Cross Off (8 page)

'Ava, you stupid bitch! Where are you?'

Dunlop struggled back to the front fence and debated which road to take. Had it been a spur-of-the-moment decision to give him the slip, or was it premeditated? If she'd planned it, she would have indicated the wrong road to him for sure. Dunlop decided that Ava wasn't a planner. He set off in the direction she'd pointed.

9

T
ate followed them through the town, saw the woman pointing out the sights and give the handout to the Abos who were still fighting like animals by the time he got to them. He couldn't believe his luck, they were heading for the bush. He kept well back, taking advantage of whatever cover was available. Tate was fit. The heat and the climb didn't bother him although he would have liked to take off his jacket. Couldn't because of the knife sheath. Never mind. The woman was doing it hard, carrying too much weight. The minder was okay. If he took her bag, had both hands occupied, the opportunity might be too good to pass up. He won't, Tate thought. He knows his business.

They sat down in the shade. The woman smoked and looked ready for a doze. The man chewed gum and looked alert. Tate circled away to the left. His practised jungle-fighter's eye swept over the ground, taking in the thickness of the undergrowth, assessing where passage was easy and hard. He moved without noise. The earth and the vegetation were soft and yielding, no branches to snap, no rocks to dislodge. He was in his element, breathing easily,
sensitised to everything, totally in tune. The hunter. He moved behind a thick, prickly hedge, crouched below the level of a clump of grass—almost close enough for a shot with anything but a .22.

Suddenly, the woman was almost on top of him. She was alone and moving fast into the derelict garden—hat off, hand up to protect her eyes, elbows tucked in. She knew what she was doing and where she was going. Giving the minder the slip. Tate didn't hesitate. He went after her, plunging forward, ducking branches, quickly adjusting to the changed light. He could have caught her easily but he let her run like a hooked trout, allowing her to think she was safe, tiring her and putting distance between them and Dunlop.

The abandoned garden quickly gave way to land that had never been cultivated, light timber and scrub. He heard her swear as she stumbled and fell. He stopped as she picked herself up and went on. They were going downhill roughly in the direction she'd pointed to back at the crossroads. Soon. Soon.

Tate drew closer. He could hear her harsh breathing and fancied he could smell her sweat. He'd often smelled people's sweat in Africa. You had to be able to do it. It could save your life. Tate was enjoying himself. Automatically, he'd taken off his cap and sunglasses, stowed them safely. He could feel the pistol in his pocket. The few scratches on his face, stinging as the sweat got to them, were nothing. He slipped the knife out. He was only a few strides behind her now, following a rabbit track. She moved suddenly left to avoid a fallen tree. Tate cleared it with a leap and landed with a thud that caused Ava to stop dead. His left arm whipped out, wrapping
around her throat. He showed her the blade, flicked it from right to left in front of her, and then pressed the point into the soft flesh of her neck.

'One squeak, Ava, and you're dead.'

Tate dragged her from the track twenty metres into some shoulder-high scrub. Ava's feet scrabbled for purchase; she writhed and strained against the locked arm, but she had no hope against Tate's greatly superior strength and weight. She did not waste breath in shouting; instead she jerked her head, trying to bite. Tate enjoyed the struggle. He increased the pressure until she went limp from lack of breath. He pushed her down onto the hard, springy grass and expertly straddled her, distributing his weight so that she was totally immobilised.

Tate, usually coolly methodical in his work, was surprised to feel elation, a surge of confidence. After the last fuck-up, this was going fine! Might as well get the answers to those questions. The camera, still around his neck, swung and hit Ava's nose. Tate pulled on the strap so that the camera hung behind him. He let Ava see the knife again and then held it against the taut skin at the corner of her jawbone, where it sliced the flesh.

'The Rankin killing,' Tate said.

Ava's eyes were wide, blazing with hate and fear. Her nostrils flared and her fine white teeth were bared fiercely. 'Don't know who did it,' she gasped.

Tate laughed.
'I
know you don't. I know that. I want to know why you lied about Belfante and Frost.'

Ava squirmed but Tate easily held her down. He displayed the knife again, this time with blood on the blade. 'Why?'

'Revenge.'

Tate could understand that. In the army he'd killed several times out of revenge, comrades as well as enemies. 'Revenge for what?'

Ava spat at him. Tate jerked his head and the spittle missed. He laughed and slapped her face. 'Tell me, bitch!'

'Vance's baby.'

Tate had no interest in whether the answer was true or not; it would do as something to take back. He moved the knife, ready to slide it through the bulging neck artery when he realised that he was fully erect. Ava's shirt was torn and the halter had slipped away revealing one large, ripe breast. Tate wanted to grip it, to bite the nipple, feel her reaction. She wriggled and the contact almost made him come. He punched her, a hard, solid jolt to the jaw, and her straining head bumped on the ground. Her eyes closed. Tate tore the halter free and exposed both breasts; he dropped the knife and ran his hands over them, pinched the nipples. He held her down and eased himself off her, ready to use the knife instantly if he had to. She groaned. The soft breasts moved.

Tate was sweating heavily. The drops fell on Ava's face and chest. He used the knife to cut through the waistband of the shorts on both sides of the zipper and slit the legs all the way down. He peeled back the cut cloth. She wore black lacy pants. Tate cut them away and pushed her legs apart. Her pubic hair was dark with some grey in it. He used three fingers roughly to open her. He unzipped his pants and freed his stiff penis. He thrust into her and ejaculated almost immediately.

Ava arched her back and heaved. She brought her legs together and Tate screamed as his testicles were crushed. He fell away from her. He had let go of the knife as he orgasmed. He felt for it. Ava thudded her knees into his kidneys and wriggled away. She bellowed for help at the top of her lungs.

'Ava! Ava!' Dunlop's voice. Ava yelled again as Tate found the knife and slashed at her. He was off balance but the knife sliced deep into her forearm. Ava screamed. Tate stabbed, catching the knife in her torn shirt but still striking into her rib cage. He could hear a thrashing in the bush. Very close. No more time for the woman now. He jerked the gun out and fired once in the direction of the sound. His shot made a small coughing sound and was answered by a loud crack. A bullet splintered a tree beside his head. Tate dived behind a bush, crouched, waited for a target. Ava went on hands and knees in the other direction. He'd lost her. He put the knife back in the sheath. Had to get this bastard. Had to get him quick!

'Ava, Jesus.'

Tate heard Dunlop's whisper. Good, he'd worry about the woman.

'He's in there,' Ava moaned. 'In there!'

Two bullets whipped into the scrub, uncomfortably close. Tate thought he knew where they'd come from and raised his pistol. Another shot almost hit him. He was drenched in sweat and his fingers slipped on the pistol grip. He ducked down and suddenly felt his vision blur and his strength ebb. He rubbed his hands across his eyes. He couldn't focus. He knew what it was, the fucking diabetes. The heavy sweating was the warning. He'd forgotten to
eat mid-morning and all the activity and excitement had sent his blood sugar plummeting. He felt in his pocket for barley sugar but he had none. Must have dropped it. In a few minutes he'd be as weak as a kitten. He needed sugar fast. Tate almost wept with frustration. The bush in front of him, across from the flattened, bloodied grass, was a blur. He eased back, still skilled despite the increasing weakness, into the scrub. Quietly, slowly, until he was far enough away to stand up and move faster.

'He raped me,' Ava whimpered. 'That bastard raped me. Kill him! Kill him!'

Dunlop cradled Ava's upper body in his arms. She was very pale and her arm was bleeding heavily. He eased her gently down on his towel which he had spread on the ground. There had been no sound from where the assailant had fired for a couple of minutes and Dunlop judged that he had gone. Blood was oozing from Ava's damaged side and running more freely from the deep slash in her arm. Flies were buzzing around the dripping blood.

'I have to get help.'

'Don't leave me, Luke. Please don't leave me. He might come back. God. Oh Christ, it hurts. Am I going to die?'

'No, but . . .'

A soft murmuring sound came from behind them. Dunlop spun around, raised the pistol. A tall, thin Aborigine, wearing shorts and a singlet, stood at the edge of the scrub.

'Heard shootin',' he said. 'She in a bad way?'

'Yes. Could you call an ambulance, please?'

'My missus is a nurse. Hang on, I'll get her.'

The man vanished. Dunlop used his swimming trunks to wipe sweat from Ava's face, swollen and blotched where she'd been hit. Her breath was coming in soft puffs as she went into shock.

'Hang on. Help's coming.' He tore his shirt into strips and tied a tourniquet above the arm wound. The blood flow slowed. He brushed away the flies trying to get at the lacerations.

'Dry. Need a drink.'

'Coming. Hang on.' Dunlop ground his teeth with impatience. He realised he was still gripping his .38 and he put it back in the shopping bag so as not to alarm the nurse.

'Where
are
you?' he groaned.

'Here, mate. She's here.' The tall Aborigine was accompanied by a younger, lighter-skinned woman wearing shorts and a khaki army shirt. She opened a canvas bag as she pushed Dunlop aside and knelt down.

'How bad?' Dunlop said.

The woman didn't reply. She took swabs, a syringe and a rubber-capped bottle from the bag and snapped her fingers. The man flattened the grass near her hand and put a piece of bark down. The woman laid the things on it, adding gauze, scissors, a tube of cream. She lifted Ava's closed right eyelid, nodded and prepared an injection which she administered to the undamaged arm. She cleaned the wounds and applied cream and a powder. She taped a dressing to the ugly tear above the ribs and some clamps to the slash. Then she lightly bound up the arm. She covered Ava's bruised thighs and crotch with Dunlop's trunks.

'Good tourniquet,' she said. 'She'll be all right I reckon. Got to get her to the clinic, but. I'll stay with her. You blokes go and phone.'

Dunlop picked up the bag containing his gun and followed the Aborigine into the bush, struggling to keep up with him as the man strode along a path that barely existed. Dunlop glanced at his watch. It was one thirty-five and the ferry would have left.

Dennis Tate was lucky. His blind meander through the scrub with his balls aching and his kidneys throbbing had brought him out on a rise from which he could see a road and the roofs of the town buildings. His strength was ebbing fast but his vision cleared a little. He hung on by an effort of will, forcing himself to move, to straighten his clothes, smooth his tangled hair with his fingers. His laugh when he saw that his fly was undone was almost hysterical. He blundered down the road, turned a corner and came to a tiny shop with faded signs and flyblown plastic strips hanging in the doorway. Tate snatched two cans of Coca-Cola from the shelf, threw the shopkeeper a five dollar note and drank the liquid warm as he walked towards the town. When he tossed the second can into the grass his strength was almost back to normal. He had time to catch the boat if he hurried. He walked faster, glad that he had recalled what the old diabetic man in the hospital bed next to his had said: 'Don't piss around with barley sugar and that, mate, if you get a real bad hypo. Slam a can of Coke into you. That'll do the trick.'

Tate had time for a quick check of his appearance
in the hotel toilet before he boarded the ferry. His sweat-soaked shirt had dried out. There was very little blood on him, mostly on his shirt. He sponged it with water and a wad of toilet paper. Messy-looking, but not too bad. He pissed and saw the blood in his urine. The bitch had got him hard in the kidneys. Tate had had worse before and wasn't troubled. The pain in his balls had eased. He washed his face and combed his hair, re-hung his camera. There were grass and dirt stains on his clothes, particularly the knees of his trousers, and a few scratches on his face. He put on his sunglasses and baseball cap, and joined the crowd on the wharf. A number of the passengers were drunk, several were badly sunburned and a couple of young children were loudly fractious. Tate's magazine was still on the seat where he had left it. He settled down under a canvas awning, quiet, unobtrusive.

The ferry pulled away from the dock and Tate experienced a mild relief. He doubted that Dunlop would have had time to get a message through to stop the sailing, but now there was ninety minutes ahead. How badly had he cut Ava? Would she die? Tate doubted it. A tough old bitch. But they were up to buggery in the scrub with no-one around. How long would it take to get help? Could be hours. Nothing to be done about it. If there was trouble at the marina he'd deal with it then. His car was there and he had a knife and a gun.

The noisy children were placated. Passengers drank, dozed or conversed quietly. Tate forced himself to relax. He bought a can of mineral water at the bar and followed his usual practice of thinking things through logically. First, the diabetes. He'd
missed an insulin injection and had a bad hypo. What to do? He injected half of his customary pre-lunch dose and trusted that it would counteract the big sugar load the Coca-Cola had put into his system. If he had no trouble at Port Douglas he could do a blood test and make further adjustments.

Next, he turned to the problems he'd created for himself. He didn't waste time in self-criticism. He'd got turned-on and had made a mistake. Okay. And the woman had got lucky. And Dunlop was very good. The more he thought about it, the less it looked like a failure. He'd found out why Ava had dobbed Belfante and Frost in and
maybe
he'd thrown a big enough scare into her. Recalling the way she'd fooled him, pretending to be unconscious, letting him fuck her, Tate doubted it. She was game. But, at least for starters, he could argue that he'd taken the second option and settle for the lower fee. It was a possible solution. That was fine except that she'd seen him and maybe Dunlop had, too. That was going to put his peaceful retirement in Tasmania at risk. They'd have to go.