The Recipient (22 page)

Casey's eyes bulged, and she skidded to a stop at the top of those steps, recoiling at the sight of the open space before her. She felt something snap in her ears and she lurched sideways, taking shelter in the shadows.

Not now. God please, not now
.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Casey forced herself to breathe, then she glanced across at the boulevard and the lawn beyond.

Shelley was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” she hissed angrily, gripping the column and glancing desperately in all directions: the boulevard beyond, the cloisters and quadrangle behind her. She was totally alone.

I've lost her!

“Why are you following me!”

Casey jumped and spun around in reaction to the voice that came from beside her. She looked into the angry eyes of Shelley Agutter.

Shelley had silently emerged from behind an adjacent column, taking advantage of the moment when Casey was looking in the opposite direction. She now stood not more than a couple of feet away from Casey, glaring at her menacingly.

“Who are you?” she snapped.

Casey stumbled backwards and she raised her hands. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare—”

“Who are you?” Shelley retorted, cutting Casey off menacingly.

“Look, I'm,” Casey stuttered. “I was hoping to ask you some questions.”

Shelley's expression shifted in confusion. She scanned Casey up and down. “Questions? About what?”

Casey blinked. She would have to think quickly. “I understand that you were a good friend of Saskia Andrutsiv.”

Shelley's eyes went wide and she recoiled visibly at the mention of that name.

“Saskia,” she whispered, as though uttering it felt like knives slashing at the back of her throat. She began to look about her in all directions fearfully. “Who are you? Why would you want to know about her?”

“I'm looking into her case and your name came up,” Casey said quickly.

“Her
case
?” Shelley hissed incredulously. “Are you with the police?”

Casey shook her head quickly, too quickly.

“I'm not with the police,” she said, trying to muster a reassuring tone. “My name is Casey. I'm doing some research into unsolved cases and Saskia Andrutsiv's came up.”

Casey's voice trailed off. She knew her response sounded pathetic.

“
Unsolved
?” Shelley said bitterly. “How did you find me?”

She hefted the strap on her bag and began to back away in the direction of the boulevard.

“Look!” Casey croaked, reaching with one hand while keeping the other planted on the stone column. “I've come by some information about the night of her accident. You were interviewed by the police. You knew her. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“I want to know who you are!” Shelley spat viciously.

“I'm a friend,” Casey answered weakly. “My name is Casey. The information I have about Lasterby Road is new and I just wanted to ask you about it.”

“Lasterby Road.”

Without warning, Shelley began to shake. Her expression tensed and her eyes became glassy. Casey could sense her fear.

“I'm not going to talk to a stranger about Saskia,” Shelley whispered shakily. “I c-can't be talking about this. And
you
shouldn't be asking questions.”

At that, Casey's eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

Shelley blinked, startled by the question. Again, she glanced around them both, as though expecting someone else to emerge. She backed away from Casey and turned to leave.

“Please,” Casey began as she stepped away from the column. Shelley broke into a jog, peeling away from Casey in the direction of the boulevard. She skipped down the steps and into the daylight.

The university grounds opened up before Casey, stretching away into the distance. She stopped at the top of the steps, stared at the wide, open space, unable to go any further.

“Please, Shelley!” Casey called as Shelley crossed over onto the lawn.

Shelley paused and turned back. She was about to speak, but something about the way Casey was standing at the top of the steps stopped her momentarily: the way this stranger was looking at her.

There was a hesitation in Casey's expression that felt familiar.

Shelley had seen it before.

Brushing the thought aside, Shelley pointed an accusatory finger at Casey.

“Don't come near me again.”

She turned on her heel and hurried away.

Casey retreated under the safety of the columns. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to regain control.

1…2…3
…4…You're safe…you're safe.

Calm was returning. She nodded slowly to herself, then she opened her eyes.

And looked directly into the face of Prishna Argawaal.

“Hi there,” Prishna greeted sarcastically, leaning against a stone column.

Casey baulked, realising who it was.

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

Prishna adopted a look of mock hurt. “I'm not
that
frightening, surely.”

Casey attempted to turn away but Prishna stepped forward and deftly shifted directly into her path.

Her expression hardened. “What are you up to, Casey? It's good to see that you're out of the loony bin, by the way.”

“None of your
fucking
business, Prishna,” Casey spat.

Prishna cocked an eyebrow. Her lips turned up in a knowing smile. “Oh really. Well, I wouldn't be so sure about that. It seems that you've been busy. Causing a little trouble for people. People like Lesia Andrutsiv and Shelley Agutter.”

Casey turned away.

“It didn't make much sense to me, at first,” Prishna continued. “It didn't fit with you. Then I did a little digging and, lo and behold, it turns out that you do have a little connection to them after all. Don't you?” Prishna nodded at Casey's chest. “If I were you, I'd be grateful for that heart, Casey. Don't go digging up the past, looking for something that isn't there. You're only going to cause them more heartache. Besides, you've got bigger problems to deal with.”

Casey seethed. Her lips grew even more tighter. “Are we
done
?”

Prishna waited. Then she beamed a proud, satisfied smile.

Casey wanted to punch her.

Without waiting for an answer, Casey grabbed the shoulder strap of her bag tighter and marched down the steps. Prishna watched her go, her expression faltering somewhat at Casey's brush-off.

“I'm watching you, Casey,” Prishna called after her. “Whittaker is watching you, too.”

Casey didn't look back. Her anger pushed her on, keeping her fear at bay.

CHAPTER 23.

H
ello!”

Peter's voice sounded from the bottom of the warehouse stairs as he trudged up to the apartment, armed with a trio of grocery bags.

Receiving no reply, he frowned as he stopped before the industrial door and set the bags down, fishing his keys from his pocket.

He called again as he turned the key in the lock and slid the door aside to find the apartment empty.

“Empty,” he mumbled under his breath, stepping inside. Depositing the grocery bags on the counter, he scanned the apartment, casting a cursory glance upstairs to the mezzanine, then through the windows onto the balcony. The curtains were open, framing the azure bay beyond.

Though she was usually home on a Tuesday afternoon, Peter supposed that Casey was out seeing Kirkwood or perhaps she was at the hospital. As for Lionel, he could have been anywhere. Probably catching up with old police colleagues, Peter figured. He decided he would just get to it, unpack the groceries and start cooking their curry.

Peter went over to the glass doors and opened them, stepping out onto the balcony, lingering for a moment with his hands resting on the rail. A flotilla of small yachts was cruising up and down the bay just in front of him.

He shook his head and smiled.
Sure picked a gem of a spot,
he thought.

Turning to head back inside, something caught his eye in Casey's bedroom. He frowned, trying to see through the reflection of the glass and what appeared to be a vast mural covering the brick wall. Slowly, he stepped inside and peered around her wardrobe.

Cars
? he thought, puzzled.

The entire wall, from floor to just above head height, was covered in pictures, though he noticed gaps in the mural. In all of the images, Peter identified the familiar circles of the Audi emblem.

He drew closer, then looked down at the floor beside Casey's bed. A burgeoning pile of paper balls lay there.

Dropping to his haunches, Peter picked up one of those balls and unfurled it, revealing a glossy magazine picture of an Audi sports car: a midnight blue convertible with shining alloy wheels, its bright headlights punching the low light before it.

What on Earth?

He picked up another ball of paper and another, unscrewing them to see similar pictures, his confusion mounting and evolving into concern then worry, until an unpleasant knot tightened in his stomach.

Peter didn't hear the industrial door slide aside, nor did he hear Lionel's voice.

“Casey? Are you home?”

Lionel appeared in the space between the wall and the wardrobe.

“Peter?” he greeted.

Peter spun around and looked up at his father-in-law. He held up the magazine picture in his hand.

“What is this?” His expression was taut.

Lionel exhaled softly, turning his palms outwards towards Peter. “It's Casey's.”

Peter's eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared.

“Casey's
what
?” he pressed, his voice rising in agitation. “Jesus. What is this?”

“Look, it's a part of her therapy,” Lionel lied. “It's her way of trying to understand, I guess, what it is that is going on inside her head.”

Peter's mouth opened slightly. His glare became more intense. “In her head? You mean those bloody dreams?”

Lionel shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Well, yes. Those dreams have been at the core of why Casey's been so troubled. She's trying to understand them and, hopefully, stop them from happening.”

“
Bullshit
,” Peter spat abruptly. “That's not it.”

Lionel blinked as Peter screwed up the piece of paper in his hand and threw it to the floor.

“Prishna has been to see us again. She thinks Casey's up to something. Looking into an old case?”

Lionel was about to speak, but Peter cut him off. “Casey discovered who her donor was, didn't she? Some kind of hit and run?”

Lionel sighed wearily which served only to cause Peter's eyes to bulge. He shook his head incredulously, expecting more from Lionel.

“And now what? Casey's taken it upon herself to find out what happened? Because of this…
dream
?”

Lionel nodded, “Yes.”

Peter could not believe what he was hearing. “Jesus Christ, Lionel!”

Peter pushed past Lionel and circled Casey's workstation. He placed his hands on his hips, pacing the living room, trying to keep himself calm.

“This is bloody ridiculous. Why are you letting her do this?”

“Because I believe her,” Lionel responded, without turning.

Peter froze in mid-step.

“You
believe
her?” he hissed, stupefied.

Lionel gazed at his son-in-law. “I believe her. Casey is one of the most pragmatic people I know. Have you ever known her to go off half-cocked with anything?”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Think about it. All her life, Casey has been the ultimate pragmatist. She has always followed the rules, applied herself to the fullest and she has never believed in anything that could not be quantified. She is applying that same approach to this situation now.”

“But they're bloody dreams, Lionel! They're not real!”

Lionel's jaw hardened and he took a step towards Peter. “When I held her in my arms at the hospital, she told me what was happening to her. She looked me right in the eyes and told me the reason why she has been so disturbed all this time. And I believe her. I've since had the opportunity to look into her donor's case and I think there are some things about it that are worth having a look into.”

Peter clenched his jaw.

“I can't believe I'm hearing this. You have absolutely no proof to back up what you're saying! You're letting her ramble around the bloody countryside, distressing people who deserve to be left alone and causing all sorts of trouble for the authorities.”

Peter turned away from Lionel again.

“You haven't been here to see what she's been doing to herself all these years,” he continued, his voice shaking. “Christ, she's been so withdrawn. So hyped-up on drugs. You've seen her breakdown for yourself!”

“But have you ever asked her
why
she's relied on drugs?” Lionel countered.

“You're indulging a fucking fiction, Lionel. You're going to destroy her.”

“You asked me here to help,” Lionel said quietly. “I'm helping her.”

At that moment, the entry door rumbled aside revealing Casey standing there, an anguished look on her face. Both men looked in her direction and felt a wash of guilt.

“What is going on?” Casey's voice quavered, her eyes raw.

Peter dropped his head down to the floor. Shame and grief overwhelmed him. Lionel just stood there awkwardly.

“Casey, I'm so sorry,” Lionel whispered.

“I can't stay here,” Peter said. He marched across to the counter and snatched up his keys. He turned to Casey, but he could not look at her directly. “I'm sorry too, Casey.”

Stepping through into the hallway, Peter turned back to Lionel. “Who are you doing this for, Lionel? For her? Or for yourself?”

He didn't wait for an answer. Turning on his heel, he disappeared down the steps.

___

Lionel sat before the darkened screen of Casey's computer. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and sighed heavily.

He was still smarting from the confrontation with Peter. Casey was locked in her bathroom. They had barely spoken since Peter had walked out. The air had been thick with tension.

He lifted his hand towards the power switch on the monitor and he let it hover there for a long moment. Lionel had never been overly computer savvy and he was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to make sense of Casey's custom built machine now.

You're indulging in a fucking fiction!

Peter's stinging rebuke echoed. It stung because a part of Lionel knew that his son-in-law was right. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted Peter to be wrong.

He
needed
Peter to be wrong.

His finger descended toward the power button, but before he touched the surface the screen abruptly flickered to life and Lionel blinked at a welcome screen.

“Welcome, Lionel,” an emotionless female voice greeted. “Please touch your thumb to the scroll pad.”

Lionel blinked. He complied, reflexively, moving his hand down and positioning his thumb on the keyboard.

“Identification confirmed. Please proceed. Would you like to commence a secure session?”

“A secure session?” he mumbled aloud. “What on Earth is that?”

Leaning closer, Lionel examined the window which had popped up. Two icons, one with ‘Accept' and the other with ‘Decline' were displayed there along with some smaller text underneath which he could barely read. Something about a secure network, encrypted browsing, external defence. He knew how diligent Casey was in maintaining her privacy.

Touching his finger to the screen, Lionel pressed ‘Accept.'

A browser window opened and Lionel was directed to a search engine.

He focused in on the blinking cursor.

What to look for…

The Pleasant Festival had kept circling in his thoughts all evening.

He tapped the keyboard and watched as a procession of results came up. He touched his finger to the first entry: the official website for the music festival.

A brightly coloured page with a carnival themed design flashed up. Lionel noted that it was advertising for next year's event. Searching the page for a description, he found an ‘About' section and clicked through.

‘
The Pleasant Festival: an annual celebration of grassroots Australian contemporary music, theatre, cabaret and comedy held in March each year in the seaside town of Queenscliff, Victoria. Since its launch six years ago, the Festival—affectionately known simply as “
Pleasant”—has become a hugely popular event on the live music calendar, attracting acts both local and international to the crisp beaches of Port Phillip Bay.
'

Lionel examined the remainder of the site, viewing several picture galleries and press releases on the festival. It was all fairly stock standard information. Nothing caught his interest.

Returning to the results, Lionel scanned them again and saw little that warranted further exploration. He scrolled up to the top of the page and tried another query.

‘Pleasant Festival 2012'.

The results seemed to be no better but he went through them anyway, holding out hope for a sliver of anything that might lead them closer.

This time, he noted several links to news items that referenced Saskia's accident and he followed these, only to find that they contained the information they were already acquainted with.

He scrolled to the top once more and saw the image search option. He tried that, causing a slew of results to flash up: pictures of the Pleasant Festival, both official as well as ones taken by attendees. Adjusting his glasses, Lionel leaned in close and carefully examined each image in turn.

There were a lot of group shots and selfies, the kind that usually end up on social media. But often these were the kinds of images that offered the most information. He'd trawled through thousands of images like these in the past, when he'd been working on difficult cases. In remembering that, Lionel chuckled under his breath. This task was usually the most boring one.

He paused, glancing over his shoulder at the bottle of scotch on the kitchen counter. He stood and went over to the fridge, put some ice into a glass, then splashed a generous lug of the scotch over it.

May as well settle in.

Lionel became lost in the images. Time drifted past his notice as he examined countless photos, looking for something.
Anything.

Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, he sat back and took off his glasses. He rubbed his tired eyes. Knots of tension had gathered in his shoulders. He reached over to massage his right shoulder, wincing as he did so.

Looking out through the glass onto the balcony, he saw Casey huddled up in one of the lounge chairs, a blanket draped around her shoulders and down over her body. Her head leaned to one side and, though he couldn't see her face, he knew that she was asleep.

Asleep for the first time since he'd been here
.

Sighing, he turned back to the computer.

He had gotten nowhere with this. Not that he really knew where he was headed.

The images had blurred into a prosaic mass of young faces, revelling in the party atmosphere of the seaside, brightly coloured lights and fireworks, musicians and performers. He couldn't be sure what he was seeing in them anymore.

Absently, he reached across to his glass and lifted it to his lips, not realising that it was empty. He cursed silently, glancing across at the bottle. He raised one brow in muted surprise as he decided to pour one more glass. As he drew it to his lips, he could feel the warmth of the alcohol coursing through him.

His hand brushed over the keyboard as he pushed back on the stool to stand. The screen flickered as it proceeded to the next page of images. He cursed, having lost the page that he was reading.

As he looked down, hoping to reverse his unintended action, his eyes floated across the new gallery and he stopped.

Something caught his eye toward the bottom of the page. He squinted against the bright light of the screen, spying a face that appeared familiar.

He centred the thumbnail, then tapped it. A larger rendering of the image loaded.

Lionel's stomach plunged.

He was looking into the eyes of Saskia.

Posing coquettishly, draped over the front of a car, she reminded Lionel of a model one might find in a glossy automotive magazine.

Lionel snapped up his glasses and peered closer, unable to believe what he was looking at. He flipped open his notebook to a page where he had stapled a photocopy of a newspaper article that had Saskia's picture. He compared the two. It was unmistakable.