3.

Caleb was almost at the café when he saw the car again: an anony­mous black sedan with tinted windows and a mud-spattered numberplate. The third time he’d seen it since leaving his office. Hard to know if it was following him or if he was just being jumpy. Twenty-four hours since Martin Amon’s death, his adrenal system was still in overdrive. He adjusted the rear-view mirror, squinting in the dying light: one car back and holding steady.

Decision time.

The small shopping strip was just around the corner. Pull over or keep driving? Most of the stores would be closed at five-sixteen on a Tuesday evening; not enough witnesses around for comfort. But better than none. Past the shops, there were only factories and warehouses.

He slowed as he took the bend, then sped up and pulled into the kerb. Door half open, eyes on the mirror. The black sedan rounded the corner. It drew nearer, headlights off, the driver a hazy silhouette. Closer, nearly level. Passing. It kept going, the brakelights flashing once as it reached the next bend, then it was gone. He breathed again. Just someone taking the same traffic-avoiding route across town. Nothing to do with him, or a dead man with his face shot off.

The news reports hadn’t revealed much so far. No mention of Caleb or Martin Amon by name, no possible motive suggested, just a lot of speculation. An online search hadn’t revealed anything on Amon, either. Which meant the man had been habitually cautious, or using a pseudonym.

Caleb sat for another moment in the rapidly cooling car, then got out and headed for Alberto’s Place. The small café fronting the street was closed, but the kitchen staff would still be hard at it, readying orders for shops and hotels across Melbourne. Pies and pastas, sausages, pastries, all made to old family recipes. He’d grab some swoon-worthy food and surprise Kat with a picnic dinner at her studio, reassure her that he wasn’t backsliding. She’d been worried when he’d told her about Amon last night, would still be worried.

He ducked down the laneway to the back of the old redbrick building and stopped outside the glass door. The kitchen’s high ceiling was deep in shadow, the only light coming from candles, torches and phones set around the room. They were propped on shelves and benches, their combined wattage illuminating every hand movement and expression of the workers inside. Six people, all managing to carry on signed conversations as they cooked, their Auslan only slightly hampered by their latex gloves. Weekend plans and boyfriends, grandchildren, fitness regimes. Alberto Conti prowled among them, his hands never resting as he issued instructions and tasted dishes.

Caleb shoved his hearing aids in his pocket and opened the door, moved into silence and warmth. The aromas of frying garlic and onion, roasted walnuts, oregano. He received a staggered round of waved hellos as each person noticed him, the most exuberant one from Alberto. Seventy-two years old, sinew and bone, burnt-leather skin. Not the fellow runner Caleb had initially assumed, but a former featherweight boxer.

He gave Caleb the usual rib-cracking hug, along with a slap on the back. Something was seriously off about the man’s strength-to-weight ratio. Forty years older than Caleb, a head shorter, but it’d be close odds in a fight.

‘The power out?’ Caleb signed when the wiry man finally released him.

‘No, we’re being romantic.’ Alberto made a suitably lovesick expression to go with the beating-heart sign. He pulled a heavy-looking canvas bag from a shelf and placed it ceremoniously in front of Caleb, a hint of real reverence in his face now. ‘I’ve given you pork belly instead of sausages. Best you’ll ever eat.’

‘Kat’s not a big fan of pork. You want me to check the fuses? The power’s on in the rest of the street.’

‘It’s under control. She’ll like this pork. Better than your mother could make if she slept with the butcher. With the pig.’ But he slipped a large quiche into a cardboard box and added it to the bag. ‘How’s Kat? She OK?’

‘Yeah. Good.’

‘I don’t understand you two. You should just move back in together. Particularly now.’

Always a moment to re-acclimatise to Deaf directness after a week in the hearing world. And to wonder how Alberto had managed to extract more personal information from him in four months than most people did in years. Decades.

‘It’s on the agenda.’ Caleb stilled. Through the servery hatch, a glimpse of a car driving slowly along the street, no headlights against the encroaching gloom. Maybe grey, maybe black. It passed without stopping.

Alberto waved to get his attention. ‘I’ve decided to get those security bars you’ve been going on about. Can you organise it?’

‘Sure.’ The street was empty now, no passing cars, with or without headlights.

Another wave from Alberto. ‘Tomorrow?’

Caleb gave him his full attention. After months trying to convince the man to up his security, why the urgency? A lifetime as a signer had made Alberto’s face as easy to read as his hands: he was worried and trying hard not to show it.

‘Something wrong?’ Caleb asked.

‘Yeah, I got sick of you nagging me.’

‘Alberto, what’s happened?’ He realised he’d accidentally spoken out loud, and stopped.

Alberto’s lip-reading skills were as proudly non-existent as his speech, but he’d obviously got the gist from Caleb’s expression. ‘You worry too much.’ He patted Caleb’s hand.

Leave it. Alberto obviously didn’t want to tell him, and mixing friendship with business was always a mistake – another lesson learned since Frankie.

Caleb checked the street and slung the bag of food over his shoulder. ‘I’ll get on to the installer first thing.’

He received another hug and escaped outside with his ribs intact.

An empty laneway; no hiding spots or lurking attackers. He headed for the street. Dusk had slipped into night, bringing with it the scent of cool earth. Dinner, a few precious hours with Kat, then home; sleep the sleep of the almost content.

A darting shape ahead, the black sedan pulling across the alley, blocking his exit. The driver’s door flung open.

He dropped the bag and ran. Back towards Alberto’s – no, couldn’t risk everyone’s safety. Past the kitchen and down the laneway. The glare of headlights behind him, coming closer. Fuck. Wouldn’t make it. A walkway just ahead, too narrow for a car. Sprinting towards it, his shadow racing before him, breath rasping. Headlights bright, the car nearly on him.

And around the corner. Dark. Overhanging trees and sheer fences, concrete path just visible as he ran.

Smack.

Reeling backwards, clutching his face.

A wire safety fence across the path, construction site beyond it. Fuck, have to climb. He hauled himself up, feet slipping as the fence swayed. Too slow, childhood meningitis stripping some balance along with his hearing.

Quick check behind him. A dim shape, someone running. Seven, eight metres away, something in their hand.

A weapon.

A gun.

Clawing up the fence, fingers gripping, pulling at the wire. Nearly at the top. Hands on the –

Slamming pain.

Skin, lungs, marrow fusing.

Down.