Pay Dirt

THIRTY-FIVE

There were lights on inside but the curtains were closed and the windows and doors were locked so Wyatt had no clear sense of what he might find until he heard the cough. It was a man’s cough.

He’d already examined the car. He couldn’t judge colours properly under the streetlight but the dust coating the Valiant seemed familiar enough. He’d been sneezing it for the past month. He knelt, keeping the car between himself and the house. There were clumps of grass caught in the dust flaps and bumper bars.

He wondered who the man was. He didn’t think it would be Tobin. Leah had better taste than that. He guessed it would be somebody from the other team. Not that he cared either way now. He’d found them. He’d kill them, get his money, start somewhere new. It wasn’t something Wyatt intended to waste time thinking about. He’d been crossed, that was all he needed to know.

He was pleased about the stormy wind. It masked the creak of the gate, his footsteps, his examination of the doors and windows.

He was at the side of the house when a downdraft of wind caught him. It was laden with smoke, burning the back of his throat. He looked up at the chimney. He thought about the cough.

The roofline was flat and low above the porch at the rear of the house. By climbing the paling fence at the side he was able to leap onto it. He landed lightly but the old struts underneath the roofing iron moaned under his weight. He made for the upper roof area, into which the upstairs rooms had been built, climbed onto it, crawled to the peak and clutched the chimney.

Wyatt hadn’t been sure how he would block the chimney-throw his suit coat over it perhaps-but when he stood up next to it he discovered a lightweight metal plate hanging from a short chain. It was a cap to keep the birds out in the summer months. He placed it over the hole and dropped it into place. Someone in the next house opened a back door, called ‘Puss, puss, puss,’ and went inside again.

Wyatt climbed down the way he’d come. The fuse box was on the front verandah. He opened it, switched off the power and tossed the fuses away.

Inside the house they were coughing. Someone bumped into a piece of furniture and he heard glass shatter. The reading light, he thought.

Tying a handkerchief about his nose and mouth, he opened the front door with his key and slipped into the house. He could smell the smoke, although little had leaked into the rest of the house as yet. He paused at the lounge room doorway, his back to the wall, his.38 extended ready to fire.

He guessed they’d be too smart to pose themselves in front of the fire. He also knew he’d be illuminated by firelight if he tried to come through the door in the ordinary manner. The moment he appeared he’d be shot. His only chance was to come in fast and throw himself down to one side. If someone fired a shot the muzzle flash would give away their position. He could wait them out but one of them might escape through a window and come in behind him.

Wyatt tensed himself and charged through the door. He dived to his right, rolled, and stood half-crouching.

He heard a snuffle as someone fired at him. The slug smacked into the wall above his head.

Found you, he thought, focusing on the muzzle flash. Two shapes, Leah and a bulkier figure with a gun. Wyatt swung his.38 around, aimed, tightened his finger on the trigger.

And stepped on something and lost his footing. He landed on his back, knocking the breath from his body. His.38 skidded under a chair. The fireplace poker grumbled away from him across the wooden floor. The two figures disappeared through the open door.

The seconds passed. Wyatt got up from the floor, holding to the back of a chair until he could breathe normally again. The fall, coming so soon after his fall from the bike, made him feel slowed down and clumsy.

He was at least a minute behind them.

He closed the door, sealing in the smoke, and stood in the hall, listening and thinking. Without the light from the fire the house was in absolute darkness. Every curtain was drawn. Would the gunman open them to give himself light to shoot by? Wyatt doubted it. He’d feel too vulnerable.

People in darkness are very sensitive to another person’s presence. Wyatt was relying on that as well as his hearing. He crept down the hallway and stood for some time at the open door to the study. He breathed slowly, quietly, extending his inhalations and exhalations so that the tiny sounds he made did not sound like breathing. He listened for exertions and tension in the other two.

He went through all the downstairs rooms doing this. They were empty. He looked at the stairs. Ten minutes had gone by but when Wyatt climbed the stairs he stopped for long periods on each step. He wanted to be certain. He was also trying to read the gunman. Was he capable of waiting immobile for hours at a time? Or would he want to precipitate action, come out shooting? Wyatt reached the top step. He stood there listening, breathing shallowly, for five minutes.

They were betrayed by a watch. Wyatt heard the faint double beep that indicated the passing of another hour. What hour? Ten, Wyatt guessed. He advanced cautiously to the doorway of the main bedroom.

The angle was bad. He had to get to the other side of the door. But he wondered if the gunman had adjusted to the dark by now, letting him register any shape crossing the gap. Wyatt’s best chance was to present a confusing shape. He dived, rolled and got to his feet again. There was a shot as he passed by the door, but it went high.

Suddenly there were five more shots. Wyatt heard the slugs punch through the plasterboard wall, spaced at groin height. The last one emerged a hand’s breadth from his hip. He didn’t move.

Leah yelled out: ‘Quick, his gun’s empty.’

It was a ruse. But the fact that they were trying it could mean they were off-balance for a moment. Wyatt threw himself through the door and came up with his.38 aimed and ready.

Leah moaned. ‘He’s got a knife.’

Wyatt focused on her, a dim shape against the curtain. The man stood behind her, one arm around her torso, the other at her neck. In struggling they had disturbed the curtain a little. Weak moonlight lit the room; Wyatt could see it glinting on the blade under Leah’s jaw.

‘Throw your gun down,’ the man said, ‘or I cut her throat.’

‘Go ahead,’ Wyatt said, ‘cut.’

He could hear the next-door neighbours beneath the window outside. ‘Should we knock and see?’ one of them said. ‘It’s just the wind,’ the other said. Wyatt looked around the room, sizing up the walls and furniture abstractedly. The gunman had only his arms and half his face showing. A voice outside said, ‘Come inside for God’s sake.’ A door banged.

‘Drop it,’ the man said again, ‘or she dies.’

‘Fine,’ Wyatt said.

It didn’t matter to Wyatt which one he killed first. Killing Leah first would give him a clear shot at the man. But the man had the weapon. He might throw the knife. Wyatt raised the.38. He turned a little to one side, held his arm fully out, and pulled the trigger. It was quick, practised, tight, like a dance step.

The bullet caught the man in the throat, jerking him back against the wall. The arm around Leah stiffened, then relaxed, and she pushed free of him. The blood welled in his throat.

Wyatt said nothing. He turned the gun on Leah.

But she was a bad target. The gunman, sitting on the floor now, raised the knife to throw it. As Wyatt followed Leah with the gun, he saw her dart down, wrestle the knife away, and jerk back.

That was when he saw the handcuff. He took his finger from the trigger but kept the.38 trained on her. The man on the floor coughed, a liquid sound in his throat, and fell sideways, twitching once or twice.

Leah looked at Wyatt. ‘You might have hit me.’

Wyatt nodded. ‘But I didn’t.’

She held her arms around herself. ‘But you might have.’