Blood Junction (43 page)

“What do you know about her murder?”

He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl.

“What is it?”

“It was a mistake.”

“In what way, a mistake?”

“My mistake.”

A sensation of dread curled around India’s heart. She took a deep breath.

“You killed her?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Disbelief and horror flooded her. Time rolled past. Five minutes. Ten. Homesteads became more numerous. Roads converged below.
They had reached the outskirts of Adelaide.

“How … why …” She couldn’t think what to say.

“She met Peter Ross and that young copper, Terence Dunn. They all knew about the Institute. Lauren had to go. As a potential
threat, that is, not as your friend.”

“Jesus,” she whispered.

“I know. It’s a bugger. I wish I’d got Ross first, then Lauren would still be around. But as it is …”

India was staring at him. She felt lightheaded and faintly sick.

“Don’t you feel any regret?”

“Regret?” He sounded surprised. “Well, I guess so. I mean, I’ve looked out for you as best I could. You could say I doubled
my attentions over you because of my previous cock-up. Not that it was my fault. I didn’t even know you or Lauren existed
when I went out that night. I hadn’t got the letter then. At the time I was just doing my job: terminate whoever Dunn was
meeting, and they happened to be Peter Ross and Lauren Kennedy.”

“Jesus,” she said again.

“But life does go on and all,” he finished.

He’s a psychopath. He has to be, not to feel any remorse.

“Nearly there.” He started to ease the helicopter downwards.

India sat back, chilled with horror. She stared at the windscreen, utterly silent. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she was
barely aware of them and made no move to brush them away.

Bishop drifted the helicopter over the helipad and hovered briefly, then set it gently down on the asphalt. One of the hospital
doors burst open and a crowd of people spilled out and ran over. Four in white uniforms; doctors and nurses. Several policemen.
And Stan.

“Oh, no,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Stanley Bacon … Isn’t he on your payroll?”

He flung back his head and laughed. “God, no! Old Stan’s straight as a die, a perpetual thorn in our side.” He started to
slide off his headset, but she stopped him with a touch on his arm.

“Who, then?”

He looked at Stan and said, “Donna. My guess is she’s spilled the beans or he’d never be within cooee of here, even with that
coast guard helicopter buzzing past when it did.”

“Thanks,” said India. She clicked her belt free, pulled off the headset, and swung open the door.

Stan reached them first. He pulled out India, covering her head with his hand as though to protect her from the rotors spinning
above. The downdraft tore at their clothes. Curran clambered out behind her, helped two doctors ease Mikey onto a stretcher.
India pulled herself away from Stan and leaned inside the cockpit, shouting at Bishop, “Aren’t you coming in?”

“No.”

“How can I reach you?”

“You can’t.”

“But I want to—”

“I’m out of here,” he yelled. “Gone for good.”

He released his harness and leaned across to hook his hand around her neck. Gave it an affectionate shake like he had on the
beach. She put her hand over his briefly. Then he withdrew his hand, belted up and gestured for her to close the door. He
snapped it shut from inside. Then the helicopter’s engine note rose. She watched his movements at the instruments, economic
and precise. Bishop waved everyone away from the machine. Stan was tugging her back from the aircraft.

“India,” Bishop mouthed at her.

She mouthed, “Toby.”

He shook his head, made a slashing movement across his throat.

“David,” she mouthed.

He gave her the thumbs-up. Then the helicopter was rising, soaring into the air. The last India saw of her brother was as
he banked the aircraft sharply around, to go back the way they’d come. His face was absorbed, glancing at his instruments,
then looking ahead. Concentrating on the job in hand.

S
UNDAY MORNING, INDIA WAS DOZING IN MIKEY’S BED. HE
had an arm hooked over her hip and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.

So whatcha think of my Chrissy present?

You certainly outdid yourself.

Yeah, didn’t I just. Found out your skin name yet?

No. But Polly’s started calling me Damala, as in the ancestral eagle hawk, because she says I’m so brave.

Sounds good to me. The bad guys behind bars yet?

Pretty much. One scientist, a Chinese man, hasn’t been found yet, but Willis and Roycroft are under lock and key. Neither
made bail.

Good on you, girl.

India could hear a phone ringing. She opened her eyes. The ringing stopped. There was a tap on the door. “It’s for you, India,”
called Whitelaw.

She scrambled out of bed and pulled on Mikey’s bathrobe. Mikey made a snuffling sound and rolled onto his front. She padded
out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. She went and gave Whitelaw a good-morning kiss on his cheek before picking up the
phone.

“I’m out, Indi. They discharged me yesterday.” He sounded dull and dispirited.

Short silence.

“I gather I’ve your brother to thank for my life. Shooting up the warehouse when he did.” India felt her breathing catch.
“The man who took Lauren’s life saves mine. Christ. I’m having some trouble with this as you can imagine.”

“I’m sorry,” was all she could think to say.

“Not your fault.” She heard his sigh gust into the receiver. “Any news of him?”

“Gone for good, I’d say. He flew the helicopter back to Knox’s beach house and took the boat. At least that’s what we think,
since his Beemer was still there. A fishing trawler found the Bertram drifting off Port MacDonnell. Nobody was aboard, but
he wouldn’t have drowned or anything. He’d have planned it like that.”

“Hope he stays away.”

“He will, I’m sure of it.”

They talked a while longer, about Scotto’s physiotherapy and when he’d be able to go sailing again, then he said, “Could you
call Lauren’s mum? She’s terribly upset she froze you out, but you understand, don’t you?”

“I’ll call her today.”

“Oh, and Tom’s been at me to put you on our team. We’re totally impressed with your articles. What do you say to working with
us reprobates?”

“I’d love it! Mikey’s starting work with the North Sydney Police next month, so that would be brilliant.”

They sent love and said goodbye. Whitelaw poured her a coffee and put an ashtray next to a pile of newspapers. She lit a cigarette
and looked at the headlines a hundredth time.

SEVEN HUNDRED KILLED BY THREE MEN …
DEATH BY STEALTH … NOT THE FLU BUT
MURDER … HUMAN GUINEA PIGS
SACRIFICED …

She pulled Saturday’s
Sydney Morning Herald
free and took it to the divan with her coffee and cigarette.

SCIENTISTS BAFFLED OVER DEADLY CODE

By India Kane

SCIENTISTS are still trying to discover how the virus that killed over seven hundred Aborigines works. The virus, introduced
into mains water, is the first of its kind. In the past, biological weapons have been airborne.

It is thought the virus infects an engineered bacteria and as the bacteria multiplies, so does the code for the virus. At
some point, after drinking the water, the bacterial infection releases the viral code inside the victim’s cells, triggering
a massive and lethal infection.

“We will have the answers very soon,” said Paul Barnett, a spokesman for the CSIRO. He described the technology as “groundbreaking
and extraordinary.”

Dr. Ruth Reid, head of science and ethics at the Australian Medical Association, said this development heralded a new era
of germ warfare. “Such technology could be applied to destroying armies, or for blackmailing governments into cooperation.”
She went on to say there is an urgent need to’develop biological tests to detect dangerous new pathogens in seemingly innocent
civilian research establishments.

All water supplies in the Northern Territory, Queensland and New South Wales were sealed off when a national alert was given
on fourth January, by the Cooinda Police Department. The authorities confirm that Tasmania, Victoria and Western Australia
have not been polluted with the deadly virus. All stocks of mineral water were sold out within twenty-four hours. Army units
have been supplying water by truck to cities and outback towns from these states.

Whitelaw pushed a copy of
Newsweek
onto her lap. A shot of Polly, India and himself, taken outside Cooinda Police Station, was on the front cover.

“Don’t you look beautiful!” she said. “Personally, I think it’s the haggard expression that makes it, along with the pouches
under your eyes.”

“Nobody’ll be looking at me. They’ll be fixated by your purple hair.”

“Don’t you like it?”

“It won’t matter if you’re moving to Sydney.”

“I’ll make sure it’s back to normal by the time you come and visit, okay?”

He smiled. “Okay.”

Come eleven-thirty, India was in the kitchen, burning onions. Mikey was rolling his eyes at her and asking why God had sent
him someone who couldn’t cook. She was rolling her eyes back and asking God to give her the strength to deal with the world’s
worst patient. He responded by telling her she’d won that particular prize; all she’d had was a head cold and she’d thought
she was going to die of the flu. Whitelaw walked out of the kitchen for somewhere more peaceful. Twenty minutes later, a loud
knock on the front door sent India into a panic.

“How do I look?” she asked Mikey for the third time.

“Like an Abo.”

She sent him a look of desperation.

“Gorgeous,” he amended.

Half a minute later, Bertie Mullett walked into the kitchen. He wore jeans and a work shirt and stood tall and straight, his
right hand holding Polly’s. His hair was gray and woolly, his skin dark, so dark it seemed to glow with a bluish tint. For
an age he stood there staring at India, and then he smiled. It was as though the sun had exploded from behind the blackest,
darkest thundercloud.

“Hello, granddaughter.”

India was gripping the side of the kitchen table with both hands. When she spoke, her voice was faint. “Hello, Milangga.”

Her grandfather came over, pinched her cheek. “You’re still too skinny. How about I bring you some witchetties to help fatten
you up?” He cocked his head to one side. “Or do you still prefer croissant?”

I would like to thank my agent, Elizabeth Wright, who for five years encouraged me to keep writing. My thanks too to Kerith
Biggs for representing me so well overseas, and Darley Anderson for sharing his wisdom with me. All your advice and support
has proved invaluable.

I am grateful to Jane Wood, my editor, who has been a joy to work with, and to Orion.

In particular I would like to thank for their support the Romantic Novelists’ Association, the Crime Writers’ Association,
the First Paragraph writers’ group in Bristol and my mentor, Terence Strong.

I have imposed on a number of friends to help me as critical readers and technical advisors, my thanks to them: Dr. Michael
Seed, Tania Harper, Iain Cassie, George Kimball and Peter Lamb. Any errors of fact are purely mine.

Lastly, my thanks to Sarah Cunich, for her belief in me.