Hayes pushed the magazines and other junk in the back seat of the Falcon aside, and settled himself there. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that I had a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson Chiefs Special an arm’s reach away under the dashboard, but no comfort came. Guns are confusing things; I was no match for Hayes with a gun, I knew that, and in a way I was a better match for him without one. That’s highly theoretical, and the theory wasn’t any comfort either.
Hayes positioned himself directly behind me. ‘Any way of locking the driver’s door?’ he said.
‘No.’ I showed him how it opened however the door lock was set.
‘Great’, he said. “Try that and I’ll blow your brains out.’
I was about to start the engine, but I held off and half-turned to almost face him. ‘Would you? Where would that get you? You’d still be in the dark about where Collinson is. It seems to me you need me.’
‘You’re half right, Hardy, but that isn’t right enough. I need you for a quick result, that’s true. But I can get a result other ways-I could get Mrs Guthrie to tell me about the private detective she used, and set about finding him. There’s the bloke in Parramatta your cop friend Parker is working on. I might do some good with him. Ray Guthrie might be worth twisting. All slower, but Collinson’s not leaving the country while he’s all hung up about his flesh and blood. I’d get to him sooner or later.’
‘You said you were under pressure.’
‘Impatient people’, Hayes said moodily. ‘Let’s go.’
I turned around and started the motor. ‘I still don’t see why Collinson isn’t in Rio.’
Hayes cleared his throat; it’s true that my car is a bit vulnerable to engine fumes. ‘Collinson’s not finished yet. He’s still trying to hang on and save his skin. He must have some people onside still. On the other hand, he’s worth half a million dead to some others.’
‘Impatient ones.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you sure you’ll get the money?’
‘I’ll get it.’
The roads were clear going south; we went over Tom Ugly’s bridge and I had to watch not to be taken off to the coast too early. Everything south of Rockdale is foreign territory to me. A pair of headlights sat squarely and unwaveringly behind me all the way. I played around with the idea of a wild goose chase on which I could lose Catchpole and Williams, and provoke Hayes into some kind of mistake. There were two things against it: I didn’t think Hayes would make any mistakes and my job was to protect Ray Guthrie. I was going where I had to go anyway. That Ray was going looking for a man who was worth a half million dead, and that I had the gun that might do the job pointing at the back of my head was just bad luck. Deep stuff, Hardy.
As I drove, I thought about Helen Broadway and how she’d react to the call from Jess Polansky. If she was going to have anything to do with me she’d have to get used to such things. Was she going to have anything to do with me? Hi, Mike. How ya doing? I switched to thoughts of Parker and Hilde. Would Parker have displayed my calm, calculated resolve? No. But then, people might be dead who weren’t dead yet, including me. Thinking was getting me nowhere. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be having regrets.
It was a very uncomfortable drive: the big man sitting behind me didn’t fidget, didn’t talk; I couldn’t hear him breathing. I must have slowed down unconsciously, trying to gain time, hoping for a miracle. He might have fallen asleep.
‘Step on it, Hardy. This bomb’ll do a bit more than that.’
The traffic thinned further along, and the road widened- there was no excuse not to pick up speed. We started to reach dark, ill-lit stretches and curvy sections where a sharp braking might shoot him forward… He seemed to read my mind.
‘Undo your seat belt, Hardy.’ He jerked at the fastening above my shoulder. ‘Any fancy stuff, and you’ll go first.’
I undid the belt. ‘I thought we were sort of in this together now. Our interests are pretty much the same.’
‘Bullshit. My interests have never been the same as anyone else’s.’ He gave a short, unpleasant laugh. ‘Ask my wife.’
It was his only venture into humour, and there was nothing warming about it. I drove, trying to interpret his remark. Was he satisfied or dissatisfied with that state of things? It occurred to me that he might be something of a psychologist-here he had me interpreting his cryptic remarks rather than thinking about my own survival.
I ignored a few signs to Sutherland and Cronulla, hugged the middle lane and thought some more about the. 38 and its five cartridges and two inch barrel. A close range gun. I tried to stop thinking about it, in case he really could read my mind. He stirred in his seat.
‘Lose them!’ he rasped.
‘What?’
‘Lose that rubbish behind us.’
‘Jesus, why?’
‘They’re both useless. Lose them!’
I was getting down to the National Park turnoff and trying to remember its configurations from the one time I’d made the drive. I remembered it as an abrupt swing-off, not well lit.
‘Who’ll be driving?’
‘Liam.’
‘He any good?’
‘Ratshit!’
The lights of Catchpole and Williams’s car were a good way back and I could see the trickle of traffic coming up behind them. I accelerated, doused my lights and swung into the left lane, fifty metres before the turn-off. The driver behind me became momentarily confused; I saw his lights waver and then he kept his course. I couldn’t look in the rear vision mirror anymore, because I had to concentrate on holding the road at speed with no lights. I took more road than I should and prayed for no on-coming traffic.
I shot down the turn-off and, passed the rangers’ booth in the middle of the road that marks the entrance to the park. Then the road started to wind and I turned on the lights. I wanted to look back, although the rear vision mirror was blank. Hayes let me feel the gun in the nape of my neck.
‘They’re gone’, he said. ‘Well done, driver.’