The Big Smoke Page 10

  Kevin said nothing to anyone. His palms itched to get to work, to bury himself in that simple process of fixing something. It took all his concentration to stop from slipping into delirium, the memories of working in the garage teasing — him and his father, the smell of grease and oil, the chatter of the radio, the banging and swearing. Gone. All gone.

  He grabbed the rest of his gear from the boot, satisfied the sword was hidden inside a blanket, and followed Greaser up the stairs.

  'Barnie lives here, but he won't mind us spending the day as long as we're quiet and don't drink all his beer.'

  Kevin scouted the flat: a lounge, a kitchen, bathroom, a bedroom, and another room filled with pieces of motorcycle, the walls plastered with semi-naked women draped over fast cars and newspaper posters of a football team.

  Greaser told him to dump his gear on the sofa bed in the man cave.

  'I'll dig you out some blankets and a spare pillow. You should be right here if we pull the blinds, eh.'

  'Where will you be?'

  'On the couch. No wandering.' She pulled the Taser from her pocket and waved it at him.

  Kevin held up his hands in surrender. 'One problem, though. I've got nothing to pay your mate with. I'm totally skint.'

  'I'll add it to your bill. Now make yourself comfy while I duck out for some takeaway. You'll need your wits about you.'

  'You don't trust Blake?'

  'I don't trust anyone,' she said. 'Except for Mel.'

  'We'd better get her back, then, eh.'

  TWENTY-ONE

  No rest for the wicked. Nor for those on the shit list. Demoted last night, on shift this morning. But Reece didn't mind. Much. The image of the Monaro was stuck in his head. Sure, there were other images there: Mira in her asylum, Felicity in a state of undress; the ridiculous amount of shoeshine on his GPs. But today, it was all about the car.

  They put him on roving patrol, a truly dull and witless routine of checking doors and hassling employees and visitors not displaying the appropriate security pass. He took it upon himself to sneak off his round to get some extra learning.

  There were only two men in the security room, keeping watch on a bank of CCTV screens — mono internals, colour externals — and monitoring entry alarms. An old fella and a newbie; so many newbies, since the Debacle.

  The promise of an early lunch break got the old fella out of the room without much argument, while Reece politely pestered young Kratzmann into showing him how to operate cameras and log reports. Even if he hadn't been up all night, he'd have been yawning regardless, but he tried to look interested, hoping the old fella wouldn't rush back. Reece dropped a pen, asked the kid to pick it up from the floor, since it was under his chair. Just as Kratzmann was lifting out of his seat, the leather as squeaky as Reece's new boots, Reece said, 'Did you see that?'

  'See what?' The kid sounded nervous, sceptical even.

  'That car. That's the third time it's circled the block in the past twenty minutes.'

  'What car?'

  'So you didn't see it? It's probably nothing.'

  'No; nothing can get you killed.'

  Reece could hear the drill sergeant's voice coming through the kid's.

  'Don't worry about it.'

  'What was it?'

  Reece made a point of conceding. 'A yellow car. Plenty of them about, right.'

  'A cab?'

  'Our Yellow Cabs are orange. You ever wonder about that?'

  'Not really.'

  'Anyway, I'm pretty sure this was a Monaro. An old one.'

  'Got a thing for cars, have you?'

  'Not especially. But you know, Monaro: classic. Let's not worry about it.'

  'I can run the tape back.'

  They still called it tape, even though the cameras were all digital. Old habits. Oh, he knew about old habits. If he found the cunt who'd turfed his paperbacks, he'd revisit some of the more violent ones. Note to self: reorder his Spillanes.

  'Nah, who would drive something that obvious if they didn't want to be seen, right?' he said.

  'I can run a trace. See what's around.'

  'Can you do that?'

  'Sure. Here.'

  And the kid showed him how to put the description in. Reece didn't provide a rego number. For starters, Matheson probably would've changed the plates, but mainly, he didn't want to flag the vehicle as hot.

  'There,' Kratzmann said. 'It's in the police system now. A 1968, '69 Monaro coupe, yellow in colour, with black hood stripe. Unknown Queensland rego. Can't be too many of those around. We'll get a ping if anything shows up.'

  'They'll just report it, right? I wouldn't want some poor car lover to get the full stop 'n' search just because he drove around the block looking for the casino.'

  'All good,' Kratzmann said. 'Just a matter of waiting to see if Traffic Branch spot it. They'll send it to us to action.'

  'Keep me in the loop. Could be a leg-up for the both of us if it turns out to be something.'

  Reece had had a bulletin out for just such a car since the Debacle, but it had got him nowhere. Maybe a fresh appeal would sharpen everyone up, especially now that Matheson was in the metro area. A lot more eyes, reporting much more quickly than out in the boondocks.

  When the old fella finally returned, Reece gravely reported that there was in fact nothing to report. Kratzmann frowned at him, but Reece gave him a look and the kid kept quiet.

  Reece resumed his duties. It was going to be a long day, waiting, hoping, for the Monaro to land on the radar, but he was very good at waiting.

  TWENTY-TWO

  During the day, Greaser had run an errand or two. There was a new Lexus in the chop shop and an Esky of plasma taken from Christ knew where. 'You owe me,' she said, and Kevin wondered how to repay larceny and whatever favours it took to find blood, even as he demolished the packs.

  Showered, with a change of clothes, the hunger manageable if not sated, weapons prepared, he was ready to leave for their meeting with Blake at the cemetery shortly after sunset. He'd surprised Greaser by waking before sundown: a legacy of his maker. The older vampires Greaser knew of didn't need as much sleep, but relatively new ones like Kevin could snooze all day.

  'You get any rest?' he asked as they drove out.

  She yawned, said she'd got enough, used to working split shifts, and then skolled a can of Red Bull pulled from one of her pockets.

  They skirted the CBD and drove west, winding through back roads to the cemetery, and parked up the top where residences crowded in. The cemetery sprawled across several hills, spotted with stands of trees and crossed with scrubby gullies. It was littered with a veritable city of gravestones and tombs. Stars strained through the dusky light pollution, the air warm but slowly thinning with a touch of the approaching autumn. The almost full moon made the headstones glow, dappling the boneyard with stark shadow.

  The gates were shut, but the fence was nothing to speak of, just two rails made of steel pipes.

  They crept in, sticking to the high ground as they wound their way through the graves. The stones were weathered and streaked with bird shit, fungus and mould.

  Kevin kept one hand on his pistol; almost drew on a plover that gave a warning cry as they passed. He willed himself to be invisible, his skin crawling under the suspicion of watching eyes.

  Greaser pointed out the highest hill. Grand monuments silhouetted on the skyline showed where the fancy pants were buried. There was a corridor of trees; people went there for picnics, she said, day and night.

  Tonight wasn't going to be a picnic.

  Nice try at lightening the mood, though, he'd give her that. She pointed out the white smudge that was the monument where they were to meet Blake and then fell silent as they sneaked down the slope.

  It was about halfway up the hill, beside a road.

  They found cover where floppy rubber-leafed bushes had taken root in crumbling graves. Kevin regretted having strapped on the sword as he adjusted the scabbard so he could crouch. More hindrance than it
was worth.

  The crypt was made of large bricks, its flat top bordered by a short, decorative stone fence more likely to be found on an Italian-style house's verandah. Inside that, there was a taller fence of wrought iron topped by what looked like arrowheads. A statue of an angel stood inside a structure reminiscent of a cathedral's spire. Her back was turned, showing Kevin her wings.

  Fruit bats flapped overhead, black darts against the moon. Greaser eyed them suspiciously. 'Might be spies from Thorn.'

  'What is it with you and the fucking flying foxes?'

  'There's a fella called Batcatcher. He can see through their eyes.'

  'Bullshit. There must be hundreds, thousands—'

  'Not all of them, obviously. Trick is knowing which ones.'

  'So what's the trick?'

  'Search me. I just hate 'em all.'

  'Well, we've got more to worry about. Here comes Blake.'

  The poet walked up the road as though out for a weekend stroll in his long coat and top hat, silver cane catching the light from step to step. Three gothlings followed in his wake: Ambrose and Bella, and a tall, thin lad in leather pants and sleeveless top.

  'Let's test the water,' Kevin said, resting his pistol on the ground within easy reach. His vision blurred as he summoned his doppelganger, projecting his senses down the slope. His temple throbbed with the effort; his blood ran hot.

  A second Kevin appeared beside the crypt, standing still, hands by its side.

  Greaser whispered, 'Whoa,' but he ignored her, concentrating, his pulse racing as he dug deep into his bloodstream for the power.

  Kevin whispered, 'You're early, Blake,' and the doppelganger repeated it, the voice carrying in the night air in a strange stereo effect he still hadn't got used to.

  Blake pointed his cane. 'Take him!'

  The three offsiders drew handguns and blazed away. The doppelganger stood its ground. The sound of the shots rolled away down the gully. Raucous crows arced up and the bats circled like carrion around a carcass.

  'What the fuck?' Blake said.

  His offsiders changed clips.

  'Did you aim for the head like I told you?' Blake's voice quivered, with anger or fright or both.

  'Can we try this again?' Kevin asked, and then flinched as he heard — fuck! — footsteps, crunching in gravel.

  Behind him!

  He rolled. A gun thundered. Dirt plumed where he'd been lying. He rose to one knee, reached for his pistol. A second shot smacked him in the chest and he tumbled backward down the slope.

  When he found his feet, chest in agony, ears humming, Blake's people had bolted like a flock of startled crows. Greaser was crouched behind a headstone, Taser pointed at the figure that loomed over her. The man was well over six feet tall, and two axe handles wide. He wore a heavy overcoat to the ankles and carried a sawn-off pump-action shotgun. Greaser fired a dart trailing a thin cable into him. The man jerked back, dropping the shotgun, then yanked the dart from his coat. She tried to dodge, but his foot caught her in the guts and sent her rolling.

  The man advanced on Kevin. His face was scarred, glittering with embedded metal. He had massive fangs, like a panther. No hair.

  Kevin drew his sword. The man's jacket opened and Kevin damn near dropped the sword in shock.

  Two extra arms dangled from the bloke's ribs, the hands pawing weakly as though to massage Kevin's face. Steel tips glittered on the ends of each finger. That would be a nasty shave.

  The two men circled each other, stepping warily on the sloping ground littered with twigs.

  Shots cracked in the night. The man stumbled. Kevin darted forward. Stabbed. Up through the throat, into the head.

  The man wavered, his punctured brain taking its time to work out what had happened, and then collapsed.

  Kevin looked up the slope to where Greaser still pointed Kevin's pistol at the fallen giant, her other hand pressed to her stomach.

  'What the fuck is this thing?' he asked.

  'Beamer,' she gasped, then answered his confused look with, 'Body modifier.'

  'No day job, eh.'

  She coughed. 'A gang of them got a patch on the north side.'

  Kevin toyed with his sword: should he stab the monster again? Take its head? The guy was about the size of one of the gunmen he'd seen at the roller derby, but the arms: he would've remembered them. Maybe they'd been tucked away, out of sight.

  A voice shouted, 'Freeze!'

  Greaser groaned.

  Hunter was coming down the slope. A man in a drab green uniform kept step to one side. He had an assault rifle and a clear line of fire.

  Elsewhere, there were shouts. Shots. Engines.

  Reinforcements.

  'Hunter,' Kevin said.

  'Matheson. Stand still. I'm taking you in.'

  'You'd better shoot straight.'

  'At this range? On your feet or on your back, it's your choice. Same applies to you, young lady.'

  Kevin held his hands away from his body. His sword was no match for the handgun. He'd tasted Hunter, had fought him. He knew the red-eye couldn't miss.

  Greaser placed the pistol at her feet. She had a little trouble straightening.

  'How's Mira?' Kevin asked.

  'She's looking forward to seeing you. You and Danica.'

  A motorcycle engine whined. Hunter looked toward the noise.

  A headlight flashed at them. Kevin threw an arm up, his vision already wiped.

  A burst of automatic fire made him duck. He groped hopelessly for the sword.

  The engine howled as the motorcycle charged up the slope. Hunter dived behind a headstone as bullets sprayed his position. His mate tried to stand his ground, swing his weapon toward the new threat. He fell in a spray of blood and the thup-thup-thup of multiple impacts that tore through vest and flesh alike.

  The bike pulled up, the rider in black leather snapping shots at Hunter from a machinepistol.

  'The Needle sent me,' he said to Kevin. Get on.'

  'Can you take us both?' Kevin asked.

  'Just you.'

  Kevin handed Greaser his keys. 'Can you get to the Monaro?'

  'Sure, if no one kills me.'

  He pushed her toward the bike. 'Get her to the top there,' he told the rider. 'I'll follow. Meet at the garage, Greaser. Look after her for me.'

  He holstered his sword and pistol. Then he snatched the shotgun from the fallen beamer's groping hand. He shot the vampire in the head, and then fired at Hunter, bullets chipping the headstone.

  The motorcyclist swore; hauled Greaser on board and took off.

  The bike bounced onto the road and roared away.

  Troopers were well spaced out and heading up from the gully. Others circled down from the top of the slope.

  Kevin worked his way uphill, crawling, crouching, sprinting from headstone to headstone. This was Taipan's natural environment; channelling his maker, Kevin barely made a sound as he crept along. But soldiers were everywhere, searching methodically.

  Kevin lay on the ground as two troopers approached. They were too far apart for him to take them both. He'd have to hide. Now.

  Kevin summoned Taipan's gift and reached down, down into the soil. A didgeridoo wail filled his ears; cockatoos screeched in the distance, echoing and ghostly. The earth opened under him. It rubbed like sandpaper as he sank. He fought back a moment of panic, for all that he'd practised this, as earth filled his nose, buried his senses.

  Not too deep. He couldn't afford to give in to the feeling of security. Couldn't afford to get lost down here.

  The thuds of cautious footsteps vibrated down to him. He imagined thrusting out, like a diver surfacing in an explosion of dirt, to drag the Gespenstenfuck down. But he stayed still, letting his senses range, until he felt they'd moved on. He rose, the soil sloughing off, the smell of it clinging.

  All clear. He gulped fresh night air, tasted dirt on his lips. A cautious survey: the searchers' dark shapes, ghoulish creepers hunched amid the headstones. Headlights on t
he roads that criss-crossed the cemetery.

  Kevin ran with Taipan's light stride to find Greaser and the biker waiting at the Monaro. An olive-uniformed body lay nearby.

  Greaser was just puncturing a second tyre on a black BMW parked near the Monaro. 'Enjoy the walk, Gespenstensucker.'

  Kevin clambered onto the back of the bike and wished her luck. She brandished the car keys and, as the bike powered off, he wondered if he'd ever see her or the car again.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Reece was leaning on the bonnet of his car, smoking his second cancer stick, when Felicity walked out of the graveyard. She was in uniform, her sword hidden poorly under a long coat. Lights were on in the houses around them; a few braver, more curious souls stood on landings and verandahs, peering toward the cemetery. Sirens filled the air. A helicopter thundered overhead, searchlight searing down. Red and blue strobes on nearby cop cars painted houses, fences, trees, gravestones. Cops kept the more inquisitive at a polite distance. Reece was clammy with sweat, his coat heavy on his shoulders. Fuck, it was hot.

  'Kratzmann's dead,' Felicity said.

  Reece nodded. 'I told him to stay behind; little bastard insisted. Chasing a promotion, I guess.'

  'How did you even know to be here?'

  'Vehicle trace. Then I got wind of this op, Green Shirts drafted in for back-up.'

  'You must have a death wish. Why can't you just let it go?'

  'No one seems overly concerned about Mira's bedlam. I'm wondering why that is.'

  'No one?'

  'No one important.'

  'Maximilian is concerned.'

  'He's so far removed from the world, he doesn't even know what century he's living in.'

  'He still loves his daughter.'

  'Loves?'

  'Well, you know.'

  'So how's life in GS?'

  'After the first twenty-four hours: busy. You know that Heinrich is demanding the Hunters be placed under his control?'

  'Bishop won't like that.'

  'She doesn't.'

  'So Heinrich believes there's a leak.'

  'Maybe he is the leak.'

  He flicked ash. 'How did you lot know about this?'