Floored (8 page)

“I obviously get my own room.”

He grinned like he was on holiday too. “Obviously.”

“We have some rules to sort out.”

“I thought you might want that. Can we do it tomorrow? I really need a new shirt.”

He really did
.

She parked the car. He put his vest back on, climbed out, and disappeared into the reception, came back with two keys and handed her one. “Next stop, late night shopping.”

He got back in the car and she found the shopping centre five minutes up the road. As she parked, he consulted his watch. “Meet you back here in, say, an hour?”

“Make it an hour and a half.” She could shop and eat in that time and then she wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him again before the morning.

He nodded and held out a roll of money. It could’ve been thousands of dollars. “That’s too much.”

He shrugged. “Get whatever you think you need. Bring me back the change.”

She must’ve looked dubious, because he said, “And receipts, bring me the receipts,” as if it made a difference to the legitimacy of it all.

At the entryway to the centre they parted. She didn’t see him leave. He was there one minute and nowhere in sight the next. She’d known he could be quiet. She’d seen he was fast on his feet today, but that thin air act—that was just plain spooky. And a huge relief. She felt like she could breathe properly again; like her shoulders weren’t wedged up under her ears.

She didn’t want Fetch to know he’d tossed her a rope ladder to a new life. She didn’t want Fetch to know anything about her. Bad enough he was a good guesser. Well, she wouldn’t be giving him any more information to go on from here. He was just her high paying passenger, her ticket to ride.

She found the food court and ordered grilled fish and chips. She should’ve got the vegetables but the chips called to her. Tomorrow before they got in the Statesman she’d lay down the ground rules. No more than seven hours of driving a day. A mandatory lunch stop and leg stretch. No more than four hours driving at any one stretch without a break. No driving at night. Definitely no overnight stays in the car. Appropriate accommodation was to be found. No eating in the car. Drinking: water, coffee, that was okay. No smoking, no loud music, no distracting the driver by not wearing a shirt. In fact, all clothing to stay firmly on at all times while in the vehicle. No more bleeding. No getting in the front seat. And he absolutely was not, at any stage, ever, to sit behind the wheel.

The route for the day was to be decided the night before. Fetch could determine the plan for the day, but she’d have final say. If she didn’t like it—it wasn’t on. Other than when driving together, or discussing the plan for the next day, there’d be no fraternising. The only meal they needed to eat together was lunch. And if talking could be kept to a minimum, that would be preferable.

She wanted twelve thousand five hundred dollars upfront, before they went anywhere. If he didn’t like any of the rules then she’d get in the Statesman alone and drive away.

When they called her number she went and collected her meal. What the hell was she thinking? There was no way this man was going to hand her twelve thousand five hundred dollars tomorrow morning. And if he did, and she took it, she was as culpable in whatever this was as he was.

She ate the fish, tasteless even doused in lemon, and the chips were soggy. Served her right for weakening for them. She made a shopping list. She needed clothing, shoes and more toiletries, and something to carry them in. This was a small shopping centre, she didn’t think she’d have much luck getting another pair of tailored trousers, and she couldn’t wear the ones she had on for two weeks. She could dress down a little, some jeans, a cap instead of her hat. It’s not like he was going to care. He wasn’t exactly on anyone’s best-dressed list. Luckily her gym bag was in the boot with her running gear, and some other stuff she toted around to keep safe.

She should go to the supermarket, the chemist. She should palm her keys, go back to the car park, get in the Statesman, drive home and forget she’d ever been stupid enough to consider this.

This wasn’t the dumbest thing she’d ever done. She could toss up for the dumbest; staying with Justin so long, or the way she left him. But it was fingernail on fingertip close.

That’s what she’d do. Leave now. She could go back via the motel and leave his cake tin with reception. He’d be annoyed, but what could he do about it. She’d be reneging on a deal, on a handshake, but it wasn’t like he was the kind of man you could trust anyway. He was the opposite of a man you could trust, and unlike with Justin, it was obvious he was hiding something, lots of things. She put her hand in her bag and ferreted for her keys. She stood up, she could hear them but not see them. She peered into the bag and then jumped like a spooked cat when he spoke.

“Glad I caught you. Here.” He was standing in front of her, still looking like a bloody wreck, holding out an envelope. Did he have a cloak of invisibility? Was he a stealth weapon? The food court was half empty, how did he get here without her seeing him?

“What’s that?” She looked at the envelope suspiciously. It couldn’t be.

“Deposit. I wanted you to have it before we started out. We can stop at your bank tomorrow.”

“There’s…” she didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Yes. Like we agreed. It’s all there. You can count it,” he looked about, “but maybe not here. The hotel has a safe if you want to keep it there overnight.”

“Where did you…” She sat back down. “Never mind.” He wouldn’t tell her where he got it from, and she didn’t want to know, though a cake tin would be good bet.

He stood there looking at her. He was still wearing his leather vest, his t-shirt tied around his arm, but he’d cleaned up some; his hands and chest weren’t bloody. He shook the envelope. “Are you going to take it?”

She looked up at his face, into those rich blue eyes.

“It’ll be fun.”

“It won’t be fun for me. It’s work.”

“Right.” He shook the envelope again. “You should take the money.”

It was just work. And a good chance at greater safety. One she’d been too short-sighted to take before. But if she took the money now, she couldn’t go through this torturing herself about the right and wrong of it every day for the next two weeks. If she took the money, she had to suck up the guilt, throttle it down and swallow it whole. That’s something she should be used to anyway. She knew the taste of guilt. It tasted oddly the same as freedom.

She held out her hand and he put the envelope in it. It felt like security.

10: Bolt

Caitlyn was determined to beat Fetch back to the car. But there he was, leaning on the boot waiting for her. He had a new grey t-shirt on under the vest, but there was dried blood splattered down the leg of his jeans that didn’t look like it would ever wash out. She wondered if your average suburban mall could suitably outfit a Black Pariah in new bikie scunge. He was surrounded by store bags: Athlete’s Foot, Lowes, Chemist Warehouse, a hardware store—she didn’t want to think about what he’d bought there—and Target, where she’d thankfully managed to avoid him; because running into Fetch with an armload of underwear was up there with embarrassing moments that could scar you for life.

He reached out to take her bags, but she stepped aside. She could manage without his help. He should know that from the beginning. She popped the boot and he stood back while she dumped her bags in, and followed with his. When he closed the lid, she had the back door held open for him. He gave her a flash of those amused eyes and climbed in. She got in the driver’s seat and went for her belt. His phone was ringing. He put it to his ear but said nothing. He was back out of the car before she had a chance to click her belt in place.

Now he was talking, she could hear him through the open back door. She should get out and close it, but he was standing right there. “Wasn’ me. I didn’t do it.” He sounded whiney and thickheaded. He was talking to someone called Wacker and alternatively complaining and pleading. His voice sounded rougher, he was less articulate. He dropped his letters and stumbled over words. He said, “N-n-no. No. I didn’t, didn’t do it. It was done before I got there. I ain’t comin’ back. I don’t got the money. Red took it all.”

Caitlyn was mesmerised. She should’ve turned the radio on to block the sound of him out, but the sight of him stalled her. He’d wandered a little way into the next empty car space. Even his posture was different. He was hunched over; he looked smaller, shorter, more volatile. A man who’d hit you as easily as he looked at you. He was a different man to the cool-headed pseudo-gentleman she’d had riding in her car. The man she watched, almost cowering while he was on the phone, did look like someone’s scared to death messenger boy.

She turned the radio on. She didn’t know anything about Fetch and she didn’t want to—except he’d missed his true calling. He should’ve been an actor, because his performance was outstanding.

But when he got back in the car and said, “Sorry about that. Let’s get out of here,” and didn’t drop a letter or stutter, or look about furtively as though he thought someone might pounce on him any moment, she understood his routine.

He was an undercover cop.

She’d had the notion fleetingly when he’d been so knowledgeable about phone number blocking. It’d been a rogue thought then, now it was a fully-grown brainstorm. It fitted. His inability to explain himself—the whole ‘it’s complicated’ thing. His insistence on being a good guy. His want to protect her from unspecified danger. His complete composure in the face of being hurt, and the way he managed her own rising panic when they were under threat.

She started the engine and backed out of the spot. Now she was really in trouble. He was the law and she was the law-breaker. He was more dangerous to her now than when he was an idiot gang member. He simply could not know anything about her. That limited fraternisation, no talking preference was suddenly a hardcore rule.

She moved into traffic on the way back to the motel. Should she tell him she knew he was a cop? That she’d figured out she was some kind of material witness he wanted to keep quiet?

She should’ve stayed in bed today. Should’ve driven off when she saw him limp up outside number 32. She’d had a hundred other chances to get away from him, and she’d not taken them because she’d been seduced by the money and the opportunity, and the fact that he was a chocolate-coated bad guy to whom her crime would seem so plain vanilla boring. Let’s face it, she’d been seduced by those blasted blue eyes and the way he looked at her.

Now there was no getting away. If she bolted, he’d be on her like seeds on strawberries. She clearly hadn’t covered her tracks well enough. If Justin, amateur status criminal, big league tax dodger, could find her again, this man would get to the truth in less time than it took to make thermos coffee. But if she stuck to the plan, played the opportunist in search of easy money, and gave him no reason to get too interested, maybe he’d be satisfied by simply keeping an eye on her and not delve any further. If she kept her head screwed on, this might still work out okay. She had twelve thousand dollars in an envelope in her bag that was an inducement to believe it would.

He was sprawled in the middle of the back seat. The centre belt looped over his hips, his head kicked back. His body looked relaxed, but his eyes were watchful. He was scanning the road. He was on lookout.

Who was she kidding? He was an undercover cop. He could probably smell deceit from two rooms away. It was likely seeping out of her pores and stinking up the Statesman. He could doubtless find liars, cheats and thieves blindfolded in a maze. He might already be on to her.

Why hadn’t he been straight with her? Wouldn’t it have been easier to tell her he was a cop from the beginning, or at least from the McDonald’s car park? He wanted her to think he was some kind of vigilante bad guy with a heart of gold. She could think of two reasons.

She pulled into the driveway of the motel. He’d unbuckled and climbed out before she shut the engine off. One: he didn’t think he could convince her of being on the right side of the law. On the surface it was a tall tale. Two: he wasn’t. He was bent and he knew she knew it. Another bent cop. Which meant she really was his hostage.

His highly paid hostage.

That didn’t make sense. She followed him out of the car. He was waiting patiently at the boot, the cake tin in his hand. She popped the lid. The last time she’d felt this confused she’d been standing in her bedroom at the house watching Justin and Detective Carolyn Martin together in her bed.

Maybe Fetch was a good cop. Maybe he was a bad cop. Maybe he was just a bikie with multiple personality disorder. Everything he’d said was probably a lie. Which meant she was either a hostage, someone who needed protection, or the hired help?

She was so very tired. She was in whatever this was to her earlobes, and she didn’t know what the heck was in that cake tin, but it sure as hell wasn’t cake.

“Your room is on the top floor around the back. I’m here,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the room directly behind where she’d parked. He’d taken the hint about letting her handle her own bags. They were piled together on the ground. “I’ll see you in the morning. Meet here at eight. Breakfast, then we’ll stop at the bank for you before we head out.”

She nodded. This would give her time to think. She watched him scoop a couple of his bags off the ground. When he turned to go, she could see his sleeve was soaked with blood and it dripped from his elbow.

“Your arm.”

He screwed his head around to look down. “Oh bugger.” He looked up. “Ah, how do you feel about helping me re-bandage it?”

She lifted the first-aid kit from the boot and slammed the lid down. She collected her own bags and followed him into his room. Assuming she didn’t decide to bolt, there was another rule she needed to add to the list. No visiting each other’s rooms, unless someone was bleeding to death. She left the door open.

“You need a doctor.”

He dumped his bags and took his vest off. He pulled the t-shirt over his head awkwardly. Somehow he’d managed to fix a crude bandage over the wound, but the white gauze and tape were soaked.