Читать книгу Kawanga - Jack Halliday - Страница 13

CHAPTER NINE

Donald Brant was in one helluva mess.

He lay there, thinking about the plush surroundings of the hotel room back in Sydney. How he longed for a shower, some food, a return to civilization. He was sure he hadn’t been abandoned here more than a day and a half. His athletic background assured him of survival without water for three days, without sleep for four, and a month or more without food.

He was all right.

It took all the strength he could muster, but he did it. He pushed and strained and finally flipped himself over onto his back. He guessed it was after six o’clock. The sky above was a deep purple. He lay in the sand trying to get his bearings. He sat up slowly, resting most of his weight on his elbows, surveying the situation. The air was clear, the night quiet, a few faint stars watched overhead. He scanned the horizon and then eased himself up onto his feet. He swayed, regained his balance and began the slow trek toward town.

A mirage at night?

The sound of a Jeep engine approached him from a distance like a bullet. The vehicle spun in front of him spraying him with sand. Toby, one of Harley’s men, sat there, poker-faced, the engine idling roughly. The only sound was Toby’s voice, nasal, unemotional. He ordered, “Get in.”

Brant barked, “Get in? First you and the others leave me here to die and now you expect me to give you another crack at it?”

“Get in, now! Quick, before Harley and Jim get wise to this, Mate. Look, we didn’t know nothin’ ’bout no killings. The money...that’s all we’re about, Jim and me. Just the money, Sport; now get in!”

Brant swung himself up into the Jeep and the pair sped off, back to the town, back to Kawanga.

* * * *

The Jeep’s lights illuminated the hotel sign reading “Dew Drop Inn.” Toby reached in the back and tossed a duffel bag at Brant who stood, hands on his hips, in front of the hotel door. He caught it, letting it dangle from his hand. Two strange bedfellows stared at each other in the moonlight.

“Look, Brant, as far as Harley and the others are concerned, you’re dead...or as good as. They’re not even going to look for your corpse. You just get outta here. First thing tomorrow get to Adelaide...get to Timbuktu for all I care. Get a few thousand miles between here and you and you’re apples, Mate.”

Brant shook his head in incredulity. “Why are you doing this?”

“I done told you, Sport, killing’s not in me plans; never was. That bastard, Harley, crazy sonuvabitch, Mate. Crazy as a loon he is. Me and Jim? We’re off to the west in a few. Tom’s back in the States already the way I get it. Man, I tell you, this whole thing’s over.”

Brant’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘over’?”

“Take my advice: get outta here. Stay one helluva long distance from Harley. Stay clear of him and she’ll be sweet, Mate. Oh...and I reckon you could say you owe me one.”

Toby sneered a parting grin at Brant and shot away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Brant stood still, hands on his hips, still shaking his head in disbelief. To himself, he sighed, “What the hell?”