Outside, Nick saw a truck driver climbing into his cab and hustled me over.
‘Hey, mate,’ Nick said, ‘where you off to?’
‘Sydney, mate.’
‘Not Queensland?’
‘Nah.’
‘No worries.’
If I hadn’t known what he was up to, I never would have seen Nick slip my phone under the driver’s seat.
‘Nice idea,’ I told him on the way back to the car. ‘They trace the phone as it goes past the signal towers.’
‘It’s in the next Zack book.’
We didn’t say much the first hour, both tense, expecting sirens and flashing red and blue lights. Nick slumped low on the bench seat with a gun in his lap and I sat straight, hands gripping the wheel. I didn’t want to draw any more attention to the car and concentrated on sticking exactly to the speed limit. Nick tuned the radio to a local station, but there was nothing about us in the news headlines. An hour later the newsreader mentioned a shooting in Castlemaine. No details. I relaxed a bit.
‘You going to tell me what’s going on?’
‘I stole some money.’ He sighed.
‘Whose?’
‘I don’t know. I thought I knew, but it turned out I didn’t.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘For your own safety, the less you know the better.’
‘Safety? It’s a little late for that. I almost got dismembered.’
He stared out the window, refusing to say more, so I forced him to listen instead. I told him everything that had happened, hoping it might prompt a reaction. No such luck. If anything surprised him, he kept it inside, and he refused to confirm or deny any of my theories. Frustrating, but I was sure I’d get it out of him later.
We took back roads and obscure highways through the Grampians National Park, passing craggy sandstone mountains, eucalypt forests and grassed valleys. In Hamilton we stopped for petrol, once more parking away from the station. I took a blonde wig from my stash of disguises in the boot, stuck on a cap and sunglasses, filled up a couple of jerry cans and bought another couple of Red Bulls. I was running on caffeine and adrenaline and nothing else.
By the time we crossed the border near Mount Gambier, Nick had fallen asleep. The sun was setting and the landscape had flattened, dense bush replaced by sheep runs and vast fields of wheat lit up peach in the afternoon light.
By the time it was fully dark we were on the coast road, had passed Robe and were ten k’s out from a place called Meningie. The Futura, which tended to shudder and stall in city traffic, was purring like a kitten. I was so tired I was hallucinating little creatures scurrying on the edge of my vision. The Red Bulls had well and truly worn off. I nudged Nick.
‘Dude, wake up. I’m rooted. You’re gonna have to drive.’
‘What time is it?’ He sat up and blinked.
‘Just past eight.’
‘Want to stop? Motel, few hours’ sleep?’
I couldn’t think of anything better, but I stalled.
‘Only if you tell me everything.’
‘I will, after a shower and something to eat.’ He sighed.
‘Reckon it’ll be safe?’
‘If we do it right.’
In Meningie I drove past a motel on the highway and parked down a deserted side street a few blocks away. I pocketed the keys, put the wig and cap back on, and left Nick in the car while I doubled back, cars and trucks rolling past, headlights forcing me to squint. The night was hot and crickets twittered in the nature strip. A park fronted a lake on the opposite side of the road and the water smelled brackish.
The place looked like every other motel in history: reception attached to a small restaurant and a long, single-storey L-shaped building enclosing a concrete car park out back. Eighty-five bucks, a false address and one fake American accent later I was inside an unpainted brick room with a double bed, a bar fridge and a television chained to the wall. I dumped the backpack I’d taken from the boot, walked back to the car and drove us into the centre of town where I bought McDonald’s, a couple of bottles of wine and a pack of cigarettes. Parking the car on the same side street we walked back to the motel, making sure there was no one at reception to watch Nick sneak in.
Soon as we were inside I cracked open the screw cap on a bottle of Geisen sauvignon blanc, poured it into two thick tumblers, and handed one to Nick. I finished the first in three gulps, poured another.
Nick looked at his.
‘I haven’t had a drink in six weeks.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Needed to stay sharp, couldn’t let down my guard. After what happened to Izzy . . . if I hadn’t been passed out drunk I could have saved her.’
‘You don’t know that.’
He stared at the glass.
‘One won’t hurt,’ I said. I wanted to get him a little tipsy, thought he might loosen up and start talking.
He took a tentative sip.
‘Nice. Tastes expensive.’
‘Yeah, well, I thought I deserved it. Besides, I’ve still got five grand of Liz’s cash.’
‘Huh?’
‘She hired me to find you. I’d say we’re gonna need it.’
We sipped our drinks and looked around the room, clocking the double bed at the same time. There was no additional single, no couch. Cosy. I looked at Nick and I swear he actually blushed.
‘So what’s the plan?’ I asked to get our minds off the sleeping arrangements. ‘Find JJ in Adelaide?’
‘First off I’m going to change the hair.’ He opened the sports bag and pulled out five packs of dye, all different colours.
‘Can I shower first?’ I asked. ‘I feel disgusting. I stink.’
‘Sure.’
I was out in ten minutes. Wet hair combed, wearing an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt I’d found in the backpack. I sat on the bed and Nick handed me another wine. It tasted a little different from the first—probably because I’d just brushed my teeth.
‘Should I go black?’ He held up one of the dye packs.
‘Sure. Just don’t forget to do your eyebrows or you’ll look like an incompetent goth.’
He disappeared into the bathroom while I drank wine, watched some home improvement show on TV and lit a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign. Hungry as I was, I didn’t want to scarf down the Maccas right away, because a full stomach would make me crash and I wanted to get some more information out of Nick first.
He came out of the bathroom half an hour later with black hair and very dark eyebrows. He’d dyed his beard and shaved it into a goatee.
‘You look like a stage hypnotist,’ I said and giggled a little hysterically.
‘Long as I don’t look like me.’
‘Tell me about this money that you stole.’ I got straight to the point. ‘Is that how you and Isabella could afford to go overseas, get married in New York?’
He raised his new eyebrows and looked like he was about to say something, but the late news came on so he turned it up and sat on the bed next to me to watch. We were the lead story.
‘
Victorian Police have staged a massive manhunt for fugitive author
Nick Austin after a shootout earlier today in the Victorian town of
Castlemaine. One man is dead, a police officer was shot and injured,
and a woman was taken hostage.
’ Our photos flashed up on the screen and I had to sit forward and squint to make them out properly. Exhaustion was really messing with my eyes. They showed an old publicity still of Nick, a mug shot, and an artist’s impression of what he looked like with blond hair and a beard. I got the bikini picture, of course. No one mentioned my car. I guessed no one had seen me drive it except for tattooed goatee guy, and he didn’t seem to be exactly law abiding himself. It was only a matter of time, though . . .
The report finished with a warning that Nick was armed, extremely dangerous, and not to be approached.
‘Oh god,’ I said. ‘This is huge. Maybe I should dye my hair, too? It’s too hot to be wearing that ratty wig.’
Nick didn’t say anything, just studied me for a moment. Freak. I riff led through his stash of dye, picked out a pack of blond and lay back on the bed and opened the box, trying to read the instructions. All the little letters danced in front of my eyes. I sat up and rubbed my face.
‘Jesus. I can’t believe how tired I am. I’m fucked.’
‘Go to sleep.’
I shook my head from side to side, movements exaggerated.
‘Not until you tell me about the money. Where’d you steal it from?’ I got up to refill my glass, bumped my hip on the chair on the way over, swore and picked up the bottle. I couldn’t keep it steady, and wine slopped over the side of the glass. I took it back to the bed and sat down a little hard, spilling wine on my bare legs.
‘Shit.’
Nick plucked the glass out of my hand.
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Only had three glasses.’ It was true. I’d started on an empty stomach, but still . . .
‘Lie down.’
‘So forceful! You know, if this was one of your Zack books we’d already be making mad, passionate love in the motel room and I would’ve come instantaneously and with no foreplay or oral sex. Sooo unrealistic.’ I started giggling again. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I wondered why I’d just said such a stupid thing.
Nick frowned. I started kicking his foot.
‘Tell me about the money. Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me,’ I singsonged, kicking harder each time. I was behaving like a psychotic three-year-old. The thought made me snort like a pig, and the snort made me laugh uncontrollably. I doubled over, finally calmed down, swung my head back up and stared at the brick wall. It was breathing. Man, I’d been dog-tired and traumatised before, but it had never had this effect. The feeling reminded me of my crazy drug-taking days when once, for a laugh, I’d mixed champagne with a couple of strong Valiums. Holy shit. I turned to Nick.
‘What did you?’ I slurred. It was difficult to form words. ‘In my wine. What?’
He didn’t answer. The hypnotist facial hair combined with my blurred vision made him look especially sinister. I stood and made a break for the door, but he grabbed me around the waist and hauled me back, threw me on the bed. I struggled and he pinned me down. What the hell was going on? I tried to yell. He put his hand over my mouth. My limbs became heavy and I felt myself slipping. I was under the sea, sinking, and consciousness was floating on the glinting surface, too far away to reach.
I
woke up with a dry mouth and stuck-together eyes, wondering where I was. The ceiling was made of rough concrete, the wall opposite naked brick. There was a TV on a bar fridge and a really bad picture of a sailing boat over by the door. Sailing boat . . . sinking . . . it came back in flashes: Nick drugging me, pushing me onto the bed like some mad date-rapist.
I looked down at my body, lying on top of the floral bedspread. Still clothed, didn’t appear I’d been ravished, but I stuck my hand down my pants and had a quick feel, just to make sure. Nope. Everything appeared to be in order. I leapt up, almost fell over, and looked in the mirror for any other suspicious signs: strange stains, crusty white stuff adhering to my person. Nothing.
My gaze landed on a handwritten letter on the small laminex table, two fifty-buck notes next to it.
Simone, sorry about the sleeping tablets, but they shouldn’t cause
any lasting damage. I’ve taken your car and Liz’s money and left you
cash to get a bus back to Melbourne. I hope you’ll tell the police that
I dropped you there, and not let on where I’m really going or what I look like now, although I know I don’t have any right to expect
you to comply. I started this and it’s up to me to finish it. I don’t
want to put anyone else in danger. Thanks, Nick.
He hadn’t wanted to rape me, he’d wanted to ditch me. I reread the note. Nice sentiment, Nick, but I was already in danger and he wasn’t doing me any favours leaving me in bum-fuck South Australia with nothing but a bus fare. There was a strong possibility he’d get his head blown off by either the cops or the bad guys, and then I’d never know who was after me and my family and we’d all have to spend the rest of our lives in police protection or dead. I mentally kicked myself for not forcing him to spill straight away. I should have threatened to drive the Futura into a tree.
I turned on the television and made a coffee, putting three sachets of International Roast into one small cup. Vile, but it was the only way to get enough caffeine out of instant. Sipping the hideous brew I watched the morning news: Nick and I were still top story, but they now had a picture of my car, video footage of me and Nick at the service station and a recent photo, a close-up of my face. Sean had snapped the picture in Apollo Bay, after I’d found Isabella’s body.
I felt hollow in the guts and couldn’t tell if it was guilt, regret, or just nostalgia for how it had been when we’d first got together. I’d well and truly fucked things up despite my promises to myself.
I threw back the last of the coffee. There was no time for sentimentality, and there was no going back to Melbourne and the mess of police statements and recriminations that would ensue. Nick thought he had to finish things? Well, so did I. Finding out who was behind the threats and the killing was the only way to make sure what had happened to Mum three months ago didn’t happen again.
Only problem was, I couldn’t cruise around as myself. I picked up the ratty blonde wig and stuck it on my head. The wig was so obviously fake it
looked
like a bad disguise. Synthetic strands scratched my face and within seconds my scalp started to sweat. I glanced around the room. On the floor by the bed was the pack of blond dye I’d been examining the night before. I touched my hair. For once it was in pretty good condition, but that was about to change. Oh well. Desperate times and all that. I put on the gloves and headed for the bathroom.
At ten o’clock the cleaner was hanging around the doorway and I was trying to drag myself away from the mirror. I looked completely different, not to mention super tarty, ultra-dark eyebrows clashing with the new blonde hair. I doubted even Sean would recognise me if we passed in the street.
I checked out at reception and, still using the accent, asked the old guy behind the desk about an internet café and a bus to Adelaide. He told me a coach left from the Caltex servo around midday and let me use the computer in the office to get on the net, which was nice. I had a feeling I’d get away with a lot more as a perky Californian blonde than I had as a surly Australian brunette. I wrote down JJ’s address and phone numbers from the email Tony Torcasio had sent, and ambled down the highway to the petrol station, the hair inciting more car horns and lewd suggestions than ever before. I didn’t know how Chloe dealt with it. Actually, I did. It was
not
getting propositioned she couldn’t stand.