The Killing Hour (18 page)

I glance at my watch. The two minutes have already passed. We’re heading up to three.

I nod towards the bag in the centre of the room. ‘There are clothes in there.’

Jo stands and grabs it. It’s difficult opening the bag but we rescue the clothes Landry had been wearing. On top of them is a towel. He came prepared to get bloody. Or wet. Either way he was right. My bloody shorts in the plastic evidence bag are in there too.

Jo towels herself down, then I follow suit. I’m still freezing and my body hasn’t given up shaking. I can feel the heat from the fire but it is only warming up my skin. It’s my core that’s chilled. We reach five minutes. I change into Landry’s clothes. They’re a bit big but they’re dry. Jo adds a couple of logs as more smoke spills into the cabin. It looks like we’re sitting in the smoking section of a cramped restaurant. I grab the oval rug, clutching it in fingers that are starting to ache as feeling returns. I wrap the rug around us and we sit there staring into the flames. Six minutes now. Rags of smoke are hanging lower in the air.

‘We have to go,’ I say, happy I can now feel the words coming from my mouth. She nods. The smoke sits thickly in the damp air. I could reach up and my hand would disappear into it.

‘I know.’

Jo hooks out the two logs she just put into the fire and puts them into the duffel bag, which smothers the flames. She pushes the bag into my chest.

‘Hug this,’ she says. ‘It isn’t much, but it’s something.’

The bag feels like a lumpy hot water bottle.

‘We’ve got clothes in the boot of my car,’ she says, picking up her pants and hunting through them for the keys.

I hand her the duffel bag, then pull on Landry’s shoes. They’re too big but they do the job. I haul the rug over me, open the door and run outside. The ground plucks at my shoes and tries to steal them with sucking sounds but Cyris doesn’t jump out from the trees and shoot me so maybe things are picking up. The rain hasn’t eased off and perhaps it never will. My arms and legs feel warm but my stomach and chest are cold.

Jo’s car is twenty metres from the cabin, out of sight from the front. It’s unlocked. I grab the suitcases and quickly make my way back. I have to leave the door open so the smoke can escape as she dresses herself. I change out of Landry’s clothes into dry ones of my own. I throw Landry’s into the fire. We leave the fire and lanterns burning and, unarmed, head back outside. I keep hugging the duffel bag even though it has cooled somewhat. Nine minutes have passed. We use the rug to protect us from the rain. We dump the bags into the trunk. There are still two stakes in there. I take one out for protection. I leave the tyre iron in the boot.

We climb into the car right on the ten-minute mark. I turn the key and the motor kicks into life. So does the heater. I turn it to full and it blasts cold air at us that is warmer than we are. It starts to warm up. So do we. Ahead of us is Landry’s car.

‘Cyris followed you, right?’

‘Must have,’ Jo replies.

‘Where’s his car?’

‘Maybe he parked further away so he could sneak up.’

Makes perfect sense. A guy like Cyris isn’t going to drive right up to the cabin.

‘Just like you did,’ I say.

She flashes me her first genuine smile since I tied her up and kidnapped her. ‘Exactly.’

I gun the engine, put the duffel bag in my lap and start my three-point turn. It takes me around six or seven points to do it. We head back up the track and quickly come across Cyris’s car – a white Honda. Seeing my car tells me two things. First, when Cyris went through my house he learned about Jo. Second, he figured out what our plans were for tonight. He went to her house, possibly ransacked it, and found my car in her garage. He somehow got my car started, then watched the watchers.

I try to imagine his state of mind when he saw me being arrested. Was he happy or pissed off? I don’t know. I don’t even know if Cyris has a state of mind. What I do know is his plans were altered. With nothing else to do he followed.

‘What if he’s in there?’ I ask.

‘He won’t be in there. If he’d made it back he would come to the cabin.’

‘I guess.’ I open my door. ‘Lock up behind me.’

‘Charlie?’

I lean down and look back in. ‘Yeah?’

‘Don’t forget what we discussed earlier.’

‘The police. Right. We’ll go right there. I promise.’

I close the door and run to my car, fishing for my keys, which I’ve taken from my wet jeans. The rain starts to soak me but I don’t care. I pause and look back to make sure she’s locking her doors. She is. Her headlights blind me, leaving coloured flashes streaking across my vision. I fumble my door open, rubbing my eyes with my fingers, trying to arrange the colours back into some type of sensible order. I lock my door. There’s a generic-looking Honda key in the ignition. I pull it out and use my own to start the car. I turn the lights on, shining them at Jo. Hers are shining right back. I turn my heater on full, aiming the air at my feet and face. I try to get into reverse gear but my hand is wet and it slips off. I wipe it across the passenger seat, then try again. This time it works. I twist around to look out the back window.

At the same time Cyris pops the back seat down and crawls out of the boot.

32

Money makes the world go around. It makes it, yeah, it makes it, yes it does, and money is the reason he’s here doing this, doing any of this, and if he can focus on money then this situation can end up exactly as he planned. It can be different from this nightmare he’s been trapped in since the knife tore up his innards.

Money.

His head hurts, the world spins quicker than he can, and his stomach throbs. The duct tape pulls at the skin and he wonders if he’s infected, yeah, infected, and he needs to take the medication but the medication is … The medication is somewhere, but it only helps to numb the pain. It doesn’t heal the wound, it doesn’t cure him or make last Monday go away. He wants revenge, revenge and money, and it’s hard to know which he wants more.

‘Start driving,’ he says, and pushes the gun towards Charlie.

His head seems to be clearing. Not much, but enough to know this isn’t all about killing people. He knows he’s capable of speech, capable of command, knows that with the shotgun he has the power to get exactly what he wants.

‘I said start driving, arsehole.’

He hid in the back of the car like a bug, out of sight, with the shotgun, and boy, what a good plan, a great plan, and he’s so pleased with himself he’s smiling and starting to laugh, but he must hold back the laughter, must cling to the excitement but not let it take him over.

Charlie starts to nod and he wonders what sort of mess he would make inside the car if he were to start shooting people. People? There’s only Charlie. Anyway, the shotgun won’t shoot anything in its current condition.

Something digs into the side of his hip. He adjusts his position and digs his fingers into his pocket. Bracelets? Metal ones. With a chain running between them. And blood all over them. A key is sitting in one of the locks. A key that was in his satchel that he’d left on the passenger seat.

He thinks about the money. He wonders what a suitcase full of money would look like if he were to shoot a hole in the middle of it. Would it turn into confetti? Would it turn into loose change? A suitcase of money. Just think … just think how it would feel to run his fingers through all those loose bills …

And then he remembers! Money. He has a suitcase full of money at home! No, no he doesn’t, but he does have a suitcase full of money owing to him. Or maybe a briefcase. All of this was for money. Money is the reason he got stabbed, it’s the reason he wants revenge. In his mind he can picture part of the note he wrote to himself and he remembers that he has to pick up the money, so really he doesn’t need Charlie at all.

Charlie is reversing now and he finds a spot where he can turn the car around.

‘Don’t try anything,’ Cyris says, and Charlie shakes his head. Does that mean he doesn’t understand? Or that he disagrees? Or that he won’t try anything?

When they reach the motorway he tells Charlie to put his foot down.

‘What’s the hurry?’

‘You’ll learn soon enough,’ he says, glancing into the mirror and seeing that the bitch is close behind them. ‘We’ll all learn soon enough.’

33

What’s a night without two homicidal maniacs? A boring night, that’s what. So right now I am, as they say, pretty fucking far from bored.

I don’t remember Cyris sounding this crazy but that could be because we didn’t talk much when we first met. The only thing I can think to do is crash the car into something solid in the hope Jo can get away, but that plan has a huge drawback – she will come to help. Cyris might still be alive and I might not. Who will protect her then?

Who’s protected her so far?

‘What do you want?’ I strain to keep my voice controlled.

‘Shut up and drive.’

The wipers roam across the windscreen, smearing the rain from side to side. I shut up and drive. No point in arguing. I try to think of a way I can signal Jo – Morse code with the brake lights or something.

‘The box, what’s in the box? You saw the box? It was a present. I hope you liked it.’

‘How’s the stomach?’ I ask.

‘Whose stomach?’ he asks.

‘Your stomach.’

‘I’ll live.’

‘That’s a real shame.’

He pushes the gun into my ribs. ‘Why don’t you concentrate on driving.’

I do just that, again following the orders of the man with the gun. Common practice. And I’ve been practising a lot. When I flick the headlights to high beam the rain looks thicker. There’s no other traffic on this road in the middle of nowhere. I feel like taking my hands off the wheel and seeing where fate steers my car. I’ve had enough. Enough guilt. Enough pain. Enough of people dying around me. I’ve become a catalyst for death and I don’t like it.

The duffel bag has cooled down so I dump it onto the passenger floor. Cyris doesn’t mention it. The heater is combining with my rage to warm me up. I’m picking it might be like drinking alcohol when you’re suffering from hypothermia. You feel warmer, but you’re not. Your body’s fooling you. And you die. End of story.

Is this to be my story?

The rain begins to ease off. I slow the windscreen wipers so that every second they sweep across and show me the dark night ahead. I watch the road and concentrate on driving over the wet asphalt. My knuckles are sore from squeezing the steering wheel. My fingers are white. Slowly I unclench them. The joints pop.

‘You look tense, partner.’

Yeah, that’s right.

‘Money, Feldman, how much of it do you have?’

This question surprises me. I think about it. ‘I’m not sure. It’s all wet, anyway.’

‘Wet? Wet, how? How did … no, no, no, not the money in your pockets, the money in your bank. How many dollars do you have?’

‘Nothing.’

He pushes the gun in harder. I glance at him in the mirror. He’s blinking rapidly. ‘That’s a lie. You’re lying, lying, and lying people catch on fire. I know you have money. I’ve seen your house, I looked at your money statements.’

‘I’m a schoolteacher, not a doctor. I have a mortgage. Do you know what that means?’

‘I know you’re a teacher, I know this, I know, and I’m not a moron.’

‘The bank owns my house, not me.’

He draws the gun back, then pushes it in harder still.

I jerk away. The car swerves across the road. I tug at the wheel, change down a couple of gears and the car swerves right, then straightens. My reactions defy my thoughts of crashing.

‘How much you got?’ Cyris asks as if nothing just happened. I glance into the rear-view mirror. Jo is still behind us but much further back now. Can money get us out of this?

‘Not much.’

‘You owe me forty grand.’

‘What?’

‘I could do with some money, partner. Forty grand sounds pretty sweet.’

Forty grand. I have a strong feeling why he picked that amount. ‘Get a job.’

‘I have a job.’

Things that didn’t make sense on Monday are making some sense now. Things seem clearer since I talked to Landry. One of the world’s biggest motives to kill, after revenge, is money. That’s exactly what Cyris is asking for now. So I know he likes money. Wants money. Was that his goal on Monday? Was he being paid?

I think about the unnecessary violence. I think about why he killed both Luciana and Kathy. It’s just as I told Landry – to kill one woman would make the police look at obvious reasons, then obvious suspects. To kill them both in a horrific and brutal way makes the entire thing look ritualistic. It makes it look like she died for an entirely different set of reasons. Like some random madman dragged them both from their homes and committed madman atrocities on them.

Cyris is more than a mere monster. He’s a paid killer. A man who takes his job seriously enough to take on a completely different role. As horrid as it is, I can appreciate the cleverness in his process. The police are looking for some deranged lunatic because Cyris
was
a deranged lunatic in those early Monday hours.

What role is he trapped in now?

We pass a reflective sign extended out over the highway from a large white pole. Christchurch is only sixty kilometres away. We’ll be there in well under an hour. I slide the heater control to the little picture of feet and kick off my shoes. I jam my toes as far as I can towards the air while still being able to push on the accelerator. I’ve thawed out slightly. The ice in my veins is melting. The fear isn’t.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing.’ I keep on driving.

‘You’ve got two days,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Didn’t I make myself clear? Are you an idiot?’

‘Humour me.’

‘Two days. Forty grand. I’m sure you can arrange that.’

‘Sure.’

‘Speed up, I don’t want to be out here all night.’

I speed up and the headlights in my mirror get smaller.

‘Faster!’

I push my foot down and Jo’s headlights soon disappear. Ahead of us the two eastbound lanes of the motorway narrow into one. The road winds around a bit but the view doesn’t change – just paddocks and more paddocks. When Cyris tells me to pull over I don’t question him. I slow down, braking and changing down gears. I need more time to think. I can’t let him out of the car. Can’t let him get hold of Jo.