Blood Junction (36 page)

Soon there were some homesteads, a clutch of wooden houses, and in fifteen minutes they reached the center of Tibooburra.
Larry parked outside the Caltex garage and trotted inside, gesturing for her to remain in the air-conditioned car. He had
insisted on finding her another lift from his hometown to Cooinda.

“Jerry’s always going up there,” he said, “to see his women friends. He’ll be glad of the excuse.”

Jerry was, indeed, glad of the excuse, and after filling his pickup’s tank and two big jerricans with four-star, he checked
the tires and the oil then cheerfully popped India in the passenger seat and drove out of town singing Robert Palmer’s “Addicted
to Love.” The sun continued to beat down. Occasional red sand dunes rose through the rocky plains and there was no habitation,
no sign of life other than the odd crow hopping across the road.

Two hours later they came to the low rise of hills overlooking Cooinda. It felt like a year had passed since Tiger had driven
her here, India thought.

Jerry asked her where she’d liked to be dropped, and she said down the Biloella road would be nice. No problem, said Jerry,
and deposited her outside Whitelaw’s with a grin. The road was deserted. No black BMWs, no silver Lexus or white transit van
with a crumpled right fender.

She pushed open the fly-screen door and stepped inside.

“India?” Mikey said, his voice astonished.

She stopped dead. Their eyes met. He was scanning her while she was trying to decide whether he loathed her for abandoning
him outside the warehouse. They stood in tense silence.

“Nice haircut,” he said eventually.

She continued to stare at him. Something about him was different. His jaw seemed bigger, his nose larger, his green eyes more
vivid.

“You too,” she said finally.

He gave a faint smile and ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. He said, “What are you doing here?”

“I want to nail Knox.”

He gave his head a little shake. “Last time I saw you, you were legging it at a hundred miles an hour.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry.”

He came to her. Put his arms around her. Gave her a strong hug. Thigh to thigh, belly to belly. She felt her feet leave the
floor as he tightened his grip and lifted her into his embrace. “I’m bloody glad you did. That you’re all right.” He pulled
back, looked down into her face. “I’ve been worried sick.”

She felt her muscles relax. Thank God. Thank God he didn’t hate her. He pulled her close to him again. Kissed her hair. She
hugged him back with surprising strength. They stood in the corridor like that for some time before Mikey told her about Scotto.

“He’s doing okay. I rang the hospital this morning and although they wouldn’t let me talk to him, I gather he’ll be up and
hobbling about soon.”

“Were you hit during the gunfight?” she asked. “I mean, you fell …”

“Tripped over my big feet as usual.”

“Thank heavens you turned up when you did. You saved my life.”

“No, I didn’t. I came in after the shooting had started.”

She frowned. “So who yelled ‘police’?”

“Not me.”

India was shaking her head. “I don’t get it.”

“Me neither.” He grinned. “Perhaps you’ve a guardian angel.”

“Who screams ‘drop your weapons or I’ll shoot’? Somehow I don’t think so.”

“Well, if it hadn’t been for whoever it was, I’d be dead. They covered me until I’d gotten the heck out of there, and I saw
Knox and his blokes leave, then the black Beemer. When I, went to get Scotto I couldn’t see anybody.” He scratched the side
of his jaw with a finger. “Maybe there’s another party involved here. Secret Services or something.”

India remembered Arthur Knight, the man who’d paid her bail. Whitelaw had said he was a fed. Was it Arthur who had covered
them? If so,
why
? She wished she’d written that letter now. The one she’d meant to before Stan rocked up and wanted to arrest her, but she’d
been too busy surviving to think about it since.

They went into the sitting room. India pulled out a tattered map of Australia from the bookshelf and studied it. Biloella
was northwest of Cooinda, a pindot in a spot surrounded with symbols for desert. It didn’t look far, about fifty kilometers,
but she knew distances were deceptive and driving time depended on how good the roads were.

“How long will it take me to get to Biloella?” she asked Mikey.

“An hour. In Whitelaw’s rust-bucket, four.”

She glanced at the VW outside, tried to ignore the continual heated inner voice demanding she forget it, that she leave town,
climb on to a plane and flee to England.

“I don’t suppose I could borrow yours for the day, could I?”

India found herself sweating, unsure whether she’d be relieved or disappointed if he said no.

“All yours.” He dug in his front jeans pocket and tossed her his keys. “What are you going to do up there?”

“Try and track down the Mulletts. See what they got paid, if anything. Get more information.”

“A family reunion!” Mikey grinned again and India rolled her eyes at him. “Okay. While you do that, I’m going to get supplies.
I want to find out what’s in the basement of the Institute.”

“What, break in again?”

“Absolutely. But this time I’ll be better prepared.”

“You’ll need a lookout.”

“You betcha.”

She glanced at her watch. “When were you planning your assault?”

“We can prep this evening, go in tonight.” His eyes lit up. “It’ll be dark. Does this mean you’ll strip?”

She took a swipe at his head, which he ducked.

He was still chuckling when she climbed into his ute.

India cruised into the baking wilderness, anxiously checking the rearview mirror, her knuckles pale as white chocolate buttons
around the steering wheel.

She drove on the speed limit all the way to Biloella. Later, she couldn’t remember anything about the journey; it was one
of those times when she didn’t care to think about what she was doing.

The main street of Biloella was deserted, dusty, and about four hundred yards long. India parked nose-in next to an ancient
gray Land Rover with blistered paintwork and crazed windows. She climbed out of Mikey’s ute and walked along the street of
aluminum and weatherboard dwellings. They were not well kept and many of the houses had crudely built lean-tos attached for
additional living space. An aura of dirt and poverty hung over the settlement and the air was thin and hot, and pulsed with
the sound of insects.

She passed a hotel and an all-purpose general store, then a milk bar. India entered the milk bar. An angular woman in cut-off
dungarees was serving banana splits to an old couple at a table in the corner. She walked behind the counter, asked what India
would like. India ordered a glass of water and a banana milkshake.

The glass of water was from the tap, the milkshake freshly blended with ice cream and soft fruit.

“Hot enough for you?” the woman said.

“Sure is.”

“You’re from the city, am I right?”

India hesitated. “I suppose so.”

“Sydney, right?”

“Er …”

“Wouldn’t pick you for a Melbourne girl. I’m from Melbourne myself.”

“London.”

The woman’s eyes rounded into saucers. “Strike me pink, I don’t believe it. We’ve a tourist in town.”

India smiled.

“Passing through or stopping for a while?”

“Depends if I find what I’m looking for or not.”

The woman’s face lit with curiosity. The old couple looked up.

“And what’s that, darl?”

India lit a cigarette, dragged the smoke into her lungs and exhaled. “Three families.”

The woman leaned her skinny arms on the counter and shook her head in a parody of wonderment. “Don’t keep us in suspense,
then. Which families can someone like you be after out the back of Bourke?”

India took a long drink of water, set the glass down, then picked up her milkshake. “The Mulletts. Do you know them?”

The woman shook her head. “Can’t say that I do.”

The milkshake was thick and sweet, and as she sucked hard on the straw India decided to try the all-purpose store, then the
hotel. And then she’d start knocking on people’s doors. Across the street, she noticed a sand-colored dog cock its leg on
a cardboard box and trot off, the white tip of its tail waving like a freshly laundered handkerchief.

India jumped when a hand touched her elbow. The old man withdrew his gnarled and liver-spotted hand, his face anxious. “Sorry,”
he quavered. “Didn’t mean to give you a turn.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Us city folk take a while to relax.”

The old man’s lips trembled into a smile. India smiled encouragingly back.

“We couldn’t help but overhear.” He turned to look at the old woman in the corner, who nodded obligingly. “We were wondering
if you were talking about Victor and Lizzie Mullett?”

Her voice was an octave higher than usual when she said, “I’m looking for Greg and Clive too, and Greg’s wife.”

“And seven kids.”

“Are they here?”

The old man shuffled his feet, looked sideways. “Well, as it happens, no. I’m just the solicitor, but Dorry—that’s the owner
selling up to them—heard from Victor when they were in Sydney. Victor told Dorry he’d be moving up here after they’d completed
some contract out bush somewhere. That was the last we heard. They just never turned up.”

India was frowning, trying to work it out. “So where did they go?” she thought out loud.

“I don’t know,” he said, sounding as puzzled as she. “It was all sorted, that September sixth they would take on Ringers Soak
… it’s a beaut property. Tough to manage, but we met them and reckoned they’d make it work. They’re all from the outback.
The back of beyond. This kind of country is their type of country and they would have made a good go of it. They had a waterhole
for their stock and nature would have provided the food.” He turned a bewildered gaze on her. “Why the devil didn’t they take
it?”

India shrugged helplessly.

“I know they needed more water, in different locations, Dorry was always up front about that. And they’d been thinking long
and hard about underground reservoirs. Clive was a rig driller. He was convinced one existed beneath the property. He planned
to drill holes. He’d have sorted their water out in seconds.”

Twelve of my family missing
, she thought. If what she’d learned so far was true, they had climbed into that white transit van at Central, and vanished.

“Damn shame,” the old man was saying, shaking his head. “I still have their deposit. Invested it for them in case they turned
up. Had to sell Ringers Soak though, couldn’t wait for the Mulletts forever.

“How much did they give you?”

“Three grand. There’s two hundred or so on top of that now.”

India wondered whether Polly could inherit the deposit, should her relatives have perished, or if Bertie was first in line.
Which reminded her. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything of Bertie Mullett?” she asked. “The grandfather.”

The old man looked surprised. “Sure. He’s staying with the Dungarins just down the road. Got in last week after going bush
for three months.” His face fell. “He doesn’t know where his kids are either. Right cut up, he is.”

“How do I find him?”

I
NDIA STOOD OUTSIDE A SMALL TIN SHACK WITH AN IDEN
tical neighbor on one side and a vacant lot overgrown with spinifex and weeds on the other. The shack was streaked with rust.
An old woman sat unmovingly on a tattered beige armchair beneath a small lean-to that offered some shade. Gaunt and twisted
with age, she stared at India through rheumy, purple-rimmed eyes.

India had brushed her hair, put on some mascara and lipstick, but now felt out of place wearing makeup.

The old woman called out something to her that could have been a greeting, but it was drowned in a coughing wheeze. India
walked across a sandy patch of ground prickly with tough grasses to join the elderly Aborigine.

“I was wondering if Bertie—”

The old woman made a loud choking sound, which turned into a series of racking coughs.

India surveyed her anxiously. “Can I get you some water?”

“Too late for that,” the woman rasped and turned slowly to spit into a bowl sitting on the seat next to her. Then she leaned
back and closed her eyes, exhausted.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

The woman nodded. “Flu. Whole town’s down with it. We’ll be right as rain next week, but.”

India remembered the twenty-three Aborigines dead in Darwin.

“Johnnie’s out,” the old woman said. “So’s Elsa.”

“I was hoping to catch up with Bertie Mullett,” India said. “I was told he was here.”

“You missed him. He’s gone back to Cooinda.”

India cursed and the woman chuckled.

“Doesn’t he ever stay in one place for more than a day?” asked India. “I’ve been trying to get hold of him for over two weeks
now.”

“You’d catch him at home this minute,” said the woman, her smile showing purple gums. “He caught a lift with Liz Jollie. Promised
he’d stay put for a bit ’til he heard from his family.”