Garry Disher - Two-Way Cut

It was not dawn but the forerunner of it, a queer half-light that teased and distorted. Leah could see trees but not the branches and twigs that scraped her face as she crossed the dying lawn. She could see her thighs but not her feet, only a variegated greyness that was the treacherous ground beneath her. And so she tripped over the body beside the wattle tree.

She fell heavily, scraping one knee and skinning the palms of her hands. She lost the knife. Down here at ground level she had no trouble identifying the obstacle as a body. Even when shed tripped she knew shed hit something far softer than a log of wood. Now she could see the legs, the pelvis, the upper body, the head. She touched the mans neck. There was no pulse, only stickiness. Her fingers probed, then jerked back. He’d been shot in the forehead.

It wasn’t the farmer, so who was he?

And she hadn’t heard the shot, which meant a pistol fitted with a silencer.

Who would have a gun like that?

And where was the killer?

Feeling nauseated, she searched the mans pockets. Nothing. She knew that if she had a police team here she could do something with his fingerprints and dental records, even his clothing labels, but she was alone, and being hunted, so contented herself with stripping off the dead mans wristwatch and pocketing it.

Suddenly she was bathed in light. She flinched, ducked, scrabbled toward darkness. A motorbike headlight. The bike was propped on its stand under the fronds of an umbrella tree. The man who’d switched on the light stepped away from the bike and held up one hand. Its all right, no need to be afraid, I—

But as Leah took in the thin face, floppy pale hair, lean frame and casual clothing, she also registered the pistol.

She darted around the wattle tree and ran.

Dawn light was leaking into the sky as they accelerated away from the cottage. Leah pushed hard, negotiating farmyard potholes and corrugations that jarred the steering-wheel, sending shocks into her wrists and forearms. Once or twice the panel van fishtailed in loose gravel and she was hoping they wouldn’t hit a kangaroo appearing for its dawn feed. Then they were through the gate and on the dirt back road, tyres scrabbling, kicking up dust. She figured that speed was their only defense if the killer was still around.

Do you think the farmer heard us? Tess asked.

I doubt it. The cottage is pretty secluded.

But hell find the body eventually, Tess said.

Yes.

Hell call the police.

Yes.

Tess fell silent again.

Leah was thinking. Who, exactly, had been the target this time? Me, she decided. They must want me very badly. Who was the man with the gun? Cop, or a friend of a cop ? Leah knew plenty of police officers who owned motorbikes; in her view, biker cops and the Hells Angels were different faces of the same coin. So, a cop, ex-cop, or hired gun? A lot of trouble to go to.

Then Tess asked the question that shed been asking herself: How did they find us?

Exactly, Leah said. We’ve changed vehicles, outrun them, holed up somewhere off the beaten track. Did you make any calls from the cottage?

Tess looked out of her window. What do you take me for?

A liar, Leah thought. They were approaching the intersection with the main road they’d traveled on yesterday. Leah could see a lonely truck, its headlights and sidelights illuminating the hazy dawn. She glanced in the side mirror, half-expecting to see headlights coming up fast from the rear. Tess saw her doing it and gasped.

Is there someone behind us?

No.

She knew it didn’t mean anything. The light was tricky: bright enough to drive by, murky enough to conceal. She braked at the intersection and then pulled out onto the highway, accelerating hard toward the west. There were bars of morning sunlight now, fog wisps above dams, tricky shadows, and once a trotting fox with a rabbit in its jaws. Leah stared moodily at the road ahead, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror. There was very little traffic.

Then, an hour later, there was a Range Rover filling the mirror.

Its them.

Tess had propped her bare feet on the dash and was dozing, but now she swung her feet to the floor and craned her neck to see. Oh no, she whimpered.

Put your shoes on.

Why?

Because this could get wild, and we might have to run for it.

Tess let go of the daypack, leaned forward and reached down with both hands to slip her shoes on. Thats when Leah snatched the daypack.

No! Tess wailed.

Leah fended her off easily. She could hear and feel the rattle of pills, some in bottles, others in small congregations that suggested ziplock plastic bags. Tess was reaching for the pack, her face distorted. You cant!

Yes I can, Leah said, winding down her window and tossing the pack onto the road. She saw it recede in the mirror, a flat black shape like roadkill behind them. She saw smoking tyres as the Range Rover braked, and then the passenger Moustache was out of his door.

Good, they’ve stopped to pick it up.

Tess was screaming, You know what you’ve done? You’ve thrown away fourteen thousand bucks cash and another fifteen thousand in gear, stupid bitch.

Leah was about to reply that shed thrown away thousands of dollars worth of trouble, thinking that Moustache and Tatts were finished with them now, when she saw the Range Rover again, coming up hard behind. All of the details clarified in the mirror: the menacing snout of the Range Rover, the tinted glass like banded eyes, the barrel of a shotgun poking through the side window.

Damn.

What? said Tess sulkily.

They picked up the bag, but evidently they still want you.

Tess curled into a ball in her seat. Go faster.

I’m trying to.

It was no good, the Range Rover was too powerful. Leah braked suddenly, hoping it would flash past, but the other driver anticipated, braking too, then veering sharply, the bullbar slamming into Leah’s door. She lost control, the steering-wheel wrenching with a force that numbed her wrists, the vehicle going into a skid that turned into a roll. Her seatbelt snapped and she could do nothing as she tumbled about the interior like a sodden towel in a dryer. Her head smacked the mirror, her foot Tess’s shoulder. And then they were sliding along on the roof, the metal shrieking on the surface of the road, before settling in a culvert. Leah found herself on her side, staring out of the side window at the teeth of a broken beer bottle in the roadside grass.

Tess was screaming somewhere above her. Get me down.

Leah untangled herself, got a shoulder beneath Tess, unclipped her seatbelt and lowered her. She kicked at the passenger side door and it opened tortuously, metal grinding against metal, until they could step out onto gravel and weeds.

The Range Rover was there idling, watching, the morning sun at a shallow angle behind it. Otherwise the world seemed empty, flat and limitless. Hot metal ticked as it cooled and, thinking of spilt fuel and fire, Leah took Tess by the arm and moved her away from the panel van, ten metres, twenty, thirty, all the while watching the Range Rover, until Tatts lowered his window and called, Thats far enough.

Moustache got out. He carried a double-barreled shotgun. Then Tatts emerged. Both men began to close in, Moustache cracking open the shotgun and feeding a shell into each barrel. Leah tucked Tess behind her back. It was futile, and Tatts laughed.

You’ve got your drugs and money back, Leah said. Leave it at that.

Sorry, no can do.

Leah shook her head in disgust. What is this, some stupid code of honour?

Moustache shrugged. What can I say? Mr Stannage is not a happy boy.

Leah felt a chill. Carl Stannage was major league: drugs, prostitution, protection rackets, insurance scams… She gestured at the vast open sky and deserted farmland. Two armed men against two unarmed women. Yeah, really honourable.