Blood Secret (24 page)

PART
THREE: SECRETS

 

 

 

36

Rennie paced the dirt beside the expressway, careless of the vehicles thundering past. She was running out of versions. Father-on-the-loose was over, never to rear its bloody head again. Now she was left with only one – that Max had taken the money and left her.

Was it Max at the house? Had he used his key like Detective Duncan thought? Had he come back for something? For them? Was it bad timing that they'd been out or had he planned it
that way?

If he'd found the Glock, he'd found everything else – the cash, the ID, the photo. What would he make of it? And why take the gun – so she didn't turn it on him when she learned
the truth?

Or was he in trouble? Had he taken the money after all and figured a weapon might come
in handy?

What have you done, Max?

She glanced at the car. Hayden was in the passenger seat again, his head down. They were almost an hour from Haven Bay, seven from his grandparents. If she stuck him on a train, he'd probably get off at the next station and head
straight back.

She paced some more, thinking about Yamba and Jo and heading far north. If Max had left her, was there any point in going back to Haven Bay? It wasn't her home
without him.

A huge road train roared just metres from her, making the earth shake and blowing grit so hard it stung her face. Whatever she was going to do, she needed to get away from here. As she slipped into the driver's seat, she saw her backpack between Hayden's knees, two plastic bags on his lap. ‘
Hayden!
'

He looked up without a hint of guilt but it wasn't his attitude that snagged her attention.

‘What the f . . .?' She snatched up the bag with the zip lock. It held the few items she kept to identify herself: birth certificate, an old driver's licence, Evan's phone number in case her mobile died. There was a blue ribbon from a school carnival, a bronze medallion for swimming, her School Certificate. And the photo: Katrina, Joanne and their mother, Donna. It was taken in a park somewhere, the colour so faded it was almost sepia – Joanne with two fingers behind her mum's head, Donna grinning and Katrina pulling a stupid face. Evidence that one day in their lives they'd been happy.

Rennie knew what was in the bag to the last item, except now as she looked there was something else. Another photo.

She'd seen it before but not in her backpack. On the computer at home. Her and Max in the backyard by the vegetable garden, his gran's cottage behind them and a gorgeous blue sky overhead. She pulled
it out.

‘Where did you get this?' she snapped
at Hayden.

‘From the backpack.'

‘No.
This!
' She shoved the picture in front of
his face.

‘It's not mine. I found it in there.'

She flipped it over.

One line in Max's messy scrawl: ‘If you leave, can I come too?'

Rennie stared at the words, her heart
beating hard.

And she knew. Without
a doubt.

Max hadn't
left her.

She had no idea how long the photo had been in her bag. Possibly a year. Possibly he'd put it there this afternoon as he was taking the gun. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was the message on
the back.

Max wasn't a complicated man. He didn't wax and wane over ideas and needs. He didn't suffer pangs of indecision, he didn't agonise over what to do. He lived and loved. He lamented loss, he tried to do the right thing, he had nightmares and he was scared of the dark.

He didn't change his mind.

If the photo had been there for a year, the sentiment hadn't changed.

If he'd put the photo there today, he was sending her
a message.

Either way, he was telling her something. That he knew about Katrina and he loved Rennie anyway.

And it told her she'd never needed to search for clues to who he was. That she was a goddamn fool to have doubted him. She hadn't stayed all this time because she was complacent. She'd stayed because she could trust him. Because there'd never been a reason to leave. Because he loved her. Whatever the hell had happened, whatever the hell he'd done, he was the one to trust.

And now she had to
find him.

She started the big engine and pulled into the high-speed traffic.

‘How much money is it?'
Hayden asked.

Three minutes ago, she would have told him it was none of his damn business. Right now, she couldn't think of anything to tell him but the truth. ‘A couple of thousand.'

‘Whoa.'

‘Put it back. The other bag, too.'

He did and zipped the pack. ‘Why did that guy call you Katrina?'

He'd probably seen and heard enough in the last couple of hours to have a right to know more. ‘It used to be my name.'

‘Does Dad know you changed it?'

‘No.'

He paused. She wasn't going to pre-empt him.

‘Who was the guy on the phone?'

‘A cop. Retired cop. A friend.'

‘Who's dying?'

‘My father.'

The next pause was longer. Comparing fathers or digesting the information.

‘Is that why you went psycho back there? 'Cause he's dying?'

Yeah, it probably looked psycho. ‘Yes. Is that all?'

‘S'pose.'

‘Good. I have to think.' There was an exit ramp in five k. She had to decide what to do with Hayden by the time they reached it.

Someone had been in the house and her Glock was gone. If it was Max, the only problem was whether he knew how to use it. If it wasn't, someone else had a lethal weapon – and the question was, why take it? Just in case or because they planned to use it? There was no way of knowing without knowing why they
were there.

She pictured the study, the toppled notes, the open drawers in the filing cabinet. It'd been searched. Maybe if she could figure out what else was missing, she could work out where to look for Max. She remembered the password protection on the computer, the lists of numbers in his Toronto office. She dropped a hand to her back pocket. The page from his drawer was
still there.

Hayden was slumped in his seat now, watching the scenery fly past. He knew more about computers than she did. He stuffed about on the one at home for hours some visits, whole days during school holidays. Maybe he could get past Max's security. The person with her gun was a risk but they'd broken in when no one was home and searched the place. Why would they
go back?

‘How much do you know about hacking into computers?'
she asked.

‘A bit.' His expression was a little cagey. She figured that meant more than
a bit.

Two k to the turn-off. If he was going to help, it had to be on her terms.

‘We have to talk, Hayden. Can we do it without an argument?'

A shrug.

It would have to do. ‘I made a mistake. I thought I knew what'd happened to Max and who'd broken into the house. It's not what I thought but something's going on. I don't know what it is but I think the answer, or at least part of it, might be at the house. I'm going back there. I think you can help but you can only come if you promise to do what I tell you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because whoever broke into the house has a gun.'

‘How do you know?'

‘It was in my backpack and now it's gone.'

‘You had a gun?'

‘Yes.'

He gave her a long, hard look. ‘Were you a cop, too?'

She raised an eyebrow, wondering what scenarios he'd invented for her. ‘No.'

‘Then why've you got a gun?'

‘People like me need a weapon. Are you going to do what I tell you?' He looked like he wasn't sure he wanted to go anywhere with her. ‘You don't have to come. I can take you to a station and you can get a train to your grandparents' house.'

‘No. I want to help find Dad.'

‘Then you do what I say.'

‘Okay. What's at the house?'

‘The computer.'

*

Fresh panic had pushed Max hard, scrabbling in the darkness, calling out to Rennie, hoping and dreading she was down here with him. Had her past come after her? Had she lured violence to Haven Bay? Fear and anger felt
the same.

He didn't have the energy to sustain the pace, though, and now he could barely shuffle one knee in front of the other. He couldn't save himself, let alone the woman he loved. Falling against the wall, clenching his fists around the dry sand under his hands, he felt a stone and threw it. Frustration, futility, a final fit of pique.

The tap was close. Very close – and different from the sound that came off the rock. Sharper, tinnier. He stretched out a hand, edging forwards. Fingertips, then his whole hand touched the cool, rough and smooth surface of a brick wall – and something stirred in
his memory.

He used the brickwork to drag himself to his feet, patting high, low, wide. It was built into the tunnel, curved where it met the roof, mortar bulging like ooze between the rectangular blocks.

Squeezing his eyes tight, he tried to hold the memory his mind was catching on. What was it? He relaxed his face, fought for slow, even breaths, pleading with the memory to keep still long enough for him to get a hold. It was . . . in the dark, running, shouting.

‘
James!
' Max was calling. He was a kid, the sound of his thudding feet and crazy laughter echoing around him. He had a torch in his hand but it didn't work. It didn't matter: he only had to go in a straight line. ‘
James!
Slow down!
' The tips of his fingers were stinging as he trailed them along the rock, making sure he didn't run right into it.

A rock wall? The same one?

How many could
there be?

He skidded around the corner, trotted through the doorway, climbing up and out into bright sunlight that hurt his eyes, flopping to the ground, laughing and panting, exhilarated by the speed and the darkness and the thrill.

‘You're a fucking dickhead, Max.' James was above him, sweating
and mad.

‘What? It wasn't me. The torch ran out of juice.'

‘Bullshit. You did it on purpose.'

Max hitched himself up. ‘What's wrong? The torch has carked it before.'

‘We were bloody miles in.' James was stalking about in front of him. ‘You think you're so fucking clever. Fucking clever and fucking funny. And you're not. You're a dickhead and you can just piss off.'

They were both dickheads back then, hormone-addled teenage boys. Max remembered his adolescent ‘gotcha' chuckle at realising his cousin was scared of the dark. And his pathetic shout as James was flouncing into the trees: ‘
You
piss off!
'

Max shook his head. Ironic, wasn't it, that Max was the one who ended up with the darkness phobia. And why was he remembering that? There was no brick wall in that memory. The torch had died, they'd . . . 

Wait, another time. He saw it hovering behind his eyes, squinted to encourage it.

A blink of light. On then off.

‘Yeah, okay, hilarious, Max. You can you turn the bloody thing back on now.' It
was Pav.

‘No, mate, seriously. The torch is dead.'

‘Let me see it.'

‘You can see it all you like if you've got more batteries.'

Pav fumbled along Max's arm before he found the lamp in his hand. Max listened to a couple of thumps, a metallic unscrewing and rescrewing, a bit of rattling and a stream
of Polish.

‘You been eating many carrots lately?'
Max asked.

‘They'd need to be grown in nuclear waste.'

‘Ah . . . why?'

‘So our eyes would glow in the dark.'

‘Now there's a good look. How about a phone instead?' Max pulled his mobile from his back pocket, flipped it open and a dull, blue glow lit up his hand. ‘Better than nothing.' He turned it around to show Pav and saw the brickwork behind his head in the gloom. Mortar oozing between cheap, red blocks of clay.

Like the ones under his hands.

Was he
there
? ‘Oh, fuck.'

He knew the spot. He and James would've run past it the day the torch failed. It was erected when the council got worried about insurance and kids getting lost. It still left several kilometres to explore – a long, long way when he had to do it on his hands and knees and
in pain.

Sinking to his butt again, he leaned against the cool, lumpy surface and tried not to think about the distance. Told himself it was easy now, just a straight line to
the exit.

Unless the council had put in more brick walls. It was years since he'd been down here. That day with Pav was probably the last time. He and Trish had only been in town a few months and Max was doing his, ‘Let
me
show
you
the bay'.

At the time, he thought Pav was a nice guy with a who-gives-a-shit attitude, a laugh like a clap of thunder and a cool accent. Later, he was a mate, the kind you need when your life turns to hell. He didn't judge, didn't tell him it would get better, didn't try to fix anything. Just listened and nodded and said that's the way it goes sometimes. Maybe it was something Polish or European, from a place where death and devastation had cut a regular swathe over the centuries, where people grew up understanding about horror and survival and picking through wreckage for the things you need to
start over.

Max pushed himself to his hands and knees, found the wall to his left and started up again. Christ, it hurt. His palms and kneecaps were sore, his back ached and his arms trembled – and they were just the new pains on the list. He didn't want to think about the others. They were telling him he was thirsty and sick and weak. Too weak. That he'd die if he didn't find his way out soon. Maybe he'd die even if
he did.