Dead Heat (25 page)

“A disk? Really?” He brightened. “When were you thinking of coming?”

“Tomorrow morning?” She glanced at her watch. “Nine o’clock?”

“Nine o’clock would be fine.”

“Your address?”

After she’d written it down and said good-bye, she immediately called Quantas and booked a return flight to Brisbane for the
next morning. Easy. First flight barely half full. Excellent. Filled with energy, she flung open the fly screen and nearly
crashed into India.

“Hey, where’s the fire?” the reporter asked.

“No fire. Just fired up.” Georgia smiled. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a backpack I could borrow? Just for tonight? I haven’t
got anything to put my stuff in.”

“Sure. Give me a sec.”

India headed into her van and returned with a smart black, nylon-webbed pack and handed it over.

“Where are you going?”

“Brisbane.”

“What’s in Brizzy?”

Georgia shrugged.

“Sorry.” India grinned. “Can’t help myself sometimes. When are you leaving?”

“Now, actually. I want to get to Cairns tonight so I’m in time for the first flight out tomorrow. It leaves horribly early.
Five forty-five.”

“When are you flying back?”

“Four-forty the same day.”

India regarded her thoughtfully. “I’ve got to be in Cairns tomorrow. I’m covering a fatal stabbing on some racecourse there.
How about we travel down together, and you can keep me awake while I drive? We can check into a hotel, you can do your day
trip, and I’ll pick you up from the airport and we’ll be back here in Nulgarra in time to barbecue a chicken and do serious
damage on some wine.”

Georgia looked down the beach and the sand littered with dozens of translucent bladders tinted with blue and pink: a shoal
of jellyfish stranded by last night’s northeasterly.

“I promise I will try not to ask you any questions.” India grinned. “The accent on
try,
of course.”

Georgia couldn’t help grinning back. “So what are we waiting for?”

S
ipping coffee in her upgraded seat at the front of the airplane the next morning, Georgia gazed through the double-skin window
at the bright spears of lightning illuminating a massive, lone thundercloud at the same altitude. It could have been a mile
away, or two, it was difficult to tell, and when the lightning stopped, everything fell gray for a handful of seconds, and
she could see the sky was brightening into pink on the horizon.

She hadn’t been as scared of flying as she thought. Yes, her heart had nearly leaped out of her chest when they’d charged
along the runway, and when they’d lifted into the air her whole body was rigid, sweating, panic-stricken, but as soon as they
reached cruising altitude and the seat-belt sign pinged off, amazingly, she managed to relax a little.

It may have been due to the fact that she’d crashed in a light aircraft, because she felt remarkably secure on the 737. Mind
you, the half a bottle of Valium she had taken probably helped, along with a shot of brandy India had slugged into her coffee
at the airport.

It had been India who had told the ground staff about her surviving an air disaster five days ago, and they had been wonderfully
sympathetic, giving her an immediate upgrade and her own personal member of staff to swoop her on board and past all the lines.
She was even introduced to the captain and copilot, who both smilingly reassured her the flight would be uneventful, and the
second they’d reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants started clucking around her like mother hens. The flight service
director asked if Miss Parish needed anything, perhaps another cup of coffee? Another newspaper?

Georgia accepted the newspaper and leaned back in her seat and watched the lone thundercloud slide past.

When the taxi dropped her outside a drab-looking building that looked more like a warehouse than a laboratory, she said to
the driver, “Are you sure this is right?”

He pointed to a small fibro hut inside the gate and a piece of computer-printed A4 paper wrapped in plastic and thumbtacked
to its wall: Quantum Research. Right. Some big-shot brother and high-powered lab. Paying the driver twenty-seven bucks, she
took one of the taxi’s cards, dropped it in the backpack India had lent her, and climbed outside. The taxi disappeared down
the broad, almost empty street, and as it signaled to turn right at the traffic lights in the distance, Georgia looked around.

Acres of concrete yards. Dilapidated warehouses as far as the eye could see. One straggly, half-dead eucalyptus struggling
to survive. A cool breeze picked up a polystyrene cup and blew it along the gutter with a little cloud of dust. Strangely,
she felt more alone in this desolate city backwater than she ever had deep in the rainforest.

Turning to the gates, she saw twenty-odd trucks on the forecourt. They were an assorted variety, from vans and tray-tops to
a couple of big semis. She saw an old prime mover with “Harry Hillyard” written on the side, and an ancient army jeep. A security
guard had come out of the fibro hut and was standing there, watching her.

“Help you?”

“I’ve come to see Jon Ming.”

“Give us a tick.”

The guard punched some numbers on his mobile, announced her, then came across and unlocked a massive padlock. With a screech
that set her teeth on edge, he opened the gate. He pointed past the prime mover and said, “That way,” and disappeared back
inside his hut.

Georgia was heading for the side of the warehouse when she heard barking. She paused as it grew louder, and the next instant
an enormous, mottled gray dog with cropped ears and tail came tearing across the forecourt and straight for her. For a second,
she nearly lost it and turned to flee, but then she heard her grandfather’s voice:

You run from a guard dog,
Tom said,
he’s going to bite your ass. You stand your ground, he’ll bail you up and make a din, but he shouldn’t bite if you keep your
cool. Remember, don’t move a muscle.

Heart pounding, she stood her ground, and the dog, which must have weighed a hundred pounds, came to a sliding halt just before
her trembling knees and stood there barking madly.

“Sweetie,” a man’s voice called, and the dog paused briefly, glanced over its shoulders, then resumed its barking.

“Quieten down!”

A squat Chinese man was half walking, half trotting toward her, a thick roll of flesh bouncing and wobbling against the white
shirt above his waistline. He was pink-faced and panting heavily when he arrived, his shirt dark with great rings of damp
beneath the arms. He’d either just run a marathon, which Georgia doubted, or he must be awfully unfit.

As soon as he touched the dog’s shoulders, it fell quiet.

“She is a giant schnauzer,” he puffed proudly. “She guards me. She’s called ‘Binggan’, which means Cookie.”

“And a good job she does too,” Georgia said. She was rewarded with a pleased smile from the man.

“Are you Georgia?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Jon.” He extended a hand and they shook. Soft grip, fleshy and damp. Just the sort she hated. It was like holding a bunch
of sausages. She made to pat the dog, but it pulled back its lips and gave her a deep growl until Jon told it to shut up.

“You mustn’t approach her. Let her take her own time and she will come to you the instant she decides you are a friend.”

She looked at Cookie, and Cookie looked back, her whiskers trembling with what Georgia assumed was a massive effort to stop
herself from baring her teeth.

Jon glanced at her bandage. “What happened to your hand?”

She had rehearsed what she was going to say on the airplane, and launched straight in.

“The Chen family chopped off my fingertip to get me to give them what they wanted. Because I didn’t know what they were talking
about at the time, I couldn’t help them, so they have taken my mother hostage, and will kill her on Sunday if I don’t deliver
what they’re after.”

The blood left Jon’s face so fast that she put out both hands, expecting him to fall in a dead faint at her feet, but snatched
them away when Cookie gave a huge snarl. Luckily, Jon just swayed violently, bent double at the waist, and did some deep breathing.

“Are you okay?” she asked after what felt like five minutes of listening to his breath whistling in and out of his lungs.

Slowly, he straightened. He was pasty and sweating heavily and looked terrible, but he managed to straighten right up and
look past her and at the street.

“You came alone?”

“Yes.”

He studied the street some more. “You weren’t followed?”

Georgia hadn’t been looking, but since she couldn’t remember any cars driving past them or parking when she arrived, she said,
“No.”

He looked relieved. “Let’s go inside.”

Cookie led the way, her short stump of tail cocked high and ticking from side to side, like a happy brick. They rounded the
side of the warehouse and walked to the back, where a long white building sat at the end of another huge stretch of concrete.
Seven cars, one white van, and two motorcycles were parked outside. Each vehicle was facing in, except the bikes, which had
reversed into their spaces. For a quick exit at the end of the working day, she thought, faintly amused. If she took Maggie’s
promotion, perhaps she ought to get a bike so she could do the same.

“They used to be the offices for one of the big sugar companies,” Jon explained, still sounding out of breath as they approached.
“But we converted them.”

Inside, it was how she imagined a laboratory to be. The hut at the entrance was a good camouflage, which she assumed was the
intention. Smart reception, if small, with a pretty Chinese girl behind the desk. Blue carpet. Lots of white walls and pictures
of seascapes. Neutral smell.

“Coffee, sweetie, please,” Jon said to the girl, who immediately got to her feet and scurried off.

Cookie sauntered down a corridor, pushed open the second door on the right, and shouldered herself inside. Jon and Georgia
followed. More blue carpet. Two chairs. Computers, printouts, and two walls of reference books, all neat and orderly, aside
from a big crystal ashtray the size of a flying saucer and overflowing with cigarette butts.

Jon sat behind his desk while Georgia took the chair opposite. Cookie settled on what appeared to be a dead sheep to the right
of Georgia’s chair, between her and the door. Clearing his throat, Jon opened a folder, glanced inside, and closed it. Cleared
his throat again.

“How did you find me?”

“Paul Zhong, and”—she couldn’t for the life of her recall any part of Dutch’s real name, so decided not to bother trying—“Dutch,
Suzie’s friend at Cape Archer National Park.”

He nodded. “Nobody else?”

“No.”

“Who else knows you are here?”

“No one.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped in obvious relief. “Good. That is good.”

Cookie made a groaning sound, and toppled onto her side as though she’d been felled.

“You have Suzie’s disk?”

“I’m sorry, but the Chens have it.”

“Oh.” He blinked several times. “It won’t mean anything to them on its own. They were Suzie’s latest results. What a shame
we don’t have them.” His voice suddenly choked. “Forgive me. I still find it hard . . .”

He did some more deep breathing, then, voice steady once more, said, “You know what research we are doing?”

“With crocodiles,” she said firmly.

He gave a long sigh, then pulled out a pack of Rothmans and offered the pack to Georgia. She shook her head and watched him
light up. “So you know it all,” he said. “Are you going to hand me over to the Chens?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not. I want to hear what the Chen family have to do with all this, then we can decide what
we should do.”

“It is all my fault. Your mother’s kidnapping. Your poor finger. If they knew where I was . . .” He passed a podgy hand across
his face. He wasn’t anything like Suzie, Georgia thought. Suzie was petite and smelled of jasmine; her brother was fat and
stank of cigarettes.

“What do you mean, it’s all your fault?” she prompted.

“You see, it all started when Suzie came to Australia five years ago.” He slid a look at Georgia. “You’ve heard of our father?
Wang Pak Man?”

Georgia shook her head.

“He was known as Patrick Wang here. A very prominent scientist. Suzie used to send samples of crocodile serum for analysis
to him in his lab in New South Wales, but then he had to move overseas. So she turned to me instead.” He gave her a sad smile.
“Suzie was convinced their blood held the answer to why crocodiles survive injuries that would be lethal to humans. She air-freighted
batches of blood in liquid nitrogen to me. I was working in China at the time. In Wuhan. I’d separate the serum from the red
blood cells.

“Crocodile blood is full of many components, and it took a long time to isolate each one. Eventually I had over a hundred
elements, each with its own test tube. It didn’t take me long to realize there was something incredible in test tube twenty-one.
I took some simple bacteria and added the contents to test tube twenty-one and I nearly fell over. The bacteria died in their
millions.”

He sucked so hard on his cigarette that Georgia wondered the entire stick didn’t turn into ash. Exhaling a cloud of smoke,
he said, “Then I tested test tube twenty-one against bacteria that were dangerous to people, bacteria that were resistant
to all known antibiotics, such as MRSA. I placed a few of these superbugs in a petri dish, and in the center of the dish was
a single drop from test tube twenty-one. The next day, when I pulled the plate out of the incubator and had a look, the drop
of crocodile blood was surrounded by colonies of this deadly bacteria. As soon as they touched the crocodile blood they were
killed.

“My colleagues and I finally isolated the protein that kills these bacteria, and this protein forms the basis of our entirely
new kind of antibiotic.” He took a deep breath and swallowed, but Georgia could hear that his voice was rough with emotion.
“I am sad my sister will not be here to see the results of her work.”