27

HAVING PLACED MYSELF closest to the door, I’d expected Joe to check on me first, and I was ready for him. But he walked straight past me. I opened my eyes to a slit, and through a veil of eyelashes I got the blurred image of a big, trim bloke moving lightly on his feet.

He stopped at the other end of the mattresses and stood over Rolfe. He didn’t look tense, but the old-style revolver he held at his side showed that he was ready for anything. And the longer he stood there, the more it worried me. Sure, Rolfe was covered in jackets, but you wouldn’t have to look too closely at him to see that he was breathing. And Joe seemed to be staring at him. Maybe his eyesight was dodgy. Or maybe, because he assumed Rolfe was dead, that was what he saw.

These thoughts hit a wall when Joe suddenly leapt off the floor, karate-style, and kicked Rolfe in the guts. It sent a shockwave through the mattresses, and through me. I closed my eyes and my stomach churned. He was fit and he knew how to handle himself. This was going to be much tougher than I’d figured. I tightened my grip on the club.

Then I was taken by a very worrying thought. Was Joe whacking Rolfe for the cheek he’d given him when the pizza was delivered? Was he so into payback that he’d beat up on someone who he thought was dead? I certainly hoped so, because otherwise, if we were all in for the same treatment, Jean was next. She’d managed to remain quiet while Rolfe copped it, but there was no way she’d stay ‘dead’ if Joe gave her a kicking.

I opened my eyes to a slit again. Joe was side-stepping along the mattresses towards me. I tensed up, ready to take him on, but he stopped in front of Jean and took a step into the space between me and her. He bent over and extended his free hand towards her face. I closed my eyes. Here was my best chance. Then I realised that even if I got the club up for a clean swing at him, he’d react to the movement and drill me before I could land a blow. Game, set, and minced meat. If only I’d converted the skirting into a short-range weapon like a shiv.

I opened my eyes again. Joe’s leg was no more than a foot from my face. The bastard was stroking Jean’s cheek. In that pose, he was perfectly positioned for a scissor kick. I was visualising the move when he suddenly withdrew his hand and straightened up. Then he edged his front foot even further into the space between Jean and me. He reached for her face again. The revolver rested on his right thigh as he bent forward. Now!

I swung my right leg up and drove my heel hard into his chest while my left knee smashed into his ankles. It was a picture-perfect scissor kick. His feet left the ground and he went backwards through the air. But as he flew, his hands shot out ready to break his fall, and he kept hold of his revolver as he went.

Even so, I was on top of him as he hit the floor. I got a good grip on his wrists, but he rotated his hands, and my grip slipped. I grappled for his gun hand, but couldn’t get there before he pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening, and hot residue scoured my face. I gripped his wrists again and leaned heavily on his gun hand as he pushed and lifted with the other side of his body. We rolled, and the momentum took us over until he was on top of me. Idiot that I was, I should have gone for the weapon and not the hand that held it.

Joe threw all of his weight into the fight, while I tried to hold his wrists apart and away from me. But he was very strong. His line of fire was narrowing, and I knew that I couldn’t hold him out much longer.

I put my feet flat on the floor and bucked a few times, trying to shake him off. But he wedged his feet underneath me and rode it out. I whacked his lower back with the tops of my thighs, trying to dislodge him that way, but he just laughed. My arms felt like hot jelly, and his gun was almost in line with my head.

‘Not so big man now, eh?’ he said. ‘Say goodnight, detective.’

I waited for the flash that would kill me, but it didn’t come. Instead, there was a sound like a mallet whacking raw chicken. Joe froze. His eyes looked like they were going to pop. Then he jolted forward an inch and tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t seem to move it. Finally, he shuddered and suddenly went limp, and our faces collided as he collapsed on top of me.

I rolled him off me, grabbed his revolver — an old .38 Special — and immediately swung it around to cover the door. When I glanced back at Joe, I saw my club embedded in the back of his head, and Jean standing behind him with her hands to her face.

I kept the gun on the door while I felt Joe for a pulse. He didn’t have one. It was a brutal, sudden end to our struggle, and not a great outcome for our investigation, but I was sure even McHenry would agree that it was better to have Joe dead than me, with a bullet in my head.

I put my arm around Jean. She was shaking, trying to hold her tears at bay. I desperately wanted to stay there with her, but Joe might have had mates outside. And I had to get to a phone.

I checked Rolfe’s breathing and pulse. He was fine and, incredibly, he seemed to be stirring. I took my jacket off him, and hugged Jean again. I quickly thanked her for saving me, and we kissed before I edged away from her towards the open door, the revolver up two-handed in front of my eyes.

The room where they’d held us was at the end of a long, well-lit corridor. Halfway along the corridor was a door that I assumed led to the garage. I dreaded being taken from behind, so I stepped up to the door, turned the handle, and gave it a push. I pressed myself into the wall and held my breath and listened, weapon at the ready. All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing and Jean speaking softly to Rolfe in the room behind me. I dropped to a low crouch and pivoted into the open doorway. Then I had an attack of the dizzies, and lost my balance and fell on my arse.

I pushed up to a crouch again, raised the revolver to eye level, and traced a line across the room. It was the garage, and it looked empty, except for a dark-green van reversed up against the back wall. A length of silver ducting arced between the van’s exhaust pipe and a hole in the ceiling. Here was the weapon that had killed Wright and Proctor, and which had nearly done us in as well. I walked around it, peering in through the front and rear windows, making sure no one was in the cabin or the cargo bay.

On the far side of the van I found a small, home-made cage sitting up on a work bench. The cage had a spring-loaded door that was activated by a metal touch-plate built into its floor. There was still some cat food smeared on the plate. Ginger, tom, and the little black-and-white cat must have found that food irresistible.

I stepped back into the corridor, tiptoed to the end of it, and stuck my head around the corner. In one direction was a short connecting space that opened out onto a lounge room where two couches sat either side of a fireplace. In the other direction was the front door. I went to the front door, deadlocked it, and chained it. Then I walked slowly into the lounge room.

Apart from the couches, the only moveable objects in the room were three oil paintings hanging on the north-facing wall. They all featured far horizons and big skies. None of them were signed. With any luck, someone at the art school might know who painted them.

A set of stairs filled an alcove at the back end of the room, and in front of me was a short corridor which led towards the front of the house. I made my way down the corridor and pushed through the set of swinging doors at the end of it. What I saw in the room beyond stopped me in my tracks. It was Jean, filling a glass from a tap over the kitchen sink.

‘How’d you get in here?’ I said, truly amazed by her stealth.

‘Rolfe was desperate for water,’ she said, and she pointed to a full glass beside the sink. ‘Here. This one’s for you.’

My eyes darted between the glass of water and the phone sitting on the bench near the fridge. I dialled McHenry, sipping at the water while I waited for him to answer. A small pile of letters sat at the back of the bench. All of them were addressed to The Resident, 13 Rodway Street, Yarralumla, ACT, 2600.

‘Ah, McHenry,’ I said when he finally answered. ‘I bet you thought you were rid of me!’

‘Glass, it’s you!’ he said, as though he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘We’re fine. Acheson and Rolfe are with me.’

‘They’re with you? Where? Tell me exactly where!’

‘I think we’re at number thirteen Rodway Street in Yarralumla, but I’ll leave this phone off the hook in case I’m wrong. Now I’ve gotta go. There might still be hostiles in this place. And, boss? Bring the full entourage when you come. This is the crime scene we’ve been looking for.’