Hindsight (45 page)

Freddie scurried out of the dungeon, clutching a stolen armful of his alter-ego’s Braille manuscript. Several pages slipped from his grasp as he ran, but he looked back only briefly, knowing those scenes were all fluttering into history. On their own, they could only drift to rest quietly upon the rippling pond of the present, where they’d most likely dissolve unnoticed. But with the rest, he could pave a path to safety for his beloved matron — provided he beat her to the carpark and to her neon-pink Volkswagen.

Weeks beforehand, he’d tampered with the latch to her trunk and been horrified to find the engine filling the space he needed now; fitted into the rear of the car as if the vehicle had been made on a production line with the engine stuffed in the back as an afterthought. He didn’t make the same mistake this time, heading straight for the front hood and climbing in to hide with his precious cargo.

In his head, the engine was already running but he had to suffer the great cacophony of so many future echoes without the vibrating solace of his headphones — until his sweet angel climbed in and turned the key, revving most of the racket to silence. Then he curled up and tried to sleep, already knowing that her destination would be far from the place she intended. He’d suffered the foreknowledge for weeks, overhearing all the frantic conversations of staff, police and detectives who’d be coming soon enough to investigate them both as missing persons. Accelerating downhill through the security gate, he could also hear the final echoes of their departure, rippling softer and softer into silence.

R
ain rolled in from the sea, holding steady offshore, as if waiting.

Lockman saw it through the trees and rolled up his windows, then stashed his Hilux in scrubbier bush land beside the firebreak that he’d used as an access to the Chiron property, having found the off-road track by using little more than the standard GPS and satellite maps that came installed with his four-wheel drive. Although not marked as a road, it was still visible on satellite maps as a white, sandy track amid thick forest — and from personal experience with his own extensive property which also bordered a national park, he knew how pedantic National Parks and Wildlife liked to be about keeping their firebreaks clear around boundaries each year; often pushing legally into neighbouring properties in accordance with the various state laws and local authorities.

As it happened, the Chiron property was no different. The firebreaks served to get Lockman within three kilometres of the beach house. He managed the first two through scrub on foot, until he reached the coast where he spotted an abandoned yacht run aground at low tide. From the briefing he’d received in conjunction with his temporary field commission, he recognised it as one of the Greppia fleet — one of five sister ships, so aside from their names and trim colours, they appeared virtually the same in all of the sat-stills.

Bellying himself into the razor grass on the crest of the main sand dune enabled Lockman to watch the circus further around the crescent-shaped lagoon, as well as some of the activity inside the house through its glass doors and windows, using the green haze of enhanced night-vision binoculars.

Electrical interference from the approaching storm guaranteed that the gear would be glitchy, and the suddenness of bright lights like lightning were often painful when amplified through the goggles, but having kept the other long-range surveillance gear that he’d been issued for keeping tabs on Mira Chambers, he could also hear and see — more or less — through the walls of the house and yacht with the rainbow-coloured heat signatures of thermal imaging. Not that the long-range stuff was cooperating much at the moment either. With so much interference and competition from the approaching drums of thunder and chorus of frogs and insects, it seemed about as quiet as a passing out parade for new recruits, but at least he could see enough to guess that two motionless heat sources in separate rooms on the second floor of the house might belong to Bennet Chiron and Corporal Sei, while four other heat sources patrolled the other rooms and hallways.

The headset for his com-unit also allowed Lockman to tune in to the frequency used by Patterson, Pobody and the rest of his old team, now that he was back in range, so he knew when to move forward as they gained ground to declare each progressive sector of the scrub as clear. At the same time, they gave him cause to worry why they were still referring to Mira Chambers as the ‘care package’.

A care package for
who
this time? he wondered, and how had they managed to lose track of her — the best of the best versus one civilian blind girl? He knew from experience that Sergeant Patterson and the others weren’t the least bit incompetent — just defeated so far by bad luck and their predictable tactics. Even so, they had all the resources that he did, plus a whole lot more now that Garland was backing them instead of him, which gave him extra cause to worry how he’d managed to make it this close up their tailpipes without being detected.

Unless he was missing something?

He scanned the scrub and water again using the standard night-vision mode of his night-owls, and in a narrow inlet behind him, he caught sight of a sizeable catamaran that was somehow squeezed in under the overhanging trees, anchored and tarped down for the evening. Hard to see under the National Parks equivalent of camouflage colours.

Switching modes to thermal imaging briefly, he found one occupant aboard inside the cab going through the motions of donning scuba gear — a young woman, he noticed, as she turned sideways to him and zipped up and over the bountiful shape of her chest.

Lockman shifted his night-owls briefly and rubbed his eyes, hardly believing his own senses. For a secluded stretch of Straddie, the place had an inordinate amount of night life. He looked again to the cat in time to see the diver slide over the starboard rail into the water and followed her as she swam the shallow waters to the lagoon, where the continental shelf dropped off steeply enough a short distance from shore that Lockman lost contact soon after she turned to follow the beach towards the yacht and swam deeper.

Seeing an opportunity to move forward again himself towards the house, he made it another hundred metres along the inland side of the dune before Patterson and the others turned and headed his way to meet their replacements, who were coming ashore by trawler.

Gliding in silently ahead of the rain with its running lights off, the small trawler came and went from the shallows like a ghost — its trajectory passing right over the diver. Assuming she’d made it that far. If the crew had picked her up on their instruments they didn’t seem to react, perhaps presuming her to be a warm-blooded dugong or dolphin depending on what sonar equipment they had with them, if any. Also to Lockman’s bemusement and relief, the incoming team used one of a set of alternative frequencies assigned to Patterson’s mission, so he was able to tune in and dodge them with only minimal difficulty. Yet the new team was efficiently silent as they spread out and assimilated with the scrub on their way to the house — not completely oblivious to the catamaran. He heard them note its anchorage location and call it in, then receive a response to advise that it had already been logged electronically with National Parks and Wildlife as being stowed for the night, awaiting assistance with engine trouble.

Unable to follow the six new men closely as the sky began to spit at him, Lockman stayed alert to the beached yacht now too, which was deserted as far as the other team knew, and within minutes he saw the swimmer emerge from the water and slide aboard from the stern.

Slicing ropes, wiring and running lights, the intruder disappeared inside briefly where she seemed to attend to navigation and other wiring on the bridge, then slide out over the stern again, where she opened the fuel tanks to the back-up engines and lifted handfuls of wet sand and seawater into them.

Lockman grinned, admiring her initiative. Clearly, she was someone with a grudge against the Greppias — or sailing boats fitted with big engines for manoeuvring in such shallow and environmentally sensitive waters. Lockman’s smile fell away when he realised how much trouble she could be in if she tried to approach the house to complain or do anything else, and within seconds, his worst fears became real. She crept about like a novice paintball player as she headed directly for his position wearing little more than her squeaky black diving suit.

Anticipating her goal and simplistic tactics, he moved inland to a natural wildlife trail — careful not to leave tracks himself, and thankful that the other six were keeping only cursory eyes on the territory they’d already covered. Over-confidence was their worst enemy now, while bad luck remained his.

He watched the swimmer ditch her tank and mask beside a fallen coconut tree, the crown of which pointed to the beach in a way which would make it easy to find again later, and he waited until she crept to within a metre of him.

Striking out like a trapdoor spider, he grabbed her and pulled her behind the shielding trunk of a eucalypt in one fluid motion, while also silencing her scream and pushing her back up against the tree. Adrenaline and the remaining ice and ice-water in his vest pockets helped to keep his ribs from aching too much, but as he winced, a flash of lightning lit her face. He recognised her as the park ranger he’d seen talking to Ben on the ferry, and then later watched shopping for beach fashion in that surf shop with Mira Chambers.

Seeing fear in her eyes, he raised his finger to his lips as a friendly gesture to stay quiet. Then he lifted his night-owl visor and pointed with two fingers from his own eyes to hers and then to the house to ensure she caught a glimpse of the black-clad team with their weapons before they disappeared completely into the scrub. He saw her fear turn to understanding and felt her relax a little, but gripped against the tree as she was, she could hardly move much except her eyes.

He watched her looking him up and down, and as her attention snagged on his loose-fitting fishing vest that hung open over a black t-shirt and large patches of dampness below each of his chest pockets, he saw her expression fill with questions. Unlike the sleekly dressed special operatives, the only things that gave him away as a soldier were his headset, boots and camo-coloured trousers, since his Glock was holstered under his armpit out of sight and he preferred to keep it that way to avoid scaring her further. However, she tried to shake her head to free her mouth so he signalled her to stay quiet again, then released her voluntarily and drew her down into a crouch amidst the grassy storm shadows of the forest.

‘Those guys are serious,’ he whispered. ‘Approach the house as you were, and they’d interpret your movements as unfriendly.’

‘You’re not with them?’ she asked, keeping her voice as low as his.

‘Just a friend.’
More like a concerned third party,
he thought, although where Mira Chambers was concerned he wished he could be much more than that, but he knew that was impossible considering her feelings for Ben, and he had no time or desire to explain himself anyway. ‘Go back to your cat, ma’am.’

‘Gabby,’ she said, patting his chest. ‘Gabion Biche. I’m friends with Ben and Mira too. So you must be their link with the army, I’m guessing?’

‘We don’t have time for pleasantries, Miss Biche. Please go back. Stay low. Eyes are watching from up there and out there …’ He pointed from the sky to the sea. ‘Lucky for you, in this weather it’s a job to stay focused on the house, so you should be okay.’

‘But they’ll be here soon! They’ll drive right into them!’

Lockman raised an eyebrow at her. ‘They?’

‘Detective Grady and Mira. She escaped from Greggie’s boat. I helped her and … shush!’ she said, pointing inland to the incoming patter of a diesel engine — barely audible above the wind, trees and all the frogs and insects. ‘That’s probably them now.’

‘Crap!’ Lockman took off towards the sound, keeping his body as low as possible as he hurdled over thickets of dune grasses. He saw the faint flash of headlights through the scrub and caught a glimpse of Mira’s light-coloured hair in the passenger seat, but as he burst out onto the gravel road, he missed catching the attention of the driver.

Bolting after them, he waved his arms about wildly, hoping to catch the driver’s attention in the rear-view mirror, but the dust was too thick and he didn’t dare to try shouting. He slowed and jogged off the road enough to catch a few lungs of fresh air — until he heard movement in the grasses behind him.

‘What now?’ asked Gabby, as she emerged from a thicket.

Lockman frowned, unsure of that himself. Garland seemed oddly keen on pushing Mira into enemy hands — in stark contrast to all previous efforts to keep her away from them. Plans had changed, obviously, but attempting to figure out how or why was impossible at this distance. ‘I have to get closer.’ Then he heard the engine die around a bend in the road and saw the tail lights wink out through the trees. ‘Get to the cat!’ he ordered Gabby, then bolted for the vehicle, suspecting trouble ahead and circling around to approach from the scrub on the passenger side. He expected to hear one of the spec-ops team instructing the occupants to step out of the vehicle. Instead, he heard the chink of handcuffs.

Lifting his visor and allowing his eyes to adjust naturally between flashes of lightning, he saw Mira out already — pretty as ever despite being dressed in ugly safety-orange overalls — and standing cornered in the open door of the vehicle by a tall cop who was locking her wrists together.

In seconds Lockman had his Glock against her captor’s neck, and his hand around the taller man’s mouth, bending him backwards.

‘Can’t let you do that,’ he whispered.

‘Lieutenant?’ Mira asked, turning her ear to him. ‘Is that really you?’

‘You can’t shake me that easy.’

‘I knew it! I knew they couldn’t kill you!’

‘What’s going on here? Are you okay?’ he whispered urgently.

She nodded, but he tightened his hold on the taller guy anyway. ‘Give up the keys, pal. Nice and slow.’

Mira slipped off the cuffs and offered them to him instead. ‘Let him go, please. He’s with me.’

‘Detective Pete Innes-Grady; badge is in my back pocket. I’m going for it.’

‘Her word is good enough for me, friend.’ Lockman let him go and took a step back to give him room to turn around. ‘Why the cuffs?’

‘Better cuffs from him than ropes from them,’ Mira replied. ‘I’m going in.’

‘Oh, no you’re not. Keep your voices down or there’s a few boys around here who’ll see to it.’

She began to slide them on again anyway — until he snatched them and tossed them with a clank onto the passenger seat, but she only snatched them back and slipped them down the front of the ugly overalls into her cleavage.

‘She called you lieutenant,’ Grady said, ‘so I trust you’ve got a licence for that?’

‘Yeah, it’s in my back pocket.’ Lockman holstered his sidearm. ‘What do you think?’

‘I told you it was them!’ Gabby said as she burst out from the forest behind him.

‘Will you
stop that
?’ Lockman warned, trying to keep his voice down. ‘There are six men ahead there with their fingers on hair triggers!’

‘SWAT?’ Grady asked.

‘Spec-ops. ETA at the house, four minutes.’

‘Objective?’ Grady asked.

‘Surveillance. The yacht arrived without Miss Chambers, and the reaction within the house is yet to be determined.’

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Gabby said. ‘It takes about two hours for a tide to run out far enough to beach a yacht that big that high, but Mira only gave them the slip that long ago on the far side of the bay.’