Blood Junction (32 page)

He ran up the hill. Two taxis, thank God.

He raced to the first, a blue Holden, and yanked open the driver’s door.

“What the—”

“Sorry, mate,” Mikey said, dragging the man out and shoving him into the street. He jumped into the cab, locked the door,
turned the ignition key.

The cab driver was yelling at him, banging on the door.

Mikey slammed the car into gear and roared off with a squeal of rubber.

The car was cruising south. They’d passed Haymarket and were on South Dowling Street, heading towards the airport.

India tried to work out why she was there, why they’d grabbed Scotto too … and a sinking feeling of dread settled in her stomach.
There had been no blindfolds. No concern about hiding the kidnappers’ faces, or their route. This was bad news. Very bad news.

When they reached Mascot, the car pulled off the expressway and turned right. After a set of traffic lights it swung suddenly
to the left and bumped onto an ill-kempt road lined with warehouses. After a while it slowed, and turned into a huge courtyard
that spread over several acres. The whole place was empty. A single dusty gum tree stood like a sentinel beside a rusting
gate hanging from one hinge. The building ahead was white, with great cracks running down its walls. The car drew to a stop
outside a metal door. The driver switched off the ignition. Everything was silent, aside from the faint hum of traffic speeding
down South Cross Drive.

There was a rattle from the warehouse and the metal door opened. Two more men appeared, walked to the car. One had a buzz
haircut, the other short curly brown hair.

“India.” Scotto drew the word out slowly, as though he were drunk.

Instantly the gun trained around. “Shut up,” the man said tightly.

Scotto acted as if he hadn’t heard. “Indi, darling, I’ve missed you. Terribly.”

Holding the gunman’s eyes, she reached across and gripped Scotto’s hand. It was surprisingly warm, and when his fingers clenched
around hers with a remarkable strength, she had to concentrate on keeping her expression bland. The gunman didn’t notice,
however; he was watching the two men approaching. But the gun never wavered.

“Who are these apes?” Scotto said, then as the gunman swung around, “Shit, my head hurts.”

There was the all-around click of car doors unlocking, the clunk as they opened, and then the instant heat as the humidity
rushed in and blanketed the air-conditioning.

“He’s awake,” said the gunman, jerking his pistol at Scotto.

“Good,” said one of the men outside, and yanked a protesting Scotto through the door by his hair and an elbow. “I didn’t fancy
carrying the bastard.”

India found herself being hauled out of the car and marched into the warehouse behind Scotto, who was still protesting about
his head, how it hurt and wouldn’t they give him a break?

Inside, the warehouse was enormous. There was a stack of packing crates to her left, and on the right, just yards away, a
silver Mercedes four-wheel-drive. Scotto’s briefcase was put next to the Merc, then he was handcuffed with what looked like
police-issue cuffs and led towards the crates, where they tethered his feet together. India was guided to stand in front of
the four-wheel-drive car. Two men took up position behind her. She felt something small and hard pressed into the small of
her back. She had no doubt it was the barrel of a pistol.

“Come on, guys,” Scotto said, loudly aggrieved. “Let us in on the secret, will you? What’s going on here, huh?”

There was the sound of a car door being opened and shut. “Very good, Mr. Kennedy. Acting as if you haven’t a clue. If I didn’t
know better I could even fall for it myself.”

India recognized the voice. Felt sick.

Roland Knox.

He was dressed as he’d been when she met him at the Research Institute, in a city suit. Dark gray, snowy white shirt, and
a vivid blue tie that paled his eyes to water.

Scotto looked bewildered. “What the hell is going on here?”

“I’m fed up with him playing the whingeing innocent,” said Knox. “Break a finger.”

“Which one, sir?”

“I don’t give a damn,” Knox snapped. “Just do it.”

He stepped forward, quite close to India. He was watching her with a strange intensity.

She felt a moment of complete disbelief as two men approached Scotto. He jerked wildly as one man pinned him against the wall,
another gripping his handcuffed wrists.

Her eyes opened wide in shock, wider than they’d ever been, as the man holding Scotto’s wrists gripped the little finger of
his right hand, bent it back. The snap of bone when it came had a slightly succulent popping sound, like a chicken drumstick
being pulled from the raw flesh of torso. Scotto paused in his fight and turned pale.

A wave of dizzy nausea washed over her. The other two men were behind her, one on each side. She could hear their breathing
they were so close, too close for her to make a run for it.

“Christ,” said Scotto weakly. “Christ. Oh, Christ.” He cradled his hands to his chest. He was deathly white.

Knox clicked his fingers at one of the men behind her. “The briefcase,” he said. “Open it and bring it here.”

The man in question did as commanded and held Scotto’s briefcase open in front of Knox, as though he were offering him a giant
box of cigars. Knox glanced inside. His voice was full of satisfaction as he held up a tattered green folder stuffed with
papers and waved it at Scotto, then dropped it back inside. “Just as I thought,” he said, and waved the man away. Knox gave
Scotto a nasty smile. “You took it sailing with you, didn’t you, Mr. Kennedy? I respect your caution. Wary of sharing its
contents with the average Australian family, no doubt.”

Scotto jerked his head up as though electrified, and when he spoke his voice was steady and strong. In ringing tones he said,
“Indi, if you don’t remember anything else, remember it’s the
water
. It’s the WATER—”

“Shut up!” snapped Knox. He made a sharp gesture to the men holding Scotto. “Keep him quiet. Yank that finger of his, break
another bone, I don’t care.”

Knox came to India, looked at her. She knew he hated his lack of height, loathed looking up at her, and she made sure her
chin was well tucked in as she peered down, so that from his position her nose would seem elongated and her attitude haughty.

“I want to know everything,” he said. “I want to know how you set up that Abo cop to take the fall. I want to know about Rodney
Stirling. I want to know who you’ve talked to, who you’ve seen … I want to know about every minute of every day since we last
met.”

Distantly she registered the fact:
Whitelaw was innocent
.

“Start talking, Miss Kane.”

India didn’t say anything. Where would it get her? Especially with Scotto guarded by two men, and her with a gun in her back.
So she stood there without moving, and thought about life and Scotto and sunshine and how Mikey had looked when he was laughing
about her being an Aborigine.

“You think you’re so tough, don’t you?” said Knox. “Tough as nails. Not scared at all.”

She held his gaze, didn’t reply.

“How about Mr. Kennedy here? You’re scared for him, aren’t you?”

Involuntarily, India’s head jerked.

Knox came close to her, so close she could smell his aftershave: a hint of citrus, sharp, but not unpleasant.

“I want to know why the AMA started investigating my business,” he said.

India stared at him. A feeling of dread started in her lower belly, moved to her heart.

“Answer me,” he said.

She didn’t move, not a centimeter.

Knox clicked his fingers at the man who had brought him the briefcase. He came forward and gave him a small handgun. Knox
quickly pulled back the slide and a bullet slipped into the chamber. Then he gave a nod to the two men holding Scotto, and
said, “Hold him down.”

India made to go to Scotto but the man behind her grabbed her hair and twisted it around his hand and pulled from behind in
a grip that made her eyes water.

Like an animal who senses its doom, Scotto struggled the instant he felt their hands on him. The man who’d given Knox the
pistol went across and helped. It took three men to subdue Scotto and even then he was bucking and squirming furiously as
Knox approached, gun held at the ground.

“No!” Scotto shouted. His limbs were flailing, and spittle flew from his mouth. “Don’t! Please, don’t!”

India made a lunge towards Scotto but her head was jerked backwards so hard she thought her hair would come out at the roots.

Roland Knox stepped towards Scotto and swung his arm so that the black barrel was pressed against Scotto’s left kneecap. Scotto
was shouting, but India was deathly quiet. A wave of horror drenched her from head to toe.

Knox turned to her, and smiled. He said, “You’re not enjoying this, are you, Miss Kane?”

Then he pulled the trigger.

Scotto screamed incoherently for twenty-five seconds before he lost consciousness. India knew she would hear those screams
in her cold dawn dreams until the day she died. She could see blood soaking his jeans like red ink spilled onto blotting paper.
She could smell burnt powder and the acrid stench of her own fear. Her ears were ringing from the gunshot and her head was
beginning to throb; the grip on her hair had tightened unbearably.

Roland Knox came and stood in front of her and lowered the pistol until it was pointed at her stomach.

India jerked against the man behind her, tried to twist away from Knox, then lashed out with her feet in panic, a strangled
whimper bubbling in her throat.

“Hold her still.”

Frantically she kicked out at the men as they neared, but they were too strong and she ended up with two of them restraining
her legs and arms.

“Pull up her shirt,” he said, “and undo her jeans.”

The man holding her hair started to relax his grip but Knox said, “Not you, you idiot. Aikin.”

The fourth man jumped to do his bidding. Knox slowly brought the barrel to the tender skin of her lower belly and stroked
it. She could feel her muscles leap and contract against the metallic caress and tried to drop to her knees, twist away, but
the man behind held her head relentlessly. Knox watched her closely, his face intent.

He raised the pistol.

Fear liquidized her insides. It swept through every vein, every nerve, made her whimper in every cell of her body. She tried
not to let her fear show, holding Knox’s gaze with her own without blinking, but she couldn’t stop the trickle of urine that
escaped and wet her pants, seeped down her jeans.

His voice was calm, serene, almost as though he were reassuring or comforting her. “As you can see, I can demolish your intestines
if I choose. Turn your stomach, your bladder and your bowel into juice. I doubt if you’ll ever be able to have children.”
He stroked the hard gunmetal in a circle around her belly button. “What would you do to prevent that happening?”

India opened her mouth. Worked her tongue drily. Choked out, “Anything.”

“How very accommodating of you. Does this mean you will tell me who tipped off the AMA and set you on my trail?”

She closed her eyes and immediately felt the gun barrel jab hard into her belly.

“Open your eyes and answer me.”

Her voice was hoarse. “Yes.”

He put his head on one side and studied her, the sweat trickling down her forehead, her cheeks. “So start, Miss Kane. Go ahead.
Start talking.”

There was a long silence while he contemplated India and India hung from the trap of her hair, shaking and trembling and thinking:
Please, God, let me live, don’t let him pull the trigger, don’t, please don’t.
Finally, he took the pistol away from her stomach and pushed it against her right kneecap.

“This is going to hurt, Miss Kane.”

I
NDIA MADE A FINAL, WILD STRUGGLE, URGENTLY TRYING TO
free herself.

“Keep her still!” snapped Knox.

Every muscle, every nerve was flooded with adrenaline as she fought, and she was kicking and bucking and yelling when somebody
screamed: “
Police!
”