Dead Heat (18 page)

“Sorry,” she said hurriedly. “We got sidetracked. You speak Chinese?”

“Cantonese.”

“Can you read Cantonese?”

“Why?”

She led him into Suzie’s house and picked up the fat beige folder. “I was just curious. She hasn’t anything personal here,
aside from these.”

He looked at her askance. “You’ve been through her things?”

“I thought, er . . . that maybe I’d write to her family. I was with Suzie when she died. I mean she came from China, and they
might like to know . . .” Georgia trailed off at Daniel’s incredulity.

“Nosy is right.” He gave a snort. “Along with interfering, prying, and snooping.”

Her face grew hot. “That’s me.”

But to her surprise, he reached for the beige folder and flicked through the pages. Eventually he murmured, “They’re letters
to Suzie.”

“What do they say? Are they from her family?”

“No. They’re begging letters. From people who knew her in China and who want to come to Australia. They’re asking her to sponsor
them, help them get visas, emigrate out here.”

If Suzie was an illegal immigrant, she thought, there was no way she could help them. Suzie would get deported the instant
the authorities heard from her.

“This one’s from . . . I don’t believe it.”

“Who?” she demanded. “Who is it from?”

“It’s not who they’re from so much as who they mention.” He suddenly looked up and she saw a gleam in his eye, a spark of
something dangerous, something dark.

“Lee Denham,” he said. He bit his lips and looked suddenly focused, cold.

“What does it say? About Lee?”

The coldness disappeared as he shrugged. “Not much. It just refers to him as ‘our friend.’”

“Is there anything else?”

His expression turned distant, thoughtful.

“The man who mentions Lee is in a detention camp. Right here in sunny Queensland. An illegal immigrant called Paul Zhong.”
He flicked through the rest of the letters, then pushed the papers back to Georgia.

“Which detention camp?” asked Georgia.

“Why the interest?”

“Maybe Suzie has a relative there?”

Another snort of disbelief. “Do you
like
doing this stuff? Do you really want to share the details of how she died?”

She didn’t reply, and guessed he’d now be relieved that she’d said no to dinner. Could Paul Zhong be the link between Suzie
and the Chens? Or was Lee, near the top of the RBG and mentioned in the letter, the connection? He’d been flying with Suzie,
after all, and if she saw Paul Zhong maybe she’d find a clue to propel her on the road to rescuing her mother. But how to
get Daniel to help her?

Turning the letters over in her hands, she said, “I thought you wanted to catch Lee. If I can get a clue from this Paul Zhong,
maybe it will help you find him.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” His tone was dry.

“Maybe we could go together.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, Daniel, you owe me! If I hadn’t rung and got you out here, you wouldn’t have a lead to Lee. Where’s the camp? Is
it far?”

A lengthy debate with himself, then he relented. “Restwood. It’s way west. Towards Palmerville.”

She was about to suggest she go there now when he added, “They’re as tight as ticks, you’ll never get in.”

“But they’ll let you in. A policeman. I can map-read, if you like.”

Another pause. “Okay.”

She followed him back outside and watched him go to his car, reach through the open window, and pull a radio off the dash.
She could just hear his voice above the crows’ cawing, but not what he said. Ten minutes later he returned, looking annoyed.

“Appointment’s all set. Midday Wednesday. They’re refusing to make any other time. Talk about inflexible.”

“But Wednesday’s great! It’s only two days away!”

He was scowling. “I’ve a birthday party I can’t miss.”

“Oh.”

“So they’re expecting you.”

“Daniel . . . thank you.”

“One condition.”

“No problem.”

“That any information you get on Lee, you give to me immediately. Immediately, do you hear? Ring from the camp if necessary.”

He was staring at her so intently, his expression so fierce, that she wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing her. He seemed
to be looking beyond her and at something else, something dreadful, and the way he looked reminded her of an emotion she had
felt, but couldn’t remember what it was.

“Okay,” she said, slightly unnerved.

“You’ve a mobile?”

“No.”

“I’ll drop one off to you. Where are you staying?”

“The Newview Caravan Park.”

He gave a couple of nods. “Right. I’d better be getting on, then.”

They walked to their cars. His was a white police Holden ute with a big blue number twenty-two painted on its hood. She wouldn’t
like to get on his wrong side, she thought. He had one hell of a temper. Out of nowhere, Mathew Larkins sprang into her mind,
the man Daniel blamed for his father’s death, whose house he had firebombed. Slow-burning embers had nothing on Sergeant Carter.

But of course. Daniel was a Scorpio, like herself. In her besotted school days she’d recorded his birthday—November 15—in
her diary and surrounded it with hearts. Scorpios possessed a sting in their tails and an inordinate ability to remember every
grudge and to exact vengeance whenever the opportunity arose, no matter how much time had passed.

She let Daniel back his ute out before she climbed into the Suzuki, which she knew would be like an oven inside. As she watched
him pick the Holden carefully over the ridges in the track, keeping one tire on firmer ground all the time, she was reminded
of her mother, who had never gotten used to driving in the wet and regularly got stuck on the commune’s track and had to get
a tow out.

A shock of recognition ran through her.

The way Daniel had looked reminded her of the black ice she had felt running in her veins when she saw her mother gagged and
bound to the chair. The emotion, she recalled, was hatred.

B
y the time Georgia got to the hospital it was late afternoon, but the heat, amazingly, had increased. Roofs, bricks, and pavement
had absorbed the sun’s rays all day and were reflecting the heat back into the air. It was like walking through a sauna fully
dressed and her body cooling system appeared to have broken down. The moisture on her skin couldn’t evaporate in the excess
humidity, and her clothes were saturated with sweat.

The hospital wasn’t much cooler, and as Georgia headed for the reception desk, she wondered if the air-conditioning had packed
up. Jill Hodges, the nurse who had held her hand after the air crash, looked up and said, “You just missed him.” Her brow
was creased and her mouth set tight. “I’m so sorry.”

“He’s gone to the Brisbane burns unit?”

Jill Hodges studied her face a second, then she rose and came around the counter. “Perhaps you’d better take a seat.”

A jet of alarm shot through Georgia. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Please.”

It was obvious the woman wasn’t going to say another word until she was seated, so Georgia sat. When the nurse sat next to
her, Georgia focused on a poster of the lymphatic system. She said, “He died, didn’t he?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Dimly Georgia realized she was sitting on the same chair she’d used after she’d been airlifted to the hospital. Instinct?
Or habit?

“He was strong, but his age . . . He had terrible burns. Becky was with him. His wife. Just an hour ago. We tried our best,
but we lost him.”

Tears spilled down Georgia’s cheeks and she wanted to run to her mother and burrow in her embrace and cry and cry and cry.
Too much death. Tom, then Suzie, and now Bri.

“Will you be all right?” asked the nurse. “I can call a friend for you, if you like. We wouldn’t charge you. Nor for a taxi
either.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’m going to see a friend right now.”

Georgia parked beside a clump of flowering ginger the height of her waist and, taking her shopping from the back of the Suzuki,
went inside the caravan to unpack. She found a note from Evie, in her large, loopy handwriting, propped by the kettle telling
Georgia to help herself to the milk, juice, and water in the fridge, no charge, and to keep the Suzuki since she didn’t need
it for the next few days.

Besides Evie’s note was a mobile phone with a fluorescent green Post-it attached. Daniel’s slanting black handwriting.

“All charged up and ready to go. Speak to you tomorrow.”

He must have grown wings to get it to her so quickly. Talk about an action man.

After a shower and changing into her new shorts and one of the daffodil-colored T-shirts, she downed the last of Yumuru’s
pain-killers—her finger was pounding like a piston engine—then picked up Daniel’s mobile.

For the first time since he’d given it to her, Georgia was able to look at Jason Chen’s card.
The Xian Restaurant. Authentic Sichuan Cooking.
Under the Cairns address was a color photograph of a table laden with dishes of shrimp, chili beef, vegetables, a whole fish,
and crispy roast duck. It looked delicious, but there was no way she’d be eating there, not even if you paid her a million
dollars, not
ever
.

Georgia turned the card over and dialed the number she’d scribbled down in Suzie’s house.

“Yo,” a man’s voice answered.

Georgia introduced herself and told the man that she’d been to Suzie’s house and picked up his number.

“Miss her bony ass,” the man said on a sigh. “Can’t believe she got wiped out like that. Damn shame.”

She said, “Would you mind if I came and talked with you?”

“Where you coming from?”

“Nulgarra.”

“It’s a bit of a hike,” he said. “I’m way north of where you’re at.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Tomorrow okay?”

She said tomorrow was fine, and he gave her directions before adding, “Make sure you’re covered head to toe in insect repellent.
Can’t stand a girl all bitten up by the little peckers.”

She promised and then said, “Who’s Nail-tooth?”

He chuckled. “A mate of Suzie’s. We can always see if he’s about, if you like.”

They ran over the arrangements again, and hung up.

Going to the fridge, she pulled out a bottle of water and went and sat with her back to an African oil palm, watching the
sun set. It didn’t take long, maybe twenty minutes or so, and then it was dark, the air filled with the whine of mosquitoes
and the occasional spit and crackle as an insect got zapped by the electronic fly-killer. She could hear waves lapping gently
against the shore. No surf up here, not with the Great Barrier Reef just over the horizon.

It was a tranquil, tropical paradise, but Georgia couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the place; her mind was filled with chaotic
images of Bri and Suzie, of Tom and her mother, and she just about leaped a foot in the air when a voice said, “Hey, Georgia.”

It was India, dressed in a short skirt that showed off her long brown legs. “I brought the wine,” the reporter added.

Georgia patted the sand beside her. “Have a seat.”

India settled beside her, propping her back to share the trunk of the broad oil palm, and poured the wine, handed her a glass.
Georgia took a long slug, then another, suddenly wanting the alcohol to hit her veins, take the edge off her tension and dull
the constant pulsing pain in her finger.

“Nice night,” India said.

Georgia held her glass out for a refill and India didn’t say a word, simply topped it up to the brim.

“Here’s to paradise,” said Georgia and took another long pull of wine.

Small silence.

India lit a cigarette, then said quietly, “Paradise is all very well, but not if you’ve got troubles. Then you barely see
it.”

A small wave rushed against the sand. There was a faint pause, then the hiss as it started to recede.

Georgia said, “Bri died today.”

“I heard.”

She felt India’s hand close over her forearm and squeeze it tight, give it a small shake of compassion, then fall away. It
was a far more powerful gesture than words, and Georgia was grateful she didn’t have to say anything. No exhausting words
of reassurance.

“He used to pick us up from school,” Georgia said. “With his nephew Joey.”

“Tell me,” said India.

So Georgia told her about the war against the townies, Bri teaching her and Dawn how to sail, how his tooth got knocked out,
the day he had arrived at the commune with his ute covered in balloons for her thirteenth birthday, the handful of photographs
he’d given her when she’d left for Sydney, half of them out of focus, but each one showing a view of Nulgarra, so she wouldn’t
forget the place.

When she fell silent, India said quietly, “He was a good man.”

“The best.”

A sliver of black ice settled in Georgia’s heart.

She could hear the sea rustling over the sand and the crackle of dry palm fronds in the light breeze and smell the smoke from
India’s cigarette, but all she could think of was the oath she had made to Bri. She had promised him retribution. Someday,
somehow, someone would feel the sting in her tail.

“Georgia.” India’s voice was hesitant. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind me asking you about Lee Denham? I know he saved your life, but there’s a whole bunch of issues surrounding
him. Did you know he’s a member of the Red Bamboo Gang?”

“Daniel Carter told me.”

“Right. Well, I’m still trying to find out what happened to Ronnie Chen.” India took a long drag of her cigarette. “Anything
you could tell me about Lee might help.”

Georgia carefully checked what she knew against what she might learn from the reporter, and decided a little honesty might
go a long way.

“He’s an enigma,” she eventually said. “On one hand, he’s a hero, pulling us all out of the burning plane, cool as a cucumber,
but on the other the police want his guts for garters.”

India pushed her cigarette in the sand. “What else?”

“Lots of things. Not just his saving our lives, but little things too. Like he’d done hundreds of emergency landings. He told
Bri so when the plane ran out of fuel. He really knew the drill too. He wasn’t bullshitting. He was yelling, ‘Stay down, brace!’
Right until the last minute. Some sort of training there, don’t you think? And where did he learn his first aid? At the international
school for criminals?”