Dead Heat (23 page)

“Good grief.” Her voice was slightly strangled.

It’s a real eye-opener,
Lee had said, and he was right. She could understand Daniel’s terror for his daughter but even so . . . Threaten anyone this
man loved and you certainly paid for it.

After a quick and deliciously cold shower, Georgia jumped into Evie’s Suzuki and three hours later was on a dusty bare outback
road and listening to Crowded House fade in and out on the car radio. Hot air was blasting through the open windows, and the
freedom of being able to see clearly without great hanks of hair stinging her eyes was a revelation, as was the breeze against
her neck. She would, she decided, keep her hair cropped short for a while yet; it was much cooler.

She felt much more positive, more confident than before, and knew it was because Lee was going to help her find her mother.
Although on one level she found the idea of him as her own private hawk disturbing, she was also oddly comforted by his impassive
pledge to protect her. She didn’t suppose she could want for a better-qualified guardian, a man who killed others with no
seeming regret.

A signpost pecked with bullet holes flashed past, and she hurriedly stuck her foot on the brakes and came to a sliding halt.
Reversing through the cloud of dust settling behind her, she saw an ill-kempt single asphalt road to the right, and the signpost
opposite read, “est ood.”

Assuming it meant Restwood, she swung right and drove down the narrow road, passing the odd water tower, a couple of rotting
homesteads, and a handful of bedraggled wallabies gorging on the sudden feast the storms had brought. Clumps of vivid green
grass and wildflowers had sprung up after the rain, but she knew that in a couple of days they would have withered and died,
dissolving into the baking dust.

She’d driven well over a hundred miles inland from Nulgarra, through the rainforested hills before dropping down into the
red of the outback, when the Restwood Detention Camp loomed into view. An ugly sore of tin and fibro huts surrounded by tall
metal fences, it was topped with rolls of razor wire and there were watchtowers on every corner. The sun was blazing between
bunches of angry gray clouds, and the air was hot and moist and pulsing with the sounds of insects.

Remote, secluded, and far from prying eyes, the detention camp was set in a rain-soaked, dirt-dotted area with scraggly trees
as far as you could see. The bleak vista would, Georgia thought grimly, give the inmates depression as well as deter escapees.
Without a compass or GPS on hand, who’d want to break out to try their luck in this baking wasteland?

An armed guard in uniform slouched against a gate, smoking a cigarette. The huts were ranked in line, like an army camp, and
their windows were thick with grime. As she approached, the guard dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his boot.

Georgia wound down her window and the guard bent to give her the once-over. “You’re late,” he said reprovingly. “We expected
you half an hour ago.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Any ID?”

She pulled her Visa card from her bag. “It’s all I’ve got, I’m sorry.”

“Can’t let you in on that.”

“But you were told I’d be coming!”

He didn’t look as if he cared, just shrugged carelessly. “No authority, no can help.”

Authority, authority . . . Georgia scrabbled in her handbag and pulled out her mobile. As she dialed Daniel’s number, a cloud
swallowed the sun and a handful of raindrops splashed onto the Suzuki’s hood.

“Carter,” he barked.

“It’s me, I’m—”

“You know where Lee is?” His voice was sharp, eager.

“No, I’m at the gate. Can you talk to the guard? Confirm I’m legit?”

She passed the phone to the guard, who listened briefly as he looked at Georgia, nodding from time to time. “Yeah, yeah .
. . Okay.” He passed the phone back. “Park your vehicle there.” He pointed at a handful of utes set on one side. “I’ll wait
here.”

I
t started to rain as another guard escorted Georgia around the periphery of the detention camp. She saw that one of the white
fibro huts was streaked with black and that its roof had a great gaping hole in its middle.

“What happened there?” she asked the guard.

“Bunch of Afghanis burned it out.” The guard hawked loudly and spat on the ground.

“They burned their own hut?”

“They do a lot more than that, believe me. If they’re not given their visas the second they bloody turn up on our doorstep,
they go nuts. We’ve three on hunger strike at the moment, had two burnouts, and a suicide attempt. And what about that lot
in South Australia? Sewed their bloody lips together in a hunger strike. Jesus. What the fuck did we do to deserve them?”

Georgia glanced past the guard at the burned-out building, and said nothing. She followed him through a small gate at the
far end of the complex and into a small muddy area wired off from the remainder of the camp and its rows of huts with their
filthy windows. All she could hear was the rattle of rain on tin roofs.

“Where are the inmates?” she asked.

“Locked up.”

“Is that usual? I mean it’s midday, why—”

“Precaution.”

“Because I’m here?”

The guard didn’t reply, simply unlocked the door to the nearest hut and said, “This here’s the visiting room.”

The visiting room had bare boards, a white plastic table, and six chairs, four occupied by a Chinese man and woman, who were
holding hands, a child of about six, and an ancient crone. Georgia hadn’t expected to meet a whole family and stared at them.
They stared back, motionless.

“I’ll sit here till you’re done,” said the guard, grabbing a chair and taking it to the far end of the room, plonking it beneath
a window dribbling with rain. There was a pile of old magazines and news- papers piled next to the door and he picked out
a copy of
Deals on Wheels
and snapped it open.

Georgia ran a hand down her face. “Any chance of a coffee?”

“You think I look like a waiter?”

Biting back a sharp retort, she walked toward the family. As she approached, the man leaned across and kissed the little girl’s
hair, which made her giggle and him smile. Murmuring something to the woman, he rose and met her halfway, smiling warmly.
His clothes were a size too big and stained with what could have been oil. He was older than her, she reckoned in his mid-thirties,
and had a badly broken nose. His lips and face were covered with pale scars lying ridged and puckered on his skin like bacon
rind. It looked as though someone had slammed a scalding-hot frying pan into his face.

“Paul Zhong,” he said, hand outstretched. “Nice to meet you, Georgia.”

Like his face, his hand was also badly scarred, and she gripped him cautiously, wary of hurting him, but he shook hands firmly,
saying, “Doesn’t bother me anymore, but thanks.”

Georgia felt a huge relief that he spoke English and said so. He grinned, showing a full set of bright white false teeth.
“I lived in L.A. for a while.” He cocked an eye at her bandaged finger, and she told him she’d slammed it in a car door. Sucking
in his breath, he said, “Must’ve hurt like hell.”

“It certainly did.”

“Come and meet my family.” He ushered her across. “This is my wife, Julie.”

Julie half rose from her chair to take Georgia’s hand. Her features were angular but delicate, and her luminous paper-white
skin brought out the dark rings around her eyes. When she moved, her plait danced in the small of her back, like a narrow,
glossy snake. “Hi,” she said with a shy smile.

“Hi,” said Georgia.

Paul introduced his daughter, Vicki, who was six years old and obsessed with the color pink. Julie’s mother, Fang Dongmei,
a bent, twisted old woman with a sour expression was, on the other hand, clearly obsessed with the color black. She was also,
for some reason, fascinated by Georgia. She spat a torrent of Cantonese at Julie while gesturing furiously at Georgia as though
Georgia had done something terribly wrong.

“What’s she saying?” Georgia asked.

Julie flushed. “Nothing.”

“No, please. I’d like to know.”

Julie shook her head, deeply embarrassed, and Paul spoke up. “She’s worried about your wedding ring. With your bandage, it’s
hidden. She wants to know where you’ve put it, that’s all.”

“Oh. Well, tell her I’m not married. I have no ring.”

Paul turned to Fang Dongmei and said something fast, shook his head. The old crone looked briefly alarmed then mumbled to
herself, which made Paul laugh.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that we have a different idea of marital status in China. If you’re not married by twenty-one, you’re
an old maid, practically a social outcast.”

“Tell her I like being single.”

Paul reported back and Fang Dongmei did some wild eye-rolling and smacking of her long, giraffe-like lips. Chuckling to himself,
Paul pulled out a chair for Georgia and gestured she sit.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

He looked puzzled at her question, but said, “Two years.”

“How did you get here?”

“Oh, the usual way. Paid sixty thousand bucks for a ride with another thirty desperate souls in a cramped, tiny boat we all
thought might sink at any moment.” He raised his eyebrows, tightening the scars on his forehead so they glowed white. “I take
it you’re from the immigration department?”

“No. Sorry.”

He frowned. “You’re not here about my appeal?”

“No.”

“Jesus.” He slumped back in his chair. His family were watching him closely, and despite his holding up a reassuring hand
to them it didn’t lessen the worry on their faces. “I was hoping . . .” His face spasmed and, to her horror, she thought he
was going to weep.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, making an obvious effort to regain control. “I’m just a little . . . disappointed.”

Vicki suddenly started chattering in Cantonese, and Fang Dongmei heaved the girl onto her lap and murmured into her ear. Vicki
nodded, and the crone let down her bun of thick gray hair and let the girl begin to plait it.

“So,” said Paul, rubbing the white plastic tabletop with his thumb, “why are you here?”

“I want to know how you know Suzie Wilson. And Lee Denham.”

“What are you, some kind of cop?”

“No. Just someone in trouble, needing answers.”

Silence.

“I need your help, please.”

He sighed. “I don’t suppose you can give us anything in return? Like get us out of here?”

Georgia wasn’t sure what to say, and Paul seemed to realize it because he added drily, “Or perhaps some fresh-ground coffee?
Haven’t had a decent coffee for as long as I can remember. Colombian roast would be nice.”

Georgia looked at Julie, the way Vicki was clumsily plaiting Fang Dongmei’s hair, and said, “I could try to sponsor you.”

He smiled. “That’s kind of you, but it’ll be too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?”

Glancing at Vicki, he said calmly, “Not now. Later. When I see you out.”

“Okay.”

Small silence. All she could hear was the rain pattering on the roof, and smell the dead mustiness of an unused room.

“If I answer your questions,” he said, “will you swear to help my family any way you can?”

“I don’t understand, I thought you said it was too late.”

“Too late for me.” His voice was low. “Not for them.”

With a vision of her mother sitting cross-legged on their cabin veranda, her Indian bangles tinkling as she shuffled a pack
of tarot cards, Georgia pressed the palm of her right hand against her chest. “I swear.”

Paul copied her gesture, then nodded. “Fire away, then.”

“How do you know Suzie?”

“Through her brother, Mingjun. Jon Ming over here. Jon and I studied medicine together at uni. In Wuhan, China. He went on
to become a research scientist. One of the best.”

“Where can I find Jon?”

“In Brisbane.”

“Talla-something, isn’t it?”

“Tallagandra. Nice place, from the sound of it. He writes most weeks.”

“What’s his address?”

“I’ve only a post office box. That any good?”

It was better than nothing and, reaching into her handbag, she found a pen and scribbled it on the back of her receipt from
Price’s.

“No phone number?”

He shook his head.

“Why hasn’t Jon sponsored you?”

“You’ll have to ask him that. Sorry.”

“What does Jon do in Brisbane?”

“He runs a laboratory with Suzie. Quantum Research. They’re onto something exciting, but I don’t know exactly what. All I
know is that they’ve presented their latest findings to the Australian Medical Association and are waiting to hear the results.”

A leap of excitement. He was talking about the antibiotic. Just as Dutch had said. And Paul didn’t know Suzie was dead. Georgia
wasn’t sure if she wanted to break the news. It was bad enough coming here unable to help them, without chucking that in their
faces. She decided to press on.

“How do you know Lee?”

“Oh, he’s only the man who got us out of China and into this hellhole.” He sighed. “Not that it was Lee’s fault we got caught.
His arrangements were impeccable. He reckoned it was a setup. That a cop on the payroll of the people smugglers let our one
little boat be captured while the big one, with over three hundred illegals, slipped past.”

He was talking about Spider, the dirty cop.

“You’re in touch with Lee?”

“He writes from time to time.”

“He
writes
to you?”

“When he has time. He’s a busy man, our friend Lee.”

Astounded, she managed to say, “Do you have his address?”

Paul grinned. “He doesn’t have an address. He’ll only be found if he wants to be.”

An hour later, Georgia had to make her voice loud over the sound of rain now pounding on the aluminum roof. “What forced you
to leave your country?”

Paul said, “There was a warrant out for our arrest. We were to be publicly executed.”

“Executed?”

“It’s known as ‘killing the chicken to scare the monkey.’ Public executions are common and keep everybody terrified of stepping
out of line. The judges like it, they say it stops crime. Which it does, I suppose, in that the executed cannot commit another
offense.”