Milkshake (40 page)

Brent climbed the steps to the door and pulled. It was locked.
He pulled harder but the door had sealed itself shut. Faintly lit
by the phone still in his hand, he saw a large yellow
sign.

Extreme risk of death HALOTRON

This was a fire retarding gas used in high risk areas where it
wouldn’t destroy the sensitive electrical components it came into
contact with. It worked by replacing the fire-feeding oxygen. The
hiss he’d heard opening the door had been Halotron escaping out
into the street, replaced by the air from outside.

He looked at his watch. The only way to escape was by
re-entering the pass code into the keypad on the other side of the
door. What would happen when the satellite next passed overhead?
There was no way it could now receive information. Would there
still be an automatic message sent overwriting his pass code with a
new one?

Brent had sixteen minutes to get out. He punched a number into
his phone. “Cass, its Brent. Where are you right now?”

“Hey, Bro', I’m sitting in the safe house in Tahuna eating my
breakfast, man. The others have gone for a run on the
beach.”

“Cass, I’m stuck in a sealed room in the middle of Nelson.
I’ve got ten minutes before it fills with Halotron and the lock to
open it is on the other side of the door.”

“Where is this room, man?”

“Do you know the post office in the centre
of town? There’s a steel door. I’m stuck behind that.”

“I’m on my way, Bro'. Hang in
there.”

Cass hung up, abandoned his breakfast, ran out to the Ute,
reversed out of the drive and sped down the street towards the town
centre.

Brent had eight minutes left. Cass hadn’t waited to be told
the code to the door. Brent called him back but Cass ignored the
ringing phone, intent on negotiating the traffic that had built up
a result of the power cut.

Brent checked his watch. Seven minutes. Cass was stuck behind
slow moving traffic along Rocks Road. Desperately Brent texted him
the code. Perhaps there was another way out, one he’d not noticed
before, an emergency exit or another door perhaps? Six
minutes.

The line of traffic in front of Cass slowly edged forward. He
checked his mirror and pulled into the oncoming lane. The
approaching traffic hooted and flashed as he accelerated down the
centre of the road, sending them swerving to the side.

Three minutes left. There was a loud bang followed by metallic
crunching as he pulled the truck up the kerb and onto the grass
verge now separating the two lanes of traffic. The clock face on
the Civic Tower was now in sight as he swerved back onto the road
and negotiated the roundabout. Two minutes.

Cass saw the NZ Post logo as he careered through a red light,
clipping the rear bumper of a car passing in front of him. As he
approached the Post Office, he saw the shiny metallic door Brent
had described. He brought the 4x4 to an abrupt halt in the middle
of the road and in an instant he was standing in front of the
door.

Brent heard hissing as the tasteless, odourless gas began to
seep into the sealed room. Instinctively he ran towards the door.
Taking slow deep breaths, he tried staying conscious for as long as
possible. In the darkness, he began to see flashes, stars and a
warm fuzziness began to fill his head. He thought he heard
Cass.

“Brent! Are you in there, mate?”

As he plunged towards the abyss of unconsciousness, with a
last exhale he screamed, “Phone!”

Cass pulled out his phone and saw the text Brent had sent
minutes earlier. He punched the numbers in, pressed
ENTER
, and pushed hard
on the door. There was an outward rush of gas momentarily stinging
his eyes.

Brent was slumped against the wall at the top of the steps. He
inhaled deeply, slowly lifted his head and opened his
eyes.

Cass grinned at him. “Happy birthday, boss.”

Chapter 25

Taylor Morgan read the text message.

Call the Office.

That was impressive. Patrick O’Sullivan’s was barely cold.
Turner could wait. The message was more important. In his private
quarters, he unlocked the safe, and took out the satellite
phone.

White noise above the Pacific swished and crackled as the
connection was made, a direct link to Washington. “Morgan
something’s up. I need you to go into Nelson and find out what’s
been happening near the post office.”

What! Was he some kind of errand boy?

“I’m busy.”

“Fuck busy, Morgan. Don’t forget who pays for you to stay
busy. The project is in danger of being compromised. Now get your
ass into town and take the sat-phone with you. I want a situation
report when you get there, understand?”

* * *

David woke from the deepest, sleep he’d enjoyed in days to the
urgent crunching of car tyres sliding over gravel.

The phone in the main office chirped. Taylor Morgan’s personal
assistant answered. “Kutete Winery. Stacey speaking.”

“Miss Martin, I’ve sent Morgan into town. He should be gone
for at least an hour. That should give you enough time. Do you
understand?”

* * *

Morgan cursed and tutted as he slowed to join the tailback of
traffic still lingering after the power cut. He never noticed the
old grey ute as it passed him. Brent Piri instantly clocked the
distinctive shiny black Toyota. “Hey, Cass, Morgan’s heading into
town. That’s a good sign. Turner should be safe.”

Stacey Martin was older and a little wiser. She’d sacrificed
her innocence in the service of her country and been rewarded with
a posting to New Zealand, serving as Taylor Morgan’s personal
assistant. Her brief was to ensure he stuck to the mission. If he
overstepped the mark, jeopardised the project, or anything went
wrong, he would be eliminated. This was the phone call she’d been
expecting to receive one day.

She had one hour. Morgan left before dealing with David
Turner. She’d have to do that as well.

Three 4,500 litre steel vats stood like a trio of discarded
alien spaceships, props from a fifties sci-fi movie, quiet and
stark in the New Zealand countryside. Vat number one was half full
of fermenting grape juice. It would empty quicker than the
others.

Stacey wrenched the handle allowing the pressure of 2,000
litres of half-fermented red grape juice to push the metal door
open and flood out onto the ground around her.

* * *

David had just finished getting dressed when there was a knock
at the door. He opened it to be greeted, not by breakfast, but an
attractive young woman. “Follow me, Mr Turner. I’m here to save
your life.”

David could smell wine as he walked across the wet concrete.
“Mr Turner, we don’t have too much time. I’m Taylor Morgan’s
personal assistant. Taylor has orders to kill you when he gets
back. I need you to hide while I go get some help.” He looked
around for somewhere suitable. Up a tree? Under a bush? They kept
walking. “I need you to climb up there and get inside.”

The smooth steel vessel had a long metal ladder welded to the
outside. “It’s perfectly safe. I’ve drained all the juice out. It’s
completely empty. There’s another ladder inside. Make your way to
the bottom and sit tight. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

David had never met this woman pushing him gently towards the
foot of the ladder. She reminded him of a younger Katherine,
confident, determined. Was that any reason to trust her? She
prodded him harder. “I can hear a car. I think Taylor’s coming
back. Hurry, up the ladder.”

Halfway up, David stopped. The ladder continued shaking. She
was climbing up behind him. “I need to seal you in. If Taylor sees
the lid open, he’ll suspect something. Now keep moving. Hurry!” The
fresh morning breeze reminded him he hadn’t eaten and the wafting
wine vapour only increased his appetite.

The ladder followed the bullet-shaped contour of the vat.
David was nearly horizontal, clinging to the rungs. “Reach up, turn
the handle and open the lid,” a voice called from beneath his feet.
Wrapping one arm through the ladder, he let go with the other,
pushed the lever, breaking the seal that held the steel cap in
place, and flung it open, revealing the black hole it had covered.
He pulled himself over the rim and dangled his legs until they
caught the ladder on the inside. There were only five rungs visible
before the ladder disappeared into the metallic void.

“What’s the problem now?”

“Are you sure it’s empty? It stinks in here.”

“There’s about a 3 foot drop from the ladder to the base of
the vat. There’ll be a faint chink of light. I’ve left the drainage
pipe seal open.”

David slowly made his way down the first few rungs. Stacey
reached the lid and, without warning, daylight was shut out with a
loud clang. A thick cloak of wine soaked blackness enveloped him.
Disorientated, he gripped the cold wet metal ladder in momentary
panic, desperately trying to focus on something. The only safe
direction was down. He felt, rung by rung, as he took each careful
step.

The next rung wasn’t there. The woman who claimed to be saving
his life said there was a 3 foot drop. Edging down further until
his hands were only one rung above his feet, David looked down and
saw nothing. He crouched uncomfortably on the last rung of the
ladder. He laughed. A strange echoing cackle reverberated around
the huge empty tin can. Why did he feel so happy? Drunk on an empty
stomach maybe but on fumes alone?

Holding tightly to the penultimate rung, he let his feet drop.
Now he was suspended by his hands. Pointing his toes made no
difference. There was no bottom to the vat. David giggled. What a
stupid situation to be in, and before breakfast. One hand dropped
to the bottom rung, then the other. There it was. Both feet were on
the ground. He yelled a loud metallic, “Yes!”

The climb, followed by the descent into the empty wine vat,
left him breathless and tired. He stood listening for any noise
outside. All he could hear were the softly tinkling bells in his
head. Looking into the blackness, a million stars twinkled around
him.

David slumped into a puddle of grape juice, stared into the
void, smiled and closed his eyes.

* * *

Brent directed Cass up the drive towards the Lodge. They
passed the cottage where he’d seen David the previous evening. The
front door was open. “That’s not a good sign. Looks like our boy’s
gone walkabout, Cass, drive round the back there.” A dark patch of
evaporating grape juice indicated it had been released from one of
the large steel tanks only a short time before. “That looks like a
convenient accident to me, boss. No winery would spill that much
juice intentionally.”

Brent banged hard on the side of the vat. “Stay with us, Dave.
Don’t go to sleep. I’m getting you out.”

From deep inside the tank he heard a faint,
“Whoohoo.”

“Is he pissed in there?”

“No. it’s more serious than that, he dying but he doesn’t
know it. The atmosphere inside the vat is completely still. The
fermentation process produces carbon dioxide. When the juice is
drained away, the CO2 stays. It’s sitting at the bottom with Dave
and suffocating him. He’s going through the euphoric stage, that’s
why he sounds like he’s drunk. Get back in the truck and start the
winch motor.”

Brent grabbed the hook, clipped it to his belt and climbed to
the top of the vat. Opening the lid would not be enough the save
David. The CO2 was heavier than air and sat, like a deep pool,
drowning anyone under it. “Cass, when I tug, you winch,
ok?”

Cass gave the thumbs up

With the lid open, he could see David lying face up in a pool
of liquid. Brent could feel his face beginning to flush as he
descended. His fingertips tingled as he fumbled to attach the winch
hook to David’s belt. He tugged at the wire. David rose, face-up
into the air, his arms hanging outstretched, angel-like.

Brent stared. Was he too late? Had he died? Was this his
spirit rising up into the light towards heaven?

He watched, transfixed, as David rose higher and higher. He
walked forward, banging his head on the outer wall of the
tank.

Unable to focus clearly, he turned and headed for the centre,
hoping to find the ladder.

David had reached the top and Cass turned off the winch,
waiting for Brent to emerge behind him.

Brent felt tiny, trapped inside an empty red wine bottle. He
couldn’t see properly through the smoked glass. How did he get in
here? Why was he so small? He was getting that familiar nightmare
sensation- legs feeling heavy, pinned to the floor, arms hung
loosely at his side refusing to lift at his mental command. In the
distance was an unfamiliar voice. “Climb the bloody
ladder.”

Cold metal brushed his cheek, momentarily jolting his waning
sensory powers. A hand reached up, then another, grasping the
ladder. Training and a heightened sense of survival overcame the
desperate need to sleep. Brent pulled with both hands, lifting his
legs until they found the last rung on the ladder and took the
unbearable weight his aching wrists threatened to let fall back
into the stinking abyss.