‘Got a better idea.’ He grabs the Gatorade and tosses me a set of keys, keys I’m familiar with. ‘You’re outta gas? There’s your ticket.’ He nods at the Pitbull, parked across the street.
I blink. But I have to admit, the Pitbull does have ‘getaway car’ written all over it. ‘Where’d you get the keys?’
‘Swiped ’em.’ He looks pretty pleased with himself. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get movin’.’
With a last look at my Honda, I jog across the street, unlock the Pitbull and slide behind the wheel. Reggie trots around to the passenger side, takes a swig of Gatorade as he shuts the door. The big engine starts without a hitch. It growls smoothly as I handle the car off the curb and onto the road, doing a U-turn to get back onto the main drag. The steering is about a million times more sensitive than my Honda, and I have to pay attention.
‘Okay, head for the river,’ Reggie says, putting his window down. ‘It’s a bit south from here. When I see something I know, I’ll give you a yell.’
I yank my phone out of my pocket and hand it to him. ‘Check for any messages – look under “Patient #451”.’
‘Nah, there’s nothing,’ he replies, after a pause.
‘Okay.’ That’s pretty much what I was expecting. ‘Now send a text for me. Go to ‘Dad’ –’
‘They said your dad’s a cop.’ He looks wary. ‘Is that for real?’
‘Yes, he’s a senior sergeant. Now say –’
‘Shit. Will I get busted if this all goes down?’
‘Reggie–’
‘Okay, okay. Fine.’ Reggie holds the phone gingerly. ‘Whaddya wanna say?’
I think quickly. ‘SayHarris made– full stop –S and A holding in river location– full stop –Checking placesnow– full stop –Call Murphy asap. Have you got all that?’
‘How d’you spell ‘location’?’
I spell it for him, repeat the rest until he’s managed to get it texted.
‘Why don’t you just call him yourself?’ he asks, handing the phone back
I turn off my phone and slip it into my pocket, keep my eyes forward. ‘Because he’ll only try to talk me out of going to find Harris, and I don’t have time for an argument right now.’
We clunk over the rail line, passing corner stores and fish and chip shops, wheelie bins on street corners, mechanics’ garages. Houses here on the edge of town are fenced with corrugated iron or chicken wire. Long rows of grapevines stretch out into the paddocks behind people’s backyards.
‘Here!’ Reggie’s hand jerks out. ‘Turn here.’
I turn left, towards the river. This is like the back way I drive to reach the usual rendezvous point. Clouds high above are overwhelming the sun as we head closer to the Murray. Below them, the only tall things are the power poles and the occasional stand of gums.
We pass a guy fence-posting beside his ute, on the left side of the road. Reggie sits up straighter. ‘This bit. There’s a house up here and some vine sheds –’
He’s right: the house is a cream weatherboard, lonesome amongst the acres of vines. A large tin shed hulks behind, and Reggie points out where the road doglegs into another straight stretch. A collection of sheds stands halfway down on the right. Far at the end of the road, I see a T-junction, the intersecting road running parallel with the river.
Tension is bubbling below the surface of my skin, ready to crest high and send me reeling. Better to focus on what I’m doing right now. When Reggie swears hard, I startle. ‘What? What is it?’
‘Oh fuck.’ His face has gone chalky. ‘That’s –’
He’s pointing at another vehicle approaching the junction from the right, on the intersecting road. It’s a Land Cruiser. Even from here it looks enormous, as if it should be pulling a road train or something.
‘That’sAndo’s fucking car,’ Reggie rasps. ‘Oh Jesus…’
And I realise what we’ve done wrong as soon as the words fall out of his mouth.
‘This was a mistake,’ I whisper. Reggie grabs the sleeve of my shirt, but I know it. I can feel it. ‘The Pitbull… Oh god, he’ll recognise the car.’
Our eyes are glued to the Land Cruiser as it passes the T-junction, hoping against hope…
