Cutter's laugh came out a shriek.
4
IT TOOK TEN full seconds for Joss to realise that the face was Isobel's, not Fuzzy's; that she was alive, not drowning in her own blood; and that he was screaming, clutching at his throat.
'Babe, it's okay.' She reached to still his hands.
It's fucking not. 'I know. I'm sorry. Another nightmare.' The sheets stuck to his legs. He shuddered involuntarily as his heart decelerated.
'I made an appointment with Dr Sherif yesterday,' said Isobel.
'I'm not going to a counsellor.'
'It's tentative. I thought we could see how we felt in the morning.'
He said nothing, climbed out of bed.
'What time is it?' he asked from the window, checking the perimeter.
'One. And we've got a visitor.'
He spun; Charlie stood in the doorway, the nose of her yellow dinosaur bumping against her bare feet, its tail in her fist. Her lower lip pouted.
'You shouted,' she said.
'Sorry, baby, Daddy had a bad dream.'
He gathered her up, hot and moist with sleep, and tucked her into their bed, curled in the nest her mother had made of her arms and legs in the bed.
He left the room, knowing he'd not sleep again that night.
He patrolled the house. Over the past two nights, he'd spent more time doing that at night than sleeping. He kept to the deepest shadows in Charlie's room, away from the pool of soft blue light that glowed from the nightlight near her bed. The window was secure. His pulse started with a car engine, but he quickly recognised the vehicle. The Wilkinson kid next door. Got work last Christmas as a baker. His mum got up this time every morning to take him to work.
His mind returned to the night at Andy's. The sights, sounds and smells walked with him through his quiet house. Thwack. Aaarrgh.
He chewed at the skin around his thumbnail as he descended the stairs to continue his reconnaissance. Guilt gnawed at his gut. He should've told the police everything straight away, but he had frozen at that point when giving his statement. He knew that if he gave them Cutter, the cops would stick a microscope up his arse. Would want to know everything: how he knew him. He couldn't give them that. Telling the police would mean telling Isobel, and she knew nothing of Cutter. Joss had to make sure it stayed that way.
He looked around the newly renovated kitchen. Charlie's finger-paintings covered the gleaming stainless steel that had added a grand to the cost of the refrigerator. He couldn't lose Charlie, Isobel. He'd made it out of that life; he couldn't go back to that world.
Maybe it wasn't Cutter, he tried to tell himself. It might not have been him at Andy's at all. Shock can do that to you. Cause you to make mistakes. Shit, it had been twenty years since he'd seen him.
He rubbed at his face and winced; a stab of pain from his cheek started a headache that he knew would last all day.
He felt Cutter's eyes follow him as he continued his patrol.
5
FINDING THE RIGHT house was not easy. It's true there were a million McMansions around these days, usually with a BMW or Range Rover in the garage, but most of them were mortgaged to the hilt. Cutter and his crew had learned that most of these owners didn't have a spare dollar to save their lives.
Some of the fibro houses in Cabramatta were another thing altogether. One family had thirty grand under the bed for fucksakes. Cutter couldn't believe that Mouse, one of his crew, had given up his own aunty on that one. But when he'd cut off the aunty's thumbs to help her calm herself down a little, Esterhase had had to take Mouse out the back. See, you could never figure people out. Why did he put his aunty in it in the first place?
Cutter liked the garage entry best. Kept everyone real quiet until they were all inside. You had to know the house a little: look for one with an internal entry from the garage through to the house. Good thing Esterhase did furniture deliveries for his day job – he got to see these things. Then, wait near the garage, slip in with the car when they come home, and stay quiet till the door goes down. Let them get out of the car. Then they're all yours until morning. Do anything you want, go anywhere you need to go.
Nosy neighbours could be a problem. He tried to stay away from townhouses – connecting walls. It was true they had done one townhouse, and no one had come running. But they'd had to use duct tape to keep her quiet. Cutter preferred it when there was a little screaming room. Houses that backed onto a reserve, a school, an industrial estate; those that had a high brick fence, a busy road, a pool in the yard, just a bit of space around were best.
When Esterhase showed him the house with the guns at Capitol Hill, he'd been in heaven. The Capitol Hill estate was all two- to five-acre blocks. Double brick castles. Pool houses, guest wings. Still a new development, there were vacant blocks everywhere, next to half-finished houses, skeletal in the night. He'd be back for this place. Shit. Maybe he'd do another two here.
Almost time. Cutter couldn't wait.
Esterhase waited in the dark near the garage. The target rarely got home before one a.m. Owned some factory where they worked through the night.
Cutter sat in the van. The rest of the crew sat with him in their balaclavas, wishing Cutter would put his mask on too. They looked everywhere but at him.
Cutter stared out the window of the van into the night, grinning, rocking backwards and forwards in his seat. He kept his hands pressed down tightly into his lap.
6
IN HER UNDERWEAR, face sour, Jill surveyed the wreckage of her bedroom. The only clothes she owned that she hadn't tried on were her swimming costumes.
'So much for a couple of days off,' she muttered.
She settled on narrow grey pants, a fitted white shirt. She smoothed her hair into a high ponytail and scowled at the mirror. New people. Blah. She smudged a tiny bit of colour across her cheeks and eyes. She had no tan yet to hide the freckles across her nose.
At her breakfast bar, she sat with an orange juice and toast, bare feet on the bench, a street directory in her lap. She had planned on plotting her route carefully, maybe taking a drive out to her new workplace before starting. Yeah, right.
The call had come at five-thirty a.m. Another home invasion: Capitol Hill, a wealthy estate around fifteen minutes from the copshop in Liverpool. This time the victim didn't make it to hospital. The ambos had brought his body out in two bags.
'We're going to meet at eight, Jill, but I'll understand if you're not able to get here by then.' Superintendent Last spoke in an unhurried tone. 'We'll catch you up when you do arrive. Again, I'm sorry to call you in today.'
'No problem. I'll be there as soon as I can.'
The most direct route seemed to be Beauchamp Road to Foreshore Drive and then along the M5 all the way to Liverpool. There looked to be only a couple of streets to negotiate once she got off the motorway.
By six-forty, she was in the car heading southwest.
She wound the window down and angled her face into a stream of cool air. The morning sky glowed, and there was a promise on the joggers' faces as they bounded by.
She found a parking spot right out the front of the police station. Metered, but they'd settle that stuff later. The clock in the dash showed 7.38. Early. Good. The last thing she wanted was to start this thing behind everyone else.
Her gut twisted. She hated meeting new people. After nearly a year away from school following the kidnapping, she'd returned to find she couldn't speak English anymore. At least it felt that way. She couldn't relate to the things the other kids said, couldn't fill the silences they left for her. Couldn't make the little noises they did – the giggles, uh-huhs, nuhs, whatevers. What was the point? Once you said what you wanted, or needed, or what was immediately obvious, what was left to say? Some lunchtimes she'd sat, incredulous, listening to the roar of language around her. The words smothered her, choked her airways, and sometimes she would run to a silent classroom, wheezing for oxygen, struggling to clear her throat, trying to prevent an anxiety attack.