Vanished, James Delargy [i like reading books txt] 📗

be easy but Mike was always a pain in the arse, unwilling to bend, that constant clack, clack of his fucking gum. He didn’t understand that these things require flexibility.’ He paused. ‘Of course, there are limits. Sometimes resoluteness is required.’

Naiyana stared at him. She understood what he was getting at. One of those times of resoluteness was coming up. If they found Lorcan and Dylan, Ian would decide if there was to be another body. Or two. Or three. She was determined to make that her decision.

123

Lorcan

It hadn’t taken long for him to grow impatient with Dylan’s own impatience. Every two minutes he wanted a break or asked where his mum was or drifted off in a direction that wasn’t conducive to reaching Hurton. And then Perth he had decided. Not Adelaide. Despite the menace of Nikos Iannis.

He had also ruled out going to a police station. There was no station in Hurton for starters and the police would only ask questions. And he wasn’t sure if he had answers. Or if he would have answers to anything ever again given how clouded his brain was. There was only one certainty. That he had killed someone and that he would be killed if he stayed in Kallayee. Every step further from town helped confirm it a little more.

There was a second reason for not going to the police. They would attempt to contact Nee. Making it his word against the other two. His fingerprints were on the gold. And on the rifle in his hand. Stevie’s murder weapon. He should dump it, but he couldn’t let it go. It was his only protection.

Naiyana held the upper hand. She might have been an adulterer but that was not a crime. In a criminal sense she was merely a bystander, a witness, present when Ian had shot Mike. She could claim that she was forced to help him dispose of the bodies, a woman in love with a powerful criminal, under his spell, in fear of her life. Pure bullshit. But bullshit that could fly with a jury. So, he would go to jail. And she would get custody of Dylan.

So it was back to Perth and wait. If she did come for Dylan, then he would be surrounded by his family. He would go for her as hard as she went for him.

But given the current rate of progress, he and Dylan would be camped out here overnight amongst the dirt and the dingoes. He could try and sell it as a further adventure like before but Dylan was exhausted and emotional. His new complaint was that he wanted to go back and get his trucks. The only mine still operating in town. The complaints quickly turned to tears and he grew concerned that the crying might draw unwanted attention. From people or animals. Worse yet, the wailing drowned out the possibility of hearing anyone approach.

As they made it over the sand dune, his feet going ankle deep in the boiling hot sand and scorching whatever hair remained on his ankles, he helped his son down the other side, acting as Dylan’s eyes and ears now that his body was locked in tantrum.

At the bottom he paused. As they got closer to Hurton his chance of picking up a signal increased. It was a faint hope, but phone signals were like magic sometimes. Maybe the earth would give him a helping hand. Maybe he was standing on a bed of iron ore that would boost the signal, if that was even a thing. He checked his pockets. And again. The phone was gone. He tried to recall when he had it last but…

Through the air came the sound of an engine. Faint, possibly distant, direction unknown. It seemed to fade and he wondered if he was imagining it. He looked ahead. They were over the massive dune and if it wasn’t for the trees and scrub Hurton would have been visible in the distance. They were less than halfway there but reaching it by nightfall wasn’t impossible. If they increased the pace.

The sound of the engine suddenly returned, roaring, drowning out everything else. He looked back as the white Toyota bounded over the crest, rearing into the air like a beast on the attack, its front wheels in the air, exposing the sand-clogged mechanics underneath.

It was coming straight for them.

124

Emmaline

With the licence number and description of the 1990 Commodore out across all states along with Ian Kinch’s photo and alias, Emmaline and her team tried to narrow down his ultimate location.

Oily had put forward the option of a city, north to Darwin, east to Brisbane, or the long haul south to Sydney; but with their names and descriptions now on the daily news cycle it was a risk. The openness of the country was considered more likely, but didn’t narrow down the options for investigation.

A break came. From a gas station north of Alice, about an hour up the Stuart Highway. The owner reported serving someone who looked a lot like Ian Kinch. Over a week ago.

Emmaline, Oily and Cooper made it out there in half an hour. It was a station that looked as if it was barely holding together, never mind barely scraping by. It consisted of two pumps that looked like relics from an old movie, a concourse where the white lines had been slowly scoured away by the sandpaper wind, and a main building that looked serviceable if unlovable.

The owner waved them inside, the air con whirring and the fridges fully stocked with everything a traveller would need.

The large man stuck out his equally large hand, his face open and friendly; a wide, beaming smile peeking from behind his dark lips. It was a smile that reminded Emmaline of her father, engaging and loving. She warmed to him immediately.

‘Mr Atijabawal?’ asked Emmaline.

‘Call me Orad,’ he said, as they convened at the counter. ‘You want anything to drink? Coke?