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  The bar opened and Ava began drinking wine coolers with ice and a twist of lemon. Several men approached her and she had brief conversations with them without offering any encouragement. She passed the time drinking and chain-smoking low-tar menthol cigarettes, occasionally fanning herself with the straw hat. She displayed no interest in the coral outcrops, islands, dolphins or other advertised attractions of the cruise. A fishing boat out of Cooktown created a wave which fractionally rocked the ferry. Ava swore mildly as she slopped a little of her drink. She beckoned for Dunlop to join her.

  'I never figured you for a bookworm.'

  Dunlop bought a can of light beer. 'I'm not. It's just something to do. What's the last book you read?'

  Ava laughed. 'The Happy Hooker. Bullshit.'

  Sea birds circled over the ferry, crying harshly. A wave of heat came from the land as the boat turned towards the wharf. Dunlop drained his can; Ava sucked on the slice of lemon and lit another cigarette.

  'Getting close,' Dunlop said. 'What d'you want to do?'

  Ava shrugged. 'Find the old house, if it's still standing. Take a few snaps. Have lunch in the pub. Might be some decent fish on. Siesta till the boat leaves. The simple life.'

  'No-one you want to look up?'

  'Are you kidding? I left here thirty years ago. The boongs I knew'll be dead for sure, and the whites I wouldn't piss on.'

  The ferry docked at the large concrete wharf. There was a hotel and some tourist shops at the end of the wharf and a steep, deeply-rutted road up to the main street of the town. It was hot on the wharf; a thin stretch of park adjacent to it was dry and bare and the beach baked under the high, hot sun. There was no wind, and the air was heavy and moist with a smell of salt and seaweed. Ava sniffed it deeply as she adjusted her sunglasses.

  'Right,' she said. 'Cooktown.'

  Some of the passengers went straight into the hotel; others browsed in the shops. Ava and Dunlop joined those who headed for Charlotte Street. For all her cynical comments as they walked down the street, moving from bright sunlight to the shade of the corrugated iron awnings, Dunlop noticed an unusual spring in Ava's step.

  'One butcher's gone,' she said, pointing to a boarded-up shopfront. 'Meat was mostly flyblown anyway.'

  They passed one of several hotels. Rock music throbbed in the beer garden and the drinkers were already rowdy. Cars passed slowly up and down the street, radios blaring, passengers shouting to people who wandered between the road and the pavement.

  'Lively,' Dunlop commented.

  'Hah. No-one here's got two bob to rub together.'

  A cluster of Aboriginal children outside a milk bar thrust their hands out as Dunlop and Ava approached. They were barefoot and dirty in ragged clothes. Their noses were snot-encrusted. Ava reached into her bag, shook all the coins from her purse and dealt them out at random. Some got several dollars, others twenty cents.

  'Give,' Ava said.

  Dunlop handed over all the coins in his pockets. They left the children quarrelling—punching, kicking and swearing—over the money. One came running after them, his bare feet slapping on the bitumen.

  'Gotta smoke, lady?'

  Ava gave her packet to the ten-year-old, who snatched it and ran back to the mob, crowing.

  'You're a soft touch,' Dunlop said.

  'Shut up!' Ava eased the weight of the bag on her now rather slumped shoulder and trudged on. They crossed the road and turned right up a narrow street. The houses were small on big blocks, the gardens mostly overgrown. The incline was steep and Dunlop began to sweat. Ava's shirt was sticking to her back when she reached the top of the hill. Two unmade roads straggled away from a fork, apparently into the bush.

  Ava pointed. 'Down there.'

  'How far?'

  'I dunno. It's been so long. Wouldn't be a mile.'

  'Jesus, Ava. We should've got a cab.'

  'I wanted to walk it. See what's changed. Not much, I have to tell you. I've got to have a breather.'

  They sat on the gatepost of a collapsed fence under the shade of a stand of scruffy casuarinas. The little fibro cottage behind them was a ruin, enveloped and invaded by creepers. Ava took a fresh packet of cigarettes from her bag, ripped away the cellophane and lit up. Dunlop found a packet of chewing gum in his pocket and unwrapped a stick. They sat in silence for a while, smoking and chewing. The sound of the ocean on the reef carried to them and the birds and insects were noisy in the bush. Dunlop checked the time. He was surprised to see that almost an hour had elapsed.

  'We'd better get a move on.'

  Ava stubbed her second cigarette in the mat of needles. 'Right. I've got to have a leak. Be a gentleman, won't you?'

  She moved to the left behind a thick bougainvillea hedge. Dunlop stretched, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. The sweat had dried on his shirt, making it stiff and scratchy. Something had bitten him on the upper arm. He scraped at the lump and felt it bleed.

  'Ava. Come on!'

  No answer—just the surf and the birds and the bush. Dunlop swore as alarm flared inside him like a struck match. He strode to the bougainvillea. There was no sign of Ava. Behind the hedge, grass and scrub grew thick and waist high. No bushman, Dunlop blundered around probing in several directions so that any signs Ava might have left of the direction she'd taken were quickly obliterated. Dunlop cursed her. He pushed through the grass until his feet found a path that led to the house. He followed it but quickly saw that she couldn't have come this way—short of the house, the path was blocked by a dense thicket of lantana.

  'Ava, you stupid bitch! Where are you?'

  Dunlop struggled back to the front fence and debated which road to take. Had it been a spur-of-the-moment decision to give him the slip, or was it premeditated? If she'd planned it, she would have indicated the wrong road to him for sure. Dunlop decided that Ava wasn't a planner. He set off in the direction she'd pointed.

  9

  Tate followed them through the town, saw the woman pointing out the sights and give the handout to the Abos who were still fighting like animals by the time he got to them. He couldn't believe his luck, they were heading for the bush. He kept well back, taking advantage of whatever cover was available. Tate was fit. The heat and the climb didn't bother him although he would have liked to take off his jacket. Couldn't because of the knife sheath. Never mind. The woman was doing it hard, carrying too much weight. The minder was okay. If he took her bag, had both hands occupied, the opportunity might be too good to pass up. He won't, Tate thought. He knows his business.

  They sat down in the shade. The woman smoked and looked ready for a doze. The man chewed gum and looked alert. Tate circled away to the left. His practised jungle-fighter's eye swept over the ground, taking in the thickness of the undergrowth, assessing where passage was easy and hard. He moved without noise. The earth and the vegetation were soft and yielding, no branches to snap, no rocks to dislodge. He was in his element, breathing easily, sensitised to everything, totally in tune. The hunter. He moved behind a thick, prickly hedge, crouched below the level of a clump of grass—almost close enough for a shot with anything but a .22.

  Suddenly, the woman was almost on top of him. She was alone and moving fast into the derelict garden—hat off, hand up to protect her eyes, elbows tucked in. She knew what she was doing and where she was going. Giving the minder the slip. Tate didn't hesitate. He went after her, plunging forward, ducking branches, quickly adjusting to the changed light. He could have caught her easily but he let her run like a hooked trout, allowing her to think she was safe, tiring her and putting distance between them and Dunlop.

  The abandoned garden quickly gave way to land that had never been cultivated, light timber and scrub. He heard her swear as she stumbled and fell. He stopped as she picked herself up and went on. They were going downhill roughly in the direction she'd pointed to back at the crossroads. Soon. Soon.

  Tate drew closer. He could hear her harsh breathing and fancied he could smell her sweat. He'd often smell
ed people's sweat in Africa. You had to be able to do it. It could save your life. Tate was enjoying himself. Automatically, he'd taken off his cap and sunglasses, stowed them safely. He could feel the pistol in his pocket. The few scratches on his face, stinging as the sweat got to them, were nothing. He slipped the knife out. He was only a few strides behind her now, following a rabbit track. She moved suddenly left to avoid a fallen tree. Tate cleared it with a leap and landed with a thud that caused Ava to stop dead. His left arm whipped out, wrapping around her throat. He showed her the blade, flicked it from right to left in front of her, and then pressed the point into the soft flesh of her neck.

  'One squeak, Ava, and you're dead.'

  Tate dragged her from the track twenty metres into some shoulder-high scrub. Ava's feet scrabbled for purchase; she writhed and strained against the locked arm, but she had no hope against Tate's greatly superior strength and weight. She did not waste breath in shouting; instead she jerked her head, trying to bite. Tate enjoyed the struggle. He increased the pressure until she went limp from lack of breath. He pushed her down onto the hard, springy grass and expertly straddled her, distributing his weight so that she was totally immobilised.

  Tate, usually coolly methodical in his work, was surprised to feel elation, a surge of confidence. After the last fuck-up, this was going fine! Might as well get the answers to those questions. The camera, still around his neck, swung and hit Ava's nose. Tate pulled on the strap so that the camera hung behind him. He let Ava see the knife again and then held it against the taut skin at the corner of her jawbone, where it sliced the flesh.

  'The Rankin killing,' Tate said.

  Ava's eyes were wide, blazing with hate and fear. Her nostrils flared and her fine white teeth were bared fiercely. 'Don't know who did it,' she gasped.

  Tate laughed. 'I know you don't. I know that. I want to know why you lied about Belfante and Frost.'

  Ava squirmed but Tate easily held her down. He displayed the knife again, this time with blood on the blade. 'Why?'

  'Revenge.'

  Tate could understand that. In the army he'd killed several times out of revenge, comrades as well as enemies. 'Revenge for what?'

  Ava spat at him. Tate jerked his head and the spittle missed. He laughed and slapped her face. 'Tell me, bitch!'

  'Vance's baby.'

  Tate had no interest in whether the answer was true or not; it would do as something to take back. He moved the knife, ready to slide it through the bulging neck artery when he realised that he was fully erect. Ava's shirt was torn and the halter had slipped away revealing one large, ripe breast. Tate wanted to grip it, to bite the nipple, feel her reaction. She wriggled and the contact almost made him come. He punched her, a hard, solid jolt to the jaw, and her straining head bumped on the ground. Her eyes closed. Tate tore the halter free and exposed both breasts; he dropped the knife and ran his hands over them, pinched the nipples. He held her down and eased himself off her, ready to use the knife instantly if he had to. She groaned. The soft breasts moved.

  Tate was sweating heavily. The drops fell on Ava's face and chest. He used the knife to cut through the waistband of the shorts on both sides of the zipper and slit the legs all the way down. He peeled back the cut cloth. She wore black lacy pants. Tate cut them away and pushed her legs apart. Her pubic hair was dark with some grey in it. He used three fingers roughly to open her. He unzipped his pants and freed his stiff penis. He thrust into her and ejaculated almost immediately.

  Ava arched her back and heaved. She brought her legs together and Tate screamed as his testicles were crushed. He fell away from her. He had let go of the knife as he orgasmed. He felt for it. Ava thudded her knees into his kidneys and wriggled away. She bellowed for help at the top of her lungs.

  'Ava! Ava!' Dunlop's voice. Ava yelled again as Tate found the knife and slashed at her. He was off balance but the knife sliced deep into her forearm. Ava screamed. Tate stabbed, catching the knife in her torn shirt but still striking into her rib cage. He could hear a thrashing in the bush. Very close. No more time for the woman now. He jerked the gun out and fired once in the direction of the sound. His shot made a small coughing sound and was answered by a loud crack. A bullet splintered a tree beside his head. Tate dived behind a bush, crouched, waited for a target. Ava went on hands and knees in the other direction. He'd lost her. He put the knife back in the sheath. Had to get this bastard. Had to get him quick!

  'Ava, Jesus.'

  Tate heard Dunlop's whisper. Good, he'd worry about the woman.

  'He's in there,' Ava moaned. 'In there!'

  Two bullets whipped into the scrub, uncomfortably close. Tate thought he knew where they'd come from and raised his pistol. Another shot almost hit him. He was drenched in sweat and his fingers slipped on the pistol grip. He ducked down and suddenly felt his vision blur and his strength ebb. He rubbed his hands across his eyes. He couldn't focus. He knew what it was, the fucking diabetes. The heavy sweating was the warning. He'd forgotten to eat mid-morning and all the activity and excitement had sent his blood sugar plummeting. He felt in his pocket for barley sugar but he had none. Must have dropped it. In a few minutes he'd be as weak as a kitten. He needed sugar fast. Tate almost wept with frustration. The bush in front of him, across from the flattened, bloodied grass, was a blur. He eased back, still skilled despite the increasing weakness, into the scrub. Quietly, slowly, until he was far enough away to stand up and move faster.

  'He raped me,' Ava whimpered. 'That bastard raped me. Kill him! Kill him!'

  Dunlop cradled Ava's upper body in his arms. She was very pale and her arm was bleeding heavily. He eased her gently down on his towel which he had spread on the ground. There had been no sound from where the assailant had fired for a couple of minutes and Dunlop judged that he had gone. Blood was oozing from Ava's damaged side and running more freely from the deep slash in her arm. Flies were buzzing around the dripping blood.

  'I have to get help.'

  'Don't leave me, Luke. Please don't leave me. He might come back. God. Oh Christ, it hurts. Am I going to die?'

  'No, but . . .'

  A soft murmuring sound came from behind them. Dunlop spun around, raised the pistol. A tall, thin Aborigine, wearing shorts and a singlet, stood at the edge of the scrub.

  'Heard shootin',' he said. 'She in a bad way?'

  'Yes. Could you call an ambulance, please?'

  'My missus is a nurse. Hang on, I'll get her.'

  The man vanished. Dunlop used his swimming trunks to wipe sweat from Ava's face, swollen and blotched where she'd been hit. Her breath was coming in soft puffs as she went into shock.

  'Hang on. Help's coming.' He tore his shirt into strips and tied a tourniquet above the arm wound. The blood flow slowed. He brushed away the flies trying to get at the lacerations.

  'Dry. Need a drink.'

  'Coming. Hang on.' Dunlop ground his teeth with impatience. He realised he was still gripping his .38 and he put it back in the shopping bag so as not to alarm the nurse.

  'Where are you?' he groaned.

  'Here, mate. She's here.' The tall Aborigine was accompanied by a younger, lighter-skinned woman wearing shorts and a khaki army shirt. She opened a canvas bag as she pushed Dunlop aside and knelt down.

  'How bad?' Dunlop said.

  The woman didn't reply. She took swabs, a syringe and a rubber-capped bottle from the bag and snapped her fingers. The man flattened the grass near her hand and put a piece of bark down. The woman laid the things on it, adding gauze, scissors, a tube of cream. She lifted Ava's closed right eyelid, nodded and prepared an injection which she administered to the undamaged arm. She cleaned the wounds and applied cream and a powder. She taped a dressing to the ugly tear above the ribs and some clamps to the slash. Then she lightly bound up the arm. She covered Ava's bruised thighs and crotch with Dunlop's trunks.

  'Good tourniquet,' she said. 'She'll be all right I reckon. Got to get her to the clinic, but. I'll stay with her. You blokes go and
phone.'

  Dunlop picked up the bag containing his gun and followed the Aborigine into the bush, struggling to keep up with him as the man strode along a path that barely existed. Dunlop glanced at his watch. It was one thirty-five and the ferry would have left.

  Dennis Tate was lucky. His blind meander through the scrub with his balls aching and his kidneys throbbing had brought him out on a rise from which he could see a road and the roofs of the town buildings. His strength was ebbing fast but his vision cleared a little. He hung on by an effort of will, forcing himself to move, to straighten his clothes, smooth his tangled hair with his fingers. His laugh when he saw that his fly was undone was almost hysterical. He blundered down the road, turned a corner and came to a tiny shop with faded signs and flyblown plastic strips hanging in the doorway. Tate snatched two cans of Coca-Cola from the shelf, threw the shopkeeper a five dollar note and drank the liquid warm as he walked towards the town. When he tossed the second can into the grass his strength was almost back to normal. He had time to catch the boat if he hurried. He walked faster, glad that he had recalled what the old diabetic man in the hospital bed next to his had said: 'Don't piss around with barley sugar and that, mate, if you get a real bad hypo. Slam a can of Coke into you. That'll do the trick.'