Blood Junction (38 page)

The next thought punched beneath her diaphragm and left her breathless with disbelief.
I drank a glass of water in Biloella
.

“India?”

Bound by this horrifying new thought, she made a strangled sound.

“Did that make any sense to you?”

She stared at the image of the world spinning on the screen. CTW. Changing The World.

“They’ve contaminated the water,” she managed, “with a virus or something that has, I assume from this video, been genetically
modified to target Aborigines. They’re all going down with the flu. Darwin’s last count was twenty-three dead.”

Mikey’s expression was appalled. “Christ!”

They stared at each other.

“That’s why Knox went to China,” Mikey said. “He’s selling the technology to the Chinese. So they can have Tibet without the
Tibetans.” He jumped to his feet. “We’ve got to get this to someone,” he said urgently. “Now.”

India leaned weakly against the wall and closed her eyes. She was trembling.

“Who do you know?” he demanded. “Who’s trustworthy? Someone with clout. Who do you know in the government? State, national,
I don’t care. The papers. Who’s at the
Sydney Morning Herald, The Australian
…”

A short pause. India swallowed. She tried not to think of that glass of water. She tried to fix her thoughts on Peter Ross,
brave Peter Ross, smuggling the disc out of the Karamyde Cosmetic Research Institute. Courageous Peter Ross, meeting Tiger
and Lauren. And his stalwart wife, Elizabeth, giving her an old photograph to expose the three young boys who had killed Robbie,
now grown men in positions of power.

“India?” demanded Mikey. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said India. She felt peculiarly detached, as though she were encased in glass.

“This is serious shit we’re in,” said Mikey.

“Pulitzer Prize-winning shit. Do you have a fax modem?”

He shook his head.

“E-mail?”

He looked away.

“But your games, surely—”

“Who would I E-mail? My thousands of friends around the world?”

“Christ, Mikey—”

“Now is not the time, India. I don’t have E-mail, so we’ll have to communicate the old-fashioned way, okay?”

“Okay.”

Suddenly an enormous sense of urgency descended on her. “I’ll write it up but I’ve something to do first,” she said swiftly.
“Before it’s too late.”

Mikey didn’t ask why or where. He simply nodded. “I’ll see if I can copy the disc,” he said. “And then we’ll deliver it …
Scattergun effect. Police. Government. Media.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s meet in town, it’ll save time. Say five, outside
the courthouse.”

Images flashed before her as she drove, like stills from a film.
Milangga grinning, holding a rabbit. Five men playing cards and smoking beneath a eucalyptus with silver peeling bark. Polly
flying towards her, skin streaked with dust, skinny legs pounding.

Fine sand ballooned around the tires as she drove into the center of the settlement, narrowly missing the sow who decided
at that moment to trot briskly across the track in front of her. The car was still rocking from the force of her fierce halt
when she opened the door and looked into Polly’s grinning face. India’s throat tightened and her eyes were suddenly wet with
relief.

“How are you doing, sprat?”

Polly wrapped her arms around India’s thighs and continued to grin up at her. “Doing good, thanks.”

India sank to her knees and hugged the girl, breathing in her smell of dust, butter and nutmeg. Polly unhesitatingly returned
the embrace, giggling and squirming with pleasure. Eyes closed, India took a long breath and let it out.

She could feel Polly looking at her curiously. “What’s wrong, Indi?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Why you in such a hurry?”

“Listen, I’m going back to Cooinda in a minute and I want you to come with me and stay with Mikey and me until we’ve sorted
something out.”

“What’s going on? Are you in trouble again?”

“A little bit, I guess. And I need you to promise me something, okay?”

Polly nodded solemnly, her eyes wide and unblinking.

“I don’t want you to drink any water. Not today or tomorrow or the next day. Not until I tell you it’s okay. We’ll go and
stock up on bottled drinks and when you’re thirsty, you won’t go to the tap, you’ll have mineral water instead.”

“Has an animal died in our tank?”

“I don’t know for sure, but it could be something like that. Whatever it is, it’s poisoned all the water, everywhere.”

“Can I have Coca-Cola?”

“Anything,” promised India, “so long as it’s not water.”

Polly leaned back in India’s arms and beamed. “I like Coca-Cola.”

“I know,” said India. Then, “Let’s go and warn everyone else.”

The aspirin she had taken hadn’t yet kicked in. The pain behind her eyes was increasing and a hot current of nausea was overtaking
her. Involuntarily, India gave a dry cough, then another.

Dust
, she told herself.
That’s all it is. Just dust.

She poured Polly an apple juice from Whitelaw’s fridge, then put the television on for her. Clearing her mind of everything
else, India sat at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee and a large pad of paper, and jotted some notes, trying to get her
story in chronological order.

Only when she had it planned out did she start writing. She wrote for a full straight hour and when she finished her nerves
were jangling and her headache had worsened. She wasn’t too concerned; having drunk all the coffee and chain-smoked full-strength
Marlboro she ought to have a headache. India swallowed another two aspirin and microwaved two Hawaiian pizzas for herself
and Polly. At four o’clock she telephoned the
Sydney Morning Herald
.

“Tom? It’s India. I’ve something explosive for you.” Quickly she filled him in on what they’d discovered.

“What it comes down to,” she said, “is that these guys want to wipe out the entire Aboriginal race. Already people are blaming
it on a flu epidemic. Unless we do something extremely fast, they’re going to succeed.”

“Flu?” he said disbelievingly.

“Yes. The Karamyde Cosmetic Research Institute has invented a selective genetic weapon that targets Aborigines. They’ve put
it in the water.”

“Why the hell—”

“The three men behind it are pathological racists.”

He sounded doubtful. “I didn’t think viruses could survive in water.”

“Perhaps they’ve found something in the water it can cling to for longevity. I don’t honestly know, but what it comes down
to is they’ve poisoned the water and hundreds of Aborigines are dying as we speak.”

“It’s a bit circumstantial, isn’t it?”

“Get a scientist, someone who knows what he’s looking for, to test the water in Darwin. Alex Thread, from the Australian Medical
Association, was investigating Karamyde Cosmetics when he was murdered. His boss, Dr. Nathaniel Jameson, head of ethics, was
gagged by being transferred to the UK. Where he was killed in a mugging just a week after his arrival.”

“How did the AMA get wind of what was going on?”

“One of the scientists working at Karamyde had a conscience.”

“Name?”

“Peter Ross. After Thread’s death, he made another attempt to divulge what was going on to the press and the authorities,
via Scotto’s wife, Lauren, and a policeman called Terence Dunn, but they were all murdered.”

“Let’s hope your phone is secure.”

She went ice cold all over.

“What did you say?”

“Well, if what you say is true, and your phone is tapped, I’m a dead man and you’re a dead woman.”

She sat there, staring at a packet of Special K on the sideboard, her mind frozen.

“Can you get copy to me today?” he asked. He went on to say that if the water checked out as contaminated he would print her
story, and if the story was as good as he thought, she should write a book that he could serialize and perhaps do something
for TV.

“Tom.” India was barely listening. “I’ve got to go. I’ll fax it … Soon. As soon as I can.”

After she had hung up she folded the papers in two and grabbed the car keys and bundled Polly into the ute. She felt dizzy
and lightheaded and blamed it on too many aspirin. After she had been driving a while, the seed Tom had planted grew and she
considered Whitelaw’s phone, whether the house could have been bugged.

If it wasn’t, how else could Knox have known she was meeting Scotto in Sydney and that he had Lauren’s notes?

A feeling of pure dread descended on her now. As she thought of her missing family climbing into the white transit van her
foot pressed harder on the accelerator and her heartbeat increased.

I am a dead woman.

“Indi?”

She saw Polly watching her, her eyes squinting as though she were thinking hard.

“What is it?”

“You’re driving awful fast.”

“Awfully fast.” India braked heavily as she came to a T-junction, spewing gravel beneath her tires, then swung the pickup
hard for the center of town. “Yeah, I know. I’m in a hurry.”

“Where we going?”

“To fax a letter.”

There was a one-person queue at the post office, formed by a very old, very slow man whose counter order was being placed
with an air of great importance and complexity.

“One package for England.” He pushed a small brown parcel beneath the glass plate to the tall, thin-lipped postmistress.

“Small packet rate? Or normal delivery?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the old man said. “You tell me.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” India interjected, “but I just need to send a fax, it’s terribly urgent—”

“You can wait your turn,” the postmistress snapped. “Exercise a little patience, will you?”

Polly giggled nervously as India jerked aside with a flush of anger and stood there tapping her foot until the old man had
finished his transaction. India handed the woman her seven sheets of closely written paper and asked for it to be faxed to
Sydney.

“I’m sorry,” the postmistress said, not sounding sorry at all, “but we don’t have a fax machine. Just a copier.”

“Telex?”

“Sorry, nope.” She looked faintly smug.

“Computer? With a fax modem?” India felt desperation wash over her.

The woman shook her head.

“Which couriers are there in town?”

“Have you thought of using the mail?” the postmistress said acidly. “The courier companies operate out of Broken Hill and
take the same amount of time.”

India bit back a sharp retort and politely asked if the copier was working. Of course, said the postmistress just as politely,
how many copies would you like? Five, please, said India. The woman stuck her long nose in the air and asked if twenty-two
cents a copy was all right.

Fine, India said, and picked out five strong envelopes and addressed them. Polly was sitting on the steps outside with a look
of bright curiosity, as if she’d never seen the town before. She looked over her shoulder at India and smiled happily. Behind
her, a truck growled past, flashing silver from its tall metal flanks and making India crease her eyes.

“That’s twelve dollars exactly,” said the woman. “Eight seventy-five for the copies and three dollars twenty-five for the
envelopes.”