13.

He left the car in a side street near the motel and climbed onto a dumpster to scale the back fence. A steep drop into the carpark behind the building. He landed hard on his feet, the shock jarring through him; wasn’t getting over that again. Frankie’s car was still there, along with five others.

Caleb took the stairs to Frankie’s room at a run. No answer to his knock.

Frankie and Tilda lying hurt inside. Dying. Dead.

He hammered on the door, and it opened. Frankie scowled out at him. Back to her usual jeans and black T-shirt, her wet hair spiked. ‘You want to knock a bit harder? I don’t think all the neighbours heard you.’

He tried to catch his breath. ‘You have to get out. A man was following me. Blue baseball cap, no other description. Don’t know if he’s your shooter, but I used my phone near here.’

Colour drained from her face. ‘He here?’

‘Don’t know, but the rear carpark was clear a few seconds ago.’

‘Check out the front. I’ll take Tilda to the car.’ She was already closing the door.

He took the service path along the side of the motel, then edged open the high wooden gate that led onto the street. A narrow, tree-lined road, autumn leaves banked against the parked cars. Nothing moving, but something snagged in his brain. He scanned the street without trying to focus. There – a silver Holden parked a few houses down, no leaves against its tyres. A person just distinguishable in the driver’s seat. Rounded head, maybe a baseball cap. Caleb backed away.

When he reached the motel carpark, Frankie had the engine running, hands on the wheel. She lowered the window as he approached. Tilda stared wide-eyed from the back seat. Dressed in crisp new jeans and a blue jumper two sizes too large. He gave her a smile she didn’t return.

‘One guy,’ he told Frankie. ‘Silver Holden, thirty to the right.’

She sat still, her eyes moving rapidly as she ran through possible escape plans. Hopefully she’d come up with something he hadn’t. ‘I’ll draw him away in the car,’ she finally said. ‘You wait here with Tilda.’

And be responsible for Tilda? ‘No. You stay, I’ll drive.’

‘He’s after me. She’ll be safer with you.’ She held his eyes. ‘Please, Cal.’

Shit, she was right. ‘OK. Go.’

She said something to Tilda that had the girl scrambling from the car and coming to stand by his side. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ Frankie told him. ‘Petrol station on Victoria.’ She accelerated away.

He took Tilda to wait in the service path; sitting with their backs to the wall, the gate to the street firmly bolted. No cherubs or rosy-pink flamingos here, just raw bricks and pine palings, the cold leaching from the concrete into his jeans.

Acid bit his stomach. Frankie was a fast driver but it’d be difficult to shake someone in these tight streets. And even Henry Collins would find it hard to absolve Caleb if Tilda lost another family member because of him.

She shifted next to him, pulling her knees to her chin and hugging her legs, a pink tinge to her eyes as though she was trying not to cry.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

‘I’m a bit worried.’

God; undone by honesty.

‘It’s all right, no one’s going to hurt you. Or Frankie,’ he added quickly as her mouth began to tremble. ‘A man just wants something she’s got. We’ll go and meet her in a few minutes.’

It was a vague reassurance, but some of the strain left her face. ‘Is he friends with the man Mum was cross with?’

He kept still. ‘Not sure. Who was your mum cross with?’

‘I’m not supposed to talk about her work.’

‘So he works with her?’

Her mouth snapped shut, Frankie’s genes showing clearly in her jutting jaw. OK, his usual interrogation techniques weren’t going to work. Beginning with him using the word ‘interrogation’.

But a game might, with the bonus of distracting her. ‘Do you want to play a game while we wait?’

A small nod.

‘How about Spy? You ask three questions about a real person, and the other player has to answer truthfully. Whoever discovers the most interesting thing, wins.’

‘I haven’t played that before.’

‘I’ll go first, so you can see how it’s done. Have you ever heard of someone with a name like Turner or Kirner?’

Deep sympathy crossed her face. ‘That’s not a very good question.’

‘I guess not. You’ve got a good chance of winning this. So, have you?’

‘No.’ She held up a forefinger to mark off his question.

‘What’s the most interesting thing you know about the man your mum was cross with? Just about him,’ he said as she frowned, ‘not about her work.’

A second finger joined her first one. ‘He died.’

Right. That was interesting. Could she be talking about Martin Amon?

‘When –’ He stopped as she began to uncurl a third finger. ‘This is just to clarify. It’s still the second question.’

She mouthed ‘clarify’ and tucked her finger back in her fist.

‘When did he die?’

She thought, then said, ‘Friday.’

Not Amon then, but only a few days before the federal cop’s death. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘last question – what’s his name?’

‘I don’t know. My turn.’ Her eyes widened in anticipation. ‘Can I see your hearing aids?’

He hesitated before smoothing back his hair. She leaned in, her face inches from his head. A feeling she was about to pull out a screwdriver and have a good poke around.

She finally sat back. ‘Can you hear anything without them?’

‘Not unless it’s really loud.’

‘How many –?’ She paused. ‘This is just to clarify.’

He held back a smile. ‘Sure.’

‘How many decibels?’

‘About a hundred and ten.’

‘Like a jackhammer?’

A remarkably accurate estimate. ‘Yes. How do you know about decibels?’

‘I read a lot.’

He bet she did; all those hours in the library after school. ‘You’ve got one more question, but I think you’ve won anyway.’

‘Does it take a really long time to make a sign name for someone?’

Nicely done: reminding him of his promise but not hassling him about it.

‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But I’m pretty sure I’ll come up with one for you soon.’ He stood. ‘I’ll check the street. If it’s clear, we’ll go to Frankie.’

There was no sign of the silver Holden, no men, with or without baseball caps. He watched for a full minute then beckoned to Tilda. ‘Let’s go.’

The plane trees were russet against a deep blue sky, sunlight pushing back the morning chill. An unexpected touch as Tilda slipped her hand into his: warm and a little sticky. He looked down, but she was concentrating on the footpath, making sure she stepped on every leaf in her way. A flicker of something surprisingly like hope: if a career criminal like Maggie could raise a child like Tilda, he had to be able to make a halfway decent job of it.

Movement to his left. Someone lunging from behind a garden fence.

Caleb pushed Tilda out of the way as a stream of liquid fire hit his face. Eyes and mouth burning, lungs welded shut. Down on his knees, clawing at his skin. Small hands gripped his arm. Tilda. Slipping, wrenched away. He threw himself forward and grabbed a thin limb. Holding on tight, eyelids fused. More spray. Air and face igniting. On all fours, coughing and retching. A high sound ripped the edges of his hearing. He cracked open his eyes: fractured colour and light, someone moving towards the road, a car.

Get to them. Go. Crawling across concrete and grass, breath scouring his throat. At the car. Hands out, touching a hub cap, door, handle. Fumbling for it, lifting. A lurch and it tore from his hand. Falling forward. Onto the road.

Gone.