Dead Heat (19 page)

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, feeling defensive. “But he doesn’t add up. That’s all.”

“Okay, here’s what I’ve learned.”

India lit another cigarette and exhaled into the soft evening air.

“Lee owns the big boat in the harbor. You know the one?”

Georgia felt her jaw slacken. “Not the monstrous yacht?”

“The one and the same. I’ve dug around a fair bit, and I discovered Lee and Ronnie Chen sailed here from Cairns just before
Cyclone Tania hit. I reckon Ronnie was killed on the boat and dumped overboard.” She flicked a speck of ask from her cigarette.
“Lee’s in the shit with the RBG, and not just because of Ronnie. He wiped out two prime guys from a rival gang in a teahouse
in Fuzhou last month. This rival gang, the Dragon Syndicate, were about to join hands with the RBG and have been screaming
for revenge ever since.”

Georgia licked her lips. Despite the wine, her mouth felt dry, and she couldn’t work out whether it was because she couldn’t
talk about Lee openly to India, or because she was hearing that the man who’d saved her life was a killer.

“Needless to say,” India continued, “the Dragon Syndicate haven’t joined the RBG, and the RBG are furious. They were hoping
to increase their power base and take over the whole of the criminal world from southeast China right through the Philippines
and Indonesia to Australia.”

Sudden flash. Was it the Dragon Syndicate who sabotaged the Piper in order to eliminate Lee? Or maybe it was Gap-tooth Chen,
supremely annoyed at Lee for messing up his plans? But then she remembered Jason Chen’s surprise at the sabotage and Daniel’s
words:
Lee’s fabricating the sabotage story, interfering with my efforts to run him to earth.

“Why did Lee kill the two men in the teahouse?” asked Georgia.

“I’m not sure. I’ve heard various reasons. A gambling debt gone wrong. Something about a drug deal. There was even talk of
some woman dishonored. It’s like nobody really knows. Weird.”

“Weird, like Lee,” Georgia said with a sigh.

India poured the last of the wine into their glasses, raised hers, and clinked it with Georgia’s. “Nothing wrong with that.
So long as weird is on your side, that is.”

They drank to the sound of insects buzzing and chirruping, listening to the soft slide of water on sand, the air a damp, warm
blanket against their skin.

Then India uncoiled from the trunk of the oil palm and stretched, arms to the sky then down, and said she had to get some
sleep. They said goodnight between the vans. It was still incredibly humid, and she could see India’s skin glistening in the
light seeping from her van window. Georgia thanked her for the wine and India said it was fine and for her to take care.

Georgia undressed with difficulty. Doing everything one-handed was extraordinarily awkward, but eventually she slid between
Evie’s fresh clean sheets dressed in a T-shirt and knickers, and switched out the bedside light. At least if the Chens appeared
in the dead of night, she wouldn’t have to face them naked.

Lying on her bed under a single sheet, she felt no cooler at night than during the day. She didn’t expect to sleep in the
heat, with visions of Bri and Suzie and Lee dancing across her eyelids, and settled onto her back, her bandaged hand on her
stomach. Her finger was aching dully, and she closed her eyes to the sound of India playing some bluesy music next door. She
thought it might be Norah Jones, but couldn’t be sure, and when a mosquito began to drone around her face, she didn’t bother
turning on the light to look for it. The last thing she heard was a chirrup from what sounded like a frog in the bathroom.

J
ust after dawn Georgia was woken by the raucous screeches of a sea eagle. Go away, she thought. I’m knackered, you rotten
bird. Can’t you keep the noise down?

Until 3
AM
she had slept like the dead, but then she’d woken, sweat soaking her sleeping sheet, trickling down her chest and between
her thighs. It was like she had a fever, with her skin so hot and wet, her brain buzzing at a trillion miles an hour, picturing
Jason Chen in his leather jacket telling her what he’d do to her mother. She tried to think how to give herself an advantage.
God, she didn’t even know how to handle a gun. Sure, anyone could pull a trigger, but what about reloading the thing?

She had fallen into an uneasy doze about ten minutes before the sea eagle had started screeching, and now she felt tired and
edgy. Crawling out of bed, she stumbled for the bathroom. A family of green tree frogs was ensconced inside, and Georgia spent
the first few minutes removing one from the door handle, two from the basin, and four from the shower. One the size of a duck
egg sat firmly on the shower faucet, almost daring her to move it.

The lid on the toilet seat had a notice pasted across: “Please Close Lid After Use to Keep Frogs Out.”

She showered one-handed, then struggled to get dressed without banging her finger. Eventually, she made it to the kitchen,
and it was the weight of her dreams pressing on her, Jason Chen’s violence, that made her pick up the mobile phone and ring
Daniel.

“Carter,” he said, sounding awake and alert.

“Hi, it’s—”

“Georgia. What’s up?”

“I need a favor.”

“Must be important,” he said, sounding amused, “since you’re ringing so early. In my experience women aren’t so good in the
mornings.”

“Are you telling me you don’t sleep?”

“Only during the day,” he said on a bark of laughter, “and in a coffin.”

“How cozy.”

His voice turned serious. “What’s the favor?”

“Teach me to shoot?”

Small pause.

“Shoot what? Quail?”

“Just to shoot, okay?”

Short silence.

“What’s the need to know?”

She took a breath, exhaled. “Daniel, I need this favor. Just teach me, will you?”

“No. I’m busy.”

“But . . .”

“Okay, tell me why you’ve a sudden interest in firearms, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ve always wanted to learn to shoot,” she said lamely.

“And I’ve always wanted to learn to wax my legs,” he responded. “The answer is no. N. O.”

“Please?”

“Ring me when you hear from Lee, not before.”

Without another word, he hung up.

After comforting herself with a tall glass of mango juice, a big bowl of Special K, and two pieces of thick-cut raisin toast
drenched in honey, Georgia drove the Suzuki to Harbour Road and parked in front of the letterbox of number forty-three, trotted
up the concrete path, and pressed the bell of a suburban house that was identical to all the others in the street, with the
same tin roof, bleached weatherboard, and square of toughened buffalo grass with a concrete path down the middle.

The fly screen was open, and after the bell emitted a rude buzz she heard a boy yelling inside. A few seconds later a small
girl came to the door. Crinkly mouse-colored hair, bright brown eyes, mottled T-shirt hanging to her knees and tie-dyed the
color of autumn leaves.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Is your mum in? Tell her it’s Georgia.”

“I’ll get her.” She scampered away.

Becky came to the door. She was in her blue overalls with her usual bun on the back of her head, but her skin was mottled
and gray and her posture slumped. Georgia’s heart squeezed. Since losing Bri, Becky had aged ten years.

“Georgia?” Her voice was small, but she stepped onto the veranda. “You heard?”

“Yes.” She touched Becky’s shoulder tentatively, wary of encroaching on the woman’s grief, but Becky turned into her raised
arm and then Georgia was holding her, hugging her tight, feeling the cloudlike softness of Becky’s body, the sobs wrenching
from her core.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered against Becky’s hair, rocking her, cradling and comforting her as best she could. “He was the
best, you know. The best.”

With her face buried in Georgia’s shoulder, Becky’s words were muffled. “Mutual admiration, love. Old Bri loved you to bits
and back.”

“You too.”

“I know. I know he did. Loved all of us. To bits. The bugger. How the hell . . .”

Becky pulled out of Georgia’s embrace and wiped her eyes. Took several breaths. Gave a sob, then took a few more breaths.
Another sob escaped, and Georgia saw Becky was fighting against her grief, trying to shovel it to one side, and she made to
touch her, pull her into another embrace, but Becky pushed her away, scrubbing her face with both hands, mouth working, tears
incessant.

“You were there,” she choked, “when the plane went down.”

Hands helpless at her sides, Georgia said, “Yes.”

“Tell me,” Becky begged. “Tell me everything. Please. I have to know.”

So Georgia told her. How Bri had brought them down safely. His pleas,
Help me make it, help me, help me.
Lee flinging himself at Bri and dousing the flames, engulfing him in the rainforest mulch. The airlift. Seeing Bri in the
hospital.

She could hear Bri’s voice.
They fucked with my plane. The fucks.
But she couldn’t say the words.

“They’re saying it was pilot error,” said Becky. “That he messed up and didn’t have enough fuel to reach Cairns, but he wouldn’t
do that. The only time he flew close to the edge was when the Doyle boy out at Blackdown got real sick two years ago or so,
he got bit by a snake and would have died if Bri had taken time out to fuel up. Bri took a chance that night, risked his own
skin to pick that boy up and get him to hospital.”

Hands shaking, Becky twisted her wedding ring around and around. Around and around. Georgia felt her own finger responding
to Becky’s compulsive movement, aching in sympathy.

“No reason for him to fly without filling up,” Becky insisted. “He had loads of time. He
wouldn’t
.”

Behind them, Georgia heard a car start up with a rattle, pull away. As its engine dwindled into the distance, she offered
the only positive thought she had. “What about the insurance company? Pilot error’s covered, isn’t it? And if Bri ran out—”

She swallowed her words when Becky rounded on her, shoulders suddenly bunched, her lips drawn back like a cornered she-wolf.

“He was sabotaged,” she hissed. “He told me in hospital. He
knew
it.”

“Becks, the insurance company won’t pay out if—”

“You think I don’t know about that?” Becky’s aggressive stance drained. “It’s down as an accident at the moment, but having
our kids think Bri messed up when he didn’t, well, it’s not right. It’s not on for them to think their dad did something he
didn’t.”

The street was silent, but Georgia could hear a TV inside the house, what sounded like a cartoon, and a boy laughing.

She took a breath. “I’m not sure Bri’s plane was sabotaged, but if I could prove it was, would you be okay with it? Even if
the insurers don’t pay?”

Becky pushed a filament of gray hair from her forehead. “You find who killed my Bri, and I’ll shoot them myself.”

Georgia left Becky and headed for the Lotus Healing Center where she asked Yumuru to check her finger. She hadn’t been able
to think of anyone else to go to, and decided to face him head-on. She couldn’t blame him for being annoyed when he’d dropped
her off at Evie’s. After he had taken her into his healing center and been unbelievably caring toward her, she’d repaid him
by prying through his property. And since he hadn’t reported her injury to anyone, it would be nice to make amends after his
kindness.

“I promise I won’t snoop,” she said. “And I’m sorry. Really I am.”

He gave a sigh. “You’re forgiven, okay? But honestly, Georgia, if you wanted to know something, why didn’t you come to me?”

“You weren’t around.”

“Next time,
ask.
I’ve nothing to hide.”

She remembered the white of his knuckles on the steering wheel and thought, if he had nothing to hide, then she was a fluorescent
orange kangaroo, but let it lie for now.

Gently he peeled off the bandage and layers of padding and inspected the wound.

“Excellent,” he pronounced.

Teeth clenched, she forced herself to look at it.

A tiny row of bristling stitches edged with red. Thick crusty scabs that resembled the backs of beetles. A little shock of
amazement. She’d expected a little moisture seeping from the wound, maybe some oozing blood, but there was nothing. Her stump
was clean and dry and healthy. She was astonished at how fast it had healed in just forty-odd hours, and felt absurdly pleased
until she saw how much shorter it was then her other fingers. Suddenly it was hateful,
hideous,
and a vision of her mother’s beautifully painted magenta toenails flashed into her mind. She abruptly pushed the picture
away, but she couldn’t stop the scurry of cold sweat prickling over her skin.

Oblivious to her discomfort, Yumuru passed her half a dozen packs of new bandages. “Remember, a fresh bandage daily for ten
days or so, then start feeding it oxygen. Oxygen is the greatest healer.”

She felt better once it was bandaged again and she was unable to see its ugliness, and after thanking him, she said, “How’s
Tilly?”

“Why don’t you visit her? She’s terribly bored.”

Bored of what? she wondered. Dying?

“Is Joanie around?”

Yumuru thought for a moment. “She’s probably with Tilly.”

When she got up to go, Yumuru came and gave her a hug. It was what Tom would have called a full hug, firm yet gentle, where
his right arm went around her shoulder, the other her waist, so his heart met hers.

“Hug therapy,” he said. “Not only does a hug make you feel good all day, but stimulation by touch is absolutely essential
for healing.”

She felt a surge of affection for him and hugged him back.

He was smiling when he released her. “I couldn’t do that in the army, no matter how much a soldier needed it. They’d have
tarred and feathered me.”

She laughed.

“Now, you keep changing the bandage, okay?” His expression turned serious. “And take care of yourself. I don’t want to find
you in the pouring rain bleeding all over the road again.”