Garry Disher - Death Deal

There were two of them and they came in hard and fast. They knew where the bed was and flanked it as Wyatt rolled onto his shoulder and grabbed at the backpack on the dusty carpet. He had his hand on the. 38 in the side pocket and was swinging it up, finger tightening, when the cosh smacked across the back of his wrist. It was lead bound in cowhide and his arm went slack and useless. Then he felt it across his skull and he forgot about his hand and who the men were and how theyd known where to find him and everything else about it.

He came to on the floor, dust in his nose. A weak light was spilling into the room from the fluorescent strip above the grimy corner sink. He kept his eyes hooded. Apart from a minute flexing to test his bruised hand, he didnt move. The men had his pack on the chipped chest of drawers and something about it amused and irritated them.

Jesus Christ, a radio scanner, one man said, unloading the pack item by item. Portable phone, revolver, couple of changes of clothing. Just your typical hitchhiker, right?

The money?

Cant see any.

Whitney, the guy snatched a payroll.

Well, you take a look, then, the man called Whitney said.

The other man felt the pockets, lining and straps of the pack. He was methodical and very soon he would find the twenty thousand dollars that Wyatt had distributed in his personal gear, five thousand dollars here and there, rolled up in his socks, folded into an aspirin packet, tucked under a shirt collar. There should have been three hundred thousand but someone else had got to it first and the twenty thousand was all that Wyatt had in the world.

He moved then, pushing up from the carpet, drawing in his legs ready to spring. The man called Whitney saw him first.

Moss, look out.

Wyatt lunged. He had nothing particular in mind beyond hoping he could knock one man off his feet and slow down the other. He saw them step apart as he came at them, low and darting. He veered, drove his shoulder behind the knees of the man who still had his back to him, then swung around to grapple with the other. There were no shouts or cries, just the sounds of effort and desperation: grunts and pained sobs, bony flesh smacks, ragged breathing, and then a scrabble at the flimsy motel door and the slick squeal of running shoes on the shiny concrete at the side of the building.

Wyatt found that he had the cosh in his hand. One of his assailants was under him, curled against the blows, an arm wrapped around his face and head.

I give up. I give up, the man said.

The tension went out of Wyatts arm. He saw that the door was open, his backpack gone. A starter motor ground somewhere behind the motel, an engine fired, there was a spin of grit from accelerating tyres. He got to his feet. Your mates deserted you.

Dont hit me.

Wyatt went to the door and looked out. It was two oclock in the morning and if this had been a decent neighbourhood there would have been signs of irritation or query from the other residents by now. But this wasnt a decent neighbourhood. Wyatt was on the run, staying in on-site caravans and rundown motels in forgotten towns. So far hed made it to a place on the Melbourne side of Mt Gambier. He hadnt taken a direct route, assuming there would be roadblocks and train and bus searches. Going from outback South Australia to Melbourne via Mt Gambier was the long way around, but it avoided the police. So who were these hoons and how had they known about the payroll?

He closed the door and turned back. The man was whimpering on the floor.

Get up.

Dont hit me.

Im not going to hit you. Get up.

Wyatt watched the painful articulation of joints and muscles as the man climbed to his feet and swayed on the carpet. Sit, he said, pushing the man onto the bed.

Wyatt stood above him, very close, the light behind his head where he wanted it. When the man looked up, all hed see would be solidity, an implacable shape. Wyatt put some flat menace behind his voice.

Whats your name?

Mostyn.

Mostyn and Whitney, Wyatt said. Nice.

The man was silent. Wyatt said, But its not your names Im interested in. I want to know who you are and why youre here.

We were hired, Mostyn said. He mumbled it, looking at the floor. He wore a black tracksuit and scuffed gym boots. There was red hair on his knuckles, red hair cropped skinhead style on his scalp. He couldnt have been more than twenty-five.

Who hired you?

I mean, Mostyn said, someone hired the boss to find you, and he put me and Whitney on it

What boss are we talking about?

The man looked up. He had freckles and anxious, uneven teeth in a thin, dry-skinned face. Mack Stolle.

Never heard of him.

Stolle Investigations? the man said, the question mark at the end of it saying surely Wyatt had heard of Stolle Investigations.

You and Whitney, the mate who ran out on you, youre private detectives? Jesus Christ.

Mostyn wet his lips. Licensed. I swear it.

A pair of cowboys. You were hired to rob me?

Mostyn looked away. No.

Who hired your boss to find me? The security firm running the payroll?

Mostyn raised and lowered his hands. Not them, no. The boss said it was a private job, some woman in Queensland. Thats all I know. I swear.

Wyatt didnt know anyone in Queensland. He didnt know many women, and none that he thought would remember or want him. He didnt know where to run with this line of questions so he said, How did you find me?

Some dignity came into Mostyns voice. We specialise in missing persons. Weve been tracking you since you hoisted that payroll.

Wyatt bent his face close to Mostyns. Let me tell you something. I didnt touch that payroll. Someone got to it before I did.

Mostyn muttered, as though to himself, That explains the hitchhiking and caravan parks. We thought with three hundred grand youdve bought your way out of the country.

And you two clowns thought youd see if you could roll me and buy yourselves three hundred grands worth of happiness. What were you going to do, tell the boss you couldnt find me?

The man called Mostyn flushed and looked away. Wyatt tapped him with the cosh. He put no force in it but the fortified leather connected audibly with Mostyns cheek. Empty your pockets.

Sullenly Mostyn tossed a wallet, a handkerchief, a set of locksmiths picks and a small vinyl case onto the bed.

Whats in the case?

Mostyn pulled the zip around three sides and peeled open the top. A syringe and a vial of colourless fluid.

A junkie, Wyatt said. He hated them. They had changed the face of crime. They were invariably desperate, vicious and unpredictable. Hed never work with one.

But Mostyn was shaking his head vigorously. No way. Its a knockout drug. Sometimes the people weve been hired to find dont want to come home.

A slow, cold smile appeared on Wyatts thin face. Mostyn saw it and knew what it meant. Hey, come on.

Wyatt smacked the cosh across the bridge of the mans nose. It came just short of cracking the bone. What do you prefer, a painless sleep or the bashed-over-the-head kind?

Wordlessly Mostyn stuck out his arm.

Do it yourself, Wyatt said.

For several seconds, Mostyn didnt move. Then, his movements small and spiderlike, he removed the syringe, and upended the vial over the needle. Holding it up to the light, he drew liquid into the barrel. Finally he test-squirted the plunger, pulled up his sleeve, and tapped the vein in the crook of his elbow. Both men watched the needle depress the skin, slice gently into the vein. Mostyn pushed the plunger with his thumb. The vein swelled a little. Mostyn slid the needle out, put a finger on the puncture, bent his hand to his chin.

Not long now.