And Fire Came Down

Unputdownable aussie noir with a twist in the tail

Emma Viskic

• Publisher: Pushkin Vertigo
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN:
  9781782274551
• eBook ISBN:
  9781782274629
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

The pulsating follow-up thriller to the acclaimed Resurrection BayWinner, The Davitt Best Adult NovelA SILENT SCREAMThe woman can only sign two words: help... family. And then she is gone - a body lying dead in the street.A TOWN READY TO BURNCaleb's search for her killer takes him back to his hometown of Resurrection Bay. Centuries of racism have left it simmering with violent tensions, and this summer the bush is as dry as tinder. All it will take is one spark.WHAT CAN CALEB SAVE FROM THE FIRE?He is determined to pursue justice at all costs. But everything he loves is in this town. And what if the truth means his world going up in flames?What readers are saying about the Caleb Zelic thrillers'The opening chapter had me completely HOOKED!' - Amazon reviewer'Original story, brilliant characters and plenty of tension to keep those pages turning' - Fiona, Waterstones bookseller'This series goes from strength to strength' - Amazon reviewer'A dazzling sequel' - Amazon reviewer'Gritty, fast-paced, filled with heart-pounding tension - it's an intense and outstanding thriller' - Goodreads reviewer'I could feel the sweat sliding down Caleb's back and smell the dangerous hint of bushfire smoke in the scorchingly hot air. Just brilliant' - Goodreads reviewer'Viskic has knocked it out of the park with this one' - Goodreads reviewer

1.

The man cornered Caleb at the lights. Twitching and sniffing, talking in staccato bursts. A skeletal face and pupils like voids.

Caleb gestured to the empty pockets of his running shorts. ‘Nothing on me, mate.’

Sniffy kept talking and twitching. Caleb ignored him. Thirty more seconds and he’d be in his flat and under a long, cold shower. It was an hour after sunset, and the day’s heat still clung to concrete and asphalt, the pores of his skin. Stupid to have gone for a run, but last night’s dreams had slipped into his waking hours again, plucking at his thoughts with their bloodstained fingers.

And now Sniffy was waving a piece of fucking paper in his face.

Caleb tried to skirt around him as the lights turned green, but the guy did a little sideways dance to block his way.

‘Piss off,’ Caleb said.

Sniffy shoved the paper into his right hand. A receipt of some kind, sweat-stained and crumpled. Something written on the back in thick letters. He held it up to the streetlight.

Caleb

33/45 Martin St Nth Fitzroy

His name, his address. The words were scrawled in lipstick, but there was nothing flirtatious about their jagged letters, the strokes flecked with lumps of flesh-like pink. Something cold slid down his neck.

He looked at Sniffy. ‘Where’d you get this?’

Words scuttled from the man’s mouth and disappeared into the shadows. Was that a W? And an O? Definitely an M.

‘A woman?’ Caleb guessed. ‘A woman gave it to you?’

Sniffy gestured down the street. ‘She said… and I…’

‘Slower. What woman?’

‘Tall, black…’

Kat.

Fear gripped Caleb’s bowels. ‘Where is she? Show me.’

Sniffy headed along the street, talking the entire time. A shambling gait like a sleep-deprived toddler. Step, shuffle, step. Past apartment blocks and pizza shops, around a corner into an empty side street. So slow. Why the fuck couldn’t he go any faster? Around another corner into an unlit alleyway of rusting corrugated iron and jumbled cobblestones, the stink of stale piss. Caleb came to a halt halfway down it. Dark, no overlooking windows – a good place to get jumped.

Sniffy made his way to the back of the alley, where a thin shape stepped out of the gloom to meet him. Not Kat. Nothing like Kat. The woman’s skin was so pale it looked translucent, a startling contrast to her short, dark hair. Black hair – Sniffy had been describing her hair, not her skin. Caleb let out a shuddering breath. Of course it wasn’t Kat. She was five thousand kilometres away in Broome, not in a stinking Melbourne alleyway. And if he’d stopped to think for a second, he would have remembered that.

A quick exchange of money between the pair, and Sniffy shuffled away. Just a delivery boy. So who was the woman? She was young, probably early twenties, carrying a brown handbag and wearing a red cotton dress that looked as though it would smell of incense. Dark alley, vulnerable young woman – it had to be some kind of a con. Walk away. But he glanced at the crumpled receipt in his hand.

Caleb

‘How do you know my name and address?’

Red launched into speech, but her face was deep in shadow. It was brighter out on the footpath – he’d be able to see her mouth there. And her hands.

‘Move onto the street,’ he said. ‘It’s too dark in here.’

She shook her head and pressed herself against the wall.

Well, he wasn’t waiting around for someone to walk up behind him with an iron bar.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Find yourself another mark.’

He turned away, and she darted forward and grabbed his arm. Her trembling hand was slick with sweat. Impossible to fake that kind of fear. Or for him to feel like more of an arsehole. She was gesturing urgently, pressing her hands together and pulling them towards herself. A familiar movement, as though she was signing the word ‘help’.

‘You know Auslan?’ he signed.

Red stared at him as though he’d performed a circus trick. Not a signer, then, just someone who’d learned a word. Which meant she probably knew more about him than his name and address.

‘Help?’ he said out loud. ‘You need help?’

A rapid nod. ‘I… and… said you’d help.’

‘Who said I’d help?’

‘…and… you…’

This was hopeless; he’d have to get her to write everything. He reached for his phone, but his hand dug into the empty pocket of his running shorts. Shit: no phone. Just him and his stupid desire to be alone when he ran.

‘Have you got a phone?’ he asked. ‘Something to write with?’

She shook her head and attempted another sign. It was the wrong hand-shape, but it looked a lot like…

‘Do that again,’ he said.

Two fingers against two fingers, a twist of her wrists: ‘family’.

Family? A brother he barely knew and an almost-ex-wife avoiding him in Broome.

‘Anton?’ he asked. ‘Kat?’

More headshaking, more incomprehensible speech. Something about bees? No, that couldn’t be right.

He tried for a gentle tone. ‘Look, I can’t understand you. My flat’s around the corner. Do you want to go there? Or I can take you to the cops.’

Her eyes widened, staring behind him. He spun around. A man was pounding up the alleyway towards them. Thickset, with short, blond hair and a dark swirl of tattoos up his arms and neck. Caleb threw himself backwards and caught the edge of the blow on his forehead. Falling. Down on his knees, head to the cobblestones. Up, get up. He levered himself to his feet. The man was dragging Red away, his arm locked around her neck. No thought, just motion: five steps and a fist to the man’s kidney. Caleb’s knuckles hit solid muscle. The man staggered and dropped Red, swung around. A calculating look as he took in Caleb’s equal height but lack of kilos. His fist clenched. Caleb ducked the punch with reflexes born of a thousand playground fights. Quick, go for the kneecap. An awkward movement, mistimed, but his foot hit the side of the man’s knee with a sickening jolt. Down like a felled tree.

Red. Where was Red? Caleb sprinted to the street. There she was, running towards Alexandra Parade. Good, there’d be people, lights, cars. He ran after her. Fitzroy Police Station was only a few blocks away – he’d get her there and work out what the fuck was going on. She was at the intersection, scanning for a break in the traffic.

‘Stop,’ he called, nearly at her side. ‘It’s safe here.’

Her head whipped around and she stepped back, her eyes focused behind him again. Shit, the blond man was only metres away, charging past him towards Red. She threw up her arms and stumbled backwards off the kerb.

Caleb lunged for her.

A fleeting touch of skin, then a flash of white, the smell of diesel and brake pads. She slammed against the van’s bonnet. Into the air. Down.

An endless moment.

People were running. And he ran, too. Red was sprawled on the road, her arms flung wide. Blood. Blood everywhere. Bubbling from her lips and darkening her dress. He’d been here before, seen the spreading pool, smelled its iron sweetness.

Her lips were moving.

‘…the be…got the be…’

He made himself touch her cheek. Cold beneath the slick warmth of her blood.

‘It’s OK. Help’s coming.’

Her eyes held his: sea green and rimmed with pale lashes. A fierce brightness that flickered, dulled and faded.

Then nothing.

2.

He made his statement in a soulless grey room at the Fitzroy Police Station. Eyes gritty, a dull ache squeezing his temples. The young policewoman questioning him was a hard read, with rigid lips and a tight jaw. She wasn’t too impressed by him, either. She’d been through his statement twice now, querying each sentence, her eyebrows drawing together at his answers. He didn’t blame her for her wariness. His image in the two-way mirror looked like it should be on a wanted poster: hollow-cheeked and unshaven, a wildness to his dark hair and eyes. Probably slurring his words too, exhaustion stripping all those years of speech therapy from his tongue.

He was going through the events for the third time when the constable stood without warning. A moment of confusion until she strode to the door. Right, someone knocking. Hopefully someone with a couple of painkillers.

It was a large man with granite-like features and close-cropped hair. Uri Tedesco: friend, life-saver, cop. Caleb had texted him from the station’s sticky-handled public phone to explain why he’d stood him up for Friday night drinks, but hadn’t asked him to come. A flash of anger that the big man had assumed he’d need help.

Tedesco shot him an unreadable look, then spoke to the constable. The pair of them batted words back and forth, too fast for him to catch. Conversational ping-pong – his least favourite sport. He stared at the table until Tedesco waved to get his attention and said, ‘You’re right to go.’

The young cop wasn’t looking too happy, but homicide detective trumped constable every time. Particularly a homicide cop who’d had the temerity to kill a bent colleague and stay in the job. Caleb gave her a nod and followed Tedesco through the station.

Outside, the air was like a sick dog’s breath.

‘You didn’t have to come,’ Caleb said.

Tedesco’s gaze flicked across his bloodied running clothes. ‘I was out of beer. Figured there’d be some at your place.’

Caleb showered while Tedesco got started on a beer. A long shower, with plenty of soap. He dressed and hunted for his hearing aids, finally found them under a book in the bedroom. They were small and pale, almost invisible beneath his dark hair. They amplified every unwanted sound and only gave hints of speech, had to be cleaned and replaced and adjusted and paid for. But without them there was nothing – no faint words or murmuring tones, just gaping mouths and guesswork. He never wore them on a run. Never took his phone or his notebook or even a fucking pen. Would Red still be alive if he did? Maybe. Probably.

Tedesco was out on the apartment’s shitty balcony, halfway through a stubby of Boag’s. Caleb slumped into a chair and opened a beer.

‘Not your year,’ the detective said.

‘No.’

Seven months since he’d stumbled blindly into an investigation that had ended with his best mate murdered and Kat badly injured. Since his business partner had betrayed him. Understatement was one of Tedesco’s stronger suits. Caleb took a long drink, then put ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• PRAISE
• TITLE PAGE
• DEDICATION
• EPIGRAPH
• CONTENTS
• 1.
• 2.
• 3.
• 4.
• 5.
• 6.
• 7.
• 8.
• 9.
• 10.
• 11.
• 12.
• 13.
• 14.
• 15.
• 16.
• 17.
• 18.
• 19.
• 20.
• 21.
• 22.
• 23.
• 24.
• 25.
• 26.
• 27.
• 28.
• 29.
• 30.
• 31.
• 32.
• 33.
• 34.
• 35.
• 36.
• 37.
• 38.
• 39.
• 40.
• 41.
• 42.
• 43.
• 44.
• 45.
• 46.
• 47.
• 48.
• 49.
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
• ABOUT THE AUTHOR
• ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
• COPYRIGHT
• ADVERTISEMENT