In Safe Arms (15 page)

Or had he merely been craving a woman?

Any woman?

Josie turned over quietly and stared at the strips of moonlight filtering in through the plantation shutters. It seemed unimportant now, when her only wish was for his safe return.

He didn’t know it, but his rejection two years ago had armed her with valuable knowledge. She would have slept with him that night — God knows, she’d been drunk enough and willing enough. But he’d acted with integrity, and in the process set a benchmark for her. From that moment, she knew the kind of man she wanted, and she’d hung onto that, unwilling to settle for second best. Not that she’d compared every man to Nate and found them lacking, but she’d hoped when she settled down in the future, it would be with someone like him, a man in his mould.

Someone strong.

Someone unwilling to take advantage, just because he could.

And then on Sunday night, the real deal had burst back into her life, an undercover cop dressed as a bikie. And she realised she didn’t know Nate Hunter very well at all.

That didn’t mean she believed Dickson.

Nate would never have kissed her if there was someone else in his life, no matter how far away they were.

Suddenly, the quiet hum of an engine fractured the stillness of the night.

Josie sat up and threw off the bedclothes, energy flowing through her veins, heart leaping in her chest. She heard Dickson moving in the next room, and by the time she stepped into the hallway he was already heading for the foyer, gun held close against his shoulder.

He placed a finger to his lips as she joined him, and they stood on the cold tiles, listening as a car came slowly up the road. A sweep of headlights illuminated the foyer through the stained glass panels on either side of the front door, and Josie held her breath, waiting to see if the car turned into the driveway or continued along the road.

It did neither.

The engine cut out, and everything went silent again.

In the shadows, Josie stared at Dickson’s worried face, his gaze on the front door, listening for any sound coming from the road.

‘Go into the living room, Josie,’ he said, a minute or so later when they still hadn’t heard so much as a door closing. ‘I’ll take a look out the front windows.’

She did as he asked, hurrying down the steps. She wouldn’t earn herself any brownie points by insisting she go with him.

Too keyed up to sit, Josie took one of Nate’s trophies off the mantelpiece. Unable to read the engraving in the gloomy light, she wrapped her hands around the shiny gold cup, feeling better for holding one of his personal possessions in her hands, especially one awarded for his strength and endurance. Traits she knew him to possess. Traits he relied on for his survival among the Altar Boys.

‘There’s a car across the road,’ Dickson said a few minutes later when he came back into the room. ‘I can’t make out the colour or model, but from the general outline, it could be Nate.’

Josie tightened her grip on the cup, fear weighing down her limbs. ‘Why wouldn’t he come into the garage?’

‘Don’t know. He could be waiting, making sure he wasn’t followed.’

‘Wouldn’t he have messaged you?’

‘Not necessarily.’ Dickson checked his watch. ‘It’s only three fifteen. He’s still within the time frame. If there was a problem in town, I’d expect to hear from him closer to the deadline.’

Josie breathed a little easier.

‘I should check it out though. Will you be okay here?’

She nodded.

‘Stay in your room, so I know where to find you.’

For the second time that morning, Josie did as he asked, returning to her room and slipping into the corner between the door and wall, just as she’d done the night Barry Simpson turned up.

Trophy still clutched in her hands, she tried to remain positive, despite an almost psychic feeling something was wrong. It was almost twenty-four hours since Nate had left, more than enough time for the thirsty iPhone battery to run down. She’d noticed a phone charger in the WRX the morning they’d gone to get food supplies, so the phone would have been fully charged by the time he reached the city. After that, he was on the bike, and she had no idea whether he had access to a charger in the interim.

And who knew what plans the Altar Boys were making, and how long they’d require him to be there?

There were so many variables, and with no communication, it was all guess work.

But one thing she was certain of. If Nate was in the clear, he wouldn’t be sitting in the WRX outside. He’d want to get the car off the road and into the garage as soon as possible. And he’d know she and Dickson would be worried.

Five minutes later, she was still waiting, trying to hold back the wave of uneasiness threatening to swamp her. Shivering, she peered through the narrow gap, heart thumping so hard she could see the ladybeetles on the front of her pyjama top moving.

Where the hell was Dickson?

Just then, there came a footfall, and the front doorknob turned.

Josie listened, throat like sandpaper from breathing through an open mouth.

Slowly, stealthily, the door swung open.

Outside, the breeze had picked up a little, whispering through the valley like a soft breath, sending cool fingers of air wafting into the bedroom.

And then the door closed with a quiet snick.

Silence.

Nothing.

Josie swallowed the lump of fear wedged at the back of her throat.

Then a man’s voice cut through the silence. ‘Hello?’

Josie’s legs almost gave way beneath her. The man had to be standing in the foyer, listening, just like her.

A shoe squeaked on the tiles, then, ‘Can you come out, girl?’

Josie jumped, as if he’d whispered the words in her ear. It sounded like the same man who’d knocked on the door the other night — Barry Simpson.

Maybe.

She slammed her eyes closed, suddenly four years old again and hiding under her bed, Nanny Kate’s kind voice coaxing her out, the soundtrack to her early life.

Come out, Josie, hiding won’t make them stay, and you’ll miss your chance to say goodbye. Your parents have to go away and you need to be brave. Come on, lead with your best foot
.

Josie wanted to scream, and she wanted to curl up on the floor. She wanted to go to sleep so it all melted away.

But it wasn’t her nature to give in like that.

Especially not now.

Not with Nate missing.

And Dickson.

God, where was Dickson?

Come on, Jos. Best foot forward
.

She was twenty-one tomorrow, not a four-year-old child consumed by a separation anxiety so severe it delayed her speech, turned kindergarten into its own special kind of hell.

Lips trembling, she stared at the trophy until her eyes stung, finger tracing its sharp edge. She’d learned — until she could speak like the rest of them. She’d learned, until she could
swear
with the best of them.

A huge relief.

Being able to express herself.

Another squeak on the tiles as the man moved further inside the house.

‘No use hiding, girl. I’ll find you.’

Blood surged through Josie’s arteries, temples aching from the pressure, muscles in her legs turning weak.

‘I need that reward.’

Reward? What reward?

‘I saw your old man on TV, and my son saw you in the car park with Nate.’

Josie stilled. From the carry of his voice, Barry Simpson had gone the other way, towards the kitchen.

This is your safe house. It’s crucial you learn the layout
.

Nate’s voice in her head brought strength to Josie’s limbs, and she slipped from her hiding place and glanced at the sliding door. If only she could go over the railing and flee to the air raid shelter, but there was no way off the enclosed verandah.

‘The guy outside. I knew he was bad news.’

Josie’s blood went cold in her veins.

What had the bastard done to Dickson?

‘I need that money. I’ll be good to get you to the police station.’

He was taking a conversational tone, trying to entice her out, desperate enough to gamble on coming into Nate’s house, when he couldn’t possibly be sure of the facts.

The house is a mirror image. Three bedrooms and a bathroom this side. Kitchen, garage and laundry on the other
.

Gathering her courage and grateful of her bare feet, Josie tiptoed to the door and listened. The hallway was in darkness, the only light coming from the foyer up ahead. If Barry Simpson went far enough in the other direction, she’d have a chance of making it outside. She counted along in her head as he opened and closed doors along the opposite passageway. The laundry. The garage.

The linen closet?

Praying he was near the kitchen, Josie stepped into the hallway, treading lightly, carpet soft beneath her soles and muffling her footsteps. Eyes trained ahead, she clung to the shadows, creeping closer to the foyer and ignoring every female instinct to run away from Barry Simpson and not towards him. But only the bathroom and bedrooms lay behind her, windows locked, trapping her inside the house.

Arms extended, she gripped the heavy trophy, the need to escape infusing strength into her legs. The landing was ahead, where the carpet met the white tiles, living room to the left, entry foyer to the right.

Two doors.

One leading into the garage.

The other, out the front door.

And then a man stepped into the hallway opposite. He looked straight at her, older, broader than she’d imagined him.

They moved as if a starting pistol had been fired in the fifty metre dash, Josie hurtling towards him, anger propelling her forward. He was thick set, barrel-chested and deceptively fast, and by the time she reached the living room she knew she wasn’t going to make it.

They circled each other like sumo preparing to grapple, him stocky and a little stooped, Josie younger, fitter and filled with a burning rage that made the difference.

How dare he come uninvited into Nate’s home!

How dare he hurt Dickson!

The side of his foot caught the rug, and for half a second he lost his balance. Josie struck, wielding the trophy like a cricketer going for a hook shot. He raised a forearm, tried to deflect the blow, but she was quick, the sharp edge of the cup catching him across an eyebrow.

He went down on one knee, claret flowing from the wound.

She glimpsed his face.

Grey hair.

Hawkish nose.

Seventies “porn star” moustache.

Barely conscious of the scream escaping her throat, Josie raised the cup and brought it down on Simpson’s crown, the force of the blow so hard the cup broke off from its base and skated across the white tiles.

She glanced at what remained in her hand, a jagged piece of metal protruding from the wooden base.

He lashed out, backhanding her with a slap that snapped her teeth together. Josie reeled and went down, half landing on top of him, the remains of the trophy still clutched in her hand. Head spinning, ears ringing from the blow, she drove her left elbow hard into his groin.

He sagged, groaned, and Josie’s stomach heaved as she inhaled a lungful of stale body odour and beer breath. She raised her right arm, checked the position of his thigh, the jagged piece of metal glinting in the light.

And then it was wrenched from her fingers and thrown across the room. Someone grasped her under the arms and lifted her up and away from Barry Simpson.

She struggled, hands clenched into fists as she was hauled backwards.

Then something registered. She knew the hands, recognised Nate’s hold from when he’d dragged her out of her car. She spun around, all fight going out of her as she stared into eyes gone black with fury.

He set her down against the wall, eyes dipping to the spot where Barry Simpson had struck her. Then he wheeled around and went to where the other man was dragging himself to his feet.

‘Get up you bastard!’

Josie leaned against the wall and sucked in mouthfuls of air, watching as Nate grabbed the other man’s shirt collar and hauled him to his feet. Simpson staggered sideways, but in seconds Nate had him by the throat and pinned to the wall.

‘I should turn you to pulp you fucking loser! Is that how you get off, huh, beating up on women?’

The fog in Josie’s mind began to clear, and she flattened her palms against the wall to keep herself upright. She could see Nate more clearly now, dressed in the bike leathers like the first time she’d seen him, body a controlled mass of unleashed fury. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it registered he’d come straight back without bothering to change.

Barry Simpson said nothing, his gaze moving from Nate to her.

‘Don’t look at her you scumbag.’ Nate grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him off the wall, pushing him down the two steps so the man stumbled and fell onto one of the couches.

Nate hauled him up again, hooked a foot around one of the dining room chairs and dragged it from under the table. ‘Sit down.’ He shoved Barry Simpson into the chair. ‘And start talking.’

A movement in the doorway caught Josie’s eye and she turned to see Dickson braced unsteadily between the door frame, a red welt on one side of his shiny head.

‘Thank goodness.’ She went to him on shaky legs, wrapping her arm around his waist and helping him back inside the house.

‘I’m sorry, Josie, Nate. He wasn’t in the car when I got there. He came out of the bush, got me with a wheel brace I think.’ Dickson rubbed the side of his head and winced, leaning heavily on Josie. ‘I lost my service weapon in the scrub. Still haven’t found it.’

Barry Simpson turned a sickly shade of grey at the words “service weapon”.

Nate dragged him to his feet again, frisked him, then shoved him back in the chair. ‘I’m throwing the book at you, Simpson.’

The man’s eyes widened, and he turned even paler. ‘Throw the — you’re a
cop
?’

‘Unfortunately for you,’ Nate growled.

‘I saw the reward on offer.’ Simpson’s voice took on a whining tone, though he didn’t look at her again. ‘Robbie, my boy, said he saw you with her at the supermarket. When I thought about it, I remembered you turning up here the night she was kidnapped. I only came up to observe, see if I could catch a glimpse of her.’