I disappear outside, scanning the dark yard. The edges are lined with barbed wire, the grass limp and yellowing. Lawn chairs are scattered around a fish cleaning station under the shade of a ghost gum. A rusted boat is parked next to a hammock, its hull streaked with moss, weeds, and grime.
Stepping quickly, I walk the length of the shed, looking for doors. Behind me, the crowd hums with noise.
1:52a.m.
Not long until showtime, whatever that is.
At the far back of the squat land are two sheds tucked to the right-hand side. One shed is larger, with a wide roll-up door. I turn slightly, looking behind me, but there’s no one there.
I run, sprinting hard for the larger shed, weaving around broken beer bottles as it looms closer. I make it to the roller door, pausing once to look over my shoulder. A squat man carries a beer slab into the industrial shed, and I duck to the ground and wait.
1:54a.m.
Six minutes to go.
I crouch beside the roller door, panting silently, lifting my head, watching the squat man disappear inside. Then I grip the door and yank it up as quietly as I can.
I peer into the darkness, blinking hard. High ceilings equipped with exhaust fans—that’s the first thing I see. The second is the washing machines. Four of them, silver and black, stacked side by side along the left wall. On the right, four bathtubs in a vertical row. I blink when I see the five gas stoves lining the back wall, four burners each in a gridlike pattern on the cooktop. Blink again at the giant stainless-steel cooking pots discarded around the room.
I creep forward until my knee brushes the first tub rim. I look down. Then I stagger to the next, and the next.
Each bathtub is three-quarters full of something soaking in filthy, coffee-colored water. I reach in and pull one out. The shell is oval shaped, encrusted with algae, and it fits snugly into my palm. I shuck it open with my knife, the meat inside smooth and pale beige.
Abalone. A shitload of abalone. A processing facility. Illegal as hell.
I plunge my free hand in, grasping another in my fist. I rub my thumb over the slimy flesh, shaking my head. There’s easily a quarter million dollars’ worth here.
I peer behind me before slipping the abalone back into the water. Then I remove my phone from my pocket.
1:56a.m.
Four minutes. Quickly, I pull the roller door down, gliding it smoothly down the tracks. I spend the next minute snapping photos, wincing each time the flash goes off. I find three Cryovac machines perched on a shelf, near the last bathtub.
I shake my head as I snap more photos. So they wash them, dry them, and then vacuum-seal them here, before exporting them. Is Heath involved? Has he always been?
…And do I want to be?
1:57a.m.
Three minutes until showtime…
I pause, thinking of the stage. Is that what showtime is? Is this whole fucked-up night an illegal abalone ring? Do they go out under the cover of night, bagging it? Bringing it back, seeing who caught the most?
Got to go. Got to go.
I reach for the roller door, yanking it up a foot before crouching low and looking under. Nothing. I make a break for it, diving out, pulling it closed behind me. Then I stalk across the yard, shaking my head, thinking the night can’t get any wilder.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter 28
Twoa.m.
Showtime.
The shed hums with noise.
I hang back near the door, watching the drunk girls tumble off the boat, landing hard on their feet. It’s tense now, charged with anticipation. The blood men are restless, sweaty with adrenaline, elbowing one another in their meaty ribs, a menacing edge to their voices.
