It was raining by the time I got back to Glebe, but I had everything I needed to cope with that. I changed out of the sort of clothes you wear to visit a lawyer into the sort you wear to go looking for a mad woman in the country-boots, thick socks, jeans and a sweater. The good quality parka I’d got from Terry Reeves had been reduced to a burnt ruin so I took mine, older, less padded, hoodless. I still had the leather jacket, except that it had lain as a soggy mess in the back of the Cruiser for a couple of days. I collected a few more items, like my antibiotic capsules, and then I had to ask myself the question: did I compound my law-breaking by taking the unregistered Colt with me? The thought of Paula Wilberforce’s blue eyes gave me the answer.
I left a note for Glen, including the car phone number, telling her that I could be away overnight. Through the kitchen window I could see that the rain was driving down hard and it was getting dark in the mid-afternoon. It didn’t matter, I’d have gone if it had been snowing.
On the road I was glad of the big vehicle’s tyre traction, powerfully sweeping wipers and sure handling. The rain was coming down in sheets from a leaden sky and I tried to remember the last weather forecast I had heard or read. Nothing had stuck. I turned on the radio and got one-rain, rain and more rain; flood warnings on the south coast, cold nights. Somewhere out near Campbelltown the cars with weak wipers and lights were pulling over to the side of the road. If I’d been driving the Falcon I’d have been with them. Better a wet distributor and a long wait than a pile-up in the mist. The rain didn’t slacken but the traffic adjusted to it. The trucks laboured along in the left lane, the speedsters curbed themselves and we 4WD men were the kings of the road.
Although the freeway was built years ago I still think of it as new because I drove the old road many, many more times. It bypasses all the towns, but I still measure the distance and know where I am in terms of them. It was somewhere past Picton that the blue and red flashing lights began appearing and the wail of sirens lifted above the noise of tyres and wipers. Every vehicle on the road slowed down to allow the ambulances and police cars through and we all drove circumspectly past the place where four cars had collided. They were slewed around on the road- headlights pointing crazily and rear bumpers and radiators crumpled and leaking plastic and metal.
People huddled by the side of the road, their faces white in the headlights; cops, with water sloshing off their yellow slickers were directing the traffic and paramedics, shielded by umbrellas held over them, dealt with the still shapes stretched out on the wet tarmac.
I stopped at one of the big highway service centres that have replaced petrol stations and truckies’ cafes. It was all neon and glass and aluminium-easy-to-clean surfaces that were still new and bright but would one day become as dull as the old cafe laminex. The place was doing good business. I suspected that a lot of the customers were drivers who were hoping for the rain to stop. Others, shaken up by the accident scene, needed to get off the road for the sake of their nerves. I wasn’t sure which category I was in. I ordered coffee and a hamburger from a uniformed girl behind the counter. No waiting. The stuff was hot and ready to go. I took the polystyrene box into a corner and sat with my back to the road. Maybe I was in category two.
As I sat there I examined my certainty that Paula Wilberforce was hiding at Fitzroy House. I decided that there was no basis for it in fact, just an enormously high probability. It felt right. On the other matter, whether she’d killed Patrick Lamberte and Karen Livermore, I felt no certainty at all. It seemed unlikely, but so did the deaths themselves. Halfway through the hamburger I realised I was hungry. I hadn’t had lunch. I was supposed to take the antibiotics before meals, but what if you didn’t have meals? I took a couple of capsules anyway and washed them down with a second cup of coffee.
I used the toilet and examined myself in the mirror. Pale from lack of sun, a bit hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. No oil painting. No photograph. Back in the Land Cruiser with the rain still coming down, I phoned Glen using the gismo. No answer. I phoned the Wilberforce house in Randwick and got Mrs Darcy. I asked her how her patient was doing.
‘Not well, Mr Hardy. The doctor’s been and seems very concerned about him.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Irregular breathing and pulse. He seems to be weakening.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s reading and he demands whisky from time to time. The doctor says he might as well have it.’
That was a bad sign. I asked her if he’d mentioned me or Paula. ‘There was something he was trying to remember.’
‘He mentioned you only to ask if you had been in touch. I don’t suppose you have any good news for him? I believe it would help.’
I told her I didn’t, not yet, but that I might have soon. I gave her the mobile phone number and asked her to give old Phil my best wishes. Glen didn’t answer either at Glebe or Petersham. Well, why the hell should she? We were independent adults, weren’t we? Pursuing our own fates. I filled up with unleaded and got back out on the road. It was seven o’clock and the traffic was thinner. The rain slanting down through the beam of the headlights was steady and being moved around by a slight wind. The heater and demister were doing their jobs. I was doing mine, but whether coming up with good news was part of it or not I didn’t know.
As the road climbed the rain began to clear. A few kilometres out of Mittagong it was a drizzle, by the same distance on the other side of the town it had stopped. At Mittagong I turned off the freeway. The sky was clear and the moon was bright and almost full. Even the stars seemed to be giving out some helpful light, but that might have been my imagination-it was just so good to see the rain stop. I found Wombeyan Road at the mid-point of the old route to Bowral and turned off a reasonably wide, reasonably well-lit bitumen strip onto a narrow, rutted track from which the tarmac was fast falling away. After a kilometre or two it gave up trying and became a dirt road.
Tall gums growing along both sides of the road cut down the light and I had trouble locating the lot numbers. Why should the owners bother? Everyone who lived along Wombeyan Road knew who was where, others could please themselves. There was no traffic and I had the feeling that I’d entered an alien landscape and was all alone. City boy feeling. The glimpses I had through the trees of the properties behind them weren’t encouraging. A few dim lights in the far distance; dark shapes, probably cows, on gentle, moonlit slopes-good country for hiding, bad country for searching.
The 4WD’s strong headlights picked up the sign hanging lopsidedly from a tree branch. One of the chains supporting it had snapped and the board had dropped almost to the ground on that side. Years, weather and the Australia-wide rural habit of using signs as rifle targets had ravaged it, but something of its original charm was still visible-a dog and a cat stood nose to muzzle against a background of rolling hills. ‘Fitzroy House Kennels’ was written above them in a ye-olde-English script. The name of the proprietor and the telephone number had been obliterated by bullet holes.
The property had once boasted a white post-and-rail fence. This was now a rotted ruin, rapidly fading to a neutral grey and sagging back towards the earth. The gateposts leaned drunkenly inwards, leaving only a narrow entry. Wide enough for the Land Cruiser, but only just. I steered it through and ran down the eroded track for a few metres before pulling off into the shelter of the scrub beside it. I turned off the engine and the lights and stared out through the windscreen into the silent darkness. One fact about the place I had entered had registered strongly: although the track sprouted high weeds and was overgrown from both sides, other vehicles had passed down it recently.
I stepped down into a cold that I hadn’t really expected. The cessation of the rain had lulled me into a feeling that the outside world was benign. Instead, it was colder than in the mountains. A steady, knife-edged wind blew from the south. It cut through three layers of clothing and chilled my feet immediately. I forced myself to open the back of the Cruiser and search for the things I needed-torch, matches, groundsheet, gloves. My fingers were stiff and clumsy and I fumbled in the dark, touching icy metal and cursing softly when the object proved not to be what I wanted.
I heard it before I saw or felt it: the dog must have growled as it launched itself into a tremendous spring. I reacted instinctively, throwing myself to one side and holding on to whatever my hand touched in hopes that it was a weapon. The velocity of the dog’s leap and the vigour of its attack on the padded thickness of my parka almost pulled me down. It wrenched its jaws free of the material and sprang again, directly at my face. I screamed and threw up my hands. I was holding the soggy, mildewed leather jacket and the dog’s teeth fastened on it. It snarled and let go as it realised that old, wet leather wasn’t fresh meat. I stepped back, still holding the jacket which was now minus a sleeve. I tried to wrap it around my arm in the approved fashion but the dog was on me again, snapping and attacking low.
I kicked it and connected solidly, only enraging the animal. It howled and threw itself at me. I knew that if it got me down I’d be finished; I flailed at it with the jacket, probably howling myself. I felt the weight of the Colt in my pocket and struggled to get it out while the dog backed off with another chunk of leather and lining in its jaws. I got the gun free and when the dog jumped again I hit it as hard as I could, bringing the gun butt down on its head. The blow glanced off bone and gouged into an eye socket. The dog seemed to turn in midair and attack again without having touched ground. I pounded the gun against the side of its head, mashing an ear. It snarled and grabbed my ankle. I beat down at it, feeling bone and flesh turn soft and pulpy until its grip relaxed.
I leaned back against the Land Cruiser breathing hard. My breath made clouds of steam in the icy air but I was sweating. Perspiration trickled down my body. My hair was prickling all over my scalp and I could feel the adrenalin pumping through me like an electric current. The dog twitched and thrashed, then lay still. It was a big, yellow dog. I like dogs, but the feeling has to be mutual. Years ago I had to shoot one that was attacking me. This was worse, and there was a single thought in my head: are there any more of them? I wasn’t sure I could go through it again.
The phone bleeped. I staggered around to the cabin, jerked open the door and picked up the instrument in my left hand. My right was locked around the Colt as if it would never let go.
‘Yes.’
‘Cliff, it’s Glen. Are you all right?’
‘I’ve just beaten an attack dog to death.’
‘My God, where are you? I’ll get some people to you. Cliff, where are you?’
‘I’m OK,’ I said.
‘You’re not. You sound terrible. Cliff…’
She was right. I wasn’t OK. My pulse was racing and the sweat was freezing on my body. I was trembling as I stood there and I didn’t know whether it was from the cold, or fear or relief. All I knew was that I was going on with what I’d started.
‘I’m OK,’ I said again. ‘Don’t worry.’ I slammed the phone back into its housing.
No more yellow, snarling shapes came hurtling from the darkness. The wind blew steadily; the light scrub seemed to bend aside to let it through. I wondered if it snowed out here. If so, this could be the night. My pulse rate and breathing returned to normal. I stepped over the carcass of the dog and returned to the job of collecting things from the back of the Cruiser. To do so I had to release my grip on the Colt. I shoved it back in the pocket of the torn parka and found the gloves and a knitted cap. With their protection, things didn’t seem so bad. I contemplated taking the phone with me, but if there was a way of muting its ring I didn’t know about it and I didn’t fancy having it bleeping away unexpectedly.
Torch in hand, I moved along the track in the direction of the house. I knew it would be a fairly long tramp but I couldn’t risk taking the vehicle any closer. I’d studied the survey map but things are very different on the ground and in the dark. I didn’t know for certain where the kennels were located; I wasn’t even sure where the creek was. If Paula Wilberforce was here she certainly had the advantage of knowing the territory. For my part, I had military training, a lot of experience in dangerous situations and a very high regard for my personal safety when I stopped to think about it. I also had a bigger gun and, very likely, more bullets.
The house loomed up suddenly like a mountain. ‘Cottage’ had given me the wrong impression. It was a three-storey job with a high-pitched roof and several chimneys. The moonlight gave it a certain grandeur but even so I could see that it was almost a ruin. Windows were boarded up; creeper had invaded the masonry and guttering on one side and at least one section of the verandah, which appeared to run right around the building, had collapsed. The front porch was heaped high with wooden pallets and bales of barbed wire. From where I stood I couldn’t see how to get into the house or even if entry was possible. I moved closer and risked a quick flash of the torch. The verandah threatened to collapse completely any second and the wall I was looking at had a crack from top to bottom wide enough to put your fist in. I circled the building, keeping twenty metres away, stepping through overgrown garden beds and across cracked cement paths. A garden hose, attached to a tap, but otherwise covered in weeds, almost tripped me up. I swore as I stumbled and then I went to ground deliberately. Something or someone, off to my left, was moving towards the house. I squinted through the weeds. My first feeling was of relief- the figure was human. I lifted myself a little to get a better look A tall person wearing a long coat with a hood pulled up stopped ten metres short of the house and gave a long, low whistle.
‘Rudi. Rudi.’
I recognised the voice and got to my feet. As I did she turned in my direction. The hood fell away and the moonlight caught on her blonde hair, turning it silvery. Suddenly she was the younger, female image of her father.
‘Paula.’ I moved quickly towards her, watching carefully, if her hand moved towards her coat pocket…
She stood stock still. ‘Who’s that?’
I pulled off the cap. ‘Don’t be scared. It’s Hardy.’
I was only a few metres away now. She glared at me and took her hands out of the folds of the long scarf she wore around her neck. “Where’s Rudi?’
‘What?’
‘Where’s my dog?’
I couldn’t say out on the track with his brains beaten in. I didn’t say anything. She got closer and those blue eyes transfixed me. I dropped the torch to the ground, unzipped the parka for easier access to the Colt.
‘You’re covered in blood. You’ve killed him, you bastard!’
She threw herself forward, clawing for my eyes with fingers bent like grappling hooks. I stepped back to give myself space to grab her wrists. I got one, missed the other, and her fingernails raked my face from cheekbone to jaw. She was a fury with the strength of a man. I wrestled with her there in the weeds, struggling to avoid her flailing, slashing right hand, trying to imprison it while she wrenched and jerked, trying to get the other hand free. She swore and spat and kicked at me; she had long legs and wore heavy shoes. She caught me solidly on the ankle the dog had bitten and I yelled. I clubbed her with a roundhouse right that took her behind the ear and made her gasp. Only gasp. I didn’t want to hit her with a real punch but it was beginning to look as if I’d have to. She got the left hand free and I knew it would be coming for my eyes in a split second. I slapped her right cheek hard and stepped aside. She rushed forward and I tripped her. She fell hard, face-down into the grass and I straddled her, pinning her wrists together behind her back.
I was panting again, belching out steam and feeling pressure build in every part of my body. I licked my lips and tasted blood. The wound on my face was stinging in the icy air and I could feel the blood dripping from my face to join the dog’s blood on the parka. She bucked and heaved like Benny Elias after a tackle. She almost threw me off but I scrabbled for better balance and a better grip with my boots on either side of her wildly thrashing body.
‘Murderer,’ she moaned. ‘Fuck you.’
I let her feel some more of my weight.
‘Give it up, Paula. Give it up.’
‘I’ll kill you.’ Her voice was muffled by grass and dirt. ‘I’ll rip your throat out.’
‘You won’t,’ I said. ‘I’ll put some pressure on your neck and you’ll pass out. Then I’ll unwind your scarf and tie you up. Is that what you want?’
I felt the cold metal against the nape of my neck and simultaneously heard the man’s voice. ‘It’s not what she wants that matters, Hardy. It’s what I want.’