Fatal Impact (18 page)

28

A
nya could feel the heat intensify on her covered legs.

She didn’t move, bracing for further fireballs.

The policeman remained a heavy weight on top of her, motionless. She reached up and back with one hand for a carotid pulse. Bounding. Thank God. She moved to roll him and he pulled back. A cough expunged muck from his airways as he propped himself up on his elbows. The explosion must have concussed him.

Plumes of black and orange surged upwards from the wreck. Grass by the roadside had caught alight and spread to a nearby fence. There was nothing they could do but wait for someone to come along. In the light from the flames, Anya caught sight of Simon’s blistered hands.

They had to be painful, unless they were full thickness and had burnt through the nerve endings. His hand function could be compromised if they didn’t get him medical help soon. She moved the saturated blanket to cover their heads, but most importantly, his hands. She took the weight of the wet wool with elbows on her bent knees.

He glanced down but didn’t acknowledge the injuries. ‘It used to drive my father mad. The way cars crashed and automatically exploded in the movies. He said it was almost impossible for a fuel tank to explode. Guess he underestimated me yet again.’

His words weighed heavily. The fire sounded like snapping twigs in the distance. There was no sign of headlights.

‘Do you have my phone?’ Anya asked.

‘Sorry, dropped it when I went to grab you. Someone on a neighbouring property will likely see the smoke and call 000, or come to see how they could help.’

‘If this car was new, what happened to your last one?’ She was assessing his mental function.

‘Rammed by a drunk driver when I tried to pull him over. And the one before that was hit by a truck.’

Anya wondered if it was safe to be in a car with him. ‘Seriously?’

‘Hey, it was parked and I was inside the station. Accident investigators said the truck’s brakes failed. The car was totalled. My cousin’s a smash repairer, but I’m beginning to wear out the relationship. Seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Right now, Anya disagreed. If it had been anyone else who had pulled up to assist the man in the rain, they could have been burnt to death. There was no way the man could have known a police car was on its way along this road. He had to have had criminal intent.

‘Cars don’t matter. All I know is that you have great instincts, and they saved our lives tonight.’

‘Never killed a man before.’ He sat staring at the residual flames, nursing his injured hands.

Anya had seen police recklessly taser suspects to death. She had also seen the bodies of police killed in the line of duty. For survivors, the scars of death rarely healed. ‘You may not have. He could have survived that gunshot wound. If the bullet had ruptured a major vessel, he wouldn’t have survived long enough to pull the trigger on .
. .
whatever that was. He died trying to kill us.’ She meant ‘me’, but couldn’t bring herself to say it. ‘Or he preferred death to arrest.’ In that case, it was probable he had a criminal record.

‘Instincts didn’t pick a flamethrower.’

Anya had seen a kids’ water squirter. ‘It looked like–’

‘A toy? I know. Saw it when he was down and I smelt the propane. It was connected to a tank and hose. I’ve seen homemade flamethrowers on the internet. They often end up killing the idiot holding the trigger.’

Building a flamethrower and attaching it to his body required organised thinking and a knowledge of basic science. Someone who was psychotic was unlikely to be capable of premeditation and planning to that extent. In a moment of paranoia, a knife, gun or even a box of matches were more accessible. Anya thought of the tattoo on his knuckles, though she couldn’t make out the letters. It had looked homemade too. Like something done in prison.

‘Why have petrol and propane?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe one was backup. Or a diversion in case he got caught.’

Anya hadn’t seen what had ignited the fumes. ‘How did he .
. .’

‘One of those gas stove igniters. He wanted to burn something pretty badly.’

Prison tattoos, kids’ supplies. He could have been a serial arsonist who’d been caught before.

‘Guess we’ll never know what the hell he was planning.’ Simon shielded his injured hands again against his chest.

‘At least I’ve got a credible witness to the shooting.’

Anya hadn’t seen the shooting. Simon had pushed her head forward and she’d hit the dashboard. It still throbbed.

A set of headlights appeared in the distance, followed by another. Two vehicles thundered towards them.

Simon crouched down, blocking Anya from view. ‘Can you shoot a gun?’

‘What–? I have shot–’
She had shot a man at close range once. Simon didn’t need to know the details. ‘I could if I had to.’

He held up two burnt hands.

‘I need you to reach into the holster. Now.’

The trucks were almost on them.

‘Hurry. We don’t know if he was acting alone.’

Her heart raced as she lifted out the recently fired weapon.

The first truck screeched to a halt and four men jumped out.

29

T
he men in the vehicles hadn’t seen the pair. They sprinted towards the burning car.

Anya and the police officer crouched silently for a few moments. ‘It’s okay. I know them,’ Hammond said.

Anya placed the gun on the ground and helped him to his feet.

‘Here,’ she hollered, hugging the sodden rug tighter, barely able to feel her feet on the sloppy ground.

Two burly forms headed their way. The larger man wore a full-length oilskin coat. The other had on a lighter, more modern jacket with fluorescent strips on the sleeves that caught the fire’s light. Both men had on hats and heavy boots. She picked up the gun and reholstered it for the policeman.

‘This one’s burnt real bad,’ someone declared in the distance.

The charred body had been found.

Without exchanging words, Anya was swept up by the larger of the men. ‘We’ll take care of you, little lady,’ he said, and carried her to one of the trucks. Anya didn’t recognise him under the hat. She was capable of walking, but wasn’t given the choice. The wet oilskin coat had the same smell as her father’s jacket in the rain, thirty years earlier.

‘Simon’s burnt. His hands,’ she urged.

Hammond had already joined the mob trying to extinguish the rest of the flames. Anya was deposited inside the cabin of the first truck. Large calloused hands ripped away the wet blanket and replaced it with a multicoloured crocheted blanket covering her front to the knees. She gripped it with icy fingers. The man used a towel from the floor to rub her lower legs – hard. ‘Better get the circulation going. You’re probably in shock.’

‘Please. You need to help Simon,’ she said. ‘I’m all right.’

He looked up and the cabin light illuminated sunspots on his cheeks and temple. He was in his fifties, but had a face that had seen a lot of sun over the years.

‘You’ve got to be Jocelyn Reynolds’s kid.’

He hit the heater button and a gush of air gusted about her face. ‘I’m Bill Whitehead. I’ll let her know you’re safe.’

‘First, Simon needs medical attention.’

‘Just like your mother.’ He reached into the back seat.

‘Do you know where she is?’ Anya needed to know she was all right.

‘I wager on her being at the Wilson property by now. Whole town is heading there, to fight the fire.’

He slammed the door before she got a chance to ask. What fire? The fire was here. The man in the coat had set fire to himself, and tried to kill her. She could hear male voices outside giving orders but sat still, trying to process what had happened. He had to have committed a heinous crime to die the way he did. And he was prepared to murder in the process of taking his own life. The image of the homemade tattoos filled her mind. Prison tattoos.

She replayed the events. The man had refused a lift in a storm. It was odd but Anya hadn’t thought much of it. When he’d stepped back, Simon said he’d reached for a weapon. Anya hadn’t sensed any hint of a threat, but she hadn’t been expecting one. She was focused on finding her mother. Within seconds, her forehead had hit the dashboard and the man was on the ground, shot through the chest. If the policeman hadn’t acted so quickly .
. .

The realisation hit that she had come very close to dying. Her body shook. All she wanted was to hear Ben’s voice. Her phone was on the ground somewhere, near the cremated body, and undoubtedly a mess of melted plastic by now.

A police car arrived as the last of the flames was extinguished. Black smoke still billowed from the car wreck.

A female constable came to Anya and opened the door.

‘You okay?’

Anya’s teeth knocked when she spoke. ‘I can’t stop shaking.’

The woman rubbed her shoulder. ‘My name’s Rhonda. You’ve had decent shock. But you’re safe now. It’s over.’

Her eyes flicked back to the car wreckage. She kept her hand on Anya’s shoulder and Anya was grateful for her presence. She couldn’t see where Simon Hammond had gone. Rain spat on the constable’s clothes.

‘You’re getting wet,’ Anya managed, teeth chattering less. ‘There’s a towel here somewhere.’

‘It’s just water.’ Rhonda pulled her collar tighter. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

There was a shooting, an incinerated body and an exploded and burnt police car. Images flooded Anya’s mind. She hadn’t witnessed the threat or the shooting. Only what Simon had told her. Had the policeman shot someone before? What wasn’t in dispute was the fact that the man had tried to immolate her with him.

She repeated the story as she remembered it happening, still attempting to process the details.

Rhonda let her tell it without interruption. Then she asked, ‘Did you recognise the man? Have you ever seen him before?’

‘No, but he had tattoos and a shaven head.’ Anya tried to picture his features but it had all happened so quickly. The hat had obscured his face when he’d leant down near her window. When the hat came off, she was concentrating on the bullet wound in his chest.

‘Could he have recognised you?’

Anya paused. It hadn’t occurred to her that she could have been the specific target. It seemed far-fetched. She shivered again and looked around. The car still burnt. ‘I don’t know. Are the fire crew far away?’

‘You didn’t hear?’ Rhonda said. ‘There’s a fire out of control at the Wilsons’ place and it’s spread to PT. These boys were all on their way there. When they came out of Langleys Road, they saw the car blow, called us and doubled back.’

Anya could hear the police radio on the constable’s shoulder. ‘The wheat’s gone up like a firecracker. Never seen anything like it. We’ve had to send for extra units from Lonnie.’

Launceston was at least fifteen minutes away.

‘You need to be checked out properly,’ Rhonda said. ‘This lot will make sure you’re safe and are seen by a medic. We can take your statement once you get the all clear.’

Anya nodded. She didn’t have any energy to argue. Her body was replete of adrenalin.

‘Goddamn Greenies. Bet they’re behind it all. The bastards.’ The man who had carried her to the truck climbed into the driver’s seat, and three other men crammed into the passenger seats behind. They smelt of sweat and wet oilskin. ‘A nurse is standing by at the Wilsons’. She can check you out there.’

Anya’s thighs had begun to sting. She suspected the petrol had leeched through her clothes and burnt her skin before Hammond had ripped them off.

‘Then we’ll help out with the fire.’

The female constable clicked in Anya’s seatbelt. ‘I have to set up a crime scene and block off this side of the road. Hobart homicide detectives are on their way.’ She pulled the hood tighter over her head. ‘I’ll see you as soon as this mess is sorted.’

She closed the door and tapped on the roof. The driver pulled out and accelerated. The Colorado hit a pothole further along and Anya’s backside lifted from the seat. She had the luxury of a seatbelt. The four men squashed in the passenger seats didn’t.

Anya thought of the man with the flamethrower. He could have started the Wilson fire.

‘Did you see an abandoned car on your way here?’ she asked the driver.

‘A rental job was stopped on the verge, a kilometre or so away.’ He flicked his eyes from the road to Anya and back. ‘You think that dead guy could have left it there?’

Unless he’d been dropped off by someone else. Tracks would have led from the car to where Simon had pulled over. Then again, in the rain, they would be obscured. If he’d been dropped off, he hadn’t been working alone.

No one asked her what had taken place, how a man had ended up shot and burnt alive. Country people knew that if someone wanted to talk, they would, when they were ready. The shooting and the policeman’s burnt hands were stuck on a loop in her mind. The smell of burnt flesh remained with her.

By now the rain had eased. The windscreen wipers clunked more slowly than before.

‘Is Simon Hammond all right?’

The driver swerved to avoid another pothole. ‘I bandaged his hands, but we’ve only got a small first aid kit. They looked pretty bad but he won’t go to hospital yet. He’s in the ute behind us.’ He glanced occasionally at Anya. ‘Hell of a night.’

The men in the back were quiet.

‘Reckon your mum’s already there. From what I hear, she’d be one of the first to help out.’ The driver turned sharply down a road to the left. ‘Ever thought of setting up practice with her?’

‘I’m not qualified to work in general practice. I work in forensic medicine.’

‘We’ll take any doctor we can get,’ he said.

‘Dad,’ a man from the back spoke. ‘Remember when the vet stitched me up?’

‘See,’ the driver said. ‘Vet, doctor, you’re all the same to us.’

She wondered about Bill’s comments about Greenies. ‘Why do you think environmentalists started the Wilson fire?’

The wheels clunked into another pothole. Anya braced herself with her hands on the dash this time.

‘Bastards want to shut down our farms. A busload arrives from the mainland. Now this. You join the dots.’

Outsiders were still viewed with suspicion. Some of the community had never even ventured to the south of the state, let alone to mainland Australia. Anya wasn’t sure why she was treated like a local, after all these years.

An orange glow lit up the sky ahead. The mood in the cabin grew sombre. The fire was massive. By the time they arrived, a number of trucks, rural fire service volunteers and two fire engines were already on the scene. Despite the rain and gusting winds, Anya no longer felt cold. Adrenalin pumped through her again. People ran towards spot fires with hoses and buckets.

‘We need to know how many people are here volunteering.’ Hammond had arrived first in the other utility. ‘We don’t want anyone else killed or hurt.’

A long coat covered his saturated uniform, presumably lent to him by one of the farmers. The dressings on his hands were already soaking wet.

‘Right,’ Bill Whitehead announced. ‘I’ll start a sign-up sheet. Find out who’s here and before anyone else starts helping, they sign up. Before they leave, they sign themselves out.’

A man Anya recognised from the lunch at the restaurant with the minister approached. He was in a heavy coat and hat but he had a loping gait similar to his brother’s. Craig Dengate.

‘We set the homestead up as headquarters. We’re all taking shifts. Food and drinks inside. The wives are bringing extra blankets and supplies.’ He looked exhausted, as if he’d been at the blaze for a while. ‘Heard you were injured, Hammo.’ He squeezed the constable’s shoulder. ‘Nurse is inside. You need to get those hands seen to.’

Craig turned to Anya. ‘There’ll be a change of clothes and something to cover your feet inside. If you need to see the nurse .
. .’

‘I’m okay. Has anyone seen Jocelyn Reynolds?’ She needed to know her mother was safe.

‘Could be anywhere. It’s been chaos, as you can see, until now.’

Her mother knew how to look after herself. She’d grown up in the country, Anya had to keep reminding herself as she helped Simon towards the house.

In the distance, cows lowed in distress. Rain bucketed in paroxysms.

While the nurse treated Simon’s hands, Anya washed off and spread a thin layer of burn cream on her legs before pulling on a large borrowed jumper and an oversized pair of jeans, tightened with a belt. She finished with a spare pair of thick socks and boots.

A small woman in overalls stood in the doorway of the house and called for any spare hands for the feed lots.

The nurse explained that all able volunteers had just gone to a new breakout on the western border of the property.

‘Give me a minute,’ Hammond said.

The woman took one look at Simon’s hands. ‘You’ll be more use here.’ She turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ Anya stopped her leaving. ‘What do you need?’

‘To get about a thousand cattle to safety.’

Anya braced herself and headed out into the firestorm.