Dead Heat (5 page)

“Suzie, you are
not dying.
You’re so pretty, so lovely, don’t give up,
please,
Suzie . . .”

The shuddering increased. Georgia held her breath, willing the young woman to keep breathing, wanting to lessen the tension
in Suzie’s body, fill her with warmth, life . . .

Suzie’s feet suddenly drummed on the ground, then stopped. Her body softened against Georgia’s, went limp.

Lying on the swamp of rainforest floor, with Suzie’s fragile body warm against her, Georgia wept.

She was still crying when Lee came to her. He gently extracted her embrace from Suzie’s and helped her to her feet. Only then
was she aware of the drone of light aircraft and the distinctive clatter of a helicopter. Lee glanced into the sky, then between
Suzie and Georgia. A question stood in his face.

“She asked for you,” Georgia said. “And someone called Dutch. I didn’t know who Dutch was so I just held her. Tried to comfort
her.”

He glanced at the blood-soaked fanny pack around her waist and frowned. “That’s Suzie’s?”

“She asked me to give it to her brother.”

The distinctive buzz of rotor blades was loud now, but when she glanced up all she could see were towering trees and gray
sky.

“Georgia,” he said, “let me have the bag. I’ll give it to her brother.”

She took a step back. “I’ll do it. She asked me.”

He rubbed his face and left a smear of blood on his cheek. “That’s kind of you, but there’s no need.”

“Sorry,” she said. Her tone wasn’t apologetic.

Lee briefly studied her face and seemed to come to a decision. “Okay, but can I just check—”

His words were drowned by a helicopter swooping over them, and he had to shout to make himself heard above the rotors.

“You know where her brother lives?”

Squinting against the downdraft and the swirling debris of twigs, leaves, and charcoal, Georgia shook her head. He gestured
at the fanny pack, indicating that she would have to check inside for Suzie’s brother’s address, so why not do it now, while
he was there?

Before she could change her mind, she unclipped the pack from her waist, unzipped it, and peeled back the hard leather lid,
sheltering it from the helicopter’s blast. Air tickets. What looked to be a Chinese passport. Purse. Two lipsticks, house
keys, car keys, two pens, a credit card receipt for petrol.

The helicopter was thundering downward and Georgia narrowed her eyes into slits to prevent them filling with lumps of ash.

Lee was squinting too as he stepped close and lifted the lipsticks and pens to peer at the bottom of the bag, which Georgia
held. He opened the inside zipper and pulled out a handkerchief and what looked like a car parking card before stuffing them
back. He checked the purse and flicked through Suzie’s passport. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a man in fluorescent
yellow charging for the prone figure that was Bri, but Lee’s focus remained on the fanny pack.

At last he stepped back, rubbing an ash-darkened arm across his face, frowning. Perplexed, Georgia turned away from him and
zipped the pack closed. Then she was staring at the helicopter.

Oh my God, she thought, to get out of here I’m going to have to fly again.

M
y name’s Greg,” said the paramedic in the helicopter. Another man said, “Georgia, we’re going to give you a shot of morphine
now to help the pain in your hand.”

She registered the tiny prick of a needle in her upper arm, and then they were airborne, roaring into the sky, and Greg was
talking to her, holding her good hand, while the other man bent over Bri. Suzie’s body lay on the metal floor of the chopper
in a body bag. Lee sat opposite, holding a giant pad of cotton wool to his torn ear, staring blankly past her shoulder, blood
running from the cotton pad and down his neck, onto his shoulder, and she wanted to ask him if he was okay, but she felt disconnected,
peculiar, and found herself toppling sideways. Greg’s arms caught and held her, and he was telling her she was fine, she was
okay. He felt so solid and warm and safe, like Tom, but Tom wasn’t here anymore, never would be. Then they were landing—they
were here already?—and the ambulance was wailing and Greg was still holding her hand and Lee was still opposite. Then suddenly
they were at a hospital and at last it was quiet.

Georgia sat on a worn beige plastic-covered chair in hospital reception, waiting her turn with the doctor. The receptionist,
an overweight, red-faced nurse with a badge saying her name was Jill Hodges, had sat with her for a while, talking quietly
about everyday things, fetching her a glass of water when she asked, but now she was alone. The little hospital needed every
qualified medic to help with Bri.

The door was open to the street and she could see it was raining. The dirt out front was pulverized into mud. Water dripped
steadily into the two tin buckets in front of the reception counter. It felt weird being back in Nulgarra, having left just
this morning. She had expected to be hurtled to Cairns, but the air-rescue services had taken one look at Bri and brought
them to the nearest medical help, which had turned out to be the Douglas Mason Hospital on the corner of Upolu and Ocean Roads,
Nulgarra.

She’d been twelve the last time she was in this hospital. Cyclone Nicola. A sheet of galvanized iron had come loose on the
chicken shed and was beating and hammering in the wind like a mad thing, the iron tearing slowly apart. Up a ladder, she’d
been trying to nail it back into place when it ripped upward and sliced her arm open. The drive to the hospital had been scary.
A massive branch had missed their ancient ute by inches, and all three of them had ended up staying in town for the night.
When they returned, the sheet of iron was lying on top of a bunch of ferns and the chickens were huddled miserably on their
soaked bedding.

Fingering the small white ridge of scar tissue on her right forearm, Georgia heard a crash of thunder. She glanced up and
pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. It was muggy, the temperature around the low nineties or so, but Georgia wanted
the sensation of comfort. She wondered if Lee was okay. After Bri had been rushed in, a doctor had given Georgia and Lee a
quick once-over, and given immediate priority to Lee.

Funny how she’d initially thought Lee unfriendly and cold. Talk about getting the man completely wrong. He’d been incredibly
brave, talking to them calmly as they went down, then helping them all out of the burning aircraft, using his body to smother
Bri’s flames. He’d certainly come good when the chips were down.

She heard the fly screen crash shut beside her, then a female voice said, “Georgia Parish?”

A tall woman with tangled black hair, frizzy in the humidity, was holding her hand out. “God, sorry,” the woman said, snatching
her hand back, even though it was Georgia’s left hand that was injured. “You’re hurt. I’m India Kane.”

Georgia frowned. The name was familiar.

“From the
Sydney Morning Herald.
”

Surprised, Georgia stared at her. India Kane was well-known for her national and international exposés. What she was doing
here was anyone’s guess, but somehow Georgia didn’t think it would be to investigate the famously flexible drinking hours
at Nulgarra’s National Hotel.

“Thought I’d better be up-front about it.” India Kane smiled, and her deep brown eyes grew warm. “You’ve got a problem talking
to a journo?”

Georgia shook her head more out of politeness than honesty.

“I heard what happened. About your plane. And Bri Hutchison.” The reporter grimaced. “Jesus. Tough call being injured like
that.”

Georgia watched the rain in the street, picturing Bri and his sturdy brick shape striding for the harbor and his yacht. A
truck splashed past. She watched it swing right into Ocean Road and disappear. Opposite, two Aboriginal women in baggy cotton
dresses were sharing an umbrella. They were barefoot, spattered with mud and rain up to their knees.

India pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros from her jeans pocket and offered them. Shaking her head, Georgia watched the reporter
go to stand by the open door and light up. “Do you live here?”

Georgia shook her head again.

India looked at the lightly falling rain as she exhaled a stream of smoke outside. “Not enchanted with our rainforested north?”

“Visiting from Sydney,” she managed. “Funeral.”

“Shit,” the reporter said. “I’m sorry.”

Georgia bent her head, not wanting to talk. Her body was aching and she felt nauseous.

“Georgia, do you know anything about the flight plan?” India Kane asked.

She didn’t bother responding. She couldn’t think of any sort of reply. Didn’t care to.

“Georgia?” the reporter said again, and at the woman’s insistent tone, Georgia looked up. India was studying her. “Your name
wasn’t on it. The flight plan. I was just wondering if you knew why, that’s all.”

“A bloke didn’t turn up,” she said. “I took his place.”

“Hmm. I see. A man called Ronnie Chen was down to fly . . . And it’s a strange thing, but his body has just been found washed
up on Kee Beach. They reckon he’s been dead a couple of days. Murdered. He had a bullet hole in the back of his head.”

Blankly, Georgia repeated, “Murdered?”

“Yeah. And you took his seat on Bri’s plane.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I’m just checking things out. It’s what I do for a living.”

Unable to make sense of it through the throbbing of her body, Georgia gazed at a laminated poster of the lymphatic system
pinned up behind the reception counter.

“You okay for money?” India suddenly asked, then added, “Oh, you’ve got your fanny pack. Good on you.”

Georgia touched Suzie’s bag. The blood on it had now dried, and if she didn’t know it was a fanny pack, she’d think she had
a plank of wood at her waist, it was so stiff. She hadn’t given any thought to money. Hell. Her handbag had been incinerated
along with all her credit cards. Was Annie around to help her out? Or had her housemate left for her Hong Kong holiday already?

“If you need somewhere to stay,” India said, “I’ve got a spare bed up here. As well as the best view in town.”

“I’ll manage, thanks,” Georgia said. Her mind was now taken up with the problem of finding some money. Her mother was staying
with friends out of town and she couldn’t for the life of her remember their name. Her boss would loan her some cash, though.
She’d ring Maggie.

“You’re worried I’ll extract my pound of flesh later.” India sighed audibly along with a stream of cigarette smoke. “How about
if my paper pays? Say if we did a story on how you overcame your phobia of flying again, or—”

“It’s okay, honestly,” Georgia said. “I’m going to ring a friend. I only need enough for the odd sandwich and a couple of
taxis. My air tickets are still valid, or so I’ve been told.”

India blinked. “You lost your money?”

Georgia gave a nod.

“Look, don’t worry about hassling your friend. Why don’t we travel down to Sydney together. You really want to fly? Or shall
we drive?”

Georgia jerked her head to stare at the reporter. “You’d drive with me all the way to Sydney?”

India grinned. “It’s only fifteen hundred miles or so, and since I don’t mind a bit of open road . . .”

Both of them flinched when the door banged open and a man said, “Georgia. I’m Dr. Ophir. Sorry for the wait, we’ve been trying
to stabilize Bri, but if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

The man wore a white coat and his face was anxious, his hands spread wide. He took in India Kane, then halted. His expression
turned hard.

“Miz Kane. I thought I already—”

India Kane flicked her cigarette stub behind her and onto the rain-drenched concrete path. “I was just going.” Delving into
her bag, she pulled out a card, gave it to Georgia.

“Call me on my mobile,” she said. “I’ve got to be elsewhere tonight, but let’s meet tomorrow.”

“Mobiles work up here?”

“Yeah, I was surprised too. Some new mast went up around Butchers Hill.”

Turning India’s card in her hand, Georgia wondered if the new mast meant Far Northern Queensland was at last catching up with
the rest of the world.

“Anyway, ring me, Georgia. I’ll give you a lift to the airfield tomorrow, if you like, and we’ll decide then whether we’ll
fly or just keep heading south until we hit Sydney. And if you change your mind, let’s share a bottle of wine sometime anyway.”

Dr. Ophir checked Georgia over minutely, pausing at a circular white scar on her right arm. “What happened there?”

“Tropical ulcer.”

“Went mighty deep.”

The ulcer had smelled like flyblown meat, she recalled, and her mother had turned white as milk when she’d removed the bandage.

“Whatever is this stuff?” Linette had asked as she gently bathed away a mass of brown-gray fibers from the pus-fouled wound.

“A poultice,” Georgia had admitted.

Linette had given the nurse a lecture that made her flush bright red with a combination of anger and remorse. “But you told
us to use natural remedies—”

“Not for a streptococcus infection,” Linette was horrified. “Put her on antibiotics immediately!”

Dr. Ophir gave Georgia some lidocaine, ringing a block of local anesthetic around her wrist, then carefully washing the gash
in her left palm with a saline solution before stitching. She didn’t watch, concentrated instead on looking through the little
window overlooking the town’s main drag. Nulgarra, sleepy ocean-rimmed backwater, where tourists didn’t stay long. By the
time they’d gotten this far north they’d already visited Cape Tribulation and the Daintree, the largest surviving tract of
tropical lowland forest in Australia, and even in the peak season, from May to November, when a lot of Aussies headed here
to escape their winter down south, the town wasn’t exactly a hive of activity.

It was March now, seriously low season. Through the sprawling fig trees splitting the sidewalks she could see that the bait
shop where Tom used to work was shut, along with the dive store and the office that sold tickets to Port Douglas and the reef,
but Price’s Supermarket was open, along with Mick’s Café, famous for its all-day brekky and deep-fried oysters. She’d seen
Mick shut up shop only once, and even then it had only been for two days when his mum had died, because the second the news
got out, the town rallied around. Sheryl, the local attorney’s wife, had donned Mick’s huge grease-stained pinafore, her brother
the vats of oil, and between them they’d kept the café going. Sure, the sausages were underdone, the oysters burned into circular
cinders like lumps of coal, but nobody cared. They were doing their bit. Doing what neighbors were supposed to do.