Wyatt - 01 - Kick Back (23 page)

Later he showered, dressed in
slippers and an old tracksuit, and left by the kitchen door to fetch firewood
from the pile at the back of the house. The sky was low, a succession of misty
rainclouds sweeping across the hills. He went back inside and ate scrambled
eggs, toast and coffee in front of an open fire.

There was a trace of Anna Reid in
the air, a faint, troubling perfume. He had an unfinished feeling about her.
She knew about him, where he lived, his involvement in the hit on Finn. Even if
she went straight and he never heard from her again, hed feel a pinch at the
edges of his memory. It would be more distracting than desire. Desire is
something that doesnt last. She was like him, but he wondered if shed ride
out the investigation, and he wondered if he should have killed her.

He loaded more logs on the fire. By
now the scent of heated sap and resin were spreading through the room and soon
he couldnt smell anything else.

* * * *

Forty-four

The
first shot came when he went outside to collect more firewood. The sound was
hollow and deep, as if muted by the misty rain, but there was no mistaking the
heavy calibre or the fury of the bullet smashing through the logs in his arms.
The force of it spun him against the back wall of the house. The logs tumbled
out of his arms. For a moment he felt helpless, pinned like an insect.

A second shot smacked into the wall
next to his neck. He thought automatically,
Hes pulling high and to
the
left. Hes shooting uphill and failing to compensate.

Wyatt threw himself onto the ground
as a third shot slammed into the wall. There was the same powerful sound, the
same double echo in the nearby hills.

Rifle shots were not uncommon here
but it was usually Craig or his father, taking random pot shots at rabbits and
foxes with their small-bore rifles. Soon Craigs father or one of the other
neighbours was going to notice the sound of a heavy calibre weapon and wonder
who was making war at ten-thirty on a Sunday morning.

Not the copsthey wouldnt come in
like that. Not Finns Sydney connectionseven if they knew where to find him
they wouldnt come so soon, so rashly. Sugarfoot Younger? In his pain and
tiredness Wyatt had thought that Sugarfoot was dead or gone. Hed forgotten the
dumb instinct and obsession that drove the useless hoon.

Dragging himself along by his
elbows, Wyatt made for the side of the house. Multiple shots are easier to
pinpoint than a solitary shot, so he knew where Sugarfoot was. Wyatt had one
advantage: his house and sheds were on a slight rise. With no high ground to
fire from, and wary of crossing open ground to the house and sheds, Sugarfoot
would have positioned himself in the pine tree plantation.

But he would take some finding. He
had plenty of cover. Wyatts property was almost completely surrounded by
trees: the pine plantation, an uncleared tangle of scrub and blackberry bushes,
and the neighbours apple orchard. The drive-way at the front of the house ran
down an avenue of golden cypresses to the small Shoreham road, hidden by hedges
and earthen banks. If Sugarfoot circled the house while closing in on it, Wyatt
would have trouble keeping track of him. If he circled at a distance, hed
effectively keep Wyatt boxed in.

There was a flurry of wind and rain.
Wyatt shivered. The tracksuit and slippers gave him no protection. The wound
was bleeding again. He considered his options. If he made a run for it in the
car, he risked a bullet. If he stayed in the house hed have no flexibility.
Better to go after the punk.

But his .38 was under the bed, in a
holster strapped to the springs of the bed base. There was a little .22 rifle,
but it was in the barn. Not that he intended going after Sugarfoot through
undergrowth with a rifle hed not fired for two years and then only at pigeons
with birdshot.

He manoeuvred along the wall until
he was behind a clump of bamboo. Beyond the bamboo was an old, unused dairy. If
Sugarfoot had moved to the south-west edge of the pine plantation he would have
a clear shot at the open ground between the house and the dairy, but Wyatt was
guessing that Sugarfoot would station himself where he could get Wyatt if Wyatt
tried to enter the house through the kitchen door.

Wyatt knelt, waited a beat, and ran
at a crouch toward the old dairy. There was no point in zig-zagging, not if
Sugarfoot was firing from the side. He heard a thudding, and realised it was
his body strainingnot shots, not his footsteps on the soft ground. He passed
the bamboo, and splashed through the sodden area around a leaking garden tap.
He felt the wound tearing. His slippers and tracksuit were splashed and soaked
with water and mud. He wiped raindrops from his eyes.

He got to the dairy, his heart
pounding, just as the shot came late. It hit somewhere on the other side of the
dairy. It told him that Sugarfoot had him pinned down.

The only escape was to strike out in
a straight line away from Sugarfoot, using the dairy as a screen. Then he could
circle around the house and go in through the front. Sugarfoot would be
expecting him to advance, not move away. Sugarfoot also had farther to travel
if he anticipated Wyatt and circled around to meet him, and by that time Wyatt
would be in and out of the house again, armed this time.

He set off at a lope, twenty steps
running, twenty walking, remembering his old army training. His main obstacle
was a high, tightly sprung stock fence topped with barbed wire. There was
little give in the wires. They pulled cruelly at him as he pushed through to
the other side.

Again he walked and ran, conscious
of pain and the blood spreading over his hip. He circled left, dodging tussocks
of grass and treacherous hollows where cows and horses had left deep imprints
in the muddy soil. Once he slipped, his left leg sliding away beneath him on a
fresh cow pat. He recovered, clutching at his side, and ran on.

His run took him across the top
corner of the paddock. On the other side was another fence, and then he was in
the shelter of his golden cypresses.

He stopped. Ivan Youngers white
Statesman was parked at the side of the sunken road, fifty metres down from the
entrance to his driveway.

He waited for two minutes, isolating
sounds: a sheepdog alerted by the rifle fire, its owner shouting at it to shut
up, a motor starting up somewhere. Almost eleven oclock. Wyatt knew that some
of the neighbours went to eleven oclock church but it could also be someone
deciding to investigate. Suddenly Wyatt knew how he would do this. He would
kill Sugarfoot, dump him in Ivans Statesman in Frankston, then come back and
commiserate with one or two of the neighbours about these bloody weekend
shooters tramping all over the place.

The pain had eased a little now that
hed rested. He approached the house at a walking pace, keeping close to the
cypress trees.

He paused at the final tree and
surveyed the open ground that sloped down to the apple orchard. Thats when he
saw him. Sugarfoot, wearing cowboy boots, stetson hat and long coat, was
slipping from the edge of the pine trees and into the orchard about three
hundred metres away.

Wyatt ran crouched over to the broad
front verandah of his house. He had about a minute before Sugarfoot was
stationed where he could see the verandah and the front door and windows.
Tension gave him an acute sense of things. He saw, as if for the first time,
the warped boards and nail heads on his verandah, the dusty cobwebs on the old
lathe-turned posts.

The front door and the window to the
left of it were always locked, but his bedroom window was partly open. He
removed the insect screen and tugged on the bottom pane, tensing himself for
shots from the orchard. The window resisted him, gripped by the old moisture thickened
frame. Suddenly it protested like a shrieking bird and moved freely. Wyatt
tumbled over the sill and into the room. The window exploded, coating him in
shards and chips of glass. He rolled across to the bed and reached under it for
his .38.

And blacked out.

When he opened his eyes he had a
sense of weightlessness. He didnt know if hed been out for seconds or for minutes.
The world tipped left and right.

He waited.

When he felt steady, he reached
under the bed again and found the .38. It felt reassuring in his hand. It was
chambered for five rounds only, unlike his large capacity Browning
automaticbut double-action automatics tend to jam, or the clip may crimp if its
slammed home. Hed fitted a fat, natural-rubber grip to the .38. The metal
surface and moving parts were finely coated with a protective layer of oil, and
the front sight was rounded so that it wouldnt drag in the holster or catch on
his clothing. The gun seemed to slide into his hand.

He switched off the safety catch and
ran through to the laundry at the back of the house. Here there was a narrow
broom cupboard where he stored old hats, coats, boots and shoes. He selected a
green, quilted, waterproof jacket with a hood. He removed the sodden slippers
and put on light, sturdy boots. Under a false panel in the bottom of the
cupboard were several boxes of cartridges. He opened a box and poured a dozen
loose cartridges into his pocket.

Now to get Sugarfoot. Once he was
down in that belt of cover he would have the advantage. Sugarfoots rifle was
unbeatable for long-distance pinning down and accuracy, but useless for snap
shooting and close work among trees and undergrowth. Unless Sugarfoot also
carried a pistol. Wyatt had to assume he did.

Another shot slammed into the
bedroom. Sugarfoot was still in the orchard, still letting Wyatt know he was
there. He had a clear view of the entire northern side of the house and would
notice if Wyatt left by either the back or the front door.

Wyatt walked through to the
bathroom. It faced south. He opened the window above the bath, knocked out the
insect screen, and squeezed out. He moved slowly, conserving energy.

The land on the southern side sloped
down to an area of scrub fronted by blackberry bushes. In the distance was
Shoreham, then the sea, where black and grey clouds seemed to bunch up before
scudding in over the coastline. Wyatt had been calmed by his rest in the house.
Now he realised how cold and damp the day was.

A choked path wound through the
blackberry thicket.

Wyatt made slow time, thorns
catching at his clothing and tearing his skin. He emerged where the
blackberries met the scrub and picked his way through it, dodging branches and
whipping twigs and leaves.

At the bottom corner of the scrub he
broke cover and ran doubled-over to the edge of the pine plantation. Sugarfoot
might be back in the pine trees, so he paused before he advanced too far in.
The trees were tall, planted close together in neat rows, their upper branches
woven together, screening out the meagre light of winter. There was no
undergrowth, and few inhibiting lower branches. Pine needles carpeted the
ground. One could move through here almost unseen and unheard.

Wyatt stood against the flank of one
of the larger trees, the .38 cocked in his hand. He stood for five minutes,
listening, adjusting to the dim, resinous atmosphere.

It was midday now. People would be
coming home from church soon. If theyd had a chance to compare notes about
hearing heavy-bore rifle shots earlier this morning, they might now decide to
do something about it.

Wyatt was in the corner of the pine
trees that faced the back of his house. That put him at a disadvantage if
Sugarfoot advanced along that flank from the other end and drove him back into
the inadequate shelter of the scrub and the black-berries. He headed away from
the house for a hundred metres and then turned north, making a long, slow
circle around to where the pine trees ended and the apple trees began. He
wanted to come in behind Sugarfoot.

Then he saw him. Sugarfoot had not
wasted time doubling back from the orchard. Sugarfoot saw Wyatt, too. He
stopped, swung the big rifle around, and fired. The sound was flat in that
enclosed space. A wedge of bark flew off the trunk of a tree next to Wyatt. But
it was blind firing. Sugarfoot didnt have the time or manoeuvrability for a
clear shot.

Wyatt turned, ran crashingly towards
the orchard for several seconds, stopped, and slipped quietly to his left. He waited.
If Sugarfoot circled around, expecting to intercept him, he would follow.

Suddenly Sugarfoot shouted, Youre
finished, Wyatt.

The mug was actually giving away his
location. Wyatt stood still, tracking the voice. As hed expected, Sugarfoot
had turned and was cutting through the pine trees toward the orchard. He set
off after him.

You hear me, Wyatt? You hear me?

Sugarfoot was now making no effort
to be quiet. The cowboy boots drummed on the pine needles, the skirt of the
long coat caught on the tree trunks. He was alternately shouting and muttering.

Cunt! Didnt have to kill him. Ivan
never hurt you. He fucking put work your way

The voice dropped again, muttering
and complaining.

Wyatt listened and watched. He had
Sugarfoot pinpointed now, and began to stalk him. Sugarfoot had dumped the
rifle. He was carrying a long-barrelled pistol. From this distance it looked
like a Colt Woodsman; not a bad choice, light and accurate. But its slender
modern lines and sculptured grip looked incongruous, for Sugarfoot was prowling
like a Clint Eastwood caricature, the broad hat low on his brow, the long coat
giving him the look of an avenger.