Читать книгу Dangerous Deception - Sandy Curtis - Страница 7

Nine days later

The pain was almost unbearable.

It ate into Rogan McKay's body, twisting him on the sweat-soaked sheets. He tried to rise, to get help, but the agony pinned him down.

Then the pain stopped. And there was only the ache, the soreness where it had been. For a minute it gave him rest, allowed his breathing to return to normal.

Then it came back.

He clenched his teeth with the effort not to scream, to cry out for it to stop. When the next respite came he reached an exhausted hand over the bedside lamp and turned it on.

2.53 a.m.

He'd been so tired, so damn tired when he'd crashed onto the bed at midnight that when the pain started dragging him out of a thick, deep sleep he'd thought it was a bad dream. But the intensity of it soon affirmed that it was no nightmare to be thrown off with full consciousness.

A harsh cry strangled in his throat as the pain threw him back against the pillow. This time was worse than anything he'd ever felt … his muscles tensed against it, the tendons and veins in his neck stretched like singing ropes. The sweat on his forehead poured into his eyes. His brain was painting blackness through his mind, shunning all thought in its efforts to cope with an agony beyond endurance.

Suddenly it was gone.

He slumped down on the bed as the swirling mists in his brain subsided, dragging air into his lungs in great panting gulps. Gingerly he moved his arms, his legs. Finally he swung his body over the side of the bed and stood, weak and unsteady, fighting to make sense of what had happened.

Slowly he became aware of a great emptiness in his soul. A desolation, a sense of loss so profound his gut clenched with the knowledge of it.

Because now he knew. He understood. But his brain refused to believe.

Like a very old man he shuffled out of the bedroom into an adjoining study. He turned on the light, collapsed onto the chair at the desk and willed his reluctant hand to pick up the phone. He punched in a series of numbers. And waited.

Finally it rang out. He tried a different set. An automated voice asked him to leave a message. He spoke several words, then replaced the receiver.

A window on the opposite wall mirrored the despair registering in his eyes. Eyes so brilliantly blue they glittered like icebergs in the warm light. Eyes he feared would never again look back at him.

"Didn't you sleep well last night, son?' Alice McKay asked as Rogan flopped onto a kitchen chair and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

He pushed long strands of sun-bleached hair off his forehead before replying. 'It always takes me some time to adjust when I get off the boat, Mum.'

Alice smiled. 'You've been home two days. I think your socialising with Meryl and your brothers might have more to do with it.'

Rogan saw the flash of pain in his mother's eyes. It was six months since his youngest brother, Ewan, had been murdered, and although Rogan had helped put the killer behind bars, he knew it had given his parents only a small sense of closure. While she hadn't given obvious preference to him, Ewan had been their mother's favourite. She had tried to bury her grief in the hard work involved in running the family dairy farm, but Rogan had seen how his brother's death had aged her. Her hair, once the same tawny colour as his, had gone grey, and the extra kilos she'd gained in middle age had fallen away, leaving her face drawn and lined. His father, too, no longer seemed as strong and tireless as Rogan had always thought him.

It had shocked him, this sudden ageing of his parents, and now he realised he couldn't tell them of the dread eating its way into his chest. They had lost one son, he didn't want to tell them they might have lost another. As soon as he'd woken this morning he'd made a few phone calls, but the answers only seemed to confirm what he already suspected.

'Thought I might drive to Melbourne and see Liam,' he remarked, the casualness in his voice not betraying his need to jump into his vehicle and take off immediately. He looked around the spacious farmhouse kitchen with its timber cupboards, cream walls and large wooden table and chairs. It spoke of solidity and security, but Ewan's death had made them all realise that physical security could be an illusion.

'He'd like that.' Alice placed a plate of sausages, eggs and tomatoes in front of her son. Her face grew wistful. 'You two haven't been together since Ewan's funeral.'

'We keep in touch.' Rogan picked at his food with his fork, then seeing his mother's frown, began to eat. He knew his mother must have come back early from helping his father with the milking so she could cook breakfast for him. Alice and Duncan McKay had raised five sons and two daughters, and no matter what else the family may have lacked in assets, there had never been a shortage of food on the table.

Alice smiled fondly at Rogan. 'The connection's still there, isn't it.' She poured tea into two mugs and sat opposite him at the table. 'Even when you were just toddlers you didn't need to talk, you always acted like you could read each other's minds. And it didn't matter how far apart you were, one always cried if the other got hurt.'

He'd heard his mother talk about this before, but now he felt guilt shaft through him. How could he tell her that he feared Liam was more than hurt, that he might be dead? How else could he explain the deep, aching, emptiness in his soul?

'I'll leave after breakfast,' he said between mouthfuls.

'So soon?' His mother frowned. 'Your father will be disappointed. He was hoping … Never mind.'

'Hoping what, Mum?' Rogan was surprised to see colour rise in his mother's cheeks.

'Well …' Alice seemed a little flustered, 'last night he mentioned us going down to the coast for a day or two. He thought you might take over the milking. Meryl said she'd give you a hand.'

'Dad? The Gold Coast? I thought he hated the crowds and the traffic.'

Alice sipped her tea before replying. 'He thought a few days away might be a nice fortieth wedding anniversary present.'

Thick bastard, McKay, Rogan berated himself. His younger sister had reminded him of the occasion, but last night's trauma had wiped it from his mind. 'Sorry, Mum. Can it wait until I get back? The repairs to the boat engine will take at least ten days, and I'll be back before then.'

'Of course, dear. But you'd better go and tell your father now, before he makes any plans.'

Lush green fields sloped gently alongside the road before reaching the edge of the plateau and tumbling into the Numinbah Valley below. They provided rich feed for the dairy cattle on the small farms between Beechmont and Binna Burra on the hinterland behind Queensland's famous Gold Coast.

Rogan left the sprawling old farmhouse with its white-painted weatherboards and brown-framed windows like eyes on a sleepy labrador, and walked to where the mountain began its descent. He looked across to another mountain range rearing its craggy peaks into the blue, then up the valley to where, in the far distance, high-rise buildings dotted the narrow coastal strip and the ocean shimmered in the sunlight.

He breathed in deeply. The air, so crisp and clean, almost sweet in comparison to the salt tang of the ocean, was balm to his troubled spirit. He rammed clenched fists into his jeans' pockets. It was always like this when he was at home - this tearing at his guts, this yearning for the limitless expanse of blue-green sea against the almost primal urge to dig himself into the fertile earth and put down roots to connect himself to this land he loved equally well. Happy in each world, but always longing for the other, he realised. He had always been a very physical person, expressing his love for his family by deeds rather than words, but sometimes, when he felt almost overwhelmed by the beauty of nature, he longed to be able to create poetry that could express what he felt. He smiled. His old navy mates would have been shocked beyond belief if he'd told them that.

Liam was the words man. His mirror image. The quiet, thoughtful balance to Rogan's extrovert nature. The ache deepened when he thought again of his twin. Sheer exhaustion had granted Rogan some sleep in the remaining hours before dawn, but the emptiness, the desolation, had still been there when he awoke.

He looked across the paddock. Friesian and Illawarra cows were milling about in the holding yard near the milking shed. His father would be almost finished now, and Rogan felt a pang of guilt that he couldn't stay and give his parents the break they so badly needed. He hurried into the wooden shed where stainless steel vats were slowly being filled through the plastic hoses connected to the milking machines. The cadence of well-maintained machinery echoed in the small room. He took off his sneakers, and pulled on a pair of rubber boots.

As Rogan walked through to the milking bays, Duncan McKay glanced up from attaching teat cups onto a cow's udder, and smiled. The tiredness in his eyes notched Rogan's guilt up further. Cows were still waiting in the remaining three bays, with two still standing patiently outside in the yard. Rogan picked up the chain attached to the nearest bay and secured it across the cow's rear to keep her there, then roped the outer rear leg to prevent her kicking. Rain the previous afternoon had muddied the ground, and the smell of warm manure had attracted numerous flies. Rogan brushed them away as he propped himself on a small stool and dipped each teat into a disinfectant mix, cleaned it with paper towelling, then shoved the teat cup on.

He reached over and tipped feed and supplement into a tin near the cow's head to keep the animal calm during the milking process, slipping effortlessly into the routine he'd known since childhood. Soon the last cow was ambling through into the holding yard.

'Thanks for the help, son,' Duncan said as he began to clean the machines to get them ready for sterilising.

Before he could say any more Rogan spoke quickly. 'I'm leaving this morning for Melbourne, Dad. Going to see Liam. When I get back I'll take over for a few days and give you and Mum a break.'

Duncan pushed dark brown hair streaked with grey from his forehead and stretched the kinks from his back. 'Thanks, son. Your mother needs to get away for a while.'

As he watched the tired slump of his father's shoulders, Rogan prayed that what he had experienced last night would turn out to be just a bad dream.

But the hollow feeling in his heart betrayed that hope.

An hour later Rogan drove into Beechmont village. He turned into the yard of a small log cabin and switched off the engine of his fawn four-wheel drive dual-cab Rodeo. Before he could get out, a young woman with breasts a little large for her slim body opened the front door of the house, walked up to the driver's window and leaned her forearms against the opening.

Rogan could never understand why his sister-in-law had resorted to such an extreme idea as breast implants in an effort to keep Ewan faithful. Childhood sweethearts, Meryl and Ewan had married as soon as they turned eighteen. The next year Ewan had joined the navy. Self-indulgent to the core, he had only ever been faithful to his goal of acquiring whatever he wanted no matter what the methods. A trait that had lead to his murder at the hands of a violent criminal.

An aspiring actress and part-time make-up artist, Meryl had dyed her hair an attractive shade of honey to suit the minor character she was portraying in a movie.

'Didn't expect to see you today, Rogan,' she smiled. 'Thought I'd have to go into work, but there's been a technical hitch and they don't need me until tomorrow.'

Rogan quickly explained about his concern for Liam and that he was on his way to Melbourne. 'It's just a precaution, Meryl, but if something's happened to Liam, I'd appreciate you being here for Mum and Dad.'

A few minutes later Meryl watched as Rogan continued his drive down the winding mountain road. In the past few days she'd wondered if she'd fallen in love with the wrong brother. Then she smiled. No, Rogan would always be her friend, but she knew that was all there would ever be between them.

She had noticed a change in Rogan after he'd left the navy, and she wondered if anyone would be able to penetrate the emotional wall he appeared to have built around himself. His love for his family and concern for his friends were obvious, and although he had previously had a couple of serious girlfriends, in the past few years no woman had managed to draw him into a relationship of any depth, and she was perplexed as to what had caused this.

In the years since Liam had made his home in Melbourne, Rogan had tried to visit as much as he could. Although their physical appearance made it almost impossible to tell them apart, emotionally the twins complemented one another, and Rogan had never met anyone who made him feel at ease in his own skin like Liam did. Which was why the aching sense of loss he now felt was almost a physical pain.

As the countryside sped past, so did memories of a shared lifetime. Normally inseparable, a twisted ankle had kept Rogan at home when both boys should have been at a school camp together. A camp that had resulted in Liam coming down with rheumatic fever and suffering slight damage to a heart valve. Although not serious enough to curtail Liam's involvement in their teenage escapades, the damage had been sufficient to prevent him joining up with his brother in the Royal Australian Navy.

If the worry in his gut would have allowed it, Rogan would have smiled as he remembered Liam's frustration when he was rejected. His normally quieter brother had stomped around the house like a bull denied his favourite cow, then he'd made a last-minute application to study law at university. Several years later, Liam had surprised them all by announcing he had joined a firm of private investigators in Melbourne, and after some time with them had branched out on his own.

For the past twenty hours, as Rogan had driven southwards, he had tried to piece together the fragments of conversation he'd had with Liam that could give him some clue to what may have happened. Normally they phoned each other at least once a week, and Rogan couldn't recall anything in their last few calls that might be suspicious. He frowned. Except for Liam's off-hand remark about meeting the woman of his dreams. Liam had refused to elaborate and Rogan had bitten back his curiosity, confident that his twin would blurt it out sooner or later.

When Rogan had tried Liam's home, business and mobile phones over the past day and a half, Liam hadn't answered. And Liam's lawyer mates hadn't been any help either. Not that Rogan blamed them. With the often dangerous work Liam undertook, his friends weren't going to hand out information on the strength of a vague phone inquiry. He would just have to ask them in person.

As he crested a rise on the Hume Highway, Rogan saw the smog that hung like a pall in the distance, and knew he was getting close to his destination. Like most large cities, Melbourne couldn't escape the air pollution that came from factories and constant traffic.

His need for sleep growing with each kilometre travelled, Rogan stopped at a small cafe and bought a coffee. The thought of an ice cold beer was tempting, but that would have to wait until he reached Liam's apartment. At least he would miss arriving in morning peak hour, but the traffic into Melbourne was always constant, so he just hoped for a smooth run.

By the time he swung into the driveway of Liam's strata title unit in Chelsea Heights, Rogan doubted he could keep his eyes open another five minutes. Liam's was the back unit of the dual-occupancy set, surrounded by high brick fences on three sides and separated from the front unit by a low hedge. He parked in front of the roller door, and scrabbled in the vehicle ashtray for the spare keys Liam had given him. When the rising garage door revealed Liam's car, Rogan's stomach lurched. He got out of the Rodeo, stretched the kinks from his back, and grabbed his duffle bag from the back seat. He walked into the garage and looked through the windows of Liam's car. The contents of the open glove box were strewn over the front seat, but otherwise the car was empty.

Rogan unlocked the door into the small laundry area, and stepped inside. The cupboard had been ransacked, washing powder and cleaning products spilled across the floor. Rogan dropped his bag and hurried into the kitchen. A similar scene awaited him there.

Stomach knotting, he walked cautiously into the living room.

Whoever had searched the townhouse had been thorough, but not careful. The lounge cushions had been cut open, their filling ripped out. Paintings hung crookedly on walls, the bookcase bare, its contents scattered across the carpet, every drawer in the wall unit emptied in a heap. Even the dining chairs had been upended onto the table so they could be checked over.

Now more afraid than he could ever remember feeling, Rogan made his way to Liam's bedroom. Apart from the mess he now expected, it was empty. Liam used the second bedroom as an office, and it was here that Rogan saw how thorough the intruders had been. Not a single file remained in the cabinet, equipment had been upended, and the computer tower was missing.

As he reached across for the phone that had been shoved to the back of the desk, he caught sight of something that made his heart pound. At the side of the desk, partially obscured by a sheet of paper, the carpet had been stained by a liquid.

A liquid dark enough to be blood.