Already Dead (5 page)

Whatever had loosened inside him to make him sob had been screwed back on tight. There was no trace of tears now. What Jax saw in his eyes was flat, hard and unnerving.

Her fingers were still on the door handle. She still had a chance. ‘Yeah, sure.' She leaned away from him, tugged on her arm.

It didn't move. Brendan's grip was a vice, crushing her flesh. He bent towards her, his face in her space, his voice low and measured. ‘We stay together. Do you understand?'

She swallowed on the fear wedged in her throat. ‘Yes.'

‘When your belt is released, you climb across the seat and get out my side.'

‘I won't –'

‘I need to get home, Jax. We do this together. I can protect you. Okay?'

She needed protection
from
him. ‘Okay.'

‘Unclip your belt. Leave your handbag.' He kept his hand around her wrist as she lifted one knee then the other over the gearstick and shuffled across. ‘Wait,' he ordered.

Still holding her arm, the gun at the small of his back hidden from outside view, he stood, head above the
doorframe, body moving as though he was scanning the car park. Jax did the same from inside, desperate for a way out, someone to shout to, a place to hide. The three young guys passed the rear window and kept walking. A woman in the next lane was helping two young children. At the cafe, the couple disappeared through automatic doors. There were more people in the car park but too far away to be of any use. The twenty-somethings were her best chance. But the kids were close. And Brendan had a gun.

‘Now.' Brendan dragged on her arm, pulling as she clambered out beside him. He wasn't as tall as she'd thought. She was a little above average, he was only half a head more.

The sun was blazing in the west, filling the air with humid January heat. It felt sweet and clean after the stifled tension in the car. Jax squinted in the glare, swinging her head to look for the twenty-somethings. They were two cars past hers, opening doors: one on the driver's side, two with their backs to her, all three with their heads down, balancing food as they pulled handles. She looked the other way. The kids were playing statues in the next lane, arms in the air, striking poses in the gap between the vehicles in front of Jax's. A straight line from here to there. She imagined gunshots and small bodies bleeding on the tarmac. Christ, she couldn't run that way. And the other direction, towards the young guys, meant getting around Brendan first.

Then it didn't matter which way she went. The pistol was pressed into the curve of her waist and she had no chance at all.

He whispered in her ear, ‘Give me the keys.'

She passed them.

‘The gun goes in my pocket but it stays in my hand.' He raised his eyebrows at her. She nodded. ‘We walk together, like a couple.' His grip on her wrist slid to her hand. It was strong and hot and crushing her fingers. He swung the car door shut, walked ahead of her to the lane, pulled her alongside with stiff-armed force, spoke quietly as they headed towards the cafe. ‘I wait for you while you go, then we come straight back out to the car. Okay?'

She nodded again. A lie: it wasn't okay.

The car park had been her best chance and he'd taken it away. Up ahead, a man in a high-vis work shirt walked out through the automatic doors, aimed a ball of rubbish at a bin. Okay, there were people inside. She didn't want anyone to get shot, she had to avoid that, but maybe she could create a diversion, whisper a message:
I'm a hostage, call the police
. And she was going to the bathroom. She'd used this one before – long sink, three or four cubicles, overhead windows. He couldn't stay with her the whole time.

The glass doors slid open and the smell of fresh coffee washed over her. There were tables on the left, most of them empty. Open fridges on the right, a single customer inspecting sandwiches. At the counter in front, the couple from the car park was placing an order. Jax took her sunglasses off and hooked them onto the front of her singlet top. She wanted her face on display, wanted someone to see the terror in her eyes.

Brendan dropped his mouth to her ear. ‘Just keep your cool. You're doing great. Great on the scale of no-one-will-pick-it.' He winked.

She wanted to be sick. Wished she could unclench her stomach enough to actually do it. That would cause a diversion.

As Brendan walked her shoulder-to-shoulder through the centre of the cafe, she searched for faces, anyone looking her way. There were none. Every single customer ate or drank or stared at newspapers, phones, the distant horizon. Avoiding eye contact, like she did when she came in for a break from the driving. Brendan steered her past the counter as though he'd been here before too. Maybe he had. Maybe he preferred organic produce when he wasn't thinking about killing himself.

There were no doors to the restrooms, just a gap in the wall and left to the Men's, right to the Ladies'. He turned right, marched her into the women's bathroom, stood in the narrow corridor between the long sink and the cubicles and said, ‘Which one?'

They were alone. All four doors were open. She walked to the one furthest from the exit. ‘I'll meet you outside.'

‘You'll meet me right here. I'm not leaving you alone.'

‘It's the women's toilets. You can't stay here.'

‘I can stay where I like.'

Yes, he could. The gun gave him permission.

‘Don't be long,' he said.

She had to pee, for God's sake. ‘I'll take as long as I need,' she snapped back. She pulled the door, turned the latch, looked up at the row of windows above. High and narrow. She'd have to stand on the seat, drag herself up by her fingers. And there was no point: the glass was reinforced with wire mesh. Bad. All bad.

She heard footsteps on the other side of the door – Brendan pacing the corridor, stopping outside her cubicle. She shut her eyes, held squeezed fists in the air and clenched her teeth on a long, internalised scream. There was no
escape here. No gaps under the doors she could belly-crawl through. No lipstick in her pocket she could write a note with. No keys to scratch a message. Tears filled her eyes as she sat. She gave in to them this time, her face crumpling, breath jagged, mouth open in a soundless wail.

The crash on the door jerked her out of it.

‘Come on!' he hissed. ‘We need to …'

More footsteps: the
click-clack
of high heels.

‘Oh.' A woman's voice.

‘Yeah, sorry,' Brendan said. ‘My wife's sick. I want to make sure she's okay.'

Jax stood, yanked at her underwear. ‘No. I'm okay, I'm –'

‘Morning sickness,' he said, talking over her. ‘Actually, all-day sickness.' He laughed a little.

‘Oh, right. No problem. I'll come back.' Footsteps moving away.

No, stay!
Jax fumbled the lock, pulled the door, saw Brendan filling the space. Stepped past him in time to see the swirl of a floral skirt disappear around the corner.

‘It's all right, she's gone.' He placed a firm, solid hand on her shoulder as he spoke.

Shoving it off, she watched herself in the mirror as she washed trembling hands at the sink. She looked like shit. Pretty much the way she felt. Sweaty and dirty and panicky. She splashed her face with water, wiped mascara from under her eyes, their pea-green dulled and darkened by fear and exhaustion. She tugged the band from a shoulder-length mess of blonde hair and refastened it, pulling herself together, steeling herself for the next bit. Hoping there was a police tactical response team armed and waiting for them in the cafe.

There wasn't. It was just the same crew: eating, drinking, waiting, staring. She thought about shouting – and about the gun. She couldn't duck, Brendan was holding her too tight; she didn't want to get shot and she didn't want to be responsible for a massacre. So she searched faces again, passed customers and staff, food in the fridges, three cappuccinos waiting to be collected. She wanted one. She wanted all three. And a stiff drink followed by a lie down.

At least Zoe wasn't here. She could be grateful for that.

There was a smoker at the single table outside. A semitrailer blowing exhaust. A queue for the McDonald's drive-through. Way down, in the slot where the three twenty-something guys had been, a man was talking on a mobile. As she walked beside Brendan, his arm holding her close to his side, she watched the man. He was between two vehicles, only head and shoulders above it – dark hair, sunglasses, collar and tie, phone to his ear. As they approached, his head turned and he faced them over the roof of a dark-blue sedan.

Her pulse picked up. Was it the guy from the centre lane? The one who'd turned off the motorway behind her? Hope swelled in her chest – and an impulse to wave and shout. But Brendan's hand was clutched firmly around hers and she remembered his words: rambled ones about people looking for them, about being a target.

The guy lifted an arm and rested his elbow on top of the sedan. Jax couldn't be sure where his eyes were behind the sunglasses but she fixed her own on him, willing him to see her desperation, hoping he wasn't there to pick her off. Three cars from her own, another two from his, she watched as he pulled the phone from his ear, tapped the screen and laid it on the roof. He didn't leave, made no
move to walk away or open a door. He just turned his head left and right in a brief, casual glance around the car park, then back to her. Or Brendan. Or the lane they were in. Maybe he was waiting for someone in the cafe. Maybe he was waiting for another call.

Definitely watching and waiting.

She checked the parking area. There was no-one else in her lane, no-one in the next, no-one close enough to hear her if she shouted. The guy by the blue sedan was her last chance. Trained people who won't stop, Brendan had said. He also thought he had nano spiders in his head. Was any of it real? Some of it? Which bits?

As she passed the bumper of the car beside hers, the guy turned his face away. Forearm on the roof, phone still there – another person not wanting to make eye contact. Brendan steered her ahead of him between the two vehicles, pressed her back to the passenger door and released her hand to reach into his pocket for the keys. She looked to where the kids had played earlier. It was two car-lengths from here to the next lane. The gun was in his pocket. Could she make it?

‘We get in the way we got out.' Brendan's voice was in her ear and something hard pressed into her thigh. Glancing down, she saw he'd taken out the gun, was holding it low and out of sight as he fumbled the keys on her ring.

No running, not with that there. Christ, she was going to end up back in the car with him. She took a brief glance over her shoulder, saw the guy by the blue sedan, his face turned towards them again. There was no mistaking it this time, even with the sunglasses. He wasn't bored with waiting and casting his eyes around. There was no attempt to shift his attention when she saw him. Not anything like
every other person she'd seen. He was watching them. Both of them. Taking in the whole scene as though he'd paid tickets to see it.

Jax's heart thumped.
Trained people who won't stop
. He was tall, wide across the shoulders, lean. Mid-to-late thirties. Collar and tie, black-framed sunnies. He seemed cool, composed, alert: bad guy or bystander? Maybe he had a white coat in his back seat.

She jumped as her locks released, scooted sideways as Brendan reached around her for the door handle. He held her in place with the flat of his palm in the centre of her back, opened the car, pressed her forwards. Two seconds and she'd be in the car again driving God knew where, possibly to Brendan's death. Or hers.

As she reached the doorway, she reeled her head around. She figured the man would have looked away again, that she'd have to get his attention, wave or shout and risk getting shot. But she didn't have to. His gaze was already there, as if he'd been waiting for her to turn. He'd lifted the sunglasses and the eyes she hadn't been able to see were light in colour, steely and focused on her. Not Brendan, not both of them. Just her.

She met them with her own, felt a buzz of connection, as though his vision had an energy that had reached out and touched her. And without thinking about who he was or what he wanted, Jax mouthed two words across the space between them:
Help me
.

Then Jax was in the car, shunting across the passenger seat, lifting her legs over the gearstick with Brendan close behind. She glanced sideways as she pulled her seatbelt on, couldn't see the blue-sedan guy from there, wondered if she'd made things better or worse. Or whether they'd changed at all.

‘Come on. Start the car.' Brendan was anxious again. Not the nano spider angst, just in a hurry to get out of the car park.

She backed out, caught sight of the guy. His sunnies were back on and he was talking into the phone again as he watched her vehicle pass. Brendan saw him too, turning his head to stare as the dark sedan disappeared behind them. God, she hoped the guy was talking to the police. Hoped the person on the other end wasn't ‘trained' and waiting for Brendan on the motorway.

She paused at the exit, unnerved and ticked off that she was behind the wheel and heading for another suicidal round with traffic. Last time, she'd only had her imagination to scare her. This time, she knew life and death were on board and fighting over the navigation.

‘Jax, come on. We can't sit here like this.'

She flicked her eyes at the rear-view mirror, saw the nose of a dark-blue car edging out of the lane she'd just left. It was him – it had to be. He was following? Maybe it
wasn't
safe to sit too long.

Hitting the accelerator, pushing the car to 110, she slipped onto the motorway between a flat-top truck and a bus. There were only two lanes now and Jax merged into the faster one, staying with the pace, wanting to keep ahead of whatever was behind. For ten minutes, she saw nothing but a mishmash of the same fast-moving flow she'd watched for more than an hour. Then, half-a-dozen cars back, the dark-blue sedan moved left between the two lines of traffic. Two minutes later it slid right again. Two cars behind her. Speeding up, getting closer.
Shit.

He was probably continuing his journey, she told herself. That's what people at service stations did. He'd called the police then got back on the road. He'd stopped for petrol and … what? Moved his car to the cafe parking to make a few phone calls. Who did that?

Brendan's earlier angst had turned to stillness: gun in his hand, upright in his seat, his attention on the small mirror on the outside of the passenger door. Maybe he'd seen the blue sedan, too.

They passed a turn-off, then another one.

‘Change lanes,' Brendan snapped. He waited two beats. ‘Now.'

‘There's a car beside us.'

‘Get ahead of it.'

Speeding up, flicking the blinker, she slid left. As Brendan swung his head to the rear window, she watched the traffic in her mirror. A white ute slipped into the hole she'd made
while other cars moved up. About thirty seconds later, the blue sedan merged. Three vehicles behind her.

‘Move back again,' Brendan told her.

She didn't want to jockey in and out of the fast lane. Didn't want to argue either – and she wanted to know what the guy from the car park was up to. She tapped the blinker.

‘Hit the pedal,' he ordered.

As she pulled ahead, the blue sedan stayed where it was, let four cars pass, then merged right.

‘Fuck.' Brendan spun around, ducked his head, checked the sky.

Jax looked too – no clouds, no choppers. What was real and what wasn't?

He swung to the back, to the front, lifted the gun, lowered it to the seat. ‘
Fuck.
'

Alarm fired inside her. ‘What?'

‘They found us. They've got us. We're fucked.'

Why was
she
fucked? They were after him, weren't they? ‘How do you know?'

‘We're being followed. Dark-blue Falcon. Five cars back. See it?'

Jax lifted her chin as though it was the first time she'd checked. ‘Yes.'

‘It was in the car park. Arsehole driver was watching us when we left. I should've fucking stopped him then. Fuck.
Fuck
. We've got to get off the road.'

‘It's the motorway. We can't just
get off
.' Her voice was high with fright, his panic infecting her. Had
she
done this? Was it real? She remembered the man's gaze on her in the seconds before she was pushed into the car, the buzz as their eyes touched. No smile, no hostility. Possibly a question.

Possibly she'd just been desperate for help.

‘We might be able to lose him if we can get off,' Brendan said. ‘When's the next exit?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘Shit.' Head front then back then front again. ‘Drive, for fuck's sake.'

‘I am.'

‘Well, stand on the fucking pedal!'

His agitation scared her. The thought of it turning violent scared her more. The speedo climbed to 130, 135. She didn't have a lead foot, didn't spend her driving life over the speed limit hoping a camera didn't pick her up. Her hands were clammy, shoulders tight, teeth locked. Two vehicles back, a four-wheel drive opted out of the race and moved into the outside lane. The blue sedan closed the distance.

A sign. To Newcastle, to every major stop between here and Brisbane. No exit coming up.

‘Fuck,' Brendan said.

‘He's behind us,' Jax said. ‘What can he do from back there?'

‘There's more than one.' He said it as though she was stupid. ‘And I'm not the only one with a weapon. They've got them. They're prepared. Guns and knives and … fuck, I didn't, I swear I … and … and fucking missiles.'

Jax pressed her lips together, blinked hard. He was going to lose it while she was twenty k's over the speed limit. She'd been a news reporter once, had seen the wreckage of fatal car crashes, and her memory was throwing up horrific images she'd tried to forget. Of crushed and charred vehicles, of covered bodies on roadways. And images that would never leave her, that the police
had shown her: Nick's body, covered and photographed without a vehicle in sight to explain it.

She clenched her teeth, eased her foot off the pedal. The car behind, a silver BMW, almost kissed her bumper before dropping back.

‘Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Good thinking. Do it fast with this guy in the way. Catch him off guard,' Brendan said.

Do what?

He spoke with his face turned away, twisting to his left. ‘Now.' The front end of a semitrailer was lumbering beside them, its load two car-lengths long. What was he thinking? ‘Get in front of it and do it, Jax.'

She hit the accelerator, moved in front of the huge engine, scanning the motorway ahead. There was no exit. Did he want her to get off the road here? It ran straight for at least a kilometre and the verge was narrow, bordered by bush and a low metal guardrail. Not a good place to pull over, not with an eighteen-wheeler on her arse.

‘Where is he?' Brendan asked.

As she glanced at the rear-view, the blue sedan slipped in behind the semi. ‘Just merged. A couple back.'

‘Okay.' He faced forward, spine pressed into the seat, slid the pistol chamber back and forth with a
chnk-chnk
, something proficient and practised in the way he did it. ‘Listen up. We pull over, let him fly past, give him a head start and get back on the road. Then we take the first exit. Ready?'

‘No, wait. I can't pull over here. It's not wide enough.'

‘We have to work with what we've got.'

According to what manual? ‘We don't have to do it here,' she said, hearing the plural ‘we' and wondering when
they'd become a team. ‘He's behind us. He probably can't even see us around the truck. We can wait until there's somewhere better.' Where her side of the car wouldn't be taken off by the grille of a speeding truck.

‘Fuck!' He swung his head to the rear window. ‘Did you see that?'

‘What?'

‘Cop car. Heading south. Lights on, no siren.'

The north- and south-bound streams were separated by a wide strip. For much of the distance up the coast, the space was filled with bush or cut rock, blocking the view of oncoming traffic. Sometimes there was a gap – dirt and rubble or a stretch of tarred surface where RTA vehicles could turn around and highway patrol cops sat with radars. Jax glanced across a clearing at the sparse flow heading south, craned her neck for a view in the mirror, but couldn't see through thick scrub.

‘But it was going the other way,' she said.

‘They're coming from Newcastle, not Sydney now.'

Who? The police? The cops were trained and wouldn't stop. They had guns … but missiles? ‘You're worried about the police?'

‘Cops will fuck it up. That arsehole's back there
now
.' There was a jerking tremor in his gun hand as he wiped it across his upper lip. ‘I wanted to see Katey. One more time. Just one
fucking
time.' Jax jumped as he lashed out with a foot, kicking the floor under the dash. ‘I'm not going to make it. I'm not going to get there. It's coming. It's coming soon.'

But he was starting to fall apart now.

Jax wiped a clammy hand down her thigh. She'd thought she had it worked out. That Brendan had bad guys in his
head. That he wanted to kill himself to stop them, wanted to see his wife and son first, maybe take them with him. Now she had no clue. Perhaps it was pointless trying to make sense of it.

They were approaching another RTA clearing. On the south-bound side, a big white sedan, similar to the dark-blue one behind them, was gunning it in the fast lane, riding low, flying past other vehicles. Small red lights danced along the bottom edge of the windscreen. Police. She glanced in the rear-view. Had she been slowing without realising it? The semitrailer was in the inside lane now. Only one car between her and the guy from the rest stop.

He sure as hell wasn't a bystander. Had he called the cops and was keeping tabs, hoping to catch it on his phone and upload it to YouTube later? Or had someone else in the cafe seen her distress and called Triple-0, and the driver with the sunnies was the arsehole Brendan was worried about?

And where were the damn police cars? If the ones they'd seen were looking for her, how bloody long did it take to turn around and head back? Maybe she should pull off like Brendan wanted. Take her chances on the verge, let the blue sedan go past, and wait for the police – or just run for her life. Any of that might be safer than staying in the car with Brendan.

The road up ahead disappeared around a bend. She had no idea what lay beyond it – possibly more narrow verge. But this was a motorway, and drivers had to stop sometimes – road workers, emergency services, people with car trouble – and traffic engineers made sure there were safe places to do it. She didn't need a whole damn car park, though. Another metre-width of verge would be fine. It would be fucking fabulous.

‘We're on, Jax.' Brendan's voice was a taut mixture of alarm and efficiency. ‘It's happening.' He was sideways in his seat again, shoulder pressed to the upholstery, face tucked behind the headrest like a TV cop hiding around a doorframe.

Her eyes snapped to the mirror and fear grew hot in her gut. The blue sedan was behind them. She could see sunglasses and dark hair, a black and white top. No shirt and tie. Had he taken them off or were there two men?

‘Shit.
Shit
.' Brendan crouched forward, eyes angled up.

Jax followed his gaze and panic surged through her veins like fire. A helicopter was hovering above them.