The Worm King (46 page)

Snow said to the twins. ‘Who wants to go
with nice Captain Forsyth?’

‘Captain
Forsyth?’
wailed one in
disbelief.

‘No!’ exclaimed the other.

‘Yes, Captain Forsyth. He’s in the Army.’ Snow
pronounced army slowly, as if they were fully-blown ’tards and didn’t know an
army from a leggy. ‘You’ll be—’

‘No!’ they repeated in unison, strangely more
nervous of him than he usually got.

He crouched, finding it awkward with his
right-hand held up by the handcuff, nevertheless eased himself to something nearer
their level. The girls were connected to a lower section and a strut prevented
his bracelet sliding down as far as theirs. ‘Afternoon ladies.’ He nodded, touching
his hat in salute. The girls were exceptionally attractive with cute little blonde
ringlets, olive skin and sky-blue eyes. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance. We’ve
got a bit of an adventure going on here and I wondered if I could ask for your
help?’

One looked as if she were wavering, so he
asked her name.

‘Natasha. And this is my sister, Krystal.’

‘Please God, don’t do this!’ cried Astrid.

The handrail had some give so he wiggled it
while talking. The screws were widely placed and it shouldn’t be too difficult
to get the two middle ones off . . . then an ugly thought
occurred: Snow may not cuff him to the girl, with the chain running behind the
handrail, he might lock them both onto the rail itself, as he was now. Then he’d
have to unscrew the whole thing to get them both off!

A movement behind Bob at the edge of the
light caught his eye. Wiremu? He glanced around but saw nothing. After setting
the devise the Māori had intended waiting behind a stack of pallets near
the loading bay turning area but so far there’d been no sign of him.

Snow stared at Astrid, watching her for an
overly long time. He turned to the group by the dock and something must’ve twigged.
His eyes narrowed; the skin around his mouth tightened; the muscles in his neck
stood out like bullwhips. Was it just Astrid, or had he seen Wiremu too?

‘Why?’ he barked. She looked down, guiltily not
replying. ‘I told you I’ll release them, you have my word, so why are you so
worried?’

She broke down sobbing, struggling to answer
but nothing sensible came out. If it was an act to fool Snow and head off his
questions, it didn’t work.

‘Why?’ he persisted.

She blubbered to a stop. ‘Well . . . they
might fall off. It doesn’t look very safe.’

He was ready for that. ‘I’m positive they’ll
be fine.’ Almost as an afterthought, he said to Bob: ‘Get in and start her up. Make
sure it works.’

‘Hop up there, and we’ll test this out,’ he ordered
the twins, waving the glock at the platform. The girls scrambled up easily but
this didn’t leave much room for Forsyth and he ended hunched over with one boot
on the platform and the other down on the truck bumper.

Snow took half a dozen paces back from the
truck and surveyed the position. The engine rumbled to life. He watched Astrid,
and the faces of those standing at the loading bay rather than the vehicle
itself. All staunchly held their ground. They didn’t even budge when the truck
bunny-hopped forwards in a jerky, clutchless ten-meter test drive. Bob switched
it off, jumped out, and Snow looked relieved but still cast another suspicious
glance at Astrid, then those at the loading bay. Forsyth and the twins hung off
the handrail.

The nine minute and twenty second countdown
had begun.

One had to stay and one had to leave, and quickly
too, so he could start work on those screws.

‘Bend down, both of you,’ said Snow to the
girls. ‘Quickly,’ he snarled. ‘Which one?’ He jiggled the key. ‘Who’s going for
a wee ride?’

After five infinitely long seconds, every
moment of which Snow clearly wanted to grab one at random, the girl on the left
timidly said, ‘I’ll go.’ Snow undid the other girl’s bracelet and reattached it
to the handrail. The link chain had twisted around itself and they may’ve crossed
over when climbing onto the platform so Forsyth wasn’t sure whether Natasha or
Krystal had been freed.

While Snow was sidetracked with the cuffs,
Forsyth happened to glance at the loading bay and saw Wiremu, right in the
middle of the group, gesturing towards the truck. Geeing them up to attack!

The twin who’d been released hugged her
sister, kissing her cheek and refusing to get down so Snow put a hand under her
armpit and heaved the girl off, dropping her roughly to the ground. ‘No!’ she
screamed. Astrid rushed forward to restrain her.

The group at the loading bay advanced slowly,
now only forty-odd meters away and Snow finally noticed, although didn’t appear
to have spotted the extra Māori amongst them. It’d be a bloodbath. Forsyth
shook his head vehemently and gave a cryptic thumbs-down with his free hand,
not caring in the least if Snow saw. Whatever it took to stop them charging. Apart
from the single round fired in the showroom, Snow and Bob both had full clips
and a clear field of fire so a charge from that distance would see many die
with a low probability of success.

Bob passed his pistol to Snow and
disappeared up the driver’s side of the truck.

‘Where are you dropping us?’

No answer.

Forsyth knew he was connected to the
handrail in the worst possible way, and needed to conduct an urgent reappraisal
of the screw situation.

The truck engine started up. A second later
Snow vanished, then the passenger door slammed and they were away, taking off
with a spring and a bounce that would’ve undoubtedly rimmed the device if Bob’s
earlier test-drive hadn’t already done so.

The truck did a left onto the street. Wiremu
ran out from the loading bay, following with arms raised and palms upturned, an
agonized, imploring expression on his face, mouthing: ‘Why!?’

There wasn’t a moment to lose. The girl
asked him something but he ignored her, his auxiliary already out and focused
intently on finding that first screw. Then he saw the bolt.

Bolt?

It was bolted on too. How could he have
imagined a ladders handrail would only be screwed on! Apart from the eight
oversized screws, there were at least four substantial bolts tucked under the
inside of the seam where each handrail strut met ladder support plate.

Bolt-On! Lord of darkness.

His index finger caressed the head of one of
the screws. Rust. In fact so much rust the groove barely felt discernable. Those
screws weren’t coming out in a month of Sundays.

The bolts and screws jumbled together in a vicious
conundrum and the girl said something about the sky which he tried to blot out
because a solution was presenting itself but hard to concentrate on, with her screaming
in his ear like that.

Bolt-on: black prince of pain.

One chance left. One solitary window. Tie a
tourniquet on his arm above the elbow using the emergency cord he always carried,
and saw his hand off, then drop to the road. The auxiliary would do it easily. Well,
there’d be nothing actually easy about it: he’d probably pass out from shock so
with any luck the others arrived and found him fairly soon. But did he really
want the last thing this girl watched in her short life, before being blown to smithereens,
to be him, hacking his own arm off? Then fleeing? Wait on! Do her arm first!! Then
himself and they could both get away!

No. The mechanics of this were too appalling
to even contemplate.

They passed the Yass town limits and Snow
obviously had no intention of letting them off. Nor would he risk a quick stop,
to deal to them on the roadside: it was back to the Hyatt and be taken care of
there.

Their options had shrunk to the Hyatt, or take
what the Ruarangi Special had to offer—which they’d find out about in nine
minutes and twenty minus . . . minus, how long since they’d
left? Every second thinking about that can of worms was just time wasted.

He retracted the blade and slipped it into
his breast pocket within easy reach. There was still the hundred-to-one chance
Snow actually did stop, although he almost certainly wouldn’t. Why would he? Their
last chance of escape had evaporated. There’d be no more windows. At least one
of the girls got away, and if the one chained up here was the only real cost . . . 

Only?

It could’ve been a lot worse. One loss. Because
he
didn’t count, pure and simple. He’d a debt to repay so deep and vast it
made him a completely worthless counter in this game. When you roll the dice
that often, you know you’ll have to cash the chips in one day, but can never really
pinpoint when. It’s called a Redemption.

‘Can I get my hand down please?’

‘That better?’ He dropped his arm lower,
keeping a tight grasp on her bracelet in case they hit a bump.

Redemptions are hugely overrated. He wasn’t
sure whether he was ending the life of this girl or saving the life of her
sister back at Big Yass. The best you can do when hostiles have overrun the
position like this, and you’re getting fully redeemed and rimmed good and
proper, and you’ve blown your last round, is just stay calm, and see what crops
up. Try and think happy thoughts. That’s straight from the Special Forces
tactical-psychological training guide. Or maybe it was a theory of old
Brownies? Might be hard to explain to the girl though. Yes darling, it’s like . . . Sesame
Street with firearms. Yeah, that side-street where Bert and Ernie cart M20’s
and will pop a cap on yo arse bitch as soon as look at you.

So, happy thoughts then.

The light on his side of the truck shone better
than the other side. The front headlight must be buggered on the girl’s side
and Bob wasn’t taking it much over seventy as they motored along, dead in the
middle of the highway, occasionally swerving to avoid obstacles but he may as
well have had it on cruise control, not that this old heap would have that. The
rear lights threw a soft, red glow onto the platform. The girl sat bum down on
the metal plate with her feet on top of the bumper. He squatted beside her, with
all of one boot and half the other comfortably on the platform. They were in a
wind pocket, and apart from the odd bounce, it was surprisingly comfortable. The
rocking motion reminded him of . . . it reminded him of
this day way, way back, when he must’ve been about nine, and they were swinging
off a rope into the creek near their house. His brother caught this catfish so
huge it took both of them to proudly carry home and show their mum.

‘What shape is that?’ said the girl.

‘Pardon?’ He hardly needed to raise his
voice.

‘There. Look.’ She pointed up at the sky, towards
the rear.

A distinct glimmer of light floated high above,
even the faintest outline of a cloud. They were heading south, so you’d expect
the sun to be more or less in that position at this time of day.

‘Do you think my sister will be all right?’

It seemed a shame she hadn’t used her
sister’s name, then he’d know
her
name. Somehow, “What’s your name?”
sounded too trite, given the circumstances.

‘I’m sure she’ll be fine.’ He squeezed her
shoulder confidently. Astrid and Francesco would undoubtedly take care of her
sister. The image of petrol gnawing through rubber elbowed its way into his
brain.

‘Shape? Oh yes, I see.’ She’d meant the
cloud which even in the last few seconds had become more prominent. Roughly zeppelin-shaped,
with narrowing pillars underneath looking vaguely like long legs, and a knobbly
bit on top like a head, all flecked with color. ‘It’s a . . . horsey.’

‘Horsey?’ she replied indignantly.

‘Sorry, horse I mean.’ He tried to elaborate.
‘It’s a horse, and she’s flanking across a grid square to, umm . . . a
tea party.’

‘No way!’ The truck swung around some object
on the road and he tightened his grip on her bracelet but she didn’t seem
perturbed by the ride. ‘Whose party is it?’

‘Umm, it’s a friend of the horse. One of the
sheep, who lives in the barn with her.’

‘A sheep?’

‘Roger that. This sheep’s name is . . . Shirley.
Shirley the sheep, and she owns a Ferris wheel, so she’s having a big party.’

‘Is it a big Ferris wheel?’

‘It’s got M20’s on it, so yes it is.’

‘Is the Ferris wheel in the barn too?’

‘Of course not! How could Shirley keep a
Ferris wheel inside like that? Can you imagine the logistics?’

She laughed and the tinkling sound of it was
so wonderful he nearly cried. ‘What color do you think the horse is?’ She pointed
at the cloud again.

‘Guess,’ he prompted.

‘I need a clue. What’s her name?’

Forsyth gazed at the sky, and the cloud, and
then looked down at the girl. He remembered a pony he once won a stack on at
Randwick one day, during spring carnival. ‘Well, when she was young she used to
be a racehorse, and her name was Flamingo; so what color do you think she is?’

‘I know! I know! Flamingo is p—’