Cross Off (20 page)

Ann and Ava screamed simultaneously. Ava stood up to her full height, colour draining from her face. Ann dived for the stairs, clawing at the clasp on her bag.

Dunlop's collapse had set the tall coat stand teetering. It fell forward and Tate had to step aside and lift the rifle. He lowered it, probing for a clear shot at Dunlop who was half-obscured by the fallen stand. Ava swore and threw her gold pen. It missed but distracted Tate when it hit the wall behind him. The woman, he thought. Kill the woman first! He heard another sound, behind him this time, and pivoted in its direction.

Roy Waterford stepped from the bathroom. Tate hesitated fractionally as he saw the mirror image — ruffled blouse, velvet slacks, the bold red mouth . . .

Waterford fired two bullets into Tate's chest.

Tate's arms jerked up as he was slammed back against the wall and the rifle flew across the room.
He slid down; his knee twisted awkwardly and the tendons and ligaments tore as he fell. He writhed on the carpet.

Waterford lowered his pistol. 'Ann, Ava. You all right?'

'Luke's hit,' Ann said. She had her gun out now. She dropped it on the stair as she scrambled up and moved towards Dunlop.

'Ava, call an ambulance,' Waterford snapped.

Ava was rigid with shock. Waterford bellowed her name and she reached slowly for the phone.

'Hurry, Ava, hurry,' Ann said.

Waterford crouched beside Ann, who was checking Dunlop's pulse. The top half of his body was propped against the base of the coat stand and he was trying to lever himself up with his undamaged arm. 'Stay there, Luke,' Waterford said. 'Don't move.'

'He's bleeding badly,' Ann said.

Ava spoke urgently into the phone.

Dunlop's voice was a harsh whisper. 'Is he dead?'

Tate's legs were twitching; his boots scraped the floor.

'No,' Waterford said.

'Ask him about Rankin,' Dunlop said.

'For God's sake, Luke,' Ann said.

'Ask him!'

Waterford's make-up was sweat-smeared and his wig had come adrift. He took it off as he bent down close to Tate. Tate stared up at the outlandish face. His vision was clouding and he could feel his life ending as the blood rose in his punctured lungs. He had seen it too often to be mistaken. It struck him as funny to be finished off by a clown like this. His thin,
bloodless lips, visible through the hole in the black hood, curved into a smile.

Waterford also knew the signs. 'You're dying,' he said. 'Did you kill David Rankin?'

Tate's nod was barely perceptible.

'Who for? Who hired you?'

Tate could see nothing now except the dark red lips. He could smell perfume through the acrid stink of the cordite and there was a washing sound in his ears, like a river rushing over rocks. There was a weight on his chest. Getting heavier, pressing down.

Waterford put the question again but Tate could only hear the river and the mouth was a quickly receding red dot. He sucked in a tiny breath. 'You'll never know . . . faggot.'

He gave a series of small grunts and died.

Waterford turned to look at Dunlop, whose eyes were wide and questioning in his livid face. He shook his head and Dunlop sighed.

'Where's that fucking ambulance?' Ann said.

Ava crossed the room and stood over Tate's body. 'I want to see his face.'

Waterford lifted the head and peeled back the balaclava. Ava stared at the face. 'That's him,' she said. She laughed nervously. 'He looks even more like the drawing dead than he did alive.'

Waterford folded the mask and placed it across the face. He patted the pockets of Tate's coat and felt the outline of the .22 pistol. He drew it out and showed it to Dunlop. In the other pocket he found the syringes and insulin.

An ambulance siren wailed and the quiet little street was suddenly filled with movement and sound.

23

T
ate's bullet had hit the upper part of Dunlop's left arm, broken the bone and been deflected to exit below his shoulder blade. The damage was serious but repairable. On its path, however, the bullet had taken fibres from Dunlop's clothing into the wound and an infection had been established, causing him to run a high fever. He had reacted badly to an antibiotic and as a consequence was seriously ill for ten days. He spent much of this time in disturbed sleep, fending off enemies disguised as uniformed police officers or wearing golfing clothes or dressed as transvestite bikies with beards, lace underwear and spike-heeled boots.

When the fever passed he was weak, disoriented and lacking in concentration with callers. Burton, from Canberra, visited him but Dunlop contributed little. Burton left shaking his head. Later, Dunlop recalled almost nothing of what had been said. He asked to see Ava but was told that she was in another hospital. Dunlop fell into a depression and had no appetite.

'Luke, what's wrong with you? You have to eat.'

Ann Torrielli, in white shirt, blue skirt and blazer,
her tan considerably faded, was sitting beside him. Dunlop stared at her. 'Ann. Why didn't you come before?'

'We're getting worried about you. I've come twice before. The first time you called me Katarina. The second time I was Ava.'

Dunlop's brain was clear and functioning after what seemed to him like a long journey through a mental fog. He reached out with his left hand and gasped as the pain hit him. Ann's warm hand wrapped around his wrist as she eased his arm back. 'Take it easy, sport. That wing's buggered for a while.'

The pain receded. Dunlop smiled. 'Ann, I'm sorry. I've been off the air. What the hell's been happening?'

'Starting where?'

'He was the man?'

Ann nodded. 'They found his Subaru and then his flat. Guns, safety deposit box key, money—the lot. He was a real professional.'

'What about Porter and the others?'

'He killed them all, Luke.'

'Jesus. Ava?'

'She went into RPA for a bit but there's nothing they can do. Well, there is, but Ava's not interested.'

'What d'you mean?'

'I've got to go, Luke. Be back tomorrow. I'll bring Roy with me. Can I get you anything?'

Dunlop shook his head. Ann kissed him and left the private room. Dunlop tried to watch television but could not concentrate on the plots of the narrative programs. He channel-hopped among documentaries and current affairs shows before turning
the set off. When his next meal came he felt hungry and ate it all. The nurse looked approving. An hour later, Dunlop pressed his buzzer.

'I've got to go to the toilet,' he said.

The nurse beamed as she approached the bed. 'Thought you might. Upsadaisy!'

Dunlop had his first untroubled sleep. He shaved himself with an electric razor and was alert and attentive when Ann and Roy Waterford arrived the next morning. Ann had brought several thick paperbacks, Waterford a bunch of flowers.

'I might have known,' Dunlop said.

Roy arranged the flowers in a vase. The two visitors were quiet, their movements studied and restrained. Ann piled the books on his bedside table—Ludlum, De Mille, Clavell.

'What is it?' Dunlop asked.

'We spent the night with Ava,' Roy said. 'We helped her to go out the way she wanted to. She did it with pills and gin and no fuss. We all had a good time.'

'She said to say goodbye, Luke,' Ann muttered.

Dunlop felt the tears coming. He closed his eyes and fought against it. Tears would have been the last thing Ava would have wanted. He tried to focus on images of her in full flight—drinking up, flicking ash, her swaying walk. Ava. 'She was something special,' he said thickly.

Ann cleared her throat. 'Yes, she was.'

Roy patted Dunlop's right shoulder. 'I've got to run now. 'Bye. I'll see you straights later.'

He left the room and Ann gestured for Dunlop to move over. She perched on the side of the bed. 'It shouldn't have turned out like this.'

'It could have been worse,' Dunlop said.