Finally, Talbot fell still, collapsed limp on top of Dace as he lay bent awkwardly over the chair. He gasped for breath, desperately trying to stay conscious. His head rang from Talbot’s blows, from the exertion.
He heaved, the chair grinding into his lower back as he forced the dead man off him.
“Fucking hell!” Dace said, though the words were mostly sobs.
He was soaked in Talbot’s blood, and more spread in a rapidly widening pool across the black and white kitchen floor.
Dace staggered to the sink and ran the taps hard, washed his face and hands. He pulled off the jumper and shirt, left them in the sink as he rinsed his neck and shoulders. His head ached, all around one eye and cheekbone hurt like hell, made him hiss at the slightest pressure. His vision was blurred that side.
“Broke my fucken face,” he said. He wondered if it was his cheekbone or the orbit of his eye that had fractured. It felt like both. But a kind of elation coursed through him. That was some fight, and he’d won. It felt good.
He found a black plastic bin liner under the sink and put his blood-soaked clothes in it. He’d worn them, there might be DNA evidence, so he had to take everything with him. He rolled the kitchen knife up in them too, then stripped naked right there at the sink. He put all the clothes in the bin liner, left it on the kitchen table.
Talbot had dropped his attaché case in the kitchen doorway during the fight. Dace crouched, grimacing at a stab of pain in his butt and upper leg from the bruises the chair had left, and popped open the clasps. It was crammed with neat wads of bright green one hundred dollar bills. A quick count confirmed there was exactly sixty thousand dollars. He whooped. “I fucking did it!” he yelled, then winced at his throbbing face.
An icy pulse in his chest accompanied a sudden memory.
Not necessary, thank you, my driver will help me.
Dace licked his lips, mind racing once more. He hadn’t noticed a car or anything when he’d let Talbot in. He took the case with him and limped into Nikolov’s bedroom, found shirt, trousers and shoes. They were all a little too big, but they’d do. He jammed Nikolov’s drill into his backpack, took out the eleven grand he’d found and stuffed that into his pockets. He pulled out the Freddie mask and striped jumper, put them aside. Then he jammed the pack into the bin liner. He put his gloves back on and wiped the front door handle, the bedroom door, the wooden caskets, then the taps in the kitchen. Sure he’d covered all his tracks, he went into the bedroom with the caskets and cautiously lifted the edge of the curtain, peeking out into the bright daylight.
A large white van was parked at the kerb right outside. In the driver’s seat was a tall, thin man, skin white as toothpaste. His face was long, his toothless mouth slack as he stared directly ahead. He wore overalls with a huge baggy jumper underneath. The sleeves stopped before his thin wrists, his strangely long-fingered hands resting on the steering wheel. He sat stock still, waiting.
“You have to be kidding me,” Dace whispered.
Sasha’s story, in the boat before everything turned to shit.
The water is black, the young boy had said about the creek at the McFarland place.
Fucked up his mind too, he’s not all there, so they say, Sasha had said. I wouldn’t know, I won’t go near the freak.
Dace smiled. He wouldn’t need to go near the freak either. From the position of the van, the weird bastard wouldn’t have been able to see into the front door. He hadn’t seen anything. All that mattered was keeping it that way.
Dace headed back to the kitchen, slipped on the Freddie mask and jumper. Making sure he had everything he’d brought with him or touched in the bin liner, he left the house by the back door, bin liner in one hand, Talbot’s case in the other.
As he came down the side of the house he paused, checking the street outside. No pedestrians, but a few cars. He leaned forward, caught a glimpse of the white van, the pale weirdo still motionless inside. He ducked back, dragged over a battered metal bucket as quietly as he could, and put it up against the side fence. He stood on it, dropped the bin liner over into the shadow of the house next door. Keeping the attaché case in one hand, he awkwardly clambered over and dropped to the ground, then froze in place. After a moment he crept forward, staying low as he moved into the shade of the large frangipani tree in their front yard.
He glanced to the house, saw nothing but the front window reflecting sky. He hoped no one was home, or at least, hoped they weren’t looking. Concealing Talbot’s case with the bin liner, he moved along behind the tree, then stood and strolled confidently down the garden path to the front gate, like he was simply heading out from the house next door. Dressed like Freddie Kruger. He stifled a giggle at the absurdity of it.
From the corner of his eye, as much as the mask would allow, he glanced sidelong at the van as he made the footpath. The thin, pale man’s eye’s widened at the sight of him, but he otherwise didn’t move. Dace turned his back and walked down the hill as quickly as his battered arse and leg would allow. When he’d put a couple of hundred yards between himself and the van, he crossed the street and quickly pulled off the mask and jumper, stuffed them into the black bin bag. His face and head throbbed in time with the rapid beat of his heart, but he was out. Elation churned inside him.
He went home, showered again, and changed into his own clothes. He stashed the eleven grand in his bedroom then put Nikolov’s clean clothes in the bin liner with everything else. He crammed the bagged stuff into a plastic storage tub like the one that had been stolen at the start of this whole debacle, only bigger. He added a couple of five-kilogram weight plates from a dumbbell set. Then he drilled holes in the tub with Nikolov’s drill, put the drill inside the tub, put the lid on and tied the thing securely shut with strong nylon rope, looping it around and around, knot after knot. He drove to the harbour, carried the tub to Carter’s boat, and motored out to sea.
The wind in his hair, the fresh briny breeze, was like a benediction. His face throbbed painfully and his butt ached, but some ibuprofen seemed to take the edge off. He went around the heads, well out from shore into bigger swell. When he was a good kilometre offshore, he leaned over the side and held the tub in the water while the holes he’d drilled let the ocean in. As it became too heavy to hold onto he let go and watched it sink away, trailing bubbles back up to the surface. He went back home for the attaché case.
When he drove up to Carter’s place he saw Rich working on something in the car port. The young man had come to work for Carter a few months ago. He always seemed a little distracted, Dace thought, acting like he was trying to remember something. But he was a nice guy, fitted in well with Carter’s operation.
“Hey, mate” Dace said, getting out of his old Mitsubishi.
“What happened to you?” Rich asked.
Dace’s eye had swollen almost shut, black and yellow bruising spread from his chin to his forehead on that side. It hurt like hell. “Walked into a door.”
Rich gave a laugh, shook his head. “Sure you did.”
“Not even five o’clock yet,” Carter said from his doorstep. “I knew I kept you in my employ for a reason. Assuming you’re here to settle your little problem, of course. If you’re after more time, I’ll be mad as a cut snake about it, son.”
“No, all good,” Dace said with a smile. He walked over and handed Carter the case.
Carter took it with one raised eyebrow. “So what the fuck really happened to your face?”
“Walked into a cupboard door.”