Heart of the Outback (17 page)

“We’ve got a kid in here, pig,” one of the men shouted. “Let us out free and clear. She don’t get hurt then.”

“You’re only making it worse for yourself, Andropoulos. We’ve got you dead to rights. Let the child go, then we can talk about a deal.”

“I won’t do no deal with no pig. I’m not going back inside again either.”

From somewhere within Steve heard a child whimpering. He glanced at his watch. Another three minutes — the longest three minutes of his life. He tried to appeal to the younger man. “Nixon, think about it. The law’ll go harder on you if you don’t free the kid. What do you want to do? Five years in gaol or would you rather it be ten?”

“Shut up!”

A bullet came through the back door to emphasise the point and then there was silence.

Where the hell was backup? He thought of Karrin and Pete and flicked the portable on. “Take cover. They might rush the front door.”

The absolute quiet inside began to worry Steve. He knew this sort of crim — he’d dealt with them for years — they were concocting some harebrained plan, his tightening gut told him that. But what? In his initial reconnoitre he’d seen bars on the side windows which eliminated them as a means of escape. That left the front or the back door. They’d know he would have called for backup, so they had two choices. Make a run for it or try to bargain a deal using the child for leverage. With crims, especially
types like Andropoulos, one never knew which way they’d jump.

Another piercing scream from the child galvanised Steve into action. He didn’t have time for backup, there had to be action
now.
Checking that Karrin and Pete were in secure cover and signalling for Mario to cover him, he moved forward. It took two blows with his gun butt to smash in the back window and clamber inside. In a brief glance he noted that the drugs were gone and then, flattening himself along the kitchen wall he crept to the doorway which led into a darkened hall. His ears strained to catch any foreign sounds.

With some surprise he realised the heavy breathing belonged to him, and the only other sound was a child’s occasional sniffle. He deduced that Andropoulos and Nixon were at the front of the house, planning their move. He used his portable to warn Karrin that they might rush the front door and then he assessed the situation. He thought about going into the hallway but if he did he’d be a sitting duck. His throat dried up with tension so he swallowed hard and took several deep breaths. Maybe another verbal appeal might work … Shit, didn’t they know they were cornered?

The next instant Andropoulos’s bulky figure edged around a doorway. The silence was shattered by the explosion of a .38 calibre gun.

“Take that, pig!” The shot was followed by a burst of mad laughter.

The bullet lodged in the plaster wall near Steve’s head and in the dimness fine plaster particles sprayed all over him. Close. Too bloody close!

Seconds later, in a flurry of movements, they made their break. One hurled the front door open and half-bent over rushed through it.

The second man began to follow. Steve aimed and fired. A yelp of pain told him he’d hit his mark. The shadowy figure lurched sideways and fell to the floor, howling with pain.

Then, as he moved down the hall, the world went mad.

He heard a hail of bullets. One, two, three … Steve lost count. Crouching low he crept into the front room and found the child, a street kid of about eleven, cowering in a corner. She looked okay. Several voices yelled, there was a scream, no, two screams after which a rush of blue clad uniformed men stormed the open front door. One officer flicked the hall light on as they entered.

“Parrish,” a constable yelled, “they got your partner. It’s bad.”

Nixon had been wounded in the thigh but Andropoulos, determined not to face more gaol time, had been fatally wounded. Karrin, shot in the neck, stayed on the critical list for three days — the bullet had missed the carotid artery by a mere centimetre. A probationary constable collected a nasty wound, a bullet in the stomach. In the melee the street kid escaped unnoticed.

As soon as Karrin was well enough she resigned from the service. Steve knew she bore him no ill-will but the experience had been too close to live with and her fiancè insisted she leave. There’d been the usual counselling crap, and all the psycho-analysing he could stomach. Plus some he couldn’t. Then his
superior suggested a move to another section, state licensing, telling him it was better for him to stay off the streets for a while.

The Police Internal Affairs hearing absolved Steve of responsibility over the Smith-Nixon shooting incident. But for Steve, life had gone downhill from there on in. His long-time girlfriend, Tracy, left him to marry another cop. Karrin’s fiancè popped him one on the nose for almost getting her killed, and half his mates started to drift away, too busy with their families, they said. And no matter what the internal affairs decision had been,
he
blamed himself, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on why things had gotten out of hand.

He knew in his heart, and that others knew too that he was at fault. Rashness or timing or maybe the decision to storm in through the back of the house had pushed the crims into a course of action that could have been avoided if he’d waited for backup and for a hostage negotiator. Whatever … the cumulative effect on him had been profound.

He blinked and stared unseeingly at the front fence which surrounded his neat, fibro cottage. He slowly shook his head. What was the point in going over it again and again?

The whispers had begun after the I.A. finding. Subtle. Sly. “Parrish’s lost his nerve.” “Parrish can’t stand being on the streets any more.” They said he was washed up as an effective cop, said all he could ever be was a pencil pusher. His mouth turned down in a grimace as he remembered the digs. He’d never heard anything directly though, just second- and third-hand murmurings.

His mind returned to the present and he saw that it was almost dark. Bugs flew around his head and several mossies were finding him a juicy target. He sighed and pushed the past to the back of his mind, his gaze wandering around the rooftops of the houses on the other side of the street. Mt Isa had been his salvation. The NSW police union had organised a transfer to the Queensland service and he’d asked to be posted to the country — as far away from a major city as he could get.

Steve stood and stretched his one hundred and eighty-five centimetre frame in the darkness, welcoming the cooler night air. Above him millions of stars shone in an ink black sky. He grinned to himself. It had taken him a while to get used to that particular panorama. And then, strangely, his thoughts returned to the dark-haired woman who’d sparked off the memories. Francey … Why was it so hard to get her out of his head? He tried to think about something else.

The ballistics report should be through any day now. When it arrived he would take a run out to Murrundi and acquaint CJ with the results, confidentially, of course. Quite illogically, the thought of seeing Francey Spinetti again buoyed him immensely, though he knew nothing could come of it. Whistling tunelessly under his breath, he opened the screen door and went inside.

T
he indulgence of being on holiday evaporated the next morning after breakfast when Francey, CJ and Les had a three hour session on the proposed mini conference centre.

After breakfast Les brought out several folders and a rolled up set of plans, and once the crockery and cutlery had been removed, they got to work. Francey hadn’t been idle either. She had compiled a list of items she thought the centre would require and as the hours passed they hammered out what equipment the conference centre would need and just what it was meant to do.

“I see it as having a two-pronged function,” CJ decreed. “I want people, they’ll be important folks, to feel comfortable. Five star accommodation, and all the facilities one would find in a top hotel which caters for conferences.”

“Of course,” Francey agreed. She looked
down at her list. “A reception and dining area, with bar. A lecture room that houses state-of-the-art electronic equipment, overhead display unit, closed-circuit TV, hi-fi system. I think you’d also want a business room where guests could get onto the Net, send and receive faxes and e-mail, make phone calls and so on. Alternatively, each suite could be equipped with such facilities. Perhaps a leisure room for pool and table tennis, darts, video games. Accommodation would consist of single and twin suite type rooms with private facilities, mini-bars, spa baths, the usual.”

“We’d want a kitchen for food preparation and we’ll need staff accommodation too because CJ’s conferences will be spaced over several days,” Les put in. “As well, the facility should be close enough for guests to access the pool and the tennis court.”

Francey had already thought of those things but smiled her agreement at him anyway. Looking at CJ she said, “First of all you need to decide where this centre is to be located on the property. Do you have an aerial photograph of Murrundi station?”

“Should be one around somewhere,” CJ frowned as he tried to remember where. “Les, go ask Lisa, she’ll know where it is.”

As Les trotted off to find the photograph, CJ fingered the sets of rolled up plans on the table. “This is what the other architects have come up with. Do you want a peek at their designs?”

Francey shook her head. “I’m already working on a design in my head — I don’t want it corrupted by someone else’s work.” Her expression was disapproving as she added, “Besides, that’s not ethical.”

CJ shrugged and then decided that he liked her confidence and her frankness. It was also refreshing to find someone with ethics. In that respect she reminded him a little of his son. Richard had been exceedingly honest, a straight upfront kind of man. “You know I expect you to stay until you come up with a complete design?”

“Les mentioned that yesterday. I don’t think my boss is going to be too pleased. He expects me back in the office in five days time.”

“Don’t worry about Nicholson, I’ll clear it with him,” CJ assured her. He had no doubt that once Nicholson had a whiff of the financial carrot he planned to dangle in front of his nose, he’d be only too pleased to let Francey stay on for as long as was necessary.

“Found it,” Les said triumphantly as he returned with a rolled up photo. “It’s a couple of years old and we’ve added two more buildings to the place since then, but it gives a fairly accurate picture of positioning and space.” He unfolded the laminated photograph and used a couple of ornaments from the sideboard to hold the curling corners down.

Francey studied the map. How different things looked from the air, she thought. The homestead, the pool and the tennis court stood out quite well, then there was the scattering of other buildings further back from the homestead. She glanced at CJ. “Have you any preferences as to where you want the centre?”

CJ stared at the photo. Twenty-six years ago there had just been land and shrubs and spinifex. He had carved everything with his hands, money and
energy, with the belief that one day his would be the finest station in far north Queensland. Now he had achieved all that he’d dreamed. A sudden sadness stabbed at his heart. He had thought, foolishly perhaps, that with all his wealth he could control everything he cared about. Fate had proven him wrong and had brought with it a painful reality. Now he had only Natalie to leave his empire to. A bitter taste rose in his throat and he swallowed hard to rid himself of the unpleasant flavour.

Regathering his thoughts CJ said, “As Les said, it shouldn’t be too far from the homestead. How about on the knoll at the left of the main house?”

“Yes, that’s where I would suggest,” Les concurred.

“Or …” Francey’s tone was thoughtful, “the other side of the row of pines?” She tore a sheet of paper off her pad and began to sketch. “You could extend the drive around the back of the tennis courts and behind the conifers and the conference centre could face the pool. If you pulled out two or three conifers you’d have a connecting path from the centre to the pool. That would integrate the conference centre with the homestead quite well, yet still afford the main house reasonable privacy.”

“Yes,” Les said slowly, “that makes sense. On the knoll, people would have further to walk to get to the pool, the stables and the tennis court. What do you think, CJ?”

“I’m not real good at visualising things” CJ admitted — a strange statement for a man who’d carved a business empire from the ground up. “The idea makes sense.” He silently wondered why the two other architects hadn’t seen that potential. Both had
positioned the proposed conference centre on the knoll without even bothering to discuss it with him.

“Okay. Now what type of accommodation? For how many people?”

“We thought between eight and ten,” Les told her, “and in the staffing section allow for up to six. They can have twin or bunk style accommodation equivalent to a three star motel.”

Francey could barely suppress her excitement. Her mind was already feverishly working on floor layouts, style and line. Perhaps a courtyard garden of some sort, maybe a large spa. Her fingers itched to get a pencil and ruler into her hand.

After another hour’s discussion on details, Francey thought she had enough notes to get on with the job. She rose from the table and began to gather her paperwork. “Well, gentlemen, I think you’ve given me enough to get started. You’ve both been very helpful.” She looked at her watch. “I’d like to get some preliminary work done before lunch so if you don’t mind —”

“What do you work on first, the floor plan or the elevations?” Les asked interestedly.

“The floor plan. Once that’s done I concentrate on how the building will look.”

“Off you go then,” CJ said, with a wave of his hand. “I never try to stop anyone who wants to work. These days so few do.”

“I’ll show you to your cubbyhole office,” Les said, grinning. And then he asked, “You don’t suffer from claustrophobia, do you?”

“It’s not that small,” Francey retorted with a good-natured grin.

CJ’s expression was contemplative as they left. The young architect appeared to know her stuff and Les, he grinned and shook his head, could hardly keep his eyes off her. His CEO deserved a good run with a woman for a change, after Nancy, but Francey Spinetti wasn’t going to be here long. Yes, he must talk to him, discreetly, of course.