Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (21 page)

Anna hadnt taken Wyatt to the rear
of the house on Tuesday night. He crept up to look. He found further signs of
neglect, a sealed porch with bulging, water-stained masonite walls and a
narrow, louvred window. Two cement steps led to a screen door, behind which was
an ordinary door, the kind with an old-fashioned black lock on the inside.
Wyatt opened the screen door a millimetre at a time, avoiding noise from the
rusty hinges, then propped it open with a bucket that was next to the gully
trap. He crouched to look at the lock on the inner door. The first house hed
ever broken into had had a lock like this. It had been a simple matter to slip
newspaper under the gap at the bottom of the door, poke the key with a piece of
wire until it fell onto the newspaper on the other side, and slide it out.

But there was no key in Annas lock.
Wyatt straightened, stood to one side, and turned the heavy black knob. The
door was unlocked. He started to open it, pushing gently inwards. A hand-width
later he encountered resistance. He released the door knob, lay on his side on
the steps, and wound his hand through the gap.

Beer bottles. Sugarfoot had set up a
crude alarm.

There seemed to be six bottles, in
two rows of three. Wyatt took them one at a time and moved them away from the
door. He felt tense, imagining cowboy boots crushing down on his
blind fingers.

He got up and again pushed on the
door. He felt cold to the bone now, from the long wait and the chilly steps.
When there was a sufficient gap he slipped through and immediately to one side.

He was in unrelieved darkness. The
gloomy overhang of garden trees, the evening mist, the single frosted louvre
window meant that no light penetrated to the back of
the house.

He felt his way across the porch by
touch, a step at a time,
until he came to an
inner door. He paused, reconstructing what lay beyond it. He remembered a
passage, running the length of the house to the front door, rooms opening onto
it on either side.

He stepped to one side to consider
his next move, brushed against something soft, and instantly froze. A moment
later he let himself breathe out again. It was a rack of coats.

He opened the passage door. He
couldnt avoid a faint scrape and click. Once in the corridor, he kept to the
wall where there was less chance of floorboards creaking, and moved to the
first door that opened off it. There was more light apparent in the house now.
The top half of the front door consisted of two stained-glass panes. Two red,
white and gold cockerels glowed faintly at each other in the light from the
street. At the bottom was Mashers cat-flap.

The first door along the corridor
was ajar. Anna hadnt shown him this room, but Wyatt could tell from the smell
and a rattling hum that it was the kitchen. He checked it quickly but knew
Sugarfoot wouldnt spend his time in such a distracting room. He moved to the
next door. It, too, was open. He expected to find every door open. Sugarfoot
would have gone from room to room after hed got inside the house, opening
doors so that he could move about unimpeded.

Wyatt stood at the very edge of the
door. It led to a small bedroomthe spare bedroom, judging by the unused feel
about it. The air was stale. A solitary single bed and bulky wardrobe occupied
most of the space, but what interested Wyatt was that the room had been
searched. The mattress lay at an angle on the metal bed frame and drawers had
been emptied onto it. He waited, willing his senses to pick up Sugarfoot crouching
there in a corner. He was conscious that he had the light behind him, that all
Sugarfoot had to do was aim and fire. But he couldnt afford to ignore this
room before going on to the others. He had to check them all.

He lowered himself to the floor and
began to pull himself into the room. His body scraped faintly on the dusty
carpet. When he was well inside he edged first to the left and then to the
right of the bed. By now he was in shadowy regions and his eyes had adjusted to
the light.

Sugarfoot was not in the room.

Wyatt got up and moved silently back
to the door. He stood where he could see along the corridor. The next doorway
was not quite opposite this one.

He crossed quickly and entered in a
rolling dive that took him across the room to the shelter of an armchair.
Nothing. He was in Annas sitting room, next to the rug where they had made
love. He could smell her perfume, but her three-seater couch was on its back
and the armchairs had been slashed. The VCR/television unit had been tampered
with. The digital clock was flashing, frozen at 19.43. He searched quickly.
No-one.

That left the two front rooms, her
bedroom and the dining room. Wyatt moved along to the end of the corridor, his
back flattened to the wall. He stepped away from the wall, turned to face the
front of the house, and heard the sound that saved his life: Masher butting
through the cat-flap. Wyatt jerked back against the wall in fright, heard shots
behind him, and felt a burning pain.

There were three shots, silenced,
sounding like muffled coughs. He tumbled through the bedroom door and rolled
across the carpet at the foot of the low-slung, queen-size bed.

Hed been grazed at waist level. The
bullet had punched through his jacket and shirt and scored a furrow in the
flesh under his rib cage. He lay winded on the floor. Blood was oozing into his
shirt.

Hed been set up beautifully.
Sugarfoot must have been hiding in the dark porch, waiting for him to pass
through to the main part of the house where he would be framed, a perfect
target, against the light filtering through the glass in the front door. And
Sugarfoot had gone for the torso, grouping his shots at trunk level where he
could be more certain of a hit.

Wyatt rolled over and onto his feet.
He stood close to the edge of the door frame, giving himself a view of part of
the corridor. Sugarfoot would no longer be there, but Wyatt fired five rapid
shots with the silenced Browning. He heard the 9 mm slugs strike the wall at a
shallow angle and deflect to the back reaches of the house. He kept his eyes
closed, avoiding the muzzle flashes that cause temporary blindness.

It was no better than a delaying
tactic, but it would keep Sugarfoot away and give himself time to think. He
wouldnt play a waiting game this time. He moved to the window. Light cotton
curtains were drawn over it. He parted them, turned the window latch, pushed up
the bottom pane, and climbed out.

He left the window wide open and
crouched on the verandah, looking back into the room. The party down the street
was very noisy now, an insistent pounding of bass notes and rowdy shouts.
Sugarfoot would notice the increase in sound, assume that Wyatt had escaped
through the window, and come to investigate.

Wyatt waited and listened, the long
barrel of the Browning resting on the window sill, trained at the bedroom
doorway. Several minutes went by. Suddenly something, a shoe, flew into the
bedroom. Wyatt ignored it; Sugarfoot was trying to draw his fire, place him by
the muzzle flash of his gun. Then, almost immediately, a shape stepped into the
doorway.

Wyatt closed his eyes again and
snapped off three shots. It was not blind firing: he had fixed the image of
Sugarfoot, crouched in a shooters stance, gun held straight out in a
two-handed grip. Wyatt trusted snap-shooting, knowing that instinct made him
point straight, knowing too that he would lose his sense of field and
perception if he looked too long at the target.

He heard his shots thud home. He saw
the arms fly out, the gun drop, the body spin and fall.

He also saw that it wasnt Sugarfoot
Younger.

* * * *

Forty-one

Wyatt
slipped back into the house. He stood for a minute, watching the slumped shape
on the floor. The mans gun lay nearby, a silenced .22, a professionals
weapon. That explained the hit on Ivan Younger, the torture of Hobbsthese had
been bothering Wyatt, they were too professional to be Sugarfoots. So who was
this guy?

Satisfied that the gunman wasnt
faking it, Wyatt approached and crouched next to him.

I need a doctor, the man said.

Wyatt propped him against the door
frame and loosened his belt and collar. He searched the mans pockets. There
was no identification. He looked at the face. It was tight, gaunt, the hair
cropped close to the skull. The body was slight, wiry, suggesting fitness. The
accent was unusual. South African, Wyatt thought.

The man coughed. His mouth filled
with blood. Hed taken a bullet in the lungs, giving his voice and his
breathing a frothy, whistling, watery quality. My arm, he said.

The left elbow was shattered. Wyatt
wrapped the fingers of the gunmans right hand around a handkerchief over the
welling blood.

The man seemed to doze, then collect
himself. You are Wyatt? Hobba described you. I am Bauer, he said. He seemed
to be asking for recognition.

Never heard of you, Wyatt said. Who
hired you? The Youngers? Did you turn on them?

Bauer frowned with effort, spat
blood from his mouth and said, The Youngers are nothing.

Finn?

Finn is nothing. Hes dead.

Wyatt watched the face twisted in
pain. Because he lost the money? Were you brought in to get it back?

Bauer didnt reply but drooped and
slid to one side. Wyatt forced him upright. Listen to me. If you want a
doctor, answer some questions.

Bauer coughed. You robbed the wrong
safe, my friend. Youve made powerful enemies. Give it back. He closed his
eyes then. Hed gone grey; traces of blood flecked his slack mouth.

Wyatt said, Finn was connected, is
that what youre trying to tell me?

Give it back, Bauer said.

Wyatt leaned back to consider the
problem, but the movement twisted his wound. He breathed in sharply, alerting Bauer,
who said, I hit you.

Wyatt ignored him. Three hundred
thousand dollars isnt exactly a fortune. Not enough to send someone like you
after us. Whose toes did we tread on?

Bauer coughed again, exhausting
himself. His breathing was shallow. I am dying.

Answer, Wyatt said.

Bauer gathered himself. The money
was not important, he said finally.

Then what are you talking about.
The insult?

Bauer uttered a rattling laugh and
subsided again. Wyatt tapped the Browning against the shattered elbow. Bauer screamed.
No mysteries, Wyatt said. Explain.

Bauers breathing was a series of
wet gasps. He was close to the end. Cocaine. Heroin. That rubbish. Give it
back.

Wyatt rocked back on his heels,
going cold.

Hed been lookout on the street when
Hobba and Pedersen blew the safe. Thered been that long delay before they gave
him the all-clear to join them.

Plenty of time.

But the drugs. Hobba apparently didnt
have them, because Bauer wouldnt still be looking for them. That meant
Pedersen had them. Given his habit, his contacts, that made sense.

Wyatt said, Who are you working
for?

No answer. He tapped his Browning
against the shattered elbow again. But the rattling breathing had stopped and
there was no response.

Wyatt got to his feet. Hobba and
Pedersen must have made a snap decision, he thought, in those seconds when they
realised they also had drugs in the safe. Pedersen had the know-how and the
connections; both of them knew Wyatt wouldnt be in on it.

They might have got away with it if
Sugarfoot Younger hadnt blundered in. Wyatt followed this train: perhaps the
Youngers tried to sell information to Finn, not knowing what they were getting
into. If Ivan was dead, Sugarfoot was too.

Not that any of that mattered. He
had to get Anna away from the safe house.

He left Bauer and made his way back
to the Falcon. The wound in his side was beginning to ache dully. He tried to
imagine Pedersens statepopping pills, getting agitated as he wondered what
Wyatt was doing and what he might find out. Hed be dangerous tackled in the
safe house. Anna could get hurt or killedassuming he hadnt killed her
already. The answer was to lure him out.

It took Wyatt fifteen minutes to
cross the city. The traffic was heavy and bad-tempered, and cars on the prowl
choked the nightclub end of King Street.

On Queens Road he stopped outside a
public telephone. He dialled, and when Anna answered, relief flooded him,
surprising him with its intensity. He said, I want you to be neutral when you
reply to what I say now. Do you understand?

A wary Yes.

Is Pedersen still there?

Yes.

Has he been taking anything? Is he
hyped-up?

Yes.

He might try something. If he does,
shoot him.

I see.

Ill explain later. Meanwhile I
want to speak to him.

The phone clattered onto a hard
surface and he heard Anna say, Wyatt wants to talk to you.

Pedersen came on a moment later. Is
Hobba okay?