Garry Disher - Deathdeal: A Wyatt Novel

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Death Deal

[Wyatt 03]

By Garry Disher

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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One

Therewere two of them and they came in hard and fast. They knew where the bed wasand flanked it as Wyatt rolled onto his shoulder and grabbed at the backpack onthe dusty carpet. He had his hand on the .38 in the side pocket and wasswinging it up, finger tightening, when the cosh smacked across the back of hiswrist. It was lead bound in cowhide and his arm went slack and useless. Then hefelt it across his skull and he forgot about his hand and who the men were andhow theyd known where to find him and everything else about it.

He came to on the floor, dust in hisnose. A weak light was spilling into the room from the fluorescent strip abovethe grimy corner sink. He kept his eyes hooded. Apart from a minute flexing totest his bruised hand, he didnt move. The men had his pack on the chippedchest of drawers and something about it amused and irritated them.

Jesus Christ, a radio scanner, oneman said, unloading the pack item by item. Portable phone, revolver, couple ofchanges of clothing. Just your typical hitchhiker, right?

The money?

Cant see any.

Whitney, the guy snatched apayroll.

Well, you take a look, then,the man called Whitney said.

The other man felt the pockets,lining and straps of the pack. He was methodical and very soon he would findthe twenty thousand dollars that Wyatt had distributed in his personal gear,five thousand dollars here and there, rolled up in his socks, folded into anaspirin packet, tucked under a shirt collar. There should have been threehundred thousand but someone else had got to it first and the twenty thousandwas all that Wyatt had in the world.

He moved then, pushing up from thecarpet, drawing in his legs ready to spring. The man called Whitney saw himfirst.

Moss, look out.

Wyatt lunged. He had nothingparticular in mind beyond hoping he could knock one man off his feet and slowdown the other. He saw them step apart as he came at them, low and darting. Heveered, drove his shoulder behind the knees of the man who still had his backto him, then swung around to grapple with the other. There were no shouts orcries, just the sounds of effort and desperation: grunts and pained sobs, bonyflesh smacks, ragged breathing, and then a scrabble at the flimsy motel doorand the slick squeal of running shoes on the shiny concrete at the side of thebuilding.

Wyatt found that he had the cosh inhis hand. One of his assailants was under him, curled against the blows, an armwrapped around his face and head.

I give up. I give up, the mansaid.

The tension went out of Wyatts arm.He saw that the door was open, his backpack gone. A starter motor groundsomewhere behind the motel, an engine fired, there was a spin of grit fromaccelerating tyres. He got to his feet. Your mates deserted you.

Dont hit me.

Wyatt went to the door and lookedout. It was two oclock in the morning and if this had been a decentneighbourhood there would have been signs of irritation or query from the otherresidents by now. But this wasnt a decent neighbourhood. Wyatt was on the run,staying in on-site caravans and rundown motels in forgotten towns. So far hedmade it to a place on the Melbourne side of Mt Gambier. He hadnt taken adirect route, assuming there would be roadblocks and train and bus searches.Going from outback South Australia to Melbourne via Mt Gambier was the long wayaround, but it avoided the police. So who were these hoons and how had theyknown about the payroll?

He closed the door and turned back.The man was whimpering on the floor.

Get up.

Dont hit me.

Im not going to hit you. Get up.

Wyatt watched the painfularticulation of joints and muscles as the man climbed to his feet and swayed onthe carpet. Sit, he said, pushing the man onto the bed.

Wyatt stood above him, very close,the light behind his head where he wanted it. When the man looked up, all hedsee would be solidity, an implacable shape. Wyatt put some flat menace behindhis voice.

Whats your name?

Mostyn.

Mostyn and Whitney, Wyatt said. Nice.

The man was silent. Wyatt said, Butits not your names Im interested in. I want to know who you are and why yourehere.

We were hired, Mostyn said. Hemumbled it, looking at the floor. He wore a black tracksuit and scuffed gymboots. There was red hair on his knuckles, red hair cropped skinhead style onhis scalp. He couldnt have been more than twenty-five.

Who hired you?

I mean, Mostyn said, someone hiredthe boss to find you, and he put me and Whitney on it

What boss are we talking about?

The man looked up. He had frecklesand anxious, uneven teeth in a thin, dry-skinned face. Mack Stolle.

Never heard of him.

Stolle Investigations? the mansaid, the question mark at the end of it saying surely Wyatt had heard ofStolle Investigations.

You and Whitney, the mate who ranout on you, youre private detectives? Jesus Christ.

Mostyn wet his lips. Licensed. Iswear it.

A pair of cowboys. You were hiredto rob me?

Mostyn looked away. No.

Who hired your boss to find me? Thesecurity firm running the payroll?

Mostyn raised and lowered his hands.Not them, no. The boss said it was a private job, some woman in Queensland.Thats all I know. I swear.

Wyatt didnt know anyone inQueensland. He didnt know many women, and none that he thought would rememberor want him. He didnt know where to run with this line of questions so hesaid, How did you find me?

Some dignity came into Mostynsvoice. We specialise in missing persons. Weve been tracking you since youhoisted that payroll.

Wyatt bent his face close to Mostyns.Let me tell you something. I didnt touch that payroll. Someone got to itbefore I did.

Mostyn muttered, as though tohimself, That explains the hitchhiking and caravan parks. We thought withthree hundred grand youdve bought your way out of the country.

And you two clowns thought youdsee if you could roll me and buy yourselves three hundred grands worth ofhappiness. What were you going to do, tell the boss you couldnt find me?

The man called Mostyn flushed andlooked away. Wyatt tapped him with the cosh. He put no force in it but thefortified leather connected audibly with Mostyns cheek. Empty your pockets.

Sullenly Mostyn tossed a wallet, ahandkerchief, a set of locksmiths picks and a small vinyl case onto the bed.

Whats in the case?

Mostyn pulled the zip around threesides and peeled open the top. A syringe and a vial of colourless fluid.

A junkie, Wyatt said. He hatedthem. They had changed the face of crime. They were invariably desperate,vicious and unpredictable. Hed never work with one.

But Mostyn was shaking his headvigorously. No way. Its a knockout drug. Sometimes the people weve beenhired to find dont want to come home.

A slow, cold smile appeared on Wyattsthin face. Mostyn saw it and knew what it meant. Hey, come on.

Wyatt smacked the cosh across thebridge of the mans nose. It came just short of cracking the bone. What do youprefer, a painless sleep or the bashed-over-the-head kind?

Wordlessly Mostyn stuck out his arm.

Do it yourself, Wyatt said.

For several seconds, Mostyn didntmove. Then, his movements small and spiderlike, he removed the syringe, andupended the vial over the needle. Holding it up to the light, he drew liquidinto the barrel. Finally he test-squirted the plunger, pulled up his sleeve,and tapped the vein in the crook of his elbow. Both men watched the needledepress the skin, slice gently into the vein. Mostyn pushed the plunger withhis thumb. The vein swelled a little. Mostyn slid the needle out, put a fingeron the puncture, bent his hand to his chin.