THE PHONE IN my pocket buzzed. Regan. He had called a dozen times while I slept at Melina’s house, and twice more since I hit the road. I could almost feel his rage through the phone, a pulsing heat that seemed to make the phone hot to the touch. I took a breath and waited for the ringing to stop.
Before me, the dense bushland bordering the Bombala River, wet grass leading to reeds at the edge of the water.
I had pulled the bike over and entered the park after miles of fast, dangerous riding, the highways clear now of roadblocks looking for us. My face and neck were spattered with cold rain, and my socks were damp. Maybe by bringing the bike to death-defying speeds, taking corners at suicidal angles, I had been trying to tempt God, or fate, or whatever the hell was in control, to shut down my pursuit of Regan. If I was taken out of the game in an accident, I wouldn’t have to face that terrible act, the one I knew was coming. The moment I would cross over and deliberately, with coldhearted planning, end a life.
I don’t know what made me finally give in. But I picked up the phone as it started buzzing again and pushed the answer button.
“When I call, you answer,” he said. His voice was smooth, quiet. But the danger was there. He sounded tired, slightly puffed, as though being unable to contact me had drained his physical strength.
“Or what?” I laughed. “You don’t have any leverage over me left. You don’t get to make demands when you’re killing off the people who mean something to me. I don’t have to participate in your bullshit.”
“You could have made it easier on some people by cooperating,” he said.
I crouched by the bike as my knees became weak. Who were these people, and what had Regan done to them? Or was he talking about something he was about to do, a plan now set in place that I could have talked him out of if I’d answered my phone? Across the river, a couple were taking a lunchtime stroll along the riverbank. I took my gun from my bag and actioned it, hardly daring to look in case I saw the inevitable shape of him appearing from the tree line, heading toward them. There would be nothing I could do but scream for help, fire aimlessly, hoping to scare him off. My breath caught in my chest even as I tried to sound calm.
“I’m outside the Bombala Town Hall,” I lied. “Come get me.”
“No, not yet, Harry.”
“When, motherfucker?” I snapped. “How long do you think I’m going to keep playing this game? What if I just stop answering? What if I hand myself in?”
“You won’t.”
“You really sure about that?”
“I know you, Harry.”
“You don’t know jack shit. You’re a disease. You only know how to infect and consume things.”
“I know you’re frustrated. But the time is coming. This is all a process. You need to just let go.” He gave a small laugh, casual, like a man trying to convince a friend to try a new type of dessert. “It was easy for me. I had no choice. I went to prison. There were bars and cuffs and big walls to teach me who was in control. Harry, I’m in control of you. I’ll give you your gift when it’s time.”
I said nothing. The couple across the river strolled safely out of sight.
“I’m going to send you another address,” Regan said.