It was just after midnight when Cato woke to his phone buzzing. Norman Lip.
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you. I tried knocking at your door. You’re not at home.’
‘Neither are you. We checked. Where’s Samuels, are you with him?’
‘No. We really need to talk, you and me.’
Sharon stirred. She looked fragile, exhausted. ‘I’m not interested in any more of your games,’ said Cato. ‘If you’ve got information pass it over to Crimestoppers.’
‘Samuels wants to meet you.’
‘Tell him I’ll be ready and waiting. In my office. Monday morning. Tomorrow. Whatever.’
‘Tonight.’
‘Get lost. This is another stunt, he’s playing you, Norman.’ Cato closed his phone and sank back into bed.
A minute later the phone went again, an SMS this time. He angrily snatched the phone up with the intention of turning it off completely. But of course he had to check. A photo. The supermarket bag had been removed from the head of Samuel’s probable next victim.
It was Jake.
An icy stillness at his core. Cato had been focused on his immediate family. Sharon, Ella, himself. It had never occurred to him that his son could be in danger. He rang Norman.
‘Looks like it’s still his game and his rules, huh?’ said Lip.
The gist was that they had been summoned: Samuels wanted Norman to bring Cato to him. A choked sob. ‘He’s got my sister. Naomi.’ That other photo of the woman in the wheelchair. Not so innocent after all. ‘So we’ve got no choice. Have we?’
‘Jesus, what a mess. This better not be another trick.’
A sigh. ‘I’m just the messenger boy. Tell me where you are.’ Cato did. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour, wait outside.’
There was a lot to do. After telling Sharon what was going on, he phoned DI Pavlou to bring her up to speed but she’d already been alerted by IT monitoring of the latest exchange. Then he let Jane know what had happened to their son.
‘You? It’s all about you?’ An anguished cry. ‘It always fucking was.’
‘I’ll find him. I promise.’
‘Shove your fucking promises.’
And she was gone. Cato looked at the image in his hand. Was Jake still alive? The photo looked bloody and discouraging but something told him that this wasn’t a lifeless body, just an unconscious one. What told him? The straw he so desperately clutched.
‘I have to go,’ said Cato, ‘Lip will be here any minute.’
‘Uh-uh,’ said Sharon, shaking her head. ‘No way.’
‘Jake’s my son. What would you do?’
‘And what about us?’ Sharon said.
Both questions that neither could answer.
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Thornton. ‘Norman’s got his marching orders from Samuels.’
A simple text message. Head for the hills.
Pavlou’s head appeared behind Thornton’s. ‘Ready? We’ve got a convoy in place. Choppers, the lot. More to follow in due course.’ She offered him a bulletproof vest. ‘You’ll need this.’
Cato strapped it on and picked up his Glock from the kitchen counter. Swept up in the tidal rush of fate and wondering still how he might change its course. He could hear Ella mumbling gaily in her cot. His chest ready to burst.
‘Phil,’ said Sharon. He turned. ‘Be careful.’
Then he walked outside as Lip pulled into the car park.
Despite Norman’s protests, his Bayswater Rental Corolla had been fitted with a GPS tracking device and was now on Roe Highway being escorted discreetly by two cars of plain-clothes TRG plus a van full of their ninja-suited colleagues two vehicles back. The chopper also kept a respectful distance. All of this was being monitored on live audio and video feeds direct to DI Pavlou and some other brass back at Freo cop shop. Cato was driving, Norman Lip in the passenger seat, cradling his phone. Something about him — cold, reckless. Past caring. A strange half-smile on his lips. At a time like this?
‘Something funny?’ said Cato.
‘Just like TV.’
‘You got what you wanted.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Starring role.’
They left Roe and crawled up Greenmount Hill. Headlights flashed by. Lip nodded towards the cars in front. ‘He’s not going to buy this, is he? The escorts. He’s too clever for that.’
‘Or too arrogant. The jails are full of blokes who thought they were smarter than us.’
‘But so far he is, isn’t he?’
‘So far,’ conceded Cato.
‘And you haven’t worked out yet why he’s targeting you.’
‘No.’
‘We could change the game,’ Lip said.
‘This isn’t a game.’
‘You know what I mean. He’s making all the running. It’s a game for him.’
‘A game that your sister and my son have no part in. We need to stay tight on this, Norman.’
‘This car’s got a tracker, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the chopper, everybody, watching us all the way.’
‘Yep.’
‘Everybody’s attention is on us here, in the hills.’
‘And?’
Norman slotted his phone in the hands-free cradle, took a gun out of his jacket pocket and wedged it into the gap under Cato’s armpit where the Kevlar straps joined. ‘How about you make them all go away?’
‘I have him.’
Yep, Norman had changed the game.
The support convoy and chopper had peeled away on request once the situation was confirmed by Cato. There was still the tracker on the car and he was in the process of disabling it. With the gun in the back of Cato’s neck, Norman was on the phone to Samuels. They must have worked this out beforehand. Gambling, rightly so, on the belief that nobody would be checking Norman for a gun. Why would they?
‘Where did you get it?’ Cato had asked.
‘It was left in my mailbox.’ No prizes for guessing who by. ‘Went on YouTube to work out how to use it. Borrowed a girlfriend’s computer so you couldn’t look over my shoulder.’
Norman had brought along a spare phone too, and Samuels was on to what must have been his sixth or seventh SIM card by now. Once he’d told the escort to leave, Cato’s phone had been chucked out the car window back on Greenmount Hill, along with his Glock. Now they were parked in some bush in John Forrest National Park while Cato dismantled the tracker. It was 1.30 a.m. and clouds covered the moon. Trees rustled in the breeze, strange animal and bird sounds and scratchings. The smell of gum, mould and fox piss.
‘Done,’ Cato said.
‘Right,’ said Norman in response to something from Samuels on the other end of the phone.
Cato felt strangely calm. He at least knew now that this was not another stunt. He really was about to be delivered up to Samuels. So was Jake still alive? Would Samuels give him back in return for his real prize?
Norman took the tracking device off Cato, dropped it to the ground and stamped on it. Then he chucked it into the bush. He gestured back to the car. ‘Get in.’ Norman went in the back seat this time, keeping the gun pressed against Cato’s neck. ‘Drive back out towards Great Eastern. Keep the lights off.’
By now the UCs in their utes and battered Datsuns would be waiting to take up the chase. They’d have had a signal from the tracker right up until the last moment. Until about five minutes ago they knew where Cato was. With only a few roads in and out of John Forrest, the exits would be covered.
‘What did he promise you?’
No reply.
‘This doesn’t guarantee her safety. You know that.’
‘No,’ Norman said. ‘But doing nothing guarantees she’ll die.’ The track forked. ‘Take the right.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’ Norman prodded him. ‘Left here.’
It was a narrow, unsealed track. Back through more bush. They weren’t going out to the highway after all. ‘We’ll get bogged in the sand.’
‘No, we won’t. Keep driving.’
Tree branches scraped the side of the Corolla and the ruts got deep and uneven. The gun barrel poked painfully into his neck and Cato hoped Norman’s finger was clear of the trigger. ‘Brought your pen and paper?’
‘What?’
‘What did you call it? Interview with the vampire. The big scoop?’
‘Don’t start.’
‘Gave up on the hard story, I see. The dissection of society, this bloke’s fixation on the homeless and what that says about us as a nation. Easier to just let him control it, eh? Give you his media release to cut and paste.’ Cato snorted. ‘You’re just a hack like all the rest.’
The gun dug into his ear. ‘Please, mate. Just shut up. You don’t know me. Don’t even begin to try.’
‘What’s to know? You’re a gullible fool, Norman. We’re your only chance right now. Yours and Naomi’s.’
‘And what? You’d go in and rescue her? Where? How?’ Norman moaned. ‘We all know what he can do.’
‘He’ll kill you as well. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘I’m out of options.’
‘No, you’re not. There’s still time to pull back from this.’
‘No. There isn’t. I stuffed up. Now I’m just doing what I need to do.’
A space opened up and they were back on a sealed surface. Ahead some parking bays, it seemed familiar. ‘Pull in over there,’ Norman said, and Cato started to get out of the car. ‘Stay where you are.’
So they sat in the dark in a parking bay somewhere in John Forrest National Park. After a few minutes, some distance away in the gloom, a light flashed. Three times.
They were being summoned.
‘Where the fuck is he?’ DI Hutchens had taken the call from Deb Hassan just after 3.00 a.m.
‘We don’t know, boss. Somewhere in John Forrest.’
It was a place that sent shudders down his spine. A place where a body had been found some years back. A body many believed he had put there. ‘And Pavlou sits back and lets it happen?’
‘Didn’t sound like there was much choice.’
‘There’s always a choice. Give me fifteen.’ He dressed and had another turn on the dunny. It was all salads these days, nothing for the guts to get a good grip on.
‘Off out, love?’ said Marjorie, sitting up in bed and reaching for her specs and her Kobo. She was looking better on the diet regime than him. The curves had re-formed. Her eyes were bright. Him? He just looked like he had cancer. ‘Try not to get bashed with a cricket bat again. I really don’t want to spend my dotage spooning porridge into a fuckwit. Stay safe.’
‘Stay sexy.’ He kissed her and left.
Deb Hassan had taken a risk bringing him into the loop. DI Pavlou wouldn’t appreciate people going behind her back. Besides, apart from the huff and puff, what would he have done differently? Cato, Cato, Cato, he thought. Once more unto the breach.
‘We’re a bit busy here, Mick,’ said Pavlou when he entered the operations room. The other brass barely spared him a glance.
‘I’ll keep quiet.’ He found himself a chair in the corner, out of their way but giving him a view of the video feed.
‘Mick.’ A note of warning.
‘Cato’s a mate.’
Pavlou turned back to the screen, aerials from the chopper, thermal camera tracking through John Forrest National Park, four blobs of colour in the top left. She spoke into her headset. ‘Is that them?’ Crackle and static and affirmative. She consulted a map on an adjacent screen. ‘He’s waiting for them at the entrance to the old Swan View rail tunnel.’ She looked again at the thermal images. ‘At least the boy’s still alive. There’s four warm bodies.’
‘No news is good news,’ said Hutchens.
A frozen look from Pavlou. She started issuing orders through her headset. ‘Get people into position ready to move in and cover each end of the tunnel if that’s where they’re headed. But hold back for now, wait for my word.’
Hutchens watched the two blobs moving towards the static others. Like a virus under a miscroscope. A man with a lethal grudge against Cato. Hutchens was pretty familiar with Cato’s career and couldn’t think of anyone this crazy who wasn’t already dead or in prison. Crazy, yet also patient. Patient enough to play long, drawn-out games. Crazy enough to kill others purely as a message, like a post on Twitter for fuck’s sake.
Twitter.
A memory stirred. Those trolls who’d been taking the piss out of him the last few weeks. One in particular, Special K: a troll for all seasons. Never quite on topic. Often using the hashtag FriendorFoe? Hutchens excused himself, to the obvious relief of Pavlou, and went to his office. He opened up his desktop, logged on and reviewed his posts for the past fortnight. There he was, Special K, following him; his profile picture was a cartoon character — the Roadrunner — his profile ran to three words — Bat Shit Crazy.
An innocuous post from Hutchens about locking and leaving valuables in your car.
Special K. Bad people out there. Lost something special down Rocky yesterday :( #FriendorFoe
Hutchens checked the date of the post: the day after the murder of the woman in the Rockingham car park.
Earlier Hutchens posts. LPT3 coming your way with a warrant sometime soon #drugsarebad
Special K. Man am hearin ya. Crazy druggies kept me awake all last night #slaythosedragons #FriendorFoe
The day after the late-night death of Maureen Bryant, addicted to prescription painkillers and antidepressants.
So on and so forth: semi-cryptic tweets from Special K lining up with the recent deaths of homeless around Fremantle. Coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. But what did this do to help Cato walking into that disused railway tunnel up in the hills?
‘No further,’ Norman said.
Cato stopped. He estimated he was about fifty metres away from the intermittently flashing torch.
The gun scraped the back of his neck. ‘What makes you think you’ve got a say in this?’
‘So shoot me. Go on.’
‘Don’t think I won’t.’
There was a humming, whining noise. Like a distant pump. Above him. That couldn’t be right. ‘Thing is,’ said Cato, ‘that’s exactly what I think. You’re a jerk but you’re not a bad person. This isn’t you. You’re out of your depth, Norman. Give me the gun and let me deal with this. That’s your best chance of getting your sister back safe.’
‘No. He’ll win. He always does.’ A nudge, a sniffle. ‘Keep walking.’
‘No.’
‘Last warning.’
Cato stood his ground. ‘Stop talking about it. Do something.’
Norman came around and stood facing Cato. He lifted the gun to eye level. ‘Don’t push me.’
A muffled voice from ahead. ‘What’s happening?’
Eyes adjusted to the gloom, Cato now knew where he was. The Swan View rail tunnel was just ahead. This was where he, Sharon and Ella had come for their family picnic, what, a week ago? Was Samuels already on their trail then, following them? ‘Nothing, Samuels. Where’s my son?’
‘Jake?’ A throaty chuckle, strangely familiar. ‘He’s with me. Waiting for you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You don’t have any option.’ The voice still muffled, not just by distance. A hood?
‘Prove he’s fine. I don’t go a step further until then.’
‘Norman won’t do anything, mate. He hasn’t got the ticker.’
The gun clicked, Norman’s finger curled on the trigger. The wind blew through the trees and a bird screeched somewhere.
‘Is that right, Norman?’ said the voice.
‘Besides,’ said Cato quickly, not ready yet to test his intuition, ‘he would be denying you your pleasure.’
‘Norman?’ said the voice. ‘Think about Naomi. She needs you. Don’t let her down.’
Norman stepped forward. Pressed the barrel hard into Cato’s forehead. ‘Move.’
‘No.’
Norman hesitated, shook his head and lowered the gun.
Then he whipped Cato across the temple with it.
Cato used to have this mate at primary school: Ben, a good-natured, outgoing, knockabout kid. He was everything Cato wasn’t and he sometimes wondered how they’d become friends. He lived up the street and both his parents were profoundly deaf and dumb, although nowadays you wouldn’t use those words. Ben wasn’t hearing impaired and he grew up bridging both worlds. He was fluent in sign language and lip-reading by the time he was at school with Cato, five or six years old. One day they’d been playing with some toy cars and trucks on the floor of the kitchen in Cato’s house, sun blazing through the window, and Mum chopping vegies at the counter. She was wearing stilettos, ready to go out and meet somebody as soon as Cato’s sister got back from high school to babysit him. She’d stepped back from the counter to open the cupboard door beneath and her high heel sliced at the edge of Ben’s hand, drawing a spurt of blood. Mum didn’t notice what she’d done and Ben didn’t cry out or make a noise even though you could see in his eyes that it had really, really hurt.
Years later, when they were teenagers, Cato had asked Ben why he never cried out when he was in so much pain that day.
‘What’s the point?’ he’d said. ‘My folks couldn’t hear me.’
When Cato opened his blood-gummed eyes he saw his son Jake twisting in the soft breeze that blew through the dark tunnel, illuminated by a torch strategically placed, like a stage light. There was a rope around his neck and his hands were bound behind him. He was on tiptoe on the edge of an upturned milkcrate, trying not to fall. Cato scrambled to his feet, noticing only now that his own hands were also bound behind him. He rushed forward as Jake toppled.