The Shadow Maker (28 page)

She flicked off the safety catch, pointed the gun at the doorway, and held it steady, both hands on the grip. She tried to do the breathing exercises she’d been taught to allay panic, but her heart was hammering.

The first movement was barely perceptible, there and gone in an instant. She lowered the angle of the barrel. As she did, he hurled himself through the air with terrifying agility. If she hadn’t been poised, gun at the ready, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. As it was, she had just a moment to react. The dark shape of his body descending on her, the glint of metal from a knife. She dodged sideways, firing at point-blank range. The bullets exploding through his skull, the sound of the gunshots deafening. Smoke in her eyes.

The smell of cordite. Something wet on her face. His body crashing against hers. The knife grazing her shoulder.

She twisted out from under him, sprang across the room and switched on the light, the .38 still aimed at the shape on the bed.

But no more bullets were needed. Her muscles and sinews tensed as she recognised what was left of her would-be killer, the Duck, his forehead blasted away. Dark red oozing from his mouth into her duvet. Her walls and ceiling spattered with his blood, bone fragments and brain matter. More of the same dripping from her face.

She wiped it quickly with her forearm and lowered the gun. Despite her close brush with death, she felt strangely cool and self-possessed now. And though her heart was pumping heavily, her thoughts were clear. She’d done what was necessary. But the feng shui arrangements of her bedroom now resembled a slaughterhouse.

As she stood there staring at the blood and membranes, Rita heard doors banging, voices shouting, footsteps running. She was walking towards her front door when it burst in and slammed against the wall. A torchlight blinded her and all she could see in the glare was a gun barrel and a cop in uniform. Instantly she raised her hands.

‘Are you all right?’

It was the urgent voice of the young constable who’d been on watch in the street out front.

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the bedroom - dead.’

Then came another loud crash, this time behind her, as the kitchen door sheered out of its frame and smacked against the sink.

Heavy boots were thudding on the linoleum bringing another cop with a gun and torchlight.

‘Okay, okay,’ said the first officer. ‘The incident’s over.’ He switched on the hall lights and looked at her. ‘Are you injured? You’re covered in blood.’

‘No, it’s his. I shot him in the head.’

She led them into the bedroom and they looked down at what was left of the Duck, taking in the slow dark ooze from his shattered skull, the glassy eyes, the frozen snarl of his gold-studded teeth, the knife lying harmlessly under his limp hand.

‘Thank God you had your gun,’ said one of the officers, while the other radioed in the police alert. ‘How did we miss him?’

‘He got here before us,’ answered Rita. ‘He must have picked a lock and hidden in the roof.’

‘Shit,’ said the young cop, his voice rough with emotion. ‘We nearly lost you.’

Eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, and the nightclub was buzzing.

The top celebrity guest was an AFL footballer wired to the eyeballs on coke, pumping himself around the dance floor, stripped to the waist, medallion bouncing, muscles flexing in a sheen of perspiration, his brain telling him he could bop forever. His girlfriend, a calendar model, was too far gone on high-octane cocktails to keep up and was being buffeted around by the other dancers as they heaved to a retro mix of seventies hits spun by the DJ. In the row of booths figures leant towards each other, faces shadowed, hands out of sight.

This was, after all, primarily a pick-up joint. Against the cellar walls, dripping with condensation, the tables were crowded with empty bottles, jugs and glasses. Along the bar slumped older men, some in blazers, full of beer and lascivious fantasies as they peeled open their wallets for women with tight skirts and scavenger faces.

Behind them the bar staff worked at a steady pace, mixing cocktails, pulling the pumps, working the tills. Above their heads, fogged in the dim, clammy, smoky atmosphere, glowed the red neon sign reading Plato’s Cave.

Then several things happened at once.

The calendar model fell flat on her face, legs splayed out, skirt dislodged, exposing the fact she was wearing no panties. A man on a bar stool pointed and laughed, ‘Look at the naked arse!’, so the footballer went up and punched him to the floor before raining kicks on him. The bouncers swooped and hauled him off just in time to hear the crash overhead and see what looked like a regiment of cops swarming down the stairs.

As the police fanned out around the nightclub, the lights came up and the music stopped, leaving an uncomfortable hush. The customers shuffled awkwardly, wanting to leave, but they were going nowhere. If they had any guilty secrets, this was their moment of reckoning.

A few minutes later, Jim Proctor pushed through the wall of officers at the top of the stairs, radio in hand, talking urgently to Mace.

‘Anyone make a run for it?’ asked Proctor.

‘No,’ answered Mace. ‘And we’ve got every exit covered.’

‘Shit,’ said Proctor. ‘The computer boys are in the adjoining building but it looks like we’re too late. There’s been a mass delete of the programs.’

‘Where’s Kavella?’

‘He’s vanished,’ said Proctor, ‘which means we’ve got a manhunt.’

Rita sat with a mug of warm tea in her hand as she completed a statement to Jack Loftus back in his office. She’d showered, sealed her clothes in an evidence bag, and changed into the tracksuit and tennis shoes from her locker. The grey light of early dawn was seeping through the windows. From the far end of the office came the hum of vacuum cleaners.

The formalities over, Loftus reached over his desk and put a hand on hers.

‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘Just tired. I’ve gone twenty-four hours without sleep. Any word yet on Kavella?’

‘Wait here, I’ll check.’

While Loftus went off to the communications centre, Rita switched on his office TV in time to catch Mike Cassidy mid-flow in the early breakfast bulletin.

… and so what happened in the club behind me overnight was part
of an unprecedented series of police raids against top gangland figures.

Members of the Fazio family, with their well-known connections to the
Calabrian mafia, are in custody. So too is Triads overlord Victor Yang.

However, arrest warrants have been issued for fugitive crime boss Tony
Kavella and his chief lieutenant, Brendan Moyle, who made a last-minute getaway before Plato’s Cave was surrounded and cordoned off
last night. They’re wanted on a long list of charges, including conspiracy to murder. The latter count relates to a hit ordered on criminal profiler Marita Van Hassel. Reliable sources tell me the police were aware of the threat, after months of surveillance by a special operation known as Taskforce Nero. Although the details haven’t yet emerged, it’s been confirmed that underworld hitman Duc Hung Long - also known as the Duck - was shot dead inside the profiler’s house. How all this is linked, we’re yet to be informed, but as we find out we’ll update you from here at the scene. Now it’s back to the studio.

Rita switched off the TV as Loftus returned.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘No trace of Kavella or Moyle,’ he said, flopping back into his chair. ‘We’re facing one of the biggest police hunts in years.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘But that’s not your concern. You’ve got to get some sleep. Is there anyone you can stay with while your house is out of action?’

‘Now that you mention it, I’m a bit stuffed at the moment. My parents have retired to the Gold Coast, my sister lives in Canada, and my best friend is away in the Whitsundays being wooed by a lesbian.

I suppose I could ask Erin, but she’s got her hands full already.’

‘There are a couple of spare bedrooms at my place,’ offered Loftus.

‘Or we could just put you up at a hotel.’

‘I’ll think about it in a minute,’ said Rita distractedly. ‘I just realised I’d better phone my parents before they find out what happened from the telly.’

‘I’ll get you another tea.’

After making a call that at first alarmed her mother and stepfather, then reassured them, she was about to tell Loftus to book her into a hotel when her mobile rang. It was Byron Huxley.

‘I’ve just seen the news,’ he said, his voice full of concern. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m knackered, but I’m fine,’ she answered with a smile. ‘You don’t have to worry.’

But he contradicted her. ‘Yes, I do. Where are you staying?’

‘I’ll book into a hotel,’ she began, but he interrupted.

‘You’re staying at my place, Rita. No arguments, please. And there are no ulterior motives, I promise. It’s very peaceful and well away from the city, a great place to chill out. Are you at the police complex at the moment?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there in an hour, if you agree.’

A wave of relief seemed to wash over her, along with something more tender.

‘Okay,’ she said.

An hour later Huxley pulled up at the front entrance in his four-wheel drive. Rita was waiting for him. As she got in beside him, she gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek.

‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

‘For coming to my rescue,’ she answered. ‘My knight in a shining Range Rover.’

Ten minutes into the drive she was sound asleep.

She woke up as they reached Huxley’s place outside the village of Olinda. It was built on a slope between the road and the forest.

There was no garden, just a driveway, a garage and a modern split-level cottage in a space among the gum trees. The minimalist theme continued inside, with wooden walls and floors, suede furniture and little that was decorative. Not that it was needed, with picture windows and glass doors opening onto a balcony with forest views, the sunlight streaming through the foliage.

‘This is it,’ said Huxley. ‘Make yourself at home.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really need to sleep,’ Rita told him.

‘No problem. The bedroom’s upstairs. On this level you’ve got the bathroom, kitchen and lounge, and downstairs is the computer den.’

‘Only one bedroom?’ she asked.

‘Yes, and it’s yours. I’ll be sleeping on the sofa.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely. And if you’re asleep when I get back from university tonight I won’t wake you. What about work tomorrow?’

‘I need to get back as early as I can,’ she answered.

‘Okay, in the morning you take the Range Rover,’ he said.

‘But how will you get to the university?’

‘I’ll use taxis. And here,’ he said, taking keys from an overhead cupboard. ‘My spare set of house keys to let yourself in when you drive back after work.’

She laughed. ‘So this isn’t a one-night stand?’

‘You stay as long as you need to. Come and go as you please.

Eat, sleep, go for a walk - there’s no better place to relax.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But I’ve got to get going. I’m due to deliver a lecture in less than an hour.’ He bent over and kissed her forehead. ‘Catch up on your sleep.’

She squeezed his hand in thanks.

Moments later his Range Rover was crunching back up the gravel driveway before disappearing along the road.

Rita wearily climbed the stairs to a broad attic bedroom with a high ceiling, skylights and French windows level with the forest canopy. She flopped onto a king-size bed, dozed fitfully for a few hours, then got up and helped herself to a chicken salad from Huxley’s fridge. After wandering barefoot around his home she decided it was pleasant enough, if rather Spartan. She tried watching TV but, unable to keep her eyes open, gave up and went back to bed before six p.m. This time she fell into a deep sleep.

Before the forest birds began their chorus of calls and screeches in the morning twilight, Rita was already wide awake, her sleep pattern totally disrupted. She spent an hour trying to settle again without success, and as the early grey light seeped through the leaves, she rose, showered and dressed.

Huxley was sound asleep under a duvet on his sofa. He’d left the car keys on the kitchen counter with a note saying, ‘Happy motoring!’

She collected the keys with a smile, tiptoed out, got in the car and drove into the city ahead of the rush hour, allowing her time to call in at her house on the way to work.

She lifted the police tape hung across her front door and let herself in. Somehow the place didn’t feel the same. Even the smell of the house was different. The dead body had been removed from the bedroom, but the stains still covered the bed, and the blood spatter had left an ugly residue on the walls and ceiling. She realised no amount of redecorating would remove those marks for her, they were indelible, and in that moment she was also aware that this, sadly, could never be her home again.

Despite Huxley’s insistence on her using the Range Rover, Rita had a better idea. After changing into clothes more suitable for work, she packed an overnight bag and got in her own car to drive to the office. From there she’d phone up one of the specialist chauffeur firms to ferry Huxley’s car out to the university. That way they’d each have their own set of wheels.

At police headquarters Jim Proctor was coordinating the search for Tony Kavella and Brendan Moyle which, for the moment, was taking precedence over the Hacker investigation. All available officers were being drafted into the manhunt, including Rita. She was again teamed up with Kevin O’Keefe, as they waited to hear what roles they’d be assigned.

‘We have to consider both men armed and dangerous,’ Proctor told the pool of detectives. ‘It’s just over twenty-four hours since they went on the run, so we’ve still got a good chance of apprehending them. We moved fast enough on Sunday night to keep a watch on key transport routes, including the highways, so I’m pretty confident they’re bottled up somewhere in the metropolitan area. We know Kavella’s got a hide-out somewhere, but he has to emerge at some stage. Every relevant location familiar to Taskforce Nero is under observation, so many of you will be going out this morning to relieve officers who’ve been on all-night stake-outs.’ He gave a nod of appreciation before continuing. ‘This is an immense team effort and I want to thank you all for getting in so early, but let me add a final note of caution. While it’s crucial to stop these two fugitives getting away overseas, they know they have little to lose by trying to shoot their way out. Keep that in mind. Now let’s get on with it.’