Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout (14 page)

Raymond eyed Steer bitterly. The guy
was like Wyatt, a bit long in the tooth but coldly dedicated, efficient in the
way he moved, full of power like a coiled spring. How was I to know

You didnt look, Steer said. You
just barged through.

Raymond fished for a handkerchief
and spat into it. Street lights slipped past outside and he wondered what he
was doing here with this psychopath. Steer seemed to fill the car, heavy and
accusatory, so that Raymond couldnt help himself. He had to appease the man. Go
all right inside?

Just drive.

They switched to the Range Rover at
Thomastown. Raymond felt rattled, and at the entrance to the Hume Freeway
accelerated ahead of a truck. He sensed the driver behind them pushing his
brakes to the floor. Headlights flooded them and a horn sounded, mournful in
the night.

Easy, pal, Steer said. No sense
getting us killed.

Raymond relaxed. The bastard seemed
easier with him now. He drove on into the black night. After a while Steer
muttered, I hear youre Wyatts nephew.

Raymond said hastily, He doesnt
know about this.

Good, Steer said. The fewer the
better. Youll be sticking around for a couple of days, right?

Yes.

Steer seemed to relax, stretching
his legs and settling his shoulder against the door. Not many of us around any
more. The old school, me and your uncle. Its all drugs with the youngsters
now. No finesse. Too impatient to plan. Its a skill. You take each job slowly,
meticulously. You have to think it through.

Right, Raymond said.

Like, never set up a base in the
same town as the target. If youre working with others, you each make a solo
reconnaissance of the target. Stay in motels or overnight vans in caravan
parks. Never let yourself get boxed in. Make sure your alternative escape
routes are clearno roadworks, no rubbish bins. If its going to help, tie up
emergency services with a fire or an explosion somewhere.

Steer was on automatic pilot,
lecturing, maybe out of nervousness. Still, Raymond told himself, why the fuck
do I have to listen to it? He said sharply, Youre not telling me anything I
dont already know.

Steer shrugged. Chill out, Sunshine.
No offence. Only youd be surprised at the number of amateurs, addicts and ego
merchants there are in this game.

Raymond could almost taste the
dislike in his mouth. So, how do you know Im not one of them?

Steer went very still, very
concentrated, a chill in his soft voice: You come recommended, but if you fuck
me around, remember that Ive got a lot of favours owing. I know things. I
network. The moment I walk into a nick, I run it. I know things or can find
them out, and Id track you down and not even your famous uncle could save you.

They drove into the night. After a
while, Steer rubbed his hands together. Howd you get on with my bird?

Fine, Raymond said warily. Had the
bastard been stewing away in remand, wondering if Denise was screwing around on
him? He waved a reassuring hand. I mean, we were pretty busy doing our own
thing, putting this together.

Steer breathed in and out heavily. Shes
an ace chick. Ive really been looking forward to this.

Christ, Raymond thought. The bastards
actually keen on her.

Half an hour later they met Denise
in a shadowy parking bay on the Hume Freeway. Denise flung herself onto Steer
and Raymond had to stand back for a while, his head averted, while they kissed
and murmured.

When they were finished, he said, Dont
want to be hanging around here much longer.

Time for a quick snap? Denise
asked.

Raymond frowned. What are you on
about?

Denise pulled a small camera from
her bag and said, self-consciously, A record of this historic moment.

Jesus, Raymond said.

But he was taken with the idea.
First he snapped Denise and Steer with their arms around each other, then
Denise snapped Raymond with Steer.

Then the job unravelled again. People,
Steer announced, Ive got things I need to do. Ill see you at the house
sometime tomorrow morning.

Denise had been hanging onto his
arm, dopey with love, but stiffened when she heard this. What things?

Ill explain later. Just till
lunchtime tomorrow. I want both of you to stay put at the safe house till I get
there.

Raymond said, This wasnt part of
the original plan.

Steer began to advance on him.
Raymond stood his ground, trying not to flinch from the chest pressing against
his, the hot breath gusting into his face. I said, Ill be back, okay? A
finger jabbed him. You got that? Youre paid to see it through to the end.

Raymond said nothing, just watched
coldly as Steer climbed into the Range Rover, but Denise disintegrated. She
cried out, even clawed at Steers door as he drove away. When he was gone, she
fell to her knees, shoulders heaving. Wheres he going? Whys he doing this to
me?

Raymond walked across to her and
helped her to stand. Come on, we have to get out of here.

What will I do? What if he never
comes back? I cant go back to work. I cant go home. Theyll arrest me. What
will I do?

Drive me fucking nuts for a start,
Raymond thought.

* * * *

Twenty

Information
was everything. Whenever Steer found himself in new environments or unknown
company he put out feelers, made bargains, traded and exerted influence and
pressure. Within hours of being arrested, hed known who had sold him to the
jacks. It was an outfitter called Phil Gent. You needed guns, explosives and
detonators, a car, mobile phone, walkie talkies? Speak to Gent. Well, Gent had
outfitted Steers latest job, a warehouse load of Scotch, only one
nightwatchman to deal with, then gone and spilled it to the jacks, whod been
waiting when Steer came out.

Steer had never met Gent at home. It
was always on neutral ground such as a pub, a motel room or the docks. Within a
couple of hours of his admission to Pentridge, hed learnt where Gent lived: in
a farmhouse near Colac in the Western District.

Steer headed there after leaving
Raymond and Denise. Wyatts nephew had looked pissed off, Denise heartbroken.
It wasnt a betrayal, Steer intended to come back again, but it must have
looked odd.

He thought about betrayal as he
drove through the night. Hed been stiffed by Wyatt once, but right now he was
more interested in Gent. What was it that made Gent sell him to the cops? For
that matter, why had blokes in prison sold Gent to him?

To dog, to grass, to inform, to dob
in.
Steer tried to
analyse it as the white line unfolded ahead of his headlights and darkness held
him alone in the night. Youd do it for gain, like money, influence, power,
advantage. Youd do it for revenge. Youd do it to get someone off your back.
Youd do it to stop something happening.

Steer wondered about the other side
of the equation. Take the cop who gave his ear to Gent: hed have to reward
Gent in some way, like give him money or turn a blind eye. There was dependency
in that kind of relationship. Did the cop hate it? Not that he could afford to
pin all his hopes on one informant. Someone like Gent might get cold feet or
want more out of the deal or stop hearing good information if whispers about
his reliability got about.

Or, Steer thought, smirking, someone
like Gent might simply stop breathing.

It was a puzzle to Steer how Gent
was able to live with himself. Money and favours would help, but hed still
have to come to terms with the fact that he was a dog. Did the shame and guilt
get to him, or did he make the treachery acceptable to himself with a bit of
fancy rationalising? like: Im doing this to those who deserve it. Im not
hurting those who havent hurt me.

On and on, the black road renewed
itself in the light of the moon and the headlights. There was another form of
treachery that could not be rationalised. It boiled down to abandoning your
partners on a job, letting them take the risks and get caught by the law.
Mostly it could be explained by greed, impulse or cowardice, but when a man
like Wyatt does it to you its cold and hard and calculated and unforgivable.

On the approach road to Gents
farmhouse, Steer turned off his headlights and kept the engine revs down. Gent
might be naturally jumpy, or he might have heard about the prison break on the
evening news. Either way, Steer didnt want Gent to know he was there until it
was too late. The house came into view, an old weatherboard set well back from
the road, looking grey and unlovely in the poor light of the moon. Steer pulled
to the grass verge, switched off, and got out.

There was a kelpie on a mat outside
the back door. It bared its teeth, it might even have attacked, but it didnt
bark. Steer shot it through the head.

A light came on inside the house.
Then a shape appeared at the window, Gent leaning to peer into the darkness.
Steer shot him through the glass.

Steer stood where he was for a
while, blinking, trying to encourage vision back into his eyes. Shows what a
man can forget. His old trainingunless you want to blind yourself for a couple
of minutes, never look at the muzzle flash of a gun at night.

The darkness around him remained
still and silent. When he could see again, Steer walked to the broken window
and looked in.

Gent lay dying on his back. Typical
gut-shot symptoms grey face, glassy eyes, laboured breathing, a pleading
grimace that heralded death. Then Gent retched violently, a froth of dark blood
spilling from his mouth. His eyes widened. His tongue protruded. Steer turned
away. He knew the final stage well enough. Gent would turn blue-grey, the cast
of death.

Steer considered hiding the body.
Kick in the teeth first, burn the hands, dump the body in a gorge somewhere.
Unidentifiable remains, the papers would say. But the time, the trouble, the
cleaning up the house first, the removal of the kelpiestuff that for a joke.

Instead, Steer went into the house
and ransacked it, making it look like an aggravated burglary. And he found five
hundred bucks in an envelope taped to the bottom of a drawer, so that was all
right, plus four grand and a passport in a cavity behind a false power point in
a skirting board in the bedroom. The passport was no good to him, for Gent had
the squashed features and jowls of a bulldog, and Chaffey had supplied him with
a new ID, but the cash would come in handy.

Finally Steer concealed the Range Rover
in a barn at the rear of the house. Gent owned a Kombi, parked under a tree in
the yard. It needed plenty of choke and was low on fuel. Steer thought about
that.

What stopped him thinking was the
torch, a finger of light coming slowly across the flat ground behind the house,
and an elderly womans voice quavering, Mr Gent? Are you all right?

Steer started the Kombi and drove
slowly out of the yard. He hadnt seen another house nearby, but clearly there
was one. Maybe the old dear would turn around and go home again, thinking shed
heard a backfire, but he couldnt take that chance. Hed have to find another
car, and hed have to take a different route out, a longer one, deep into the
Western District then maybe north to the goldfield country. Hed allow himself
two days, otherwise hed be too late to meet the freighter off Lakes Entrance.

As he weaved through the Western
District he thought about Denise. She loved him. It was gratifying. There hadnt
been much love in his life. Denise wasnt exactly an oil painting, a bit pink
and dampish and sour at the world, but she had a good brain. In fact, she made
him feel obscurely inadequate. He wanted her to admire him; otherwise there
would be that niggling doubtwas she just another female getting her kicks from
screwing a hard man?

And Steer thought about Raymond
Wyatt, a bit of luck that had just fallen into his lap.

At dawn the next morning he watched
a farmer wave goodbye to his wife outside a log-cabin kit house and drive off
in a dual-cab ute. There was a barrelly Falcon in the carport attached to the
house, and no kids clothing on the Hills Hoist in the backyard. Steer gave
the woman a concussive blow to the temple, concealed the Kombi and drove off in
the Falcon ute. At lunchtime he stole a Holden, that evening another Falcon.
All the time he was heading west, toward South Australia. At Dimboola he stole
a Mazda, fitted it with plates from a scrapyard, and doubled back, driving
through the night in heavy rain until he was in the Western District again,
closing in on Geelong.

He wasnt expecting the roadblock.
He was on a rain-lashed plain and saw brake lights ahead of him through the
wash of the wiper blades. Pulling in behind a line of cars and farm vehicles,
he thought
roadworks,
but when a muddy ute ahead of him U-turned out of
the line and two motorcycle cops flashed past to intercept, he knew that this
was no roadworks. He ran a mental eye over himself, over the car. The pistol
was in the glove box, in a small tool kit.

He watched his wing mirror. The cops
had stopped the ute. The driver, an elderly woman in overalls and rubber boots,
climbed out, a kelpie butting through to the ground ahead of her. The woman
began to berate the cops. One of them laughed. The other walked to the rear of
her ute and searched under the tonneau cover. He apparently found nothing, but
noted her plate number and a moment later waved her off.