Blood Junction (41 page)

She moved her head fractionally but she couldn’t see where Bishop was. She could, however, see a sprawled leg about eighteen
inches from her nose. Blue jeans. Battered leather boots.

“Mikey,” she said, but all she heard was a coughing wheeze that was drowned in the rich roar of twin diesels starting up.

Her cheek vibrated against the deck and she closed her eyes as she listened to Bishop issuing commands about casting off,
pulling buoys in, and—surprisingly—asking who wanted a life jacket. She told herself she would rest a little before raising
a hand to request two life jackets, but in all honesty she knew she wouldn’t be able to move any of her limbs.

She felt bad. Sick. Throbbing. Quite unable to think clearly, wanting to lose consciousness just to stop the awfulness of
it all.

She wanted to stretch out a hand to grasp Mikey’s ankle, feel the comforting warmth of his skin against hers, but she couldn’t
move.

Everything hurt. And Mikey, she saw, didn’t move a centimeter either.

The throb of powerful engines picked up, going from a gentle burble to a smooth howl as Bishop swung the boat hard southeast
to meet the weather. Almost immediately India heard the wind’s moan turn to a shriek, and felt that moment of weightlessness
before the prow of the Bertram met the first wave.

Her whole body juddered as the boat slammed into a wall of water in an explosion of spray. She found her face pressed against
the denim of Mikey’s thigh. The Bertram faltered a second, then her motion steadied as she settled herself squarely to meet
the oncoming waves.

I have to move
, thought India.
I must
.

Rain began to fall in earnest. At first it was bearable, but when her clothes grew sodden and she started shivering, she put
every ounce of effort into rolling onto her side. Rain streamed from her hair across her face. She saw Knox standing under
the hard canopy, hands gripping the near side of the boat, sturdy legs spread well apart to retain his balance. The boat started
to corkscrew as she wound her way between the swells. India found herself swallowing salt-laden air over a tongue that felt
like cotton. She was shuffling her palms up the side of the boat, dragging her torso after them.

Knox was facing determinedly into the heavy swell and didn’t seem to notice.

Inch by inch, India hauled herself upright. The movement of the deck became shuddery. Knees bent to absorb the pressure as
the boat hit each wave, she looked around her.

The waves were black below a darkening purple sky, looming like curved and silent scythes out of nowhere. India watched them
curl above the boat, then lift the hull high into the air and ease it downward. Heavy spray rattled on the deck and streamed
back to the sea.

Mikey was watching her, eyes fogged, and she gave him a nod, which he returned with a sluggish blink.

The engine note eased a little and the Bertram swung in a broad arc. Through the spume India saw a hem of cream to the right,
indicating rocks, or a reef. Five minutes later the diesels slowed even further as they began to swing for the frothy fringe.

Knox was leaning out of the boat, scanning the water.

The boat was creeping now, feeling her way closer to the seething aquamarine foam to leeward of the reef. It was calmer here,
and the boat didn’t lurch so high or so violently.

Knox suddenly jerked up, leaned out farther. “There’s one! What a beauty!”

India craned her neck to see a long mottled-brown shape sliding through the waves like a slow-motion torpedo. About eight
feet long, with a broad rounded head, the tiger shark didn’t seem to notice the storm above and came to cruise steadily alongside
the boat, dorsal fin barely cutting the surface of the water.

They were within twenty yards of the reef when Bishop turned the Bertram into the wind, letting her shoulder the surf while
keeping the engines running to avoid being swept aground.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Knox said.

India was staring at the sea, riveted with a mixture of fascination and dread. A heavy, no-nonsense shark with a tawny hide
and pectorals tipped with gleaming white moved in a concentric circle around the boat. Another three sharks, thinner, with
pointed snouts and small black eyes, nosed the rear of the boat before darting away. In the slop of the sea the big shapes
became so numerous she couldn’t count them. They glided effortlessly, crisscrossing in a seething stack as far down as she
could see, like the well-oiled parts of an engine.

India started to sidle warily across the deck, heading for the hatch, but Knox turned almost instantly, pistol in hand. “Stop
right there,” he barked.

She realized he had been aware of her all along.

“Curran!” Knox shouted.

Curran ducked warily through the hatch.

“Give Miss Kane a hand over the side, will you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Throw her overboard.”

Curran glanced at the sea, where several long backswept pectorals moved in slow circles, then back to India.

Christ
, she thought.
No, no, NO
. Her eyes were drawn back to the churning sea.

God, no. NO.

“But she’s not an Abo,” Curran said.

“We need to get rid of her, and her policeman friend. Can you think of a better way?”

Curran ran a hand over his head, staring at his shiny city shoes. India found herself swallowing convulsively, with no saliva.
She couldn’t bear to look at Mikey. She felt a desperate urge to urinate.

There was nowhere to run. Weaponless, outnumbered and with a seriously injured partner, she stood on legs ready to crumple,
waiting for a miracle to save them both. Never had she felt so powerless. Neither trickery nor cunning would work against
a passionless shark.

“If I said I was Aboriginal,” said India, her voice surprisingly steady, “would that make it easier for you, Mr. Curran?”

He didn’t answer.

“I take your response for a yes,” she said. “I also take it you’ve tossed a few Aborigines to the sharks recently.”

“Only when they’re dead,” protested Curran.

Two beats of her heart, and she knew what fate had befallen her family.

“Jesus,” she said, and closed her eyes briefly.

“That’s enough,” snapped Knox. “Just do it.”

Curran hesitated.

“For Christ’s sake,” said Knox. “You want me to shoot her first?”

He aimed his pistol at India’s stomach.

Oh, God
, she thought.
No. Not yet. I’m not ready.

She turned her head, wanting to see Mikey, feel his eyes on hers, but he’d gone. Moved. Was crawling for Knox with infinite,
painful stealth. Nostrils pinched, lips stretched over his teeth, he was stalking Knox on his belly. A thick smear of blood
lay on the deck behind him, the rain thinning it as he went.

Knox was smiling at her, his eyes hooded. She saw his finger tighten on the trigger.

Ridiculously, she braced herself for the blow, as if by tensing her muscles she might deflect the bullet.

A cloud of spray hissed between them.

“NO!”

The word was a shout, but only because it wanted to be heard. The voice wasn’t panicky or stricken with rage. It was calm
and hard.

Knox glanced up, Curran too. India could not think, couldn’t reason as she stared at Bishop, looking down at them. He held
a submachine gun in his hands, and his face was oddly bland, devoid of emotion.

India continued to stare.

The lifesaver who had paddled his board after her off Manly Beach.

“India,” he said, “I want you to move away from Mr. Knox and go below deck.”

Knox had swung his pistol on to Bishop. Bishop had his submachine gun on Knox.

“What is this?” demanded Knox.

“Go on, India,” Bishop urged her. “You’ll be safe inside. I’ll take him out if he so much as blinks your way, I promise.”

India slowly backed around Knox, but veered away from the hatch and headed for Mikey, knelt by his side. She picked up his
hand, interlaced her fingers with his. Feebly, his fingers twitched in response.

“Okay,” said Bishop. “We can do this. But Mr. Knox will have to drop his gun before we go any further.”

“What the hell’s got into you?” Knox said. “Is this a strike or something? You want more money?”

“It’s much simpler than that.” Bishop gave a short bark of laughter. “I just changed sides.”

Curran stood, knees bent as he rolled with the motion of the Bertram, looking baffled.

“Steve,” said Bishop, “I want you up here and keeping the boat steady.”

The two men locked gazes.

Bishop moved the submachine gun a fraction. “Your choice,” he said.

Steve Curran sidled up the ladder.

Bishop looked down at Knox.

“Drop it.”

“No,” said Knox.

“You’ve got five seconds,” said Bishop.

“And you’ve—” said Knox.

“Five,” said Bishop, and a burst of gunfire exploded from his hands, shattering the air with flashes of white fire and spurts
of red. India ducked her head into Mikey’s chest, felt his hand grip the back of her neck. She could taste salt and the metallic
tang of blood from his shirt.

The wind whipped sheets of water across the deck. Mikey’s hand dropped from her neck and gripped her hand, hard. He said,
“Get up, India. Get up.”

She raised her head to see Knox lying spread on the deck, holes the size of ten-cent pieces in his dark blue sports shirt.

Water streamed down her face and neck as she stared at Knox’s corpse, her body rocking in time with the swell beneath the
boat. Knox, the man who had terrorized her, was dead. She felt no elation, no euphoria, just a faint throb of relief.

“India.” Mikey’s voice was urgent.

She turned, looked into his face.

“Don’t trust him.” Mikey jerked his chin at Bishop, who was climbing down the chrome ladder. “He was at Whitelaw’s. Searched
your things. Said he was a fed but something’s not right.” She saw his leg extend as he tried to hook Knox’s gun with his
foot.

“India, for God’s sake
get up.
”

“But he saved us.”

“Why?”

“He’s on our side—”

“Why?” he repeated.

“I don’t know. But he’s okay. I swear, he’s—”

“Get it,” Mikey urged, eyebrows arched at the pistol a handful of inches from his foot.

India obediently grabbed it, surprised at its weight.

Bishop gave them both a nod as he passed, as though he were a fellow soldier, a pal, before he vanished beneath deck.

“Is it loaded?”

India felt a surge of frustration, at odds with the situation. “How the hell should I know?” she said, and shoved it at Mikey.

He spun the cylinder, clicked it into place. “Loaded,” he confirmed.

India leaned close. “He’s okay,” she said again, her tone fierce. “Believe me. I swear he’s okay.”

“Okay,” said Mikey, but she heard the doubt in his voice.

As if on cue, Bishop slipped out of the hatch and came over to Mikey. He had a first-aid kit under one arm. “I’m going to
move you beneath the awning,” he said. “Give you a bit of cover. Keep you dry while I do some home surgery. But first I’ve
got to knock you out.”

Mikey looked alarmed. “No,” he said, “I want to remain awake.”

Bishop popped an ampoule and filled a syringe with colorless liquid.

“India, don’t let him.”

“He doesn’t trust me,” said Bishop to India, unruffled. “Sensible fellow really, except I’m on his side.”

“Perhaps …” India started to stay, but before she or Mikey could protest further, Bishop flicked the needle into Mikey’s thigh
and squeezed the plunger.

“Christ,” said Mikey, then desperately to India, “be careful, for God’s sake, darling …” His words faded as the drug took
effect and the tension went out of his muscles.

India found herself trembling.

A gust hit the boat, sweeping a sheet of water over them.

Bishop didn’t look at her as he rolled Mikey onto his side, took a look at his wound. “He wouldn’t have let me treat him,
you do realize that, don’t you?” he said. “Knocking him out like this may well save his life. I’ll take his shoulders if you
grab his feet.”

With difficulty they maneuvered Mikey out of the worst of the weather.

“Unwrap these, would you?” Bishop passed her packets of surgical swabs, bandages and tape, and a packet of stitches.

Another gust shook them. The Bertram took it with a heavy roll. Bishop looked up, yelled at Curran, “Use the throttle!” and
bent back to his task.

Quickly and expertly he cut away Mikey’s sodden shirt and trousers, fetched some blankets from down below, and wrapped him
in them. He started to clean the wound.

“Not too bad,” he remarked. “I wouldn’t have thought it’s done him much damage, but he’s lost a lot of blood. That’s our main
concern—getting him hooked up to a blood bag.”

India watched Bishop and his spare long fingers, fast and nimble in their delicate work.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Today I seem to be.”

Again, India heard that edge of humor.

A little later he said, “That should prevent him from losing any more blood.” He glanced up and grinned at India, his dark
eyes twinkling. For no reason she found herself smiling back. “Bush medicine,” he said, still grinning. “The best there is.”
He snapped the first-aid box together, got to his feet.

India smoothed a lock of wet hair from Mikey’s forehead and bent to press a kiss on his lips.
You see
? she told him.
You’ve got to have a little faith in the unexpected, is all
.

She thought she heard him say, “
Watch him
…” so she did.

Bishop stood over Knox’s dead body. “I’m very respectful of sharks,” he said. She wasn’t certain if he was talking to her,
or the corpse. “I’ve always respected sharks and I always will.”

He bent down, grabbed Knoxs hands, started to drag him to the stern of the boat. “They’re at the top of the oceans food chain,
and you can’t not respect that.”

Bishop hooked his elbows beneath Knox’s armpits and hauled him upwards and across the stern.