Blood Feud (50 page)

In the middle of doing the bathroom shuffle, he stopped me from entering with a gentle hand on my arm. His eyes were sincere and warm as he spoke. “Not all men are bastards, Tessie. Remember that.”

We searched each other’s faces for a loaded moment.

“I know that,” I said quietly, before slipping past him and off to bed.

Chapter 32

Unsurprisingly, that night I dreamt.

I danc
ed in Jake’s arms at a smoky, pulsating nightclub. He kissed my neck and ran his hands down my back and over my butt. I wanted him to, burning with desire for him, pressing my body up against his, feeling his hardness. He touched his lips on mine and I opened my mouth and met his tongue with my own. We kissed deeply for a long time, our hands wandering over each other, passion building up to volcanic levels, our bodies throbbing in time with the relentless beat of the dance music.

When the kiss ended I caught my breath and noticed the Sarge over Jake’s shoulder. He stood against the nightclub wall, his arms crossed, a disappointed expression on his face.

“
I bet Jake that Red couldn’t get you to dance with him, Tessie,” he said, his eyes full of pity. “I thought you wouldn’t.”

“
But this isn’t . . .
” I started to say and glanced up at my companion, only to find that it wasn’t Jake I’d been dancing with and kissing, it was Red.

I began struggling against him in panic, but Red held me in a death grip, throwing back his head and laughing and laughing. He thrust himself against me suggestively, pushing me backwards towards the fire exit.

“
I’m going to do you slowly tonight, lovely,” he laughed and he patted the knife he had sheathed on his thigh.

“
No!” I screamed, thrashing about uselessly in his arms. “Sarge! Help!”

But he didn’t hear me because he was busy with his phone, his thumb flying over the keypad, texting.

“
Sarge!” I screamed. “Please help me!”

He looked up from his phone, annoyed, his thumb poised mid-air. “Just go with him, Fuller. It won’t kill you to pull your weight around here for once.”

“
No! Sarge! He will kill me! He will!” I screamed desperately, tears streaming down my face. Red pushed me out the door to the dark and isolated garbage-filled parkland directly behind the club, laughing all the while. “Sarge! Help me! Help me!”

My last sight of him before Red bundled me
away from safety was him handing money over to a jubilant Jake.

I must have cried out in my sleep, because the Sarge came running into my room again, carefully removing my knife from my hand. I’d unsheathed it without even knowing. He put his arm around me and I leaned against him until I’d stopped panicking and my breathing had calmed down.

“Tessie, you can’t keep living with these nightmares,” he said patiently. “You need to see someone. Get some professional help. A psychologist maybe.”

I sniffed noisily and wiped my nose on my forearm. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

He chose his words carefully. “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’ve had to deal with a lot of trauma in your life and you’re trying to brush it all off as if it’s not affecting you.”

“I can’t afford to let it affect me because then I
would
go completely crazy.”

“It
is
affecting you. Don’t you see that? You’re not as tough as you think you are, Tess. All those suppressed emotions and fears come out when you’re sleeping. Why else do you think you have so many nightmares? Normal people don’t –”

Too late, he realised his mistake.

I pushed him away. “Yeah, I get it. I’m not normal. Maybe you should have been a shrink if you think you’re so good at knowing what makes me tick. I
am
tough and I’m not going to let any stinking Bycraft do my head in. That’s just what they want. My dreams mean nothing.
Nothing!
”

He stood up and looked down at me with some strong emotion in his eyes –
compassion?
At the door, he paused and glanced back. “Try to get some sleep.”

After five guilty minutes of lying awake staring at the ceiling, I climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway to his bedroom. I hesitated at the door. “I’m sorry, Sarge. I didn’t mean to be so ungrateful when you’re just trying to look out for me. I really appreciate it and I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

I couldn’t see his face in the darkness. “I meant what I said, Tess. You shouldn’t try to manage what has happened to you by yourself.”

“That’s where you come in, isn’t it?” I said, trying for a lighthearted tone, but suspecting I sounded wistfully needy.

“I don’t seem to have any effect on your nightmares. In fact, judging from how you were shouting out my name just then, I seem to have become yet another character in them. For good or bad, I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I’m sorry I can’t seem to help you more.”

“You do help me a lot. You coming here has made a big difference to my life,” I said. I wasn’t sure I’d have been brave enough to say that to him if it hadn’t been for the enveloping darkness.

When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “It’s been a long day. Try to get some sleep.”

I said goodnight again and headed back to bed where surprisingly, I slept deeply and didn’t dream again for the rest of the night.

We both slept in late the next morning. For once I was up first, and barefoot in my pyjamas, I raided his fridge. I began to cook us breakfast, filling the coffee pot, yawning my head off as I did.

When he stumbled out of bed, stretching and yawning, rubbing his face, his hand rasping over his stubble, I served up some toast, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes and big cups of strong coffee. Afterwards, while he washed up, I dressed and stepped out onto the front veranda, breathing in the spring air and thinking that I should head back home to look after my girls. The world seemed brighter, the birds chirpier and the air fresher with Red Bycraft locked away again.

Propped up against the exterior wall next to the front door was a parcel wrapped in brown paper, thin and rectangular shaped, about the size of a laptop. An envelope addressed to me lay on the veranda in front of it.

Suspecting another Bycraft letter, I opened the envelope with some natural trepidation. The writing was bold and florid, full of loops, brimming with self-confidence – definitely not from a Bycraft.

Dear Officer Tess

Poor Phoebe has been so shaken by her recent unpleasant experience, we have decided to cut short our visit to your lovely town. The dear girl no longer feels safe in the house while that man roams free. I have the bulk of what I need to finish my painting, so it doesn’t present any hardship for any of us to return to the hustle and bustle of city life.

As a token of my esteem and because such beauty should never be neglected, I have left you a small gift. You will admit that my imagination is masterful and accurate!!

Best wishes

Len Whittaker

I unwrapped the parcel to find a watercolour painting.

“Oh my God,” I screeched, unable to contain myself, certainly not expecting to open something like that on an ordinary mid-week morning.

It was a painting of me, in the nude, entitled ‘Tess of the Mountains’.

In the art work, I stood in a beautiful, verdant garden, a riot of flowering plants surrounding me, the rise of the mountains in the distance. My body was slightly twisted so that my back and butt were exposed, my hair hanging loosely down past my shoulder blades. My boobs were visible, one of them draped in a long diaphanous scarf. That wispy piece of material trailed over one shoulder, across my left breast and dangled down between my legs, barely preserving the modesty of my most private parts. My head was raised as if I was looking at something above me, showing the curve of my neck and jawline.

I was no art critic, but I had to admit it was a beautiful painting, well executed and proportioned, the lighting delicate, the colours tasteful and harmonious. But there was no getting away from the fact that it was a portrait of me in the nude. And Len Whittaker’s boast had not been idle – it was an exceptionally accurate portrayal of my body. It was almost as if he’d had x-ray vision and seen through my clothes. I stared down at the painting in disbelief, not even able to figure out which of the many emotions I currently felt about it was foremost.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Sarge, coming into the room, a tea towel thrown over his shoulder.

I clutched the painting to my chest, not wanting to show him. “Mr Whittaker did a painting of me.”

“That’s exciting,” the Sarge smiled. “Let me see it. He’s extremely talented.”

“No.”

He frowned. “Don’t be silly. Let me see it. I bet it’s marvellous.”

“Oh, it’s something all right. But I’m not sure if marvellous is quite the word.” I held onto it tighter. He pulled at it.

“Tess, let me see.” He yanked it from my arms and peered down at it. If I hadn’t been dying of embarrassment, it would have been terribly funny watching the myriad of competing expressions cross his face. “Oh. Hmm. Okay.” He tried a couple of other times to articulate again, his eyes glued to the painting. “When did you pose for this?”

“I didn’t! He’s taken artistic license with my body.”

“It’s very . . . I mean . . . It’s quite . . .” he spluttered. “You know, I don’t think there’s anything I can say about this piece of art that isn’t going to get me into a heap of trouble.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do with it? Take it home, show it to Dad and hang it in my lounge room? Because that’s never going to happen.”

He smiled. “We could hang it up at the station.”

I was not amused. “That ain’t happening either.”

“Why don’t you give it to Jake?”

“No way! Every man in the prison would take a copy, including the prisoners.”

“Something classy for Abe’s bar?”

“Ha ha.”

“An inspirational painting for the nudist colony?”

“You’re splitting my sides.”

“What about if I keep it for you? That way you won’t have to look at it.”

“Yeah, but then I’d be worried about
you
looking at it.”

He cast his eyes back down to the image of me. “I promise I wouldn’t.”

“You’re looking at it even while you’re promising
not
to look at it. I’m not sure you’re entirely trustworthy on this matter.”

He grinned. “Probably not. But I’d be proud to hang it in my house. It really is an exquisite little painting, Tessie, regardless of the subject matter. Look at the rendering of those mountains – beautiful and so realistic. This will be worth something one day. After all, he is an artist of some note and great talent. It’s a wonderful gift he’s given you.”

“I suppose,” I said ungratefully. “I’ll just shove it in a cupboard until I can bear to look at it again. Probably in about twenty years.”

“I have plenty of cupboard space,” he offered with undue haste. “Don’t hesitate to ask.”

I shook my head. “You’re a real piece of work, Maguire. And on that note, I’m going home. I have a ton of washing to do and chickens to look after and I want to get the house all sparkly for when Dad comes home.”

“What about work?”

“What about it? I pulled overtime last night, so I’m giving myself some time off today.”

“Nice of you to let your boss know,” he said, reluctantly handing back my painting.

Happily back in my house, all the windows opened to remove the stale air of forced enclosure, I cleaned and washed and baked for a few happy hours, ‘Tess of the Mountains’ safely stowed away in my bedroom cupboard. I might show it to Jake one day, if he ever forgave me for dinging his ute. I hadn’t heard from him since I rang him before we went after Red and didn’t like to guess how he’d be handling the news of his brother’s recapture.

Around lunchtime, I’d just hung up from arranging Dad’s return home when the Sarge rang me. He wanted to let me know that the dee team from Big Town had finally contacted him about what we’d told them regarding Dylan Krysztofiak. They’d promised to visit town tomorrow to interview old Mr Krysztofiak about his great-nephew.

That news annoyed me, not because they were taking us seriously at long last, but because they should have come here today to talk to Mr Krysztofiak so we could organise the manhunt for tomorrow. They were just wasting another day. It truly sometimes seemed to be an herculean task to catch the attention of the Big Town police from this far away.

No sooner had I hung up after my conversation with the Sarge, than my landline rang again. This time it was Abe, concern immediately evident in his voice.

“Tessie, it’s the New Zealand hiking group. They weren’t at breakfast as normal today and now haven’t showed up for lunch either. Yesterday, they told me and another staff member they were hiking to the Summit.”