Pay Dirt

THIRTY-SEVEN

The car was legitimate so there was no point in stealing one. His face and clothing were different so he wasn’t expecting second looks from nosy cops and civilians. But he’d be put away for life if he was found with a body in the boot. Checking again for Mayne Nickless patrols, Wyatt dragged Letterman inside and dumped him in a back room.

It turned midnight as he drove away from the industrial estate. He went left at Gepps Cross and settled in for the two-hour haul to Goyder. The traffic was light-a lonely taxi, a couple of panel vans drag-racing away from the lights, a big semitrailer with Western Australian plates. If Wyatt were an ordinary citizen he might have been tempted to put his foot down. He didn’t. He slowed for yellow lights, used his indicators, sat just under the posted speed limits. He turned on the heater and set the radio to an all-night jazz program. Thirty minutes after dumping Letterman he had left the city lights behind and was driving through orchard country lit by the stars in the black sky.

Trigg must have thought all his Christmases had come at once when Tobin came to pick up his regular consignment of bootleg videos, booze and cigarettes and told him about the Steelgard hit. Trigg was already linked to Steelgard: Wyatt remembered seeing the Steelgard vans refuelling in Goyder, remembered the day he saw Venables talking to Trigg in Belcowie.

He pushed on through the dark farmland, fitting the pieces together. Now and then he passed through small towns At night they appeared to flatten their bellies to the ground. The shopfronts seemed to hide under drooping verandahs. Dewy cars turned their backs away and the street lamps were meek and blanketed. It was all depressing. Wyatt preferred the open road, where he had the sensation of riding across the roof of the world.

He reached Goyder at two o’clock in the morning. Trigg Motors was lit up like a strip of pinball parlours. The big Ford sign glowed blue and white like a sail above the entrance and someone had been liberal with fluorescent paint on the showroom windows. The cars bared their chrome teeth at Wyatt as he cruised slowly along the front of the building. He turned right, and right twice again, circling the block. There was no sign of life-no security guards, cranky Alsatians or randy teenagers.

A couple of cars were parked outside the service bay. Wyatt guessed they’d been left there for a service or a tune-up in the morning. He parked Letterman’s Valiant next to them and got out, quietly closing the driver’s door behind him.

He ignored the administration block. The money might be stashed away there but first he wanted to satisfy himself that he was right about what had happened a day and a half ago.

He started with the buildings at the rear of the block-two corrugated iron sheds, each large enough to hold a truck, and a small prefab hut next to an iron shipping container. The prefab building was raised a foot off the ground. It had aluminium frame doors and windows and two cement steps leading to the front door. The windows were curtained in some frilly domestic material. It puzzled Wyatt until he heard the unmistakable squeak of bedsprings. Someone was asleep in there.

It wasn’t the sort of place Trigg would live in. A guard mechanic or odd job man, Wyatt thought.

It told him to go slow and quiet. He crossed to the first of the long sheds. There were several windows high off the ground, and a roller door and a small metal door, both padlocked.

He tried the second shed. It was the same as the first. He knew both sheds would have a legitimate purpose-major mechanical repairs, panel-beating, spray painting-but there were no signs up.

He circled the second shed, looking at the ground. He rejected the first piece of wire as being too thick. The second seemed about right. He was fashioning it into a hooked shape when the sky seemed to fall on him. Strong hands grabbed him by the collar and belt and ran him head-on into the wall of the shed. He collapsed onto his knees and toppled over. Someone searched his pockets and found the.38. A boot thudded hard into his stomach and stamped on his fingers.

Wyatt looked up, feeling pain tug inside him. Blood ran from his scalp into his eyes. He coughed and focused on the figure who had hit him.

The man had no neck. His head was like a knob squeezed from a piece of rock. He was tall and watched Wyatt in a loose-muscled way. Despite his size he looked fast and flexible. He wore overalls and had the unhappiest expression Wyatt had ever seen on anybody.

Wyatt wondered about his.38. He guessed the big man had it tucked away in his overalls. He started to get to his feet wondering if he’d be allowed to get that far. When nothing happened he realised the big man wanted a bit of sport with him.

The big man had the advantage of size. Wyatt hoped to make it a disadvantage by getting him tired. He edged away from the wall and began to circle around, goading him into wasted effort.

The big man was having none of it. He simply stayed on the spot, turning with small movements as Wyatt wasted energy on the outer circle.

Wyatt went on the offensive. He darted in, feinted with his left hand and side-armed with his right. Instead of crushing the big man’s windpipe the flat of his hand glanced off the thick upper arm. He felt a jabbing blow to the cut on his head.

Wyatt retreated, knowing the big man would work on that cut if he could. He circled again, skipping from one foot to the other like a boxer, holding himself tight, looking for an opening. He darted in, squared up as if to repeat his earlier mistake, then dropped to his knees and punched his left fist hard under the big man’s belt.

Again he stepped back and circled. He saw that he’d hurt the big man. There was a rictus grin of pain. The breathing sounded forced. Wyatt danced in, landed hard blows to the big man’s eyes, backed off. He did it again. The big man shook his head, baffled, but never took his eyes off Wyatt. Wyatt watched the massive arms, waiting for them to drop, a sign of fatigue. Wyatt felt good now, concentrated, his breathing and movements rhythmic and loose.

He went in a third time, going for the eyes again. The big man managed a stinging blow to Wyatt’s ribs, but Wyatt knew his own punches were beginning to do real damage. This time he stepped just out of range, then in again before the man realised he wasn’t circling out of reach again. The man blocked with his forearms but Wyatt was expecting that. He turned side on and lashed the side of his shoe down the big man’s shin bones. It was hard and sharp and caught him by surprise. Wyatt saw him curl and tighten as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

He took advantage of that and went hard at the man’s head, a succession of rapid punches left and right. His aim was to confuse-make the man dizzy, blur his vision, make his head ring. It was working. Wyatt stepped back out of reach. The big man was soaked with sweat, swaying, shaking his head as if something were clinging to it. Blood had run into his eyes. Ribbons of mucus clung to his lips and chin.

Wyatt was going to finish him off and search for a key when the voice came out of the darkness behind him. It called him old son and told him that was enough. What convinced Wyatt was the rifle barrel behind his ear.