The Dunbar Case(46)

Templeton invited us to sit down and said he’d fetch Kristie.



‘Place has a certain charm,’ I said.



Twizell pointed to the fireplace. ‘Gets fucking cold in winter. You need that. I nearly did my back in chopping wood.’



‘You’re nervous, Jack.’



‘Something about that guy worries me.’



Something about the time Templeton was taking worried me. I heard activity outside near the SUV and wondered for a minute whether they were going to take off. But no engine started. Then I heard voices raised and a slap. I got to my feet just as Templeton came back pulling Kristie with him by the arm. She was a big, strong woman but he managed her easily with one hand. In his other hand he had a double-barrel shotgun with the stock cut down to a pistol-grip size. He was wearing the leather jacket I’d first seen him in and his face was set in hard, determined lines. He almost threw Kristie into a chair.



He pointed the shottie at Twizell but I could tell he had me well within his field of vision. He said, ‘Stay where you are, Hardy. Don’t move a muscle.’ He gestured at Twizell.



‘Get up. You’re coming with me.’



‘The fuck I am.’



Two long strides took Templeton across to where Twizell was pressed back in his chair. He hit him hard with a backhander, grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him to his feet as though he weighed nothing. He rammed the short barrels up under Twizell’s ear and dragged him towards the door.



‘Make a move, Hardy, and it’s one barrel for him and one for you, or her.’



I froze. Kristie screamed something and Twizell yelled as the sharp, sawn metal tore into his skin. Then Templeton had him at the door.



‘Open it!’



Blood was running down Twizell’s neck and his eyes were wide in terror. He opened the door. Templeton tapped him on the sweet spot just above the temple and Twizell sagged. In almost the same movement Templeton hoisted him onto his shoulder with the shottie now pointed at me. He backed through the door. I pulled out the .38, jumped up and went after him. A sawn-off shotgun has spread but no range and I thought I might get a chance for a shot when his gun was ineffective. But Templeton was extraordinarily quick. He’d thrown Twizell into the back of the SUV and extended his long arm out over the car as I reached the door. He fired, I ducked, and the pellets splattered against the wall of the cottage and ricocheted around me.



The engine roared, the wheels spun, and the SUV rocketed, swerving, across the clearing and down the track.





~ * ~





20





I stood, staring at nothing. Templeton’s action, brutal, super-efficient, utterly surprising, had stunned me. In the cottage, Kristie was hysterical, throwing herself around the room, wailing and tearing at her hair like a berserker. She launched herself at me and beat on my chest with her fists.



‘Why didn’t you shoot him? He doesn’t love me.’



She was fit and strong and in her passion her blows hurt. I pushed her off and held her at a distance as she flailed at me, crying and snarling. All you can do is wait for the moment to pass. It took a long time. Eventually she calmed down. We went through to the kitchen at the back of the cottage. Sure enough, there was a wood stove and a kerosene fridge. I found a bottle of brandy on a sideboard and Coca-Cola and ice in the fridge and made her a drink. I took my brandy straight. We sat at the vinyl-topped table with our drinks.



‘Have you got any pills?’ she asked.



‘What kind of pills?’



‘Any kind.’



‘No.’



‘Shit, I’m going to need something to get through this. My dad’s dead and my brother did it and my other brother ... And fucking Rod ...’



‘Sorry, no pills. You seemed to be coping.’



She laughed, lifted her glass. ‘With this, and love. What I thought was love.’



We sat quietly for a while and had more brandy. The bathroom was in a lean-to at the back of the building. She went there and came back with her face repaired. Her heavy makeup had smeared and smudged. She’d restored it expertly and regained her composure. With her height and heavy features, she looked a little like Angelica Huston in certain roles. She’d had some experience at recovering from bad times and she was putting it to use now.



‘You’d better tell me all about it,’ I said.



‘I’d better make some coffee and something to eat or I’m going to be too pissed to think. Why didn’t you go after him?’



‘We left the car a kilometre down the track.’



She nodded and set about brewing coffee—loading the percolator, pushing kindling and paper into the stove, watching while it caught and adding bigger pieces of split wood. She was wearing tight jeans, low-heeled boots and a dark, long-sleeved top. Her movements were decisive and deft. She stopped from time to time, presumably remembering happier moments, but she kept working.