Muzzled (17 page)

I let out a sigh. Was I being foolish meeting this guy on my own? Of course I was. But how else could I find out more about my missing sister?

Tote bag hitched high on my shoulder, knuckle duster in one coat pocket and a can of
Ubeaut
extra-strong hair spray tucked in the other, I scanned the car park for a red VW Beetle. Most trainers and patrons preferred to drive onto the Chinnery Park grounds and park around the track so it was easy to spot the beat up red Beetle, parked on its own, in the far corner of the outside car park, partly hidden by two large jacaranda bushes. I remember reading a book called
Mind Hunter
, written by the professional profiler, John Douglas. In it, he proclaimed VW Beetles seemed to be the car of choice for most serial killers.

My bravado did a nose dive and my long purposeful strides faltered, switched to a shuffle. Why did my traitorous mind have to dredge up that chilling piece of information while my reluctant body was making its way toward an assignation with a man who DI Adams claimed had been ‘put away’ for assault?

In the distance I heard a loudspeaker crackle and the on-course race-caller inform punters that betting for race six would close in thirty seconds. This was followed by the sound of metal doors clanging. If I didn’t get a move on race six would be over and Ben would be out looking for me. So when an icy wind blew strands of hair across my face, I shivered, tugged my coat collar up around my ears and hurried toward the red Beetle hunched like a giant bug on the far side of the car park. No young man leaning against the bonnet, waiting for me. Not a soul in sight. Was Scott playing hide-go-seek? If he’d set out to deliberately scare me—his plan was working.

I tightened my fingers around the can of hair spray in my pocket. If this man was playing games with me and he had no knowledge of where I could find Liz, I’d let him have it—a stinging spray full in the face. Hey, I was tired of being pushed around by crappy crooks.

As I drew closer, the monotonous sound of the Beetle’s idling motor brought me to a halt. Surely Scott wasn’t planning to hit me over the head, drag me into his vehicle and drive off? I frowned, peered at the car more closely and felt my stomach roil. Something was terribly wrong with this picture. All the VW’s windows were shut and fogged up. A hose pipe, duct taped in place, had been fed into the driver’s side window, the gap each side plugged with what looked like old rags. I ran my eye from the window to the end of the hose…it was jammed into the car’s exhaust pipe.

“Nooooo!”

Heart thumping louder than blocked drains in an outdated bathroom, I bolted across the bitumen and past the bushes, couldn’t see through the car’s fogged up windows, so tugged frantically at the door handle.

“Don’t be dead!
Do
n’t
you
dare
be dead!” I yelled at the young man aged in his early twenties and dressed in khaki chinos and a tan leather jacket who spilled out of the car, his head, complete with collar-length dark hair streaked with blonde, bouncing off the ground as he landed.

The young man didn’t seem to be paying attention, so, coughing and retching as the deadly carbon monoxide flooded my lungs, I covered my mouth with one hand and reached inside the car to turn off the ignition.

“Scott! Scott! Can you hear me?”

No reaction and his chest didn’t seem to be moving. Shit. Digging into my tote-bag I dragged out my phone. After dialing 911, I dragged Scott’s limp body further from the car’s toxic fumes then knelt over him. Should I give him the kiss of life? Or wait until the medics arrived.

I decided to give it a go and placed one hand, heel down on the lower half of his breast bone then placed the other hand on top and intertwined my fingers. Now, what was it? Thirty compressions—then two breaths into the mouth? Or was it twenty compressions—then five breaths into the mouth? Oh God, I should have paid more attention when we were taught CPR in high school instead of giggling at Tanya who poked her tongue out every time she pushed down on the dummy’s chest.

One-two-three-four…

Why would a young man with his life before him commit suicide? And why do it in such a public place? Surely it would have been more comfortable to set this up in his garage. Perhaps there was no garage where he was living or he was afraid the other tenants might wander in and succumb to the toxic fumes. Or perhaps this was a one-man public protest against the culling of koalas or the rising cost of electricity that had gone too far.

I could hear the muffled wail of sirens in the far distance and strengthened my compressions.

Twenty-five…twenty-six…twenty-seven…

I studied the young man’s face, pink from inhaling carbon monoxide poisoning. His ocean blue eyes stared back at me, wide and unseeing. A cold shiver jerked in the pit of my stomach, raced up into my chest and from there into my limbs.

Scott Brady, my sister’s ex-boyfriend, was either in a dead coma—or just plain dead.

18

Big fat drops of rain blasted my face, blurring my vision. They slid into my open mouth and stuck my wispy hair to my forehead in clinging saturated strands. By the time two police cars and an ambulance screamed through the gate and pulled up beside me, I was kneeling in a puddle of water. A miserable soggy mass of reluctant rescuer—still pumping—still counting compressions—and wishing the hell for a tent, an umbrella or even a plastic bag to cover my head. Without warning, the heavens had flung their pearly gates open and tossed another obstacle in my path—a rating ten rain squall.

I looked up, as, equipment in tow, two medics, a voluptuous redhead and a grandfatherly looking guy with the name GRANT pinned to his uniform, leaped from the front cab of the ambulance and bustled over.

“Okay, love, we’ll take over now,” said the grandfatherly guy, easing me out of the way before continuing with CPR.

“Be my guest,” I said and let out a sigh, more than happy to hand over Scott’s resuscitating procedure to the experts. My legs, cramped from kneeling, went a bit wobbly as I stood up. Hunched over, I wiped rain from my eyes and hobbled across to huddle under the shelter of the nearby bushes.

“Did you get any response at all?” called out the voluptuous redhead inserting a needle into Scott’s arm while her partner continued counting out compressions.

“Could be my imagination, but I thought he blinked his eyes when you pulled into the car park.”

“Good.”

I stayed where I was, hunched over, coat collar pulled up, eyes glued to Scott’s pink face, praying the medics would succeed where I had failed.

“He took a breath!” The guy called Grant gasped, renewing his efforts. “Quick. Have the oxygen ready.”

I stepped closer, eager to witness a miracle. And when Scott started coughing and spluttering, causing Grant to finally cease CPR and slide an oxygen mask over the patient’s face, I punched the air with my fist. Let out a throaty,
Yeeees!
Okay, I didn’t actually
know
Liz’s ex-boyfriend, but after exchanging mouth fluids while giving a person the kiss of life, it’s only natural to form a close attachment. In fact I had to mentally restrain myself from doing a tap dance in the nearest puddle—for fear my version of ‘Singing in the Rain’ might plummet the patient into another coma.

As they stabilized and loaded Scott into the ambulance, Grant smiled across at me. “Whoever this man is—he owes his life to you, young lady. Good work.”

I smiled back, then, suddenly deflated, shook my head. “Maybe he won’t thank me when he wakes up. Maybe he’ll just be angry I pulled him from the car.”

“Suicide is a strange thing,” Grant said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “When he realizes how close he came to not being here, he’ll feel differently. Don’t worry.”

I could see two young police constables near Scott’s VW Beetle while three other uniforms kept bug-eyed spectators from getting any closer.

The only other policeman, an ox of a man built like a linebacker, seemed to be in charge of the scene. Like the others, he was dressed in the traditional country uniform of khaki trousers, RM Williams drizabone over khaki shirt and a khaki colored Akubra hat with a blue and white checked band. After snapping orders like bullets at the men near Scott’s car, he turned toward me. Back ramrod straight, he marched across the bitumen.

“Name?” he barked.

I drew myself up to my full height, which meant the tip of my nose reached his breastbone, tilted my head back, and scowled up at him. Ever since I’d run up against Miss Emily Virgo, an officious teacher in sixth grade who bullied instead of encouraging her pupils, I’d rebelled against that tone of voice. Okay, it had got me into the headmaster’s office a few times but that only made me rebel more politely.

“Sorry, but if
you
don’t know your name—neither do I.”

His frown imploded in on itself. I could see impatience and a flick of surprise spark in his eyes. He sniffed and shifted his weight back on his heels. “I’m Senior Constable Mark Kelly, the constable in charge of this operation.”

“And I’m Kat McKinley,” I said and thrust out my hand, which he ignored. Instead he switched on a small recorder, his eyes never leaving mine. Returning the glare, I withdrew my hand and stuffed it into my soggy coat pocket. “In fact,” I continued in my best
hey-you!
voice, “
I’m
the lady you should be putting up for a medal, instead of treating like a criminal.”

His face reddened and one hand strayed to his accoutrement belt, where a gun, radio, some sort of spray, handcuffs and a retractable baton lurked. “You can either answer my questions here or down at the station.”

His steely gaze continued to bore through me until I lowered my eyes to his muddy black RM Williams boots. Okay, maybe this was different from standing up to bossy Miss Virgo. She might have carried an athletic ruler but she sure as heck didn’t pack a gun.

“Here is fine.”

His lips flattened in what could be interpreted as a triumphant smile—or the effects of indigestion. “Ms McKinley, are you acquainted with the man who attempted to commit suicide?”

“Sorry, don’t know him from Adam,” I said and shook my head. Okay…sort of the truth. I didn’t actually
know
him. Only knew
of
him. Couldn’t even be sure the guy in the car
was
Scott Brady.

“So, tell me, what exactly were you doing out here? Is this where you parked your car?”

“No. I was just—going for a walk. You know, stretching my legs.”

“In the rain?”

“It wasn’t raining then.” I scowled. “Now, Senior Constable Kelly, do you want me to answer your question or not?”

“Continue.”

“Thank you. I was going for a walk, stretching my legs—”

“As you’ve already informed me.”

“—when I spotted this red car partly hidden behind the bushes,” I said ignoring his rudeness. “And of course when I saw a hose leading from the passenger window into the exhaust, I immediately switched off the ignition, rang for help, and pulled the victim from the car.” I gave him one of my most beatific smiles. “As any like-minded citizen in the same situation would do.”

Hey, I wasn’t fool enough to let this gnarly policeman know I’d been on my way to a pre-arranged meeting with Scott when I spotted his car set up as a weapon of destruction. Until I knew what was going on, this information wasn’t an option.

“Senior Constable,” one of the policemen called out, interrupting the interview. The constable had a sort of breathing apparatus covering his face and came hurrying from the direction of the red Beetle, holding a sheet of paper at one corner by the tips of his gloved fingers. “Found a suicide note. The man’s name is Scott Brady and he’s confessed to killing some guy down in Adelaide by the name of Jack Lantana.”

Whaaat?

I swear my ears stood up and waggled. Why would Scott kill Jack? How did he even know Jack? And where did my sister fit into all this?

“Bag it,” ordered Kelly, rubbing his hands together and growing an extra couple of inches in height. “And after notifying the CSI and the PES make sure two uniforms are assigned to take turns guarding the offender while he’s in hospital.” He turned back to me, his chest expanding in correlation with the importance of the criminal found on his patch. “You may go now, Ms. McKinley, but I want you to come down to the station at your earliest convenience and sign a statement.” Then, without waiting for my acquiescence, he left me huddled under the bushes and strode away, presumably to intimidate another likely victim.

Soaked to the skin, confused, and determined to stay in Port Augusta until Scott woke up then somehow slip past a vigilant policeman at the hospital so I could get some answers about Liz, I went to find Ben.

I had to let him know he’d be going home without me.

* * *

“No way. If you’re staying here in Port Augusta—so am I.”

“But you can’t. What about your dogs?”

Ben placed his hands on my shoulders and began to knead the muscles with the tips of his fingers. Felt good. So good I almost let go and started blubbing. “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll book a hotel room for the night and I’ll ask Kenny Gilbert to put my dogs up. He’s a good mate.”