The Tesla Legacy (19 page)

‘Yeah.’ Jesse pushed her chair back to get up. ‘It has to be my shout. What do you want, sexy?’

‘A schooner of Hahn Light, please, my exquisite rose.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m having.’

Jesse left the restaurant and walked down the corridor, past a darkened set of stairs leading up to the rooms. The corridor opened onto to a beer garden next to a Woolworths parking area, and a door on the left led into the lounge. Jesse slid it open and stepped inside.

On the right, several stools and tables faced a dancefloor, rock posters covered the walls and an archway between two large beer barrels led to the pool tables. The wall angled round to the left where several casually dressed punters were drinking at the bar or seated beneath a TV screen watching the races. A row of poker machines sat against the wall next to the street and a wide-screen TV hung in a corner behind the bar. An open door on the right led through a row of
shrubs to the hotel parking area. A tall, attractive blonde with soft grey eyes, wearing a black hotel logo T-shirt hanging out over a pair of jeans, was pouring beers behind the bar and chatting happily with the punters. Jesse waited till she’d finished serving and stepped up to the bar.

‘Yes. What would you like?’ smiled the blonde.

‘Two schooners of Hahn Light,’ replied Jesse.

‘Coming right up.’ The girl got two frosted glasses from a refrigerated cabinet and started pouring the beers.

‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ said Jesse, ‘have you worked here long?’

‘Long enough,’ smiled the girl. ‘I’m the publican.’

‘What?’ Jesse was genuinely surprised. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Gee. You’re doing all right.’

‘Thanks. Where are you from?’

‘Newcastle. I’m up here with my boyfriend.’

‘Can your boyfriend dance?’

‘Yeah. Like Michael Jackson—with his foot in a rabbit trap.’

‘Well, you’d better bring him down here tonight,’ smiled the publican. ‘The other band cancelled at the last minute. And we’ve got a hot Newcastle band playing. Newcastle Blue.’

‘Really? I’ve seen them back home. They’re great. They do an unreal version of “Walk This Way”.’

‘That’s them.’

‘Another thing I’d like to ask you…?’

‘Rhedyn.’

‘I’m Jesse. Rhedyn, was this ever the Grand Hotel?’

‘That’s right, Jesse,’ replied Rhedyn. ‘How did you know?’

‘I own a bookshop in Newcastle,’ said Jesse. ‘And I’ve just been reading about Scone.’

‘In 1856, it was originally known as the Gentlemen’s Club. In 1905 it became the Grand. And in 1950 they changed it to the Greater Scone Hotel. It’s got quite a history.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Jesse.

‘Would you like to have a look around?’ asked Rhedyn. ‘Down in the cellar, we’ve still got some of the original brewing equipment. Old bridles. Bottles. All sorts of things.’

‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said Jesse. She handed the attractive young publican ten dollars then took her change. ‘But we’ll be here tonight, for sure.’

‘Okay, Jesse. I won’t be far away. And the first drinks are on me.’

‘Thanks, Rhedyn.’ Jesse picked up the two beers and walked back to the restaurant.

Mick was tapping his knife on the table and staring absently out the window when Jesse bumped the door open, walked in and placed the two schooners down.

‘Thanks, mate.’ Mick waited till Jesse sat down then clinked his glass against hers. ‘Cheers, Oz.’

‘Yes. Cheers, Mick.’

They both took a healthy pull on their beers then Mick licked his lips.

‘Hey. Not a bad drop,’ he said.

‘Yeah. You can say that again,’ agreed Jesse, politely belching into her hand. ‘And you were right about the hotel. It was The Grand.’

‘Fair dinkum?’

Jesse told Mick about her exchange with the publican. Mick was quite impressed.

‘And Newcastle Blue are playing here tonight?’ said Mick. ‘They’re the grouse. The last time I saw them was at The Brewery with you. I got that drunk on Jack Daniels it took me two days to remember my name and how I got home.’

‘Rhedyn said the first drinks are on her, too,’ said Jesse. ‘And keep your eyes off the publican. She’s a hot sort.’

Mick looked hurt. ‘Sugar pie, honey bunch, how can you say that? You know I’ve only got eyes for you.’

‘Good. Keep it that way. Or I’ll tear your liver out and eat it with fava beans and a nice Chianti. Fa-fa-fa-fa-fah.’

Mick had another mouthful of beer and rubbed his hands together. ‘Okay, Hannibal. So what happened at the library? You’ve cracked the case.’

‘Sort of,’ answered Jesse as the girl arrived with their Caesar salad. ‘But how about we eat first. I’m starving.’

‘Fair enough.’

They bowled the Caesar salad over fairly smartly, washing it down with beer, then the mains arrived. The food was nothing fancy, but it was good, fresh country fare, the chips were crisp and there was plenty on the plates. The girl took the plates away, Mick and Jesse ordered a flat white each, then settled back with their coffees.

‘Righto, Oz,’ said Mick, placing his cup down. ‘What’s the story, woman? You’re driving me mad.’

Jesse smiled confidently. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what I found out. Burning Mountain—where you and I are going after this—was discovered around 1830. It’s an underground coal seam with a high sulphur content, and ignited itself by internal combustion. Scientists estimate it’s been
burning for over five thousand years. However,’ said Jesse, ‘that’s science. Next to Burning Mountain is a cliff the Wonnarua Aboriginal people call the Wingen Maid. According to their legends, the cliff contains the spirit of an Aboriginal woman whose husband died in a battle on the Wollemi River. The poor woman was so upset she cried tears of fire. And that’s what started Burning Mountain. And that, Mick, is where Reginald Seaton got the beautiful name for his racehorse.’

‘Tears of Fire,’ said Mick. ‘Well I’ll be buggered. And you dug this up in the local library?’

‘I sure did,’ said Jesse. ‘But the plot thickens.’ Jesse took a sip of coffee. ‘Project Piggie, Mick.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Mick excitedly. ‘What about it?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with pigs.’

‘It hasn’t?’

Jesse shook her head. ‘No. In Koori, the word piggiebillah means porcupine. That’s what Tesla meant when he called building the doomsday machine Project Piggie. It was short for Project Piggiebillah.’

‘Fair dinkum?’ said Mick.

‘Yep. There’s another Koori legend about how the porcupine got his spines, which I won’t go into,’ said Jesse. ‘But somewhere near Burning
Mountain are the Piggiebillah Hills. And you can bet that’s where Tesla built the machine. The hills will be on that topographical map I bought at the library. I’ve got a compass. We go up to Burning Mountain, figure out where these hills are, find Tesla’s death ray machine, check it out. Take some photos. Try not to blow up the world. And come back with the story of the decade. A-bop-boppa-loobop! Bada bing, bada boom! What do you reckon, Tiger?’

Mick stared at Jesse over his coffee. ‘You’re amazing.’

‘I have my moments,’ replied Jesse. ‘The woman at the library said there’s a walking trail up to Burning Mountain. And there’ll be old gold miners’ trails and bullock trails from the timber-cutting days going through the bush. Actually, Tesla wrote about trouble with a bullock wagon in his diary. We more or less know what we’re looking for. And hey, if we don’t find the thing this afternoon, we can go back tomorrow when we’ve got more time. But we’ll find it.’ Jesse held up her cup. ‘I’m keen.’

‘Okay,’ said Mick. ‘When do you want to leave?’

‘As soon as we finish our coffees. We’ll go back to the motel. Get our backpacks. Buy some water. And head out there.’

‘Righto.’

Jesse finished her coffee and stood up. ‘I’ll get this,’ she said.

‘All right. I’ll see you out the front.’

Mick finished his coffee then left the restaurant and waited for Jesse on the footpath. Astonished as he was by Jesse’s matter of fact attitude to uncovering the doomsday machine, he was equally astonished how she found everything out so quickly. It was almost an anticlimax. Mick shook his head as he watched several bearded men on motorbikes roaring north with their backpacks. Yep. No two ways about it, Mick told himself, the woman is a deadset genius. A moment or two later, Jesse came smiling out of the doorway and slipped her arm through his.

Although Agents Colborne and Niland had to double up, no one was complaining. The yellow room with brown furnishings was big and bright and had a nice view across the garden outside. They tossed a coin and Agent Coleborne got the double bed. After coffee and biscuits from a drawer next to the bar fridge, they were now seated at a table in Agent Moharic’s room two doors down, drinking mineral water and comparing notes.

‘Oh, Orrin,’ said Agent Moharic, ‘I found out why there were so many cops around earlier.’

‘You did, Floyd?’

‘Yeah. I’ve been listening to the local news. A couple of tourists got lost somewhere between here and Muswellbrook and there’s a big search on.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes it is,’ replied Agent Moharic.

‘Dumbass day trippers,’ said Agent Niland. ‘That sure don’t help us.’

Agent Coleborne took another mouthful of mineral water then belched quietly. ‘Okay, Floyd. You said you had a plan earlier. Care to fill us in?’

‘Yeah. Orrin told me you had an idea,’ said Agent Niland. ‘Apart from your driving, Floyd, you’ve been pretty well on the ball so far. What is it?’

Agent Moharic eased back in his chair. ‘Okay. Now we all agree hitting Vincent through the day is too risky. A, he’s holed up next to the police. And B, our vehicle sticks out like a neon sign with the back door stoved in.’

‘You got that right, Floyd,’ said Agent Coleborne.

Agent Moharic gave Agent Coleborne an indifferent look. ‘Did you guys happen to notice that hotel down the road, not far from here?’ he asked them.

‘The big brick one?’ said Agent Coleborne. ‘I did. I believe it was called the Greater Scone.’

‘That’s right, Orrin,’ nodded Agent Moharic. ‘There’s a band playing there tonight. They’re called Newcastle Blue.’

‘Noo-Kassle Blue?’ echoed Agent Niland.

Agent Moharic nodded again. ‘Zimmer told me the people in Newcastle refer to themselves as Novocastrians.

Agent Coleborne screwed his face up. ‘Novo-Kastrians?’

‘That’s right,’ replied Agent Moharic. ‘And they’re parochial as shit. They’re worse than Texans.’ Agent Moharic paused for a moment. ‘I’m convinced Vincent and his girl are a couple of players. And coming from Newcastle, I believe they’ll be at that hotel tonight, digging the band from their home town.’ Agent Moharic paused again. ‘How do you guys feel about that?’

Agent Niland shot Agent Coleborne a glance. ‘Yeah. After seeing that photo of them in the local magazine, that makes sense. How do you feel, Orrin?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Agent Coleborne. ‘I could go along with that.’

Agent Moharic gestured. ‘A band. Lots of noise. Lots of people. We get rid of the black suits. Mingle
in with the crowd. You can bet Vincent and his girl will be drunk. We could even knife them.’

Agent Niland’s eyes lit up. ‘I like using a knife.’

‘If we couldn’t do it there,’ said Agent Moharic, ‘we couldn’t do it anywhere. We’ll clear our rooms and have everything in the car. And after we do it, we’ll split for Newcastle. By the time anybody even knows what’s happened, Zimmer will have us halfway back to the States.’

‘It could even pass for a local murder, like Zimmer originally planned,’ said Agent Coleborne.

‘What if they’re not there?’ said Agent Niland.

‘Then we’ll just have to go down to their motel,’ said Agent Moharic. ‘Hope we can find the right room and pop them there. But I don’t like it being so close to that police station and all those cops.’

Agent Niland looked at Agent Coleborne. ‘Okay. Looks like it’s the hotel.’

‘The hotel it is,’ agreed Agent Coleborne. He finished the last of his mineral water. ‘So how do we spend the time in between?’

Agent Moharic nodded to the window. ‘We got a pool. We got a barbecue. We got TV. Hey. We even got our Bibles. Myself, I’m hungry and there’s a Subway down the street. I could do a
twelve-inch Italian meatball right now. No problem at all.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Agent Coleborne. ‘I’ll go a tuna fish.’

‘You got me guys.’ Agent Niland raised his bottle and grinned. ‘Subway. Eat fresh.’

Officer Ryman was quite pleased with her room at the Waverley. It was large, the bed was comfortable and, like the motel, it was mostly white with white lace curtains across the window. Now she was seated opposite Officer Cozens in the soft surroundings of the motel restaurant; several diners were around them and the scanner sat beside her. The away team hadn’t moved and the young ASIO officer was enjoying the last of her shepherds pie while her partner enjoyed the rest of his roast lamb with rosemary and garlic.

‘Kerrie,’ said Officer Cozens, finishing a mouthful of food, ‘did I ever tell you that before I joined ASIO I was a shepherd?’

‘A shepherd,’ replied Officer Ryman. ‘No. You never mentioned that before, Craig.’

‘Yeah. Now I’m sort of, a shepherd spy.’

Officer Ryman looked impassively at her partner. ‘Craig. That has to be the worse joke I’ve ever heard.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m…’ Officer Ryman stared at the scanner. ‘Craig. They’re moving.’

‘They are? Which direction?’

‘They’re leaving the motel, they’re coming this way.’ Officer Ryman kept watching the scanner. ‘They’ve gone through the roundabout. They’re at the end of the street, heading towards Muswellbrook.’

‘Shit! We’d better make a move,’ said Officer Cozens.

‘Wait on. They just did a U-turn. They’re coming back this way. Now they’ve stopped.’ Officer Ryman smiled. ‘You know where they are? There’s no McDonald’s. They’re outside that Subway.’

Officer Cozens picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating. ‘What a shame they couldn’t have joined us here.’

‘Yes. The food’s beautiful,’ said Officer Ryman.

‘Hey Kerrie,’ said Craig. ‘Later on tonight do you feel like going out for a beer or something?’