Blood Junction (23 page)

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How come the change of heart? Last time I remember I was on your hate list.”

He ran a finger around the neck of his T-shirt. “I guess it’s because I had doubts about your alibi. The whole Frank Goodman
thing.” He forced himself to look her squarely in the eye. “I’m sorry. I’m a suspicious bastard. It just took a while because
I couldn’t …” He trailed off and scuffed the ground with his boot. He didn’t know how to explain it. His initial dislike,
his growing attraction.

To his surprise, she reached out and squeezed his upper arm. “Thank you,” she said.

He didn’t respond. He simply stood there, dumb as one of Reg Coffey’s bullocks while she settled her backpack on her shoulder.
“Well then,” she said. “Since I have no intention of hanging around in this subnormal, retarded town any longer than I have
to, I’ll say goodbye.” She held out her hand.

Mikey took it in both of his. His were hot and sweaty, hers cool and dry. He squeezed her hand gently and cocked his head
to one side, projecting his most endearing expression.

“Do you do the little lost boy look often?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

She glared at him. “Well, you can drop it with me.”

Immediately he straightened up. “All right,” he agreed. “How about this: I believe you’re a woman of principle, and that if
you don’t give Jed a hand and he ends up with a life sentence in jail, your conscience will eat at you until the day you die.”

“You’re entitled to your beliefs,” she said in a waspish tone, and walked down the steps, out of the verandah’s shadow and
into the sunlight. She turned and stared at him for a long moment, then walked away.

India regretted leaving almost as soon as her shoes touched the road. The sun thundered out of the bright-white glaring sky,
making the pain behind her eyes almost unbearable, and when a car cruised into view she stuck her hand out without a second
thought.

I hope he’s got air-conditioning.

The silver Lexus pulled up beside her, its passenger window open. India peered inside. A gray-haired man, midforties or so,
peered back.

“Miss Kane?” he said.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“No.” He gave her a charming smile. “I guessed it was you from the description the security guard gave me. I’m Robert Jones,
I work for Karamyde Cosmetics. Glynnis Coggins, our PR manager sent me to see if I could find you. She wants you to meet our
director for a quick briefing before his three-week break in the Far East. He leaves tonight.”

India took a step backwards.

He gave another smile. “Where were you headed before I turned up?”

“Sydney.”

His face lit up. “That’s great,” he said. “I’m planning on leaving for Sydney later today. How about you get your business
over with and then I give you a lift? I could do with the company.”

India looked up and down the road, undecided.

“You got relatives in Sydney?”

“Just friends.”

“Come on, hop in.”

“I really don’t feel in the mood for interviewing,” she protested feebly.

“He’s flat out. Won’t take more than half an hour, promise. We’ll be in Sydney in time for breakfast tomorrow.”

It was the thought of breakfast with Scotto that decided her. “Okay.”

She glanced through the rear window as the Lexus purred down the road, tires sucking on loose stones. Mikey stood watching
her go, and the sunlight through the dust in the air surrounded him like golden candy floss.

R
OLAND KNOX WAS IMMACULATELY GROOMED BUT HE WAS
seven inches short of six feet and India towered over him. She shook the hand he offered, warily taking in his narrow mouth
and pale, calculating eyes.

All her instincts were on red alert. There had been no Glynnis Coggins when she’d arrived. No PR director. Just Roland Knox,
the owner.

Knox gave India a polite, professional smile before showing her into an impersonal room that smelled of lilies and bore the
gray-and-chrome style of meeting rooms the world over. Beyond them an expanse of window looked out over what appeared to be
a laboratory. Opposite hung a massive canvas, which took up most of the wall.

In oil and acrylic, a huge shark appeared suddenly and silently out of the green-blue gloom. Its eyes were matt black, its
gaping maw hung with tatters of flesh and its razored teeth cut white against the aquatic darkness. Millions of tiny air bubbles
formed a ragged halo of pearl-like droplets as it lunged. A mist of blood trailed after it. It was an image of sleek and ferocious
power, of blind instinct and violent death.

India swallowed.

“Study of the Great White Shark, number seven,” Knox said. “By Richard Hall.”

“It’s spectacular,” India said truthfully.

“It should be, for twenty thousand dollars.”

She nodded thoughtfully, as though impressed. In fact, she was thinking of Elizabeth’s photograph. Was Knox the short young
man standing aggressively with his friends around the dead shark?

She felt him studying her intently. “I wonder how you’d react if you faced such a creature in its own environment.”

“I’d do my best to walk on water,” India said.

“And when you discover you can’t?”

“I’d poke its eyes out. Or try to.”

“If it was the size of a bus, you might find that difficult.”

India tried to contain her shudder but Knox seemed to see it because he gave a small, self-satisfied smile.

“What angle are you thinking of taking with your newspaper article?” he asked.

“Guinea pigs.”

His eyes flared with a voracious light at odds with his urbane manner. “I’m sorry?” he said.

“You don’t use animals to test products for safety. You use people.”

“That is correct.”

“Well, I thought a nice story would be to concentrate not so much on the scientific aspect of research but the testers. A
sort of ‘day in the life of a guinea pig’ from when they first answer the ad to getting their check from Karamyde Cosmetics.”

Knox waited for her to go on, his eyebrows raised a fraction.

She said, “In particular I’d like to interview those who earn up to a thousand dollars in an hour or so.”

“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” he said. “The payment to our girls is pin money, no more. They can earn anything from
thirty dollars for trying eyeliner or mascara to a hundred and twenty for a face treatment cream. None of them has earned
over two hundred dollars for a single test.”

India affected surprise. “Oh. I could have sworn I saw an ad that said you’d pay a thousand for …” she paused as if digging
in her memory “… sleeping and taking drugs.”

There was a perceptible pause. He’s going to lie to me, she thought.

“I don’t recall those exact words being used in any of our advertisements,” he said. “One of our competitors must be running
it.”

“Any idea who they might be?”

“I’m afraid not.” He turned towards the door. “Perhaps I can show you around the laboratory. You might find it interesting.”

“Are any of your testers Aborigines?” asked India. “It’d be nice to get their view.”

“No. We don’t produce cosmetics for coloreds.”

The way he said “coloreds” reminded her of her father. Curtly dismissive and condescending.

There was little to be seen on the tour of the Institute. Laboratories are very quiet places on Christmas Eve. In half an
hour they were finished, and Knox ushered her outside. The Lexus was nowhere to be seen, but there was a taxi waiting. Her
backpack was in the back.

No lift to Sydney, dammit.

Knox surveyed her with a cool half-smile as if he’d read her thoughts. “It was nice to have met you.”

India concentrated on projecting back a warm smile. “Thank you for your time.”

“And for yours. But despite your very exciting project, I don’t think we’ll be meeting again, Miss Kane. Do you?”

The smile was still there, the voice remained impeccably polite. The round face, the silver hair, the immaculate suit exuded
nothing but friendliness and confidence, but she had caught the predatory glint in his eyes.

“No, I don’t suppose we will,” she lied.

As she climbed into the car he said, “Goodbye,” and nodded, smiling a little to himself as though satisfied.

“Goodbye,” India said politely as he turned away, and under her breath, “you smooth bastard.”

The taxi dropped her at the far end of Biolella Road and she saw a single branch of dry lightning tear through the sky in
the distance. Someone yelled, “Happy Christmas, gorgeous!” from their front garden and she waved back without breaking her
stride. Distractedly she ran a hand over her temples, wondering if her continued headache was due to an impending storm; she
had always been sensitive to weather changes. Another white jag of lightning seared out of the blue-black sky, and seemed
almost to touch the ground.

India approached the house with a fair amount of trepidation. She was unsure of her welcome having made it clear she wouldn’t
be returning. Mikey might throw her out. Then where would she stay?

She walked up the path and peered through the verandah rails at the slumped form in the cane chair. When she saw who it was,
she glanced towards the front door, wondering whether Whitelaw had returned.

Only one way to find out.

All was silent, apart from the faint refrain of “Good King Wenceslas” from the street. She found some Disprin in the bathroom
and downed three, then went into the kitchen to make herself a glass of iced chocolate. As the Disprin kicked in, she suddenly
felt remarkably cheerful. Whitelaw wasn’t home and that suited her fine. She would, she decided, slide onto the divan, get
a good night’s sleep, suffer whatever Christmas Day and Mikey had to offer her, then leg it to Sydney. She could almost feel
the adrenaline surging through her body as she replayed her meeting with Knox. She didn’t feel the least bit tired. She had
a focus now: to team up with Scotto and nail Karamyde. She started to hum. Toasted Whitelaw’s immobile tarantula with a flourish
and raised the glass to her lips, closing her eyes as she gulped.

“So, Sly’s returned,” Mikey said.

India got the impression he was concentrating hard on his
S
s to appear sober. He was leaning against the wall, hands shoved casually in his pockets, but he was swaying slightly. She
looked at him for a moment, then finished her chocolate milk, put the glass down.

He waved a hand at her face. “Moustache,” he said.

She ran her tongue across her upper lip.

“Better.”

“You’re drunk.” Her tone was purposely cold, making it sound like a dreadful thing, as if he had a disease that might be catching.

“Celebrating Christmas,” he said, his tongue so slack the words came out in soft glugs.

“I’d say you’ve been celebrating all year.”

He shifted his weight and lurched forward. India prudently stepped out of his way; he didn’t seem to be in full control of
his limbs and they looked as though they might collapse at any moment.

“You like turkey?” he said, hand on the fridge door.