Dance with the Devil (13 page)

'I know.'

The look he gave her said he knew a lot more about her than that. She saw the desperate tiredness on his face, the grief in his eyes, and she ached for him. Before she could stop herself, before she could allow herself to think and use rational arguments to keep her distance, she had crossed the small space between them.

Drew reached for her, and she went willingly into his embrace. Their lips met in a long, lingering kiss. Through his soft shirt material, Emma could feel the tension in his body. She gently soothed his temple with one hand and felt his muscles gradually relax.

His body felt warm and strong against hers, and Emma yielded to the pleasure of it, to the comfort, and the satisfaction of giving comfort in return.

Gradually they eased away from each other. Emma saw the need in Drew's eyes and acknowledged her own. But years of habitual caution made her step back.

'The coffee?' She smiled to soften the words. He nodded, and led the way to the kitchen.

They worked easily together making toasted sandwiches and coffee. With a shock, Emma realised how much she had become used to being with Drew. In only six days, she had shared more emotion with him than she had in two years with her husband. It was a sobering thought.

'Do you think that detective, Mick Landers, was right when he suggested Dario's killer must have been waiting for Angie to leave before he went in?'

Drew carried their plates out to the living room before he replied. 'Yes, I do. It was a regular Tuesday night occurrence for Dario and Angie, and it would have been a bit too coincidental for the killer to pick that night by chance. Just as it was highly improbable that whoever tried to kill me just
happened
onto my fishing shack and drugged my beer.'

The import of what Drew was saying hit Emma. A quiver of fear ran up her spine. 'Do you think it was the same person?'

'Look at the facts, Emma. Someone tried to kill me in a very bizarre fashion - ritualistic, biblical, call it what you will. Then Dario is trussed up like a sacrificial lamb and stabbed.' His eyes were full of torment. 'What if whoever tried to kill me is now trying to kill my friends?'

'You can't think it's your fault.'

'Isn't it? I hope I'm wrong, Emma. I don't want to have to tell Angie that it's because of me she's lost her husband and the father of her child.'

'Perhaps it's the other way round, Drew. Mick said Dario was a barrister who sometimes worked as a police prosecutor. Wouldn't it be more likely for someone to want revenge on him?'

'Perhaps. But whether you're a prosecutor or a defence lawyer, you still come in contact with some very strange people. Strange people with strange ideas.'

They ate in silence. Emma had hoped the coffee would help to keep her awake, but the plush brown velvet cushions of the sofa cradled her body, and her eyes kept drooping closed.

She hadn't realised she had drifted off to sleep until Drew shook her gently by the shoulder.

'I've brought your bag in. You can sleep in my room.'

A protest sprang to her lips but he silenced her with a gentle finger on her lips. 'You're too tired to drive, Emma.'

'But it's only twenty minutes to Cascade Heights,' she persisted.

'Twenty minutes too far. I'll sleep in the other bedroom. Now phone your mother. She'll be worried.'

He had learned patience in the jungle.

Learned to stand for hours, motionless, waiting, not the slightest movement betraying his presence to the enemy. It gave him a feeling of power, standing there, so close he could reach out and grab a man and break his neck before his companions would even realise what had happened.

It would take weeks of preparation for a mission. Weeks of living like an animal, no washing, no smoking, no drinking, eating vegetables, plants, even grass - so there would be no civilised smells to give away his presence to the enemy. The Noggies were like that - you could fart and they'd smell you from a hundred yards. So you had to smell like the jungle, look like the jungle…think like the jungle.

He'd loved it.

Loved the challenge. Loved the power. Loved using his skills. Hitting the enemy on his own ground - silent, deadly.

But now Hadley was becoming tired. He was still a strong man, incredibly so for a man in his fifties. But as he watched the light in the kitchen of the Defender's house, he found himself longing for the comfort of his own home, for the woman he loved beyond life itself.

A sound at the front door had him shrinking back into the darkness. Hidden by the palms in the garden, he was out of sight of the front of the house, but he heard the vehicle's door open, then shut again. The front door closed and in the quiet, he heard the click of a lock.

He'd waited here for hours. He could wait longer if needed. Easing back against a tree, he allowed memories to keep him company.

His childhood had been spent on a cattle property carved from the rainforest. His mother had died when he was eight, and his father had retreated behind a wall of grief, barely noticing his son's habit of disappearing alone into the murky depths of the rainforest. Barely noticing, and caring less.

He'd felt at home in the dank, steamy undergrowth. It seethed with life, from tiny insects to slithering snakes, tree kangaroos and delicate sugar gliders.

The first time he'd killed, it had been in self-defence. He was twelve, and a wild pig had charged at him from the scrub. It had been instinct, the instinct of self-preservation, that made him grab his knife and slash at the animal as he jumped out of its way.

The feel of the blood, warm and smooth on his fingers, had been a surprise. Soft, like a woman's touch, and he remembered his mother's touch and the emptiness when it had gone.

In the jungles of Vietnam, it was a different blood that had flowed. He didn't
have
to touch it, he used his knife too expertly for that, but the feel, the feel…

Sometimes now the feeling came back when he killed one of the calves for meat and the blood flowed onto his hands, but he rejected the pleasure it brought.

When he'd come back from Nam and people had thrown blood on him and called him a baby killer, the feeling was different. His world was confused. He hadn't signed up for another stint, but retreated to the bush, living off the land, trying to hold onto a slim veneer of civilisation.

A light came on in the main bedroom. Hadley didn't move, but every muscle in his body tensed. The curtains were drawn, but they were not thick enough to disguise the silhouette that appeared briefly near the window.

A woman's silhouette.

Undressing.

The woman must be sleeping with the Defender. He hadn't planned to kill her as well, but now it appeared he had no choice. Perhaps it was ordained.

He waited for the kitchen light to go off, for the Defender to go in and join his woman. He shook his head, concentrating instead on his own beloved wife. He had been reminiscing a lot lately, as though trying to recapture a time that was lost…

His hut had been forty kilometres from a small town that was a carbon copy of most small bush towns with a population under two thousand.

Once a month he went into the town for supplies.

On one of those trips he walked past a tent where a visiting preacher was calling out for people to come forth and repent their sins to be saved. He wasn't sure what made him go in, perhaps he'd been so long in the solitude of the bush that his spirit was crying out for companionship; perhaps it was to sneer at those who didn't really know the meaning of sin - not the meaning as he knew it.

The smell of canvas and sweating bodies and the buzzing of flies around the refreshments table struck him as he walked through the open flap. The preacher was old, his body frail, but his voice was strong and resonant.

For a moment, the man of solitude held the gaze of the man of words. For a moment, a hushed silence suspended all movement as the preacher held his arms out in welcome.

'Come, my son,' the strong voice had gentled. And the man of solitude found his loneliness suddenly unbearable. A great longing filled him, and he walked slowly towards the front of the tent.

As he reached the preacher, he caught a glimpse of a slender, fair-haired woman, long fingers fluid on the keys of the organ. He saw her smile, and the voice inside his head told him he had finally come home…

Home!

He longed to be there.

Soon. Very soon.

It would not take long to send the Defender and his woman to the fiery flames.

The smell of paint made it hard for Emma to sleep. Drew had removed the drop-sheet from the bed, but the covered wardrobes seemed to loom over her with malevolent intent.

She lay in the darkness and listened to Drew bathing. Her imagination pictured him scrubbing at the blood which had soaked through his jeans. Memories of his lean, strong body covering hers suddenly surfaced, and desire flooded her body.

The water stopped, but Emma's imagination didn't seem to want to do the same. The memory of their lovemaking teased her, made her ache for Drew. Ache for his fingers on her skin, his heat deep inside her.

Soon she heard his footsteps going up the hallway.

A cool breeze ruffled her cotton nightgown. In the distance she heard a dog bark and the low rumble of a truck engine. Sleep, which only a few hours ago had seemed so irresistible, now eluded her.

She tried to relax, but the hardness of the unfamiliar bed did little to help. A deep restlessness gripped her, a need so great she trembled with the force of it, and it was almost as though her body moved with a volition of its own. Within seconds, she found herself in the doorway. Unheeding of her mind's demand not to act on her impulsiveness, she turned and walked down the hall.

In the darkness, she slid her hands along the wall. At the next doorway she hesitated, then stepped softly inside.

It took her a few moments to realise she was in an office. Her fingers grazed the edge of a desk, the tower of a computer.

The room in which Drew was sleeping must be further down the hall. Emma's nerve suddenly failed her. All her old fears and barriers rushed back. Feeling deflated, and just a little foolish, she decided to return to bed.

The crash of glass and
whoomph
of igniting fuel catapulted Drew from bed. Within seconds, he sprinted to the bedroom he'd given Emma.

Flames were devouring the drop-sheets covering the wardrobe and dresser. The bed was completely engulfed.

Heat seared his skin.

Fear convulsed his heart.

He screamed Emma's name.

Her hand touched his arm as she called his name. He pulled her violently against him. For a second he felt giddy with relief, then he dragged her into the living room. Smoke stung his eyes, and his voice rasped directions as he spoke into the phone.

He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the kitchen, coughing now from the smoke.

'Go outside,' he yelled at Emma, 'stay by your vehicle.'

'What if they're waiting out there for us?'

Drew cursed. She was right. Whoever had caused this wasn't going to give up easily. He wet hand towels in the sink, draped one over Emma's head, across her mouth, then did the same for himself. He poured water over his pyjama pants.

'Wait by the front door. The fire brigade should be here shortly.'

The extinguisher made no headway against the fire, but Drew fought to contain it to the bedroom.

Sparks shot, burning his arms, his bare chest. Acrid smoke fumes stung his eyes, and only the wet towel saved his lungs. Flames roared and crackled as they devoured the furniture, the walls.

A fierce rage boiled within Drew. Rage at the man who had murdered Dario and tried to firebomb Emma, rage at the man who had kept him imprisoned and tried to crucify him. Because there was no doubt in his mind now that the man he'd called 'the devil' was responsible for all three incidents.

A siren sounded, drawing closer. Soon a high pressure gush of water burst through the window, forcing him back. Firemen pulled him from the house.

He threw the towel to the ground and gulped in the clean night air. A flashlight blinded him, and he swung his arm in front of his eyes.

'Put that damn thing down,' he growled.

The bulky form of a fireman was silhouetted against the fire's glow. 'Sorry, mate. The young lady said there's no-one else inside. That correct?'

'Yes.'

'Drew! Are you all right?' Emma ran up the driveway.

He nodded wearily, then slumped against the Land Cruiser. Every bone in his body ached, as though the tension of the past few hours had tightened every muscle and sinew.

Drew looked at his house, the dark grey smoke swirling in the night air, the smouldering embers, the charred walls and blackened framework. A tight band of worry formed around his chest.

'I wonder what the bastard's going to do next.'

'You can't go back and stay in your house. And you can't stay with any of your friends. Whoever's trying to kill you has probably sussed out every person you could remotely expect to stay with.' Mick swigged back the last of his coffee and grimaced at its lack of heat.

He watched with sympathy as Drew sighed and leaned back in his chair. Drew's neighbours had supplied him and Emma with T-shirts and shorts, but even the fresh clothes couldn't disguise the exhaustion vying with the hastily cleaned grime on his face.

'I'll get a room in a motel.'

'No!'

Both men swung around to Emma. She was sitting in Mick's chair, slumped over his desk, cradling a cup of tea. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, and she looked surprised, as though she didn't believe she'd spoken.

She shook her hair back off her face. A tiny piece of ash drifted onto the paperwork strewn across the desk. 'Drew can come and stay at my mother's place. With me.'

Mick watched the look that shot between them.
So that's the way of it
. But before Mick could pursue the thought, Drew answered.

'I can't risk that, Emma. He's already tried to kill you.'

'Not
me
necessarily. It was your bedroom he attacked. He might not have even realised I was in there.'