1
1.
Calebās car finally died on the outskirts of Resurrection Bay. After a last shuddering jolt, the Commodore cruised to a stop in the middle of the empty highway, windscreen-wipers at half-mast, headlights dimming.
Shit, not now. Heād broken every road rule and speed limit, but it had still taken three endless hours to get here. Six-twenty a.m. Twenty minutes late already.
He threw open the door. Ran. Down the darkened side street towards the bay, rain misting his face and arms. Heād been asleep on the couch when the text came, TV still on, mind fogged with dreams. Blocked number, no name or greeting.
āAnton in danger. Res bay foreshore 6 am
Heād bolted from his flat before fully awake, typing questions as he went. No reply.
At the Bay Road shops now, chest heaving, the foreshore park opposite. No cars, just Marty McKenzieās dump truck abandoned as usual near the pub. Caleb sprinted across the road.
The rain had stopped. A pale wash on the horizon, daylight peeling back the shadows. Empty boardwalk and wide-open lawn, mounds of struggling garden beds. Everything still, except the beacon out on Muttonbird Island flashing its warning. No standover men beating Ant with iron bars, no drug dealers demanding payment. Cops couldnāt have scared them off ā heād passed both patrol cars attending a pile-up 2outside town. Ant would be here somewhere, hiding.
Lot of ground to cover, the reserve stretched all the way to the marina in the distance. He zigzagged across the grass, looking behind the pavilion and broad red gums, breath rasping in his throat. His brother had to be here. Couldnāt bear it if he wasnāt. Nearly a month now, desperately clinging to hope.
Through the playground to the orange dump truck, its squat shape glowing faintly in the nearby streetlight. Empty, not even Marty passed out drunk on the front seat.
A flash in the corner of Calebās eye as he turned from it. Something moving? He wiped the water dripping from his hair. Scanned the inky landscape. Up near the toilet block, someone was crouched in a garden bed, waving. Dark hoodie pulled up, familiar hunch to his shoulders ā Ant. Relief dissolved the bones in Calebās legs. Not dead. Not lying blue-lipped in an alleyway, needle still in his arm. But was he high or hiding? Couldnāt have chosen a worse place for it either way, a few straggling bushes in the middle of a sloping lawn. Once the sun was a little higher heād be exposed like an overgrown garden gnome.
Caleb hesitated; Ant would never forgive him if he ruined a deal. Then again, Ant was never going to forgive him, anyway. He started across the grass.
Ant waved urgently, then switched to Auslan, hands a pale blur as he signed, āNo! Get out of here. Run!ā Expression hidden, but fear showing in each sharp motion.
Caleb stopped. Checked behind him. āWho,ā he signed. āWhere?ā
āToilet block. Heās āā
Beside Caleb, a flicker of movement in the truck. He whipped towards it. The window had cracked. Small hole in the pane, as if someone had thrown a stone.
A spray of light. 3
Glass flying. Disintegrating. Window gone, a gaping crater in the passenger seat.
Brain and body frozen.
Gun.
He threw himself to the ground. Jesus, fuck. Exposed out here, keep moving.
On his hands and knees, scrabbling across the muddy grass to the shelter of the truck. Over the kerb and onto the road. Sitting with his back pressed hard against the tray, heart pounding. Had to be a rifle ā the toilet block was too far for a handgun. Barrel poking through the lattice-work blocks at the top. Nearly killed him. Had no idea theyād been shooting.
Hearing aids. In his hip pocket where heād shoved them, running out the door. Didnāt give him much sound, but at least heād hear a rifle shot. He dug for them, fumbling at his wet jeans, fingers numb with fear and cold. Forget it ā couldnāt avoid a bullet once itād been fired.
Oh God, Ant. Sheltering in that scrappy garden bed.
Caleb shuffled around. Scooted backwards, keeping the dumper tray between him and the toilet block. Ant was still there, peering towards the truck, tensed as though about to run. Eyes black in a stark white face. Easier to see him now, colour bleeding into the grey as the world lightened. He slumped back when he saw Caleb.
āYou hurt?ā Caleb asked. Hands surprisingly steady as he signed.
Ant shook his head.
No point asking if heād called the cops. OK, think it through. The sniper obviously thought he was Ant, so just stay put until help showed up. Miserable Sunday morning, but a town of three thousand. Someone would eventually come out to walk their dog or wonder if those rifle shots were too close to be from a fox-hunting farmer. 4
Except the sniper wouldnāt be dazzled by the streetlights much longer. Only minutes until daylight separated the shape of Antās body from those bushes. Seconds.
Ant was clearly thinking the same thing. He lowered his hands into a runnerās position again, arms trembling. Nothing but open park all around him. Wouldnāt make it.
āStop!ā Caleb said it out loud, tried to yell. Antās head snapped towards him. āWait,ā Caleb signed. āIāll distract him. With the truck.ā Making it up as he went, anything to stop Ant from dashing into the line of fire. āMeet me behind the supermarket. The carpark.ā
Before Ant could reply, Caleb was up and running. Hunched low, he reached the driverās side. Cracked open the door ā keys in the ignition like heād expected, but too bright, the high windscreen capturing the lightening sky. Dog hair and takeaway boxes, a shining layer of glass across the seats. He slid in, head first. Eased himself into a crouch behind the wheel.
The truck shuddered to life as soon as he turned the key. Slow lurch forward, hauling hard right towards the shops. A jolt. Cracks streaked across the windscreen. Bent lower, arms and knees wedged. Come on, come on, turn, you fucker. Percussive thumps, hard pebbles raining down, icy wind in his hair. Windscreen half gone, sagging inwards. There, the top of a wrought-iron veranda. Truckās nose pointing to the newsagents, arse to the foreshore. He risked sitting up. Into reverse, eyes on the side mirror, the blocky form of the public toilets. Gradually gaining speed. Splintering light ā the mirror shattered. And the other one. Just have to guess. Faster now, must be close. Shit, seatbelt. Yanking on it, one hand on the wheel, tugging hard. Clipped. Jarring stop, head smacking against the seat.
Stillness. Metallic taste of blood and fear. Get out, move.
He shoved hard at the door, keys in hand, half fell from the cabin. Scrambled to his feet, muscles braced. 5
The back of the truck had punched into the building, collapsing stall walls. Dust and gushing water, tumbled grey blocks. The acrid smell of stale piss. Iron entrance gate flung wide. No sniper, no gun. OK, breathe. Wouldnāt have to attack an armed man with a couple of keys and a rego tag.
Around to the far side of the truck ā bare swathe of lawn to the boardwalk. The garden bed where Ant had hidden only shrubs and silver-green saltbush.
Over. Nearly over. Just had to bring Ant home.
Caleb headed for their meeting point in the carpark, breaking into a jog as he crossed the road, bright crystals of glass showering from him as he ran. Past the shops. Up the pedestrian walkway, out into the asphalt lot. It was empty.
6
2.
Caleb went to the house on Waratah Street in the faint hope Ant might be waiting there. The family home, only Ant living there these days ā at least, he had been until six months ago. A solid two-storey with blunt lines, every brick had been laid by their father, the rest done with help from Caleb and Ant. Up and down ladders for months, wielding saws and hammers. Comforting pride in the end result, despite Ivan Zelicās never-good-enough standards.
A tussle with the door, the key sticking, finally got it open. Stale air greeted him. No damp footprints on the terracotta tiles. Already knowing it was pointless, he made his way down the hallway. Vacant rooms to either side. Furniture long-gone, sold by Ant in the bad years. Into the small sunroom overlooking the garden; Antās favourite place, once their motherās. Dust motes hung in the air. Blinds still raised on the long wall of windows, letting in the wintery light. Cold. No sign anyone had been here since heād done his usual check last week. A watery droplet of blood ran down his hand, spattered on the floorboards. Shivering now. Clothes sodden and caked with mud, scratches gouging his arms. He lowered himself to the couch, hugged his body.
At least he knew Ant was alive, that was something. That was a lot. Weeks not knowing, trying every trick and contact heād developed in his ten years as a fraud investigator. Ant had kept in sporadic contact for the first few months, replying to his 7messages occasionally, to Katās more often. Then nothing. Phone untraceable, emails unopened and, most terrifying of all, bank account drained.
Calebās fault. After a long sunlit period when Anton had been clean and happy, heād come along and fucked it all up. Involved Ant in a case, driven him to using again. Driven him to more than that, judging by this morning. What the hell was Ant involved in? A sniper. Could only hope they werenāt an expert, just someone with a grudge and a weapon to hand. Had to be a few guns around, despite Australiaās strict laws ā dusty rifles not given up in the ā96 amnesty, or hunters and farmers with permits. But the shooter hadnāt hesitated to pull the trigger.
Anton in danger. A fair chance whoever had sent that text was dodgy, but Caleb would deal with anyone right now. He typed a short message.
āAnt gone. Need help finding. Will pay
An almost instant response, but it was Kat, not the informant.
āKoori grapevine says your carās parked in the middle of the highway??
He smiled. A very Kat-like text, the digital version of a raised eyebrow. Wondering why he was in the Bay given that just last night heād complained about being stuck working in Melbourne. Sheād be in her parentsā kitchen only a few blocks away, drinking Irish Breakfast tea. Four weeks since sheād moved in with them. Not a perfect arrangement, but a temporary one, and for the very best of reasons.
A sudden realisation of exactly how dangerous that stunt with the truck had been. What had he been thinking? Should have smashed into the shops instead, set off the burglar alarms. Got people running.
Some delicacy needed in crafting his reply. Keeping things from Kat had nearly cost him their marriage, but not alarming her was 8a very high priority these days. His priority: Kat tended to get a little shitty when he was over-protective.
āArranging a tow. Explain everything soon x
He messaged his mechanic to make the words true. Hauled himself to his feet. Go to Kat and wrap his arms around her, hold tight to the happiness. Then get to work, fix what heād broken.
Katās ancient VW Beetle was parked on the road instead of in her parentsā driveway. A danger to all who passed, with an eye-catching mural of entwined bodies one of her friends had painted, every panel covered, no crack untouched. Soon to be replaced by a car with airbags and ABS braking, maybe even a less pervert-attracting artwork. Very soon, if Caleb had anything to do with it ā which he didnāt, but it was nice to dream.
The roadside parking was explained as he reached the driveway. Both parents and all three of her sisters were here. Damn, forgotten it was Sunday. Family Day, the whole mob gathered to solve the worldās problems over a pancake breakfast. He liked Katās family, even its more terrifying members like her mother, but a crowd was difficult at the best of times. Tired and distracted, he would struggle to lip-read everyone except Kat. A lone, confused gubba in a room full of Kooris who had good reason to doubt him.
He fished his aids from his pocket. They only gave him muffled sound, not enough to make a phone call or hear a footstep, but invaluable in helping fill the gaps that lip-reading left. Quick scan for damage: no cracks on the pale casings, tubes unfogged. Good news for his bank account ā the most expensive ones heād had. Smallest too, almost undetectable beneath his brown hair. He hooked them over his ears, tensed as he inserted the receivers, 9waiting for the tinnitus that had been tormenting him lately. The wail slid ...
