Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout (21 page)

When he felt strong enough to move,
he eased onto the ground and around to the rear doors of the van. He looked in.
One of the PVC cylinders was missing. Wyatt supposed that that made sense, if
you were Raymond. The cylinders were long and awkward. Youd be able to carry
one on foot on a suburban street, not four. And you would take one; you wouldnt
leave it and save your skin.

There was a water tap against the
back wall of the service station. Wyatt washed away the blood, stripped off his
overalls, put the cap over his injured skull and walked to the nearest set of
traffic lights. A cruising cab picked him up. He gave the address of his motel
in Preston.

Some procedures were automatic for
Wyatt. He paid off the driver two blocks from the motel, then walked past the
place a couple of times, on the opposite side of the street. Finally he crossed
to the motel and followed the path around the car park to his room. He stood
for a while, watching. He wondered if theyd be waiting for him.

At that moment a cleaner appeared
around the corner, pushing a cart crammed with brooms, buckets and plastic
bottles. A small transistor radio swung by its strap on the chrome handle.
Wyatt changed direction until he was a metre away from her and murmured, Im
checking out of fourteen. The rooms clear, if you want to start there.

She peered doubtfully at the first
door in the row. He saw that she liked routine. You started at the end and worked
your way along. But the first door and two others wore Dont Disturb signs,
so the pattern was broken anyway. No skin off my nose.

Thanks.

Wyatt walked away. He stationed
himself behind a potted ornamental tree near the pump shed of the motels
swimming pool and watched the cleaner. She inserted the key in the lock, swung
open the door to his room, pushed the cart in. Nothing. No surprises or shouts
or backpedalling feet.

It took her ten minutes, and when
she was done and in the next room, Wyatt went in. He moved carefully,
stationing a chair under the bathroom ceiling fan, climbing onto it in stages,
and taking his time to unscrew the fan. No sudden movements. He had a few
hundred dollars there, a new set of papers.

Wyatt put an end to his hard,
unravelling morning with a shower. He should have run, but just then he was too
bone-weary, too dazed, too swamped by scalding, comforting water to care.

He towelled himself dry at the
window, looking out onto the courtyard, keeping his movements slow, containing
the pain. He blinked away the water from his eyelashes. It was Liz Redding,
standing perfectly still and contemplative in the weird green light of the
swimming pool awning, watching his room, watching his shape in the window. When
he blinked again, shed turned away and the last he saw of her was the long
slope of her back and the tilt of her hips as she bent to fit a key into the
lock of a small white Corolla. But it was the wrong key. She straightened to
examine the others on the keyring. Wyatt thought there was time. This didnt
have to be the last that he saw of her.

* * * *

Thirty-one

Raymonds
hand was sticky. He looked down: blood gouts, from when hed smacked Wyatt in
the head with the butt of his Ruger. Shifting casually, leaning forward and
down as if to scratch his leg, he wiped his fingers on his sock, hoping the
driver hadnt noticed the blood or the concealment. He straightened again,
looked over into the back seat. Red palm prints on the PVC cylinder. Raymond
drew in a ragged breath, whistled to calm his nerves.

They stopped at a light. The cab
driver punched a thick finger at the keys of his dispatch screen, cursing
softly. Hate this fucking thing.

Raymond grunted.

A message came up. The driver peered
at it. Call Mr Atkins at Thomastown Legal Aid? Christ in hell, whats she done
now?

Raymond figured that the cab driver
was not so likely to remember him or smeared blood if he had troubles of his
own. Whats the problem?

The driver glanced in the rear-view
mirror. He was late for the green light and had been tooted from behind. Up
yours, arsehole, he said, giving the finger to the other driver. The cab
streaked away across the intersection. The daughter, he explained. She wags
school, goes shoplifting with a gang. Both hands lifted from the wheel,
slammed down again in a gesture of hopelessness. I mean, what can you do? They
dont teach them anything at school any more. You try to do the right thing at
home, teach them whats right and wrong, and some pinko prick from the teachers
college undoes it all or they get in with some gang and skip school. I blame
the drugs myself. The economy. Who cares about the family, these days? Its dog
eat dog out there.

Raymond wanted to say, Back up a
step, youve lost me, but mention of family and school gangs and shoplifting
reminded him of his own high school years, reminded him of Wyatt, of Wyatt not
being around for him. He wet the index finger of his left hand, rubbed where
Wyatts blood clung stubbornly to the palm and wrist of his right hand. He
couldnt understand why he hadnt popped the bastard. Pow, centre of the
fucking head.

Raymond didnt want to think that he
wasnt up to it a second time.

Whats in the tube?

Raymond stiffened. What?

The driver jerked his head toward
the back seat. You got plans there? You know, blueprints?

Raymond coughed. Got it in one.

What, you a builder?

Work for one, Raymond said.

Inside he was screaming,
Come on,
come on, get me home.

Where hed shower, put on good clean
daks, phone Chaffey with the news that Wyatt had fucked up.

You wouldnt like to run an eye
over my place? House needs restumping, salt damp coming up the chimney,
thinking of putting in one of them pergolas out the back.

Raymond squeezed his eyes shut. His
head ached. He saw the endless blighted suburbs, populated by blokes like this
driver, their wives and kids, from cradle to grave worried about money. That
wasnt
his
career path, no way known. He opened his eyes. Sorry. We
specialise in shithouses for government schools.

Fair enough, the cab driver said. Just
thought Id ask, you never know.

They lapsed into silence. Raymond
watched the city skyline fill the windscreen as they trundled along Nicholson
and down into streets that saw little of the sun. On the other side of the city
the driver said, Youll have to guide me. Southbanks changing that quickly, I
cant keep up.

Raymond paid him off outside the ABC
studios, then cut through a side street to his apartment building.

Upstairs he sponged away the blood
from the cylinder then stood for ten minutes in a lacerating stream of hot
water in his bathroom. It occurred to him then that he was stupid, coming back
to the flat. He threw on some clothes, packed a bag and took the stairwell down
to the car park beneath the building.

When he was on the move again, well
clear of the concrete bunker, aiming the Jag for the south-eastern freeway, he
dialled Chaffey on his car phone.

Chafe? Guess who? he said, when
Chaffey answered.

Chaffey was quick. He didnt use
Raymonds name. Why are you calling?

We have a problem.

A pause. Our mutual friend?

Raymonds brow furrowed. Pardon?

Your work colleague, said Chaffey
heavily.

Oh, right, Im with you now,
Raymond said. Hes . . . got a sore head.

The agitation was clear in Chaffeys
voice. Permanent?

Wish it was, Raymond said.

Chaffey left that alone. So the
deal fell through?

Raymond tried to think how to put
this. We got about a third of what we budgeted for.

A third? All or nothing, that was
the understanding. Otherwise the contract is null and void.

Raymond swallowed. Just lately hed
been subject to panic attacks, swamping out of nowhere, making his heart race,
his mouth go dry. He related the attacks to his obsession with the treasure,
his anxiety about missing out. The attacks had been worse since the shooting in
Warrandyte. He said to Chaffey, trying to control the hysteria in his voice:

Chafe, I successfully completed
part of the job and I deserve part payment. Not my fault our mutual friend
dipped out.

You say he dipped out, he decided
it was a no goer?

Raymond barrelled the big car along
the Hoddle Street overpass. Football traffic choked Hoddle Street and the
inbound lanes of the freeway. Thats what Im saying. Blame him it went wrong,
not me.

Chaffey was clipped and certain. One,
he must have had a good reason. Two, a third of the goods is no good to me. No
payment. Nothing. Zero. Three, Ive been trying to contact you all week. The
goods from that other deal failed to arrive in New Zealand. Id like to know
why. He paused. Theres a knock on the door. Call me in a couple of days.

The line went dead.

That didnt stop Raymond. He drove
on, thinking about the cash in Chaffeys house: his lawyers fortune, the
payment for the paintings, the money he kept stashed there for the crooks he
represented. Chaffey and Wyatt were probably similar in that way, never spent
on the here and now, always had a stash hidden away somewhere.

* * * *

Thirty-two

I
liked you better when you had a head of hair.

Itll grow back.

Her fingers explored his scalp. Nasty
gash he gave you.

Wyatt swayed a little, let her
change the dressing. It was the next morning and he felt clean and calm. He was
fully dressed, but hadnt spent the night fully dressed. Nor had Liz Redding.
There hadnt been an erotic charge in their shared nakedness through the night,
only comfort and an essential, restorative warmth. He closed his eyes and
leaned against her. In a sense he was surrendering. The emotion was alien,
oddly welcome. Hed lived a life built upon vigilance and sharp edges. It would
be good to let go once in a while.

Liz smoothed a strip of sterile tape
over the cleaned gash on his head and sat back to look at him, her hands in her
lap. She looked fine and flashing to Wyattin good humour and ready to do
combat with the world, using her head and her hands. He said, Anything on the
news?

Some kids were caught looting the
van. The police are trying to track down where the paintings came from.

Theyll know soon enough. All you
have to do is pick up that phone.

I told you, Ive been suspended.
Theyre going to chuck the book at me. I dont care. Ive had enough. Anyway, Im
a woman. Theres nowhere for me to go. The boys have got the force sewn up.

Wyatt grunted. Do yourself a favour
then. Impress them. Bring me in.

You came to me, remember.

Wyatt remembered. He had seen it as
a private communication, a warning perhaps, Liz standing outside his motel like
that. He could have slipped away. Instead, hed stepped outside and crossed the
car park and tapped her on the shoulder. Shed taken him to a different motel.
Said she expected to be arrested if she went home.

There was the soft beat of her body
next to him. He wasnt interested in her career, only her impulses. Once a
cop, always a cop, he said, more harshly than hed intended.

She said miserably, the words
springing from nowhere, I love you.

Wyatt breathed in. Then he breathed
out.

What I mean is, youre in my
thoughts all the time. I dont want anything to happen to you. She shrugged. If
thats what love is.

Wyatt looked around the room. It
held no answers for him.

I suppose, she said, you want to
run from me now thats out in the open?

Wyatt thought of the unwanted
clutter in his life and he thought about the absence of love in it. It was not
an ordinary life. He liked it streamlined, but right now it was loaded with
complications: Raymond, Chaffey, the dead woman in Warrandyte, Liz Redding, the
paintings. As for love, that was another complication. Was it better than none
at all? Meanwhile he could settle for an expression of it. He felt cold and
ill. He picked her hands out of her lap, chafed them, placed them over his shoulders.
Make me warm again.

He saw that hed put a foot wrong. A
subtle change passed across Lizs face, as though a deep-seated pain were
reasserting itself, drawing out her features, thinning and contracting her face
in a kind of recoil. She pulled away from him and sat straight-backed, her chin
lifted.

Didnt you hear what I said? All
this is momentous for me. You, my job. But everything with you is one way. I
havent a clue what you want or think.

Wyatt tried haltingly to discover,
from speech, what it was he thought and felt and wanted. The effort exhausted
him, bringing on a kind of electric blackness. His head buzzed and dizziness
racked him briefly, and pain. When he came out of it he felt her hands on his
cheeks. You okay? Youre very pale.

Please, I feel cold.

She took him to the bed, removed his
clothes, then her own, and the warmth revived him. Gently does it, she said,
easing him into her.