Garry Disher - Two-Way Cut

And he informs the school?

Suppose so.

Who at the school exactly?

Theo shrugged. Whoever signed the contract, I suppose.

In other words, Dr Heyward, the principal, the woman who didn’t want to believe Tess.

Look, Theo, why don’t you take us to a motel in the city, not the school, not your boss. If someones trying to kill Tess I want to do some digging around before we announce ourselves.

She didn’t think he’d buy it, but he shrugged good-naturedly. Sure.

He began to slow the car. They’d come to an intersection in the middle of a broad plain under the vast sky, nobody and nothing about, only their car, a distant blue mountain range, wheat struggling to grow in red soil, and a couple of stunned crows perched on the rim of a scummy sheep trough. That was the universe. The city was an unimaginable place to Leah just then.

Where are we going? she asked, as Theo turned off the highway.

Short cut, Theo said.

To where?

Horsham. Thats where we strike the Western Highway to Melbourne. Check the map if you don’t believe me.

Thats fine.

It was a fast dirt road, that was something in its favour. The big car floated above the corrugations. Soon the other road was far behind them and they were surrounded entirely by failing crops on low hills stitched together by dry creek beds, tired fences and sheep pads. Tess fell asleep. Leah’s eyes grew heavy.

She shifted position. Something was digging into her. She frowned. The dead mans watch. She dug one finger into her hip pocket to fish it out.

But just then Theo seemed to be fighting the steering-wheel. The car was swerving in the powdery dirt and gravel at the side of the road. She ignored it at first, trying to retrieve the watch, the steel band catching on the stiff seam of her pocket. Then it was free and she was reading the inscription on the back of the watch, To Theo, from your loving Anna, when the car slowed and carefully pulled over, and Leah heard, Might as well get out and stretch your legs, girls, we’ve got a puncture.

In the long days and hours of his ride through the endless wheatbelt country, van Wyk had come to realise how ill-equipped he was for this assignment. He was used to city streets, alleys, corridors, shadows. He was used to working close, in and out, no fuss, no trace. Out here, he felt exposed. Hours might, go by and he’d not see another human being, much less signs of habitation. There were no shadows out here, nowhere to hide in waiting.

Hed felt better when he finally spotted the blue Magna driven by the private detective. Yesterday, in Prospect. His skin had tingled then. The hunt was on. Now all he had to do was follow the Magna until it led him to the target.

In the past, he’d always worked from a profile of the target: photographs, home and work details, routine movements, the names and addresses of friends and acquaintances. This time all he had were photos. How do you anticipate the movements of a kid who’s done a runner?

So thank God for the unwitting private eye, who had all the know-how, gadgetry and technical back-up to tap phone calls and follow the kid.

The whole thing had almost come unstuck after the debacle in Leighton Wells yesterday. The detective guy had thought he’d lost the target, according to his logbook, but the silly bitch had later used her mobile phone, and that had led the Magnaand van Wyk on the Yamahato a bed-and-breakfast place in the foothills.

Van Wyk had thought he’d have his chance then God, had it only been a few hours ago? Amazing how time flew when you were having fun. Hed dismounted from the Yamaha and wheeled it off the farmhouse track, into the shelter of some tree on the lawn, scouted around until he knew the layout of the place, saw the farmer leave with his wife, and ascertained where the target was.

And there was the second woman. Oh well, two for the price of one. He watched and listened for a while, using night-vision binoculars. Saw them getting undressed for bed and an old hunger had stirred in him for a moment. You’re a professional, he’d chided himself.

Then he spotted the private eye. Hed already located the Magna, parked down by the road gate. Theo Reed was watching the cottage from a nearby clump of bamboo. Van Wyk saw him glance at his watch as if deciding whether to announce himself to the women there and then, or wait until morning.

Then the farmer and his wife returned, and that seemed to settle the matter for the detective. Van Wyk saw Reed duck away from the sweep of headlights and begin to retreat down the slope of lawn, shrubs and trees.

Right to van Wyks position. Van Wyk shot him in the head with the silenced .22.

Working quickly then, he’d hunted in the mans pockets for keys and wallet, and run back to the Magna. A quick search revealed paperwork that detailed the case and the guys name: Theo Reed.

What to do? There was an extra element of risk in entering a darkened building and shooting not one but two people. And what if a noisy disturbance resulted, shouts, screams, glass breaking, lights coming on?

Best to wait until 4 a.m., when they would both be sound asleep.

Except he’d tripped over a concealed sprinkler in the lawn and the bitch who was travelling with the target had blundered in. He hadn’t wanted to risk another shot, so on the spur of the moment had decided to pose as Theo Reed.

But the woman ran.

Leah, he knew her as now.

She was the one to watch. Shed evaded him in the darkness and got the target out of there before he could get close enough to kill them.

And so van Wyk had pushed the Yamaha into a dam and shoved the body of the private eye into the boot of the Magna. No sense in the farmer reporting a crime before van Wyk had finished doing what he’d been hired to do. Then he’d set out after the women, pushing the Magna hard, coming upon the crash scene and the Range Rover hoons again. Who were those guys? Then, still posing as Theo Reed, he’d saved Leah and the target.

Good. It would be a close shooting after all, now that he’d got the targetboth targetsonto this lonely back road.

Two quick shots, up close, then vanish.

But first, fake a puncture.

The wind was blowing sullenly through tussocks of grass and drooping wires. The arse-end of the universe, as Leah’s father would have said. Well, this was it, this place, far from anywhere.

Leah stood close to her open door, keeping it between herself and the man posing as Theo Reed. Who was he, really? Fortunately Tess was on the other side of the car, but wasn’t likely to stay there, for shed stepped into long grass at the edge of a rain-eroded ditch and was walking the length of the car, examining the tyres. Cant see any puncture here, she called across the roof of the car.

Leah and the killer were on the drivers side, nearest the middle of the road, standing on corrugations and an underpinning of rock that had broken through the gravel laid by roadbuilders long ago. She made no attempt to examine the tyres but watched the killer, just as he watched her.

He knew. A silent communication passed between them and he immediately fished inside his jacket, beginning to close in on her as he did so.

Leah pulled the door toward her as if in fear of him, as if it would shield her. The killer sneered. Futile, he started to say, when she shoved the door hard away from herself, slamming it against him.

He stumbled back with a soft groan of pain, momentarily holding both arms around his stomach.

Leah! What are you doing? Tess protested.

Leah ignored her. She sprang around her door, quickly kicking hard before the man could raise his gun. He fired uselessly into the ground, the bullet whining out over the dying wheat. He stumbled, fell onto his back and was raising the gun when she stamped on his wrist, forcing him to let go of the weapon. She scooped it up: a .22 target pistol, a killers gun, a close-work gun.