BUT THE SHOT had come from the direction of the old ruins, not the dugout. Hirsch thought about that; decided it made sense. Downstream was all untamed nature, and city-boy Hansen would have been drawn by instinct to signs of civilisation—the old ruins—after searching Craig’s camp.
Had he stumbled on Craig and the girls? Had something persuaded them to leave the dugout? Or was Hansen shooting it out with Roesch? Had Roesch parked at the ruins and walked downstream?
Hirsch thought all of these things in an instant but, before he could take another step there was a shriek—a man’s voice—followed by a flurry of shots, so rapid they spelt panic or anger. Or sheer enjoyment.
Another shriek—unearthly, despairing. Hansen? Craig Washburn? He ran, and as he ran the shrieking faded, dissolving into something more like keening: a sound of loss, or of grief. No other voices.
Arms spread for balance, Hirsch picked his way over the stones. Faster when he reached a stretch of sand, slowing at pools of brackish water collared by bulrushes. At each bend he’d pause to dart a quick glance at the stretch ahead. No sense in tearing blindly around a corner and getting a bullet in his belly. But there was no sign of Hansen. Surely he could hear Hirsch coming?
He powered on, dreading the next bend, and the next, his shoes clicking and rattling on the impenitent stones. There was silence for some time, then a low, distressed moan, close by now. Reaching the next bend, Hirsch stuck his head around. A shot whanged past his cheek, spitting dust and grit into his eyes.
‘Jesus.’ He jerked back, reeled, sat.
Touched himself gingerly. A trace of blood on his fingertips; a coarse paste of dust and tears in the corner of one eye. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen: Hansen, wearing shorts, sandals and a short-sleeved shirt, on the ground, propped on his elbows. No one else.
Unholstering his gun, he called, ‘Rob?’
A pause, and Hansen croaked, ‘I thought you were Vita coming for me.’
Hirsch thought about that. He said, ‘Where are the girls?’
‘No idea.’
‘What was all the shooting?’
Hansen moaned. ‘A snake bit me. More than once.’
Hirsch’s insides curdled. He found himself listening—for what, he didn’t know.
‘You shot it?’
‘Killed it.’
‘Rob, could you put the gun down? I’m coming to help you.’
‘What if there’s another one?’ fretted Hansen, sounding loosely wrapped. ‘What if there’s a mate?’
Keeping his tone mild and even, Hirsch said, ‘Look around. Do you see another one?’
A pause. ‘No.’
‘Okay, I’m coming. Don’t shoot.’
Hirsch chanced a quick look first. Hansen was still on his back, the pistol loose in one hand, looking down along his body to his sandalled feet, where the snake was draped sinuously over the bloodied creek stones. A potent-looking force even in death.
Hansen turned to Hirsch. Startled by the grimness etched in the man’s face, Hirsch ducked.
‘I’m not going to shoot you,’ Hansen said, looking down at the snake again.
Hirsch reholstered his gun. ‘Okay.’
He crossed the ground, crouched, removed a little Glock from Hansen’s slack fingers, all the time with one eye on the snake. The head looked hacked about—pistol bullets at close range—but he recognised it as a brown, one of the most poisonous on the continent, a metre and a half long and almost as thick as his forearm. More deaths from a brown than any other snake. And to be bitten several times…
Hansen had shot himself in the foot, too.
Hirsch stood up, stepped over to the snake. Steeled himself, and flipped it away with his shoe.
‘I must’ve trod on it,’ Hansen said, trembling, dusty tear tracks on his cheeks. ‘It just kept biting me, so I shot it. I don’t feel very good.’
Hirsch crouched again, put a hand to Hansen’s forehead. Clammy. He examined the pale legs: a mix of scratches and puncture wounds.
Hansen said dazedly, ‘Help me stand. I’ll drive myself to hospital.’
Hirsch pressed gently down on his shoulder. ‘You need to keep still. Movement increases the blood flow.’
Hansen screwed up his face. He seemed to be breaking down. ‘Have you got a knife? Cut open the bites?’
‘They don’t do that anymore.’
‘Ambulance.’
Hirsch felt his jitters vanish, a cool pragmatism settling in him. Hansen would probably die: too much venom, too late, too far from medical help. ‘Rob, I need to know: you shot Lavau, and you’re here to shoot the kids for some reason?’
‘What? No!’ In all of his wretchedness, Hansen was shocked. ‘Not me. Roesch. I need to get to them before she does.’