into view. There? Should she pull in there? Only two cars, no drivers pumping fuel or walking about. Up ahead was better. She knew the parking area – six or more rows of slots, cafes along two sides. She'd never seen it anywhere close to empty.

As she passed the petrol station, Brendan did the front-and-back thing. Maybe he'd seen the dark-blue sedan. It had pulled off the motorway behind them and made her wonder briefly if Brendan was right and someone was after him, but the sedan turned towards the pumps.

‘Where are you going?' Brendan asked.

‘There's a cafe around the back. The toilets are clean and the food's good.' Organic produce for the health-conscious traveller.

‘No food. Drive in there.' He pointed to the first lane, maybe wanting to make the decisions again. She didn't mind, it was where she'd planned to go.

Plenty of cars, a man and a woman walking towards the cafe, three bulky, twenty-something men walking towards them. She wanted to hit the button for the window, shout at the top of her voice.
Not yet
, she told herself. She was strapped into a seatbelt; she had to be able to move fast – and she needed protection, something solid she could throw herself behind.

Choosing a slot between a chunky work ute and a family-size car, she searched for an escape route as she steered slowly in. If she stayed low when she threw herself out and kept below the passenger window while she ran, she might make it even if he fired the gun.

She stopped nose-to-nose with a car in the next lane. Her fingers were on the door handle as she pulled the handbrake. She shifted her other hand to the seatbelt clasp, ready to release and run … then something warm and strong closed around her wrist.

‘You're in this with me, Jax.' Brendan's grip held her arm in place; his voice made her raise her eyes to his. ‘It's fate, remember. Your car was there. We do this together.'