Dead Heat, page 23
‘Patrick Wang.’ India’s voice was faint. ‘Holy fuck.’
Georgia studied the side of the reporter’s face. Her cheeks seemed to have lost colour.
A horn sounded and Georgia jumped. They were practically in the middle of the road. The car coming from the opposite direction swept past, horn still blaring.
‘Christ, India!’
India heaved her ute on to the dirt shoulder and switched off the engine. Her hands, Georgia saw with a little shock, were shaking.
‘Georgia. You’re saying Patrick Wang is Suzie Wilson’s father? And that Suzie Wilson and Mingshu were the same person?’
Alarmed, unsure where this was going, Georgia decided on sticking to the truth. ‘Yes. I am.’
India scrabbled in the well between them and shook a Marlboro from the pack, lit it from the car’s lighter. She buzzed her window down and exhaled a stream of smoke outside. She said softly, ‘Jesus.’
Warm air drifted over them, blanketing the air-conditioning and making Georgia start to sweat. ‘India, what is it?’
The reporter looked around. She was staring at Georgia but she wasn’t connecting with her. She was staring at something beyond her and in her own mind.
‘I know Mingshu,’ she said. Her tone was distant. ‘Well, not know her as such, we never met, but yes, I knew of her because of her father. I’ve been after Patrick Wang for the last eighteen months, and got hold of letters to him from his kids: Mingshu and Mingjun.’ She sent Georgia a sharp look. ‘Are you sure it’s her? Was her?’
‘Of course I am!’
India dragged deeply on her Marlboro.
‘I don’t get it.’ India was shaking her head in bewilderment. ‘Why did she want to see me? Me, of all people.’
Confused, Georgia said, ‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
‘Fuck it . . .’ The reporter stubbed her half-smoked Marlboro out in the dashboard tray with sharp, jabbing motions until the filter was pulped. ‘Could you expand a bit on Jon, what he said, then maybe I can see where Suzie fits into it all?’
Georgia told India about how Suzie captured wild crocodiles and sent the serum to Jon in China in the hope of finding an extraordinary new antibiotic, how Jon realised the immensity of what they were creating and took all his research and fled to Australia, and the Chens’ determination to get their hands on either one of them, Suzie or Jon, and get the research back to China and the company Jon used to work for, their clients.
India was on her third cigarette by the time Georgia finished.
‘No wonder they’re such hot property,’ the reporter said. ‘Not just because they’re valuable scientists themselves, and the Chinese want them back, but their father was another scientist. Patrick Wang. He’s been on the run from the Australian authorities ever since his killing spree. Remember those people who died in the Northern Territory two years back?’
Georgia could feel the shock on her face. Over a hundred people had died from an incurable virus, and it had been India who had exposed the truth behind the murders.
‘Their father did that?’
‘Sure did. The total bastard . . .’
India was still talking and suddenly Dutch was in Georgia’s mind, telling her about his bony-assed friend whose father had done something really bad, and Suzie had wanted to do something really good, to make amends.
‘Now she’s dead,’ India said, looking frustrated, ‘we’ll probably never find her father now. Not unless Jon gives him up.’
‘Jon said he’d had to go overseas.’
‘Where?’
‘He didn’t say.’
India’s mobile chirped and she stubbed her cigarette out as she answered it. ‘Hi. Yes, probably. Say I’ll be with you at—’ She looked at Georgia and said, ‘Can I drop you in town?’
Georgia nodded. She could always get a taxi to the caravan park, besides, she needed some bandage for her finger, paracetamol and maybe some antiseptic cream. It was aching more than usual. God, she hoped it hadn’t got infected.
India turned her wrist to look at her watch and said into her phone, ‘Six o’clock.’ Shoving her phone between her thighs, she turned the ignition and swung the ute back on the road and accelerated hard, overtaking a 4WD towing a horse box.
‘So,’ said India, ‘do you have any ideas who sabotaged the plane?’
‘Not really.’ Georgia sighed and turned her head to look outside. Baked red dirt speckled with low dry bushes and red ant hills flashed past. You’d never think they were just forty minutes from tropical rainforests and beaches rimmed with aquamarine sea.
Georgia thought about the saboteur and who, aside from the entire police force of Australia, wanted Lee Denham dead. Or had they wanted to kill someone else? Not her, but what about Bri? No, that was impossible. And who in the world would want to kill Suzie, when she was so valuable?
Her mind made a giant leap.
Suzie, wanting to see India about exploitation at the healing centre. Tilly, one minute dying, the next day healed. What if someone had wanted to kill Suzie, in order to maintain the illusion of an incredible healing gift and keep the money flooding in?
India had tuned the radio to Sea FM and was humming along to George Harrison’s ‘Sweet Lord’, oblivious to Georgia’s silence. She’d barrelled through the little settlement of Mount Mulloy, barely pausing at the 60 K speed limit, and was now cruising along the smooth sweeping bitumen road at over 130 K.
‘India,’ Georgia ventured, ‘could you keep the fact about Suzie and the antibiotic quiet for a bit?’
‘My lips are zipped, remember?’ India flashed her a narrow look. ‘Why? You’ve made some connection?’
‘Er . . .’ Georgia wasn’t sure she wanted to voice her new-found scepticism of Yumuru. What if she’d got it wrong? India could destroy him with a flick of her pen, not to mention all those patients currently in his care, and those he might cure in the future.
‘Georgia!’ India erupted. ‘Will you just trust me, goddammit! I’m on your side! Don’t you get it? I won’t tell anything to anyone you don’t want me to, not my partner, not the cops, not Scotto.’ Her lips twitched mischievously. ‘He’s my editor. He’s gorgeous, by the way. And very single.’
‘Not right now, thanks,’ she told the reporter drily.
‘Later, then,’ said India. ‘What’s on your mind about Suzie and the antibiotic?’
Georgia dithered briefly, then caved in. India listened without interrupting. Georgia ended by saying, ‘I’ve a plan.’
‘Spill it.’
Obediently Georgia did so.
‘Excellent,’ said India. ‘I’d say all systems go, no holds barred.’ She slowed behind a road train until the road was clear ahead, then overtook. ‘You’re okay still staying at Newview?’
Georgia hadn’t given it much thought, but now she realised it wasn’t the best place. Jason Chen would probably be waiting for her after the debacle in Brisbane, wanting to know where Jon was, his secateurs at the ready.
‘Probably not.’
‘How about the National in town?’ India suggested without a beat. ‘Their rooms aren’t great, but at least people will be around. And we can head round the corner to Mick’s for something to eat tonight. I fancy some serious grease after today. Something deep-fried and battered to death.’
It was just under 200 Ks from Mount Mulloy to Nulgarra but they made good time thanks to India’s speeding. As India pulled up outside the National Hotel, she leaned across and hooked her arm around Georgia’s neck, gave her a hug. Pressed a kiss against her cheek.
‘Thanks for the trust in me,’ she said. ‘You did good.’
Georgia put her hand against the reporter’s and held it briefly. ‘Thanks for waiting for me at the cop shop.’
‘Any time.’
After she’d climbed outside, Georgia walked round the front of the ute, keeping a hand on the hot metal of the bonnet like she was soothing a restless steed in its stall. She bent to India’s window. India buzzed it down, expression expectant.
Georgia said, ‘I know why Suzie wanted to see you.’
India stared at her, surprise in her eyes.
‘She would have made up the exploitation story to get you up here. Because her father did something terribly bad and you broke the story, she wanted to do something incredibly good and to tell you she was trying to redress the balance.’
India’s face closed. ‘She doesn’t get any sympathy from me. Her sodding father played God, and people died.’
She gunned the ute so hard the tyres spun a handful of gravel into Georgia’s face.
Thirty-one
Fresh bandage to hand, antiseptic tube on the sink, Georgia steeled herself as she unwrapped her bandage. Her finger was throbbing unmercifully and she dreaded seeing what was beneath. Yumuru had said to change the bandage daily, but when she’d got to Cairns last night she had been too tired, and this morning too terrified of flying to contemplate it.
The last of the bandage stuck a little, and she gritted her teeth as she tugged until it was free. She still couldn’t look.
Bandage now off. Bandage now in bin.
Breathe, for goodness’ sake, she told herself. Breathe into your lungs, right into your belly, and be calm. Be calm.
She looked down and saw a bulbous scab sitting on top of her stump like a leech. Bristles of stitches. No blood, no liquid seeping, no redness, no infection.
It was fine.
The sodding thing was fine. It barely looked as if it needed antiseptic cream, but she smeared a gob over it just in case, then quickly re-bandaged it, trying to emulate Yumuru’s neat wrapping but failing dismally. It looked as though a goblin had attempted to erect a tent over the bloody thing. Ah well, she’d do better next time, when she’d had some practice.
She was aware she was forcing herself to be light-hearted, reasoning that if she concentrated on being normal, Lee would rescue her mother. Ridiculous logic, she knew, but she couldn’t think what else to do, except go mad with worry. Her mother believed in the power of positive thought. When their ancient ute had finally packed up and they’d needed a new car, for instance, she hadn’t panicked, just added an extra affirmation to her daily ritual: ‘Thank you, Great Creator, for this wonderful new car.’
Two weeks later, Dick Cooper had driven his wife’s battered old Moke into the commune and handed her the keys.
Recalling it, Georgia made her own affirmation: ‘Thank you, Great Creator, for my mother’s freedom.’
Going to the running bath, she turned off the taps and tested the water with her other hand. Perfect. Undressing, she eased herself into the water, up to her neck, holding her goblin tent high. The bath was huge and since she couldn’t reach the other end with her feet, she felt she was swimming, which was not exactly relaxing.
Finally she pulled the plug and stood, dripping, wondering what to wear as the majority of her stuff was at the caravan; the clothes from yesterday, which she’d worn sweating to the detention centre, and then to Cairns? Or the clothes from today, reeking with the sweat of fear of being shot at, of being caught by the Chens . . . No contest. Yesterday’s clothes were today’s. At least she had a clean pair of knickers and a toothbrush. As a child, when they’d flown to Australia, her mother had told her their baggage might go missing, and to carry fresh undies in her hand luggage just in case.
Thanks, Mum, she thought as she pulled a spare pair from the bottom of her handbag. Have clean knickers, will kick ass. Talking of which, where was Lee? He hadn’t rung. Had he rescued her mum yet? Was he on his way to her? They only had three days until the deadline on Sunday . . . Her mind started to gallop into panic and she hurriedly checked her mobile. No missed calls, no messages.
Call me, dammit, she told him. Call me. Be like Mum and have a little telepathic sensitivity, will you? Tune in for a second. I want to know what’s happening. Call me.
Nothing.
Must get him trained, she thought, shoving her mobile on top of her dirty clothes. Ringing me at the police station was not telepathically sensitive. Not sensitive at all.
Clearing the bathroom of her stuff – she shared it with the whole floor – she dumped everything in her room before making her way downstairs, looking forward to a meal, hoping India would be there already. She was so hungry her stomach was groaning away like her throat had been cut. Deep-fried oysters, here I come, she thought, feeling proud she was doing a reasonable job of keeping her thoughts upbeat. But she checked her mobile, just in case the power was running low. It wasn’t.
Outside, the National looked pretty with its wrought-iron balcony, but inside it was a different story. Nobody seemed to have bothered with it since she’d last been in Nulgarra all those years ago. Paint was hanging in strips along the corridor and the wood around the windows was pitted. In the bar, the carpet was thin with worn patches and the walls a yellow-brown. The aroma of cigarette smoke clung to the air. She was the only customer.
Above the bar was a sign saying ‘Free bungee jumps for politicians – no strings attached’, and normally she’d have smiled, but right now she had never felt less like smiling in her life.
The barman wore an oil-stained T-shirt that suggested he was a mechanic when he wasn’t working at the pub, and she ordered a glass of wine and played with it a while. Looked at her watch. Eight fifteen. She ordered another wine. Played with that one another while. No India. No call from Lee. Maybe she’d have to ring the Chens herself and arrange to swap the disks Jon had given her for her mother. But would they really fall for a formula for the common cold? Tense as a bowstring, she was sipping her third wine when India appeared.
‘Jesus, sorry I’m so late.’ She glanced at Georgia’s drink, then at the barman. ‘Same for me, Rog, but make it two, would you? The first won’t touch the sides.’
Georgia watched the reporter light a cigarette, down her first glass of wine, then ease on to the stool beside her, fingers playing with the stem of her second wine glass.
‘Filing a goddam report should be easier,’ India grumbled. ‘I’ve been covering that murder I was telling you about, the stabbing, but felt like I was back at school. Scotto was giving me hell, demanding links in my story. There are no goddam links. Just some poor bastard in the middle of a racecourse with his stomach slashed. No clues, no nothing. But your Sergeant Carter was muttering it could be a gang killing and connected to the murder of Ronnie Chen, the man found washed up on our beach.’
She looked across at Georgia. ‘Anything to do with the Chens, do you think?’
Like India, she couldn’t think what it meant and shook her head. ‘Could it be an inter-gang fight? You said the Dragon Syndicate were pretty pissed off with the RBG after Lee had stuffed them.’
India looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe. But Carter didn’t think so.’
Glancing out of the window, Georgia saw Joanie wobbling down the street, a dog tagging along beside her. ‘Are you still on for tomorrow?’ she asked India.
‘You bet.’ India took a slug of wine that drained half her glass and set it back on the counter. ‘I take it you haven’t heard from Lee.’
‘No.’
‘Shit.’
Long pause while India smoked her cigarette and Georgia checked her mobile. Nothing.
‘Only thing for it,’ said India, ‘is to get a feed and some sleep, and face what tomorrow brings. Jesus, I hope Mick’s isn’t closed. Hick towns like this tend to shut up shop as soon as the sun sinks.’
The reporter downed the remainder of her wine, and with her cigarette in one hand, ushered Georgia speedily outside and down the street.
‘Thank God, he’s still open.’ India flicked a quick glance at Georgia as they stepped inside the café. ‘You may not feel like eating, but eat you will, even if I have to force-feed you,’ she said. ‘What’ll it be?’
‘A dozen deep-fried oysters.’
India’s face cracked into a smile. ‘Well, bloody hell, if I haven’t found my soul sister.’ She turned to Mick. ‘Three dozen of your best, thanks, mate.’
Despite India’s strength, her reassuring presence, Georgia found it hard to eat, and even more difficult to sleep. Lee should have her mother by now.
Why hadn’t he called?
*
Next morning, brain fuddled and eyes gritty from lack of sleep, Georgia climbed out of the taxi and, when it had gone, slipped into the rainforest. All was quiet. No traffic, nobody to see the taxi dropping her off just outside the Lotus Healing Centre. She didn’t want to alert Yumuru to her presence, still less the reason for it. Mist curled around the trunks of the trees as she followed an animal track into the gloom of the forest. The sun was still low, the atmosphere moist and permeated with the smell of rotting vegetation. She heard nothing but the whine of mosquitoes, the sound of leaves brushing against her, the faint squelch of her shoes in mud. It was so still she could almost hear the moisture oozing from the forest.
A rustle behind her. She spun round, heart thudding. Nobody. Just a lizard she’d disturbed, maybe a snake.
Georgia brushed her arms and face free of sweat and insects, longing for Dutch’s Deet; she’d been bitten so many times she wondered the mozzies hadn’t drained her of blood.
She passed the small waterfall on Lamb’s Creek where the rocks were smooth and shiny from years of turbulent currents fed from the mountains, and the bark of trees was covered in moss. A huge cycad loomed skywards, a primitive, slow-growing fern barely unchanged in 200 million years. It was astonishing to think how many plant relicts had survived, by sheer fortune, for aeons in this rainforest.
Gradually the sky, seemingly distant through the closely knitted canopy of leaves, brightened, and sunlight beamed like yellow flashlights through the trees. Georgia recognised an old fig tree bristling with birds’ nests and basket ferns and knew she was nearing the healing centre.
All was quiet when she came to the car park. The sun had cleared the treetops and the temperature had risen five degrees. Georgia hunkered behind a thick clump of silver tree ferns and willed herself not to scratch her bites. A week ago she wouldn’t have done this, she realised. She would have believed in Yumuru and felt an urge to protect him. Back then, however, she hadn’t known what was at stake.
