Shiloh Page 8

  Greek Celine

  SHILOH

  Mitchell apologised a hundred times on the short drive home, and at least another fifty once we got there. “It’s not your fault,” I told him. I didn’t sound the least bit convincing. “Let’s just forget it ever happened.”

  Forgetting it was going to be easier said than done. The memory of being called out as a witch who’d been sent to kill him would probably stick with both of us for a while.

  “Tradition and customs are very important here.” He sounded calm, but his demeanour gave him away. He bounced his keys in his hand, proving he was just as rattled as I was. “Stories have been passed down from generation to generation. Those who believe are fanatical about it.”

  I nodded as if I understood, but inside I was struggling. “You should go back to work,” I urged. “I’ll be fine here.”

  The key jingling stopped. “But you came all that way to see me.” Half smiling, his eyes drifted, looking me up and down. “Dressed up like a girl and everything.”

  The flirty angle was welcome. Anything that deflected from talk of crazy Mimi was fine by me at that point. I dropped my bottle of wine on the beanbag. “I really went to the pub to talk to you,” I explained. “I have some news.”

  “You’re a witch?”

  I scowled. “Not funny.”

  “No,” Mitchell agreed. “Far too soon.”

  “They approved me for a company house,” I said, getting back on topic. “I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

  At first I thought the look that flashed across his face was disappointment. When he spoke I realised that was just wishful thinking on my part. “About time,” he muttered. “I thought I was never going to be rid of you.”

  This was a defining moment for me. I wanted him to be disappointed. I wanted him to ask me to stay, and I felt hurt when he didn’t. It was proof positive that Mitchell Tate meant something to me, and that wasn’t in my job description.

  I couldn’t really take all the blame for becoming distracted. At best, Agent Grace’s decision to recruit an underqualified second year police constable was risky. Clearly it hadn’t paid off.

  My ineptness when it came to staving off the mini crush I harboured for my roommate wasn’t my only act of incompetence. I’d been working at the mine for three weeks and hadn’t uncovered a single useful piece of information. Catching Glen doing anything underhanded was impossible.

  Tweedledee was stonewalling me.

  I couldn’t even get close enough to surveil him. He picked me up in the mornings and ditched me as soon as we arrived at work. Most days, I didn’t see him again until we clocked off.

  I had no idea how to turn things around, and no one to turn to for guidance. The promise of support from another agent hadn’t panned out. No contact had been made, which led me to think that he was probably as useless as I was.

  I figured it was a waiting game now. Sooner or later the AFP would realise what a lousy operative I was and pull me from the country – and the prospect of that happening didn’t faze me in the least. I’d gladly return to Lawler, pick up where I left off, and be thankful for drunken old ladies and speeding drivers.

  ***

  Mitchell reluctantly went back to work. I made use of the time alone to gather my belongings in preparation for my defection to the fat cat camp. I knew I wouldn’t enjoy living there, but in a last-ditch effort to get my operation on track, I’d relentlessly pushed the issue with management. Glen avoided me like the plague at work, but it would be a harder to do if we were neighbours – at least, I hoped it would be.

  Packing was a chore that took far longer than I expected. After stuffing my suitcase full of clothes, I dragged it to the door. I then decided to perform one last neighbourly deed and return the iron I’d borrowed to Melito and Vincent.

  I wasn’t sure they’d heard me knock. The warbling music coming from inside could only have been described as a power ballad. I had no idea what she was singing about, but the Greek version of Celine Dion sounded seriously narked about something.

  As I prepared to knock one last time, the door swung open. The red silk robe Vincent wore didn’t quite meet in the middle, and the view of his bronze potbelly was positively disturbing. Something in my expression must’ve conveyed horror.

  “Don’t be scared.” He grinned. “I have pants on.”

  I was too terrified to check. “I brought your iron back.” I thrust it forward. “Thank you for lending it to me.”

  Vincent shook his head, refusing to take it. “Keep it for a while,” he urged.

  I dropped my arm, lowering the iron to my side. “I’m moving out tomorrow.”

  “Mitchell won’t let you go.” He sounded absolutely sure of it. “He enjoys having pressed clothes.”

  It was hardly a romantic notion, but it made me giggle. And when Melito appeared at the doorway and joined in on Greek Celine’s chorus, I laughed harder. Vincent beamed in approval, swiping his fingers through the air and swinging his head as if he was conducting the whole production. “Beautiful song, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “Lovely,” I agreed, stepping back from the door.

  “Don’t leave,” begged Melito. “Come inside and have a drink.”

  I smiled politely but continued edging toward the steps. “Thank you, but I have packing to do.”

  The door began closing. “Goodnight, Shiloh darling,” called Vincent, dipping his head.

  Declining their invitation hardly caused offence. As I stepped off the veranda, the music cranked up and both men started singing at the top of their lungs.

  ***

  Occasionally, the dim porch light on the shack flickered. I’d never put much thought into it before, but tonight it unnerved me. Steely composure was hard to maintain in the presence of a faltering light, after Mimi’s rant.

  Something didn’t feel right, and it didn’t take long to work out why. As I got to the door, a rough hand wrapped around my mouth and pulled me backward. A man’s forceful murmur scratched against my ear. “Stay quiet and open the door.”

  Adrenalin overruled fear. There was no telling what would happen if he got me inside the shack, so I stood still, which only seemed to aggravate him.

  “I’ll tell you again.” His voice got rougher and so did his hold on me. “Open the door.”

  There was little chance of anyone coming to my rescue. The place was deserted. The cardboard villagers were all whooping it up at the pub – except Melito and Vincent, who were busy with Greek Celine. My only hope of escape was to cause this bloke some damage, and it came in the form of an upward punch to the head with the iron I was gripping.

  When he staggered back and dropped to his knees, I thought I’d killed him. The iron thudded like a tonne weight as I dropped it, reminding me just how lethal my weapon of choice was. The gaping wound on my assailant’s forehead was also a good indicator.

  He groaned, which was a good sign, but I had no desire to rush to his aid. I stood cemented to the spot, filled with a confusing mix of anger and fear. “Get up!” I yelled.

  Holding his hand to his face, the man lifted his head to look at me. I recognised him, and that’s when true panic set in.

  I’d just half-killed one of Louis Osei’s henchmen.

  The last time I’d seen him was at the Crown and Pav. He’d spent half the night staring me down from across the bar. It was a creepy exchange, but nothing compared to this.

  Confident that he posed no further threat, I grabbed Mitchell’s beach towel off the railing and tossed it at him. “Hold it to your head,” I coolly instructed. “If you’re lucky, it’ll stop the bleeding.”

  I felt little sympathy for the man dripping blood on our deck. If I hadn’t been wearing flip-flops I might’ve given him a kick for good measure.

  “What do you want from me?” I demanded.

  Still pressing the towel to his head, he looked up at me. “It never snows here on Tuesdays.”

  Delirium hadn’t taken hold.
I’d been waiting three weeks to hear that obscure phrase, and he was the last person I expected to hear it from. My mind worked quickly, breaking down the last few minutes: I’d half killed an AFP operative with an iron, and it had all gone down under a flickering porch light with Greek Celine crooning in the background.

  Everything changed at that moment, including my desire to leave him bleeding to death on my deck. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn’t know.”

  “Say it, Shiloh,” he demanded.

  I knew exactly what ‘it’ was. The cryptic cloak-and-dagger phrase was a two-part deal, and according to one of the many lectures Agent Grace had given me, mystery man couldn’t deal with me until he heard me say mine.

  “I prefer the snow on Wednesdays,” I replied.

  He leaned to the side, grabbed a bunch of keys and slid them across the deck. “You can drive.”

  ***

  It was the night of the eerie and strange, and getting weirder by the minute. After trekking up the steep track to the car park, I got into the driver’s seat of a beaten up old Range Rover that belonged to a man who scared the hell out of me. It was a stupid act, any way I looked at it.

  Still holding the towel to his head, my injured ally let out a pained groan and levered himself into the passenger seat. He probably wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but I had a million questions for him. By the time I pulled out onto the road, I’d asked three quarters of them – and he hadn’t uttered a word.

  “Will you at least tell me your name?” I asked.

  He glanced across at me for the first time. “Mike.”

  It didn’t seem like the most opportune time to be cracking jokes, but I tried. “Can I call you Iron Mike?”

  “No.”

  Evidently he had no sense of humour – understandable given his current state. It might also have been a prerequisite for Australian Federal Police Agents. Dan Grace had no sense of humour either.

  I decided it was in my best interests to keep my mouth shut, which I managed to do until we got the T-junction at the end of the road. “Which way?” I asked.

  “Go right.”

  It wasn’t a course I felt comfortable with. Turning right meant we were heading out of town, nowhere near the Kaimte nursing post. I asked Mike where we were going, and when he didn’t answer me, I threatened to pull the car over and get out until I got an answer.

  “How on earth did you get this job?” He sounded thoroughly pissed off. “You’re like a schoolgirl with a badge.”

  “For your information, they didn’t give me a badge,” I snapped. “They gave me a vague list of instructions, an impossible objective and a ticket to this hellhole.”

  Frustration had been building for weeks, and I’d finally come across someone I could unload on. Injured or not, Iron Mike was going to hear it.

  “My boss is a pig.” I smashed the heel of my hand down on the steering wheel. “I’ve tried a hundred different ways to get close to him and he shuts me down every time. After three weeks, I’ve got nothing,” I ranted. “Why did you wait so long to contact me?”

  “I had no use for you,” he replied, adjusting his beach towel bandage.

  The motionless car roughly idled as I stared at the T-junction sign, letting his words sink in.

  Building rapport with Mike was never going to happen. He wasn’t going to guide me like Allan did. That part of my life was gone. I was now a girl who didn’t exist, living in a country with no rules.

  Dispensing with the idea that I had any backup or support, I put myself back in charge. I wrenched the steering wheel, turned left and headed toward the Crown and Pav.

  Mike didn’t argue. In fact, Mike didn’t say a word. I wondered if that was because he was losing consciousness, but didn’t care enough to ask. My focus was on saving my own skin. There was no reasonable explanation I could give Mitchell for being AWOL at night. All I could do was slow him down and make sure I got back to the shack before he did. Temporarily breaking his car would definitely do the job.

  “If Mitchell gets home and I’m not there, he’s going to panic,” I said, thinking out loud. “I need to buy some time.”

  The car park of the Crown and Pav was full of cars but absent of any people. Erring on the side of caution, I parked a good distance away.

  I turned off the ignition. “I need a light.”

  Mike reached into the glove box and pulled out a small torch. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

  The sarcasm in his tone was completely warranted. So far, I’d given him no indication that I was anything more than a bungling beat cop from Lawler.

  “Watch and learn, Iron Mike.”

  Before he could cut me down, I jumped out of the car and made a beeline for Mitchell’s jeep. As expected, it was unlocked. Car theft wasn’t prevalent in Kaimte, and even if it were, the jeep wouldn’t have topped any thief’s wish list. I popped the hood, making sure the coast was clear before lifting it.

  Mitchell was nobody’s fool. Doing something obvious like pulling sparkplugs wasn’t going to slow him down for long, so I decided on something more complicated. After flashing the small light around the engine bay, I finally located the fuse box, popped the lid, and pulled out the fuse to the fuel pump.

  The hood made a hell of a clang when I dropped it, but I didn’t hang around to see if anyone noticed the commotion. I bolted back to the car mumbling an apology to Mitchell, who was totally oblivious to the fact that I’d shamelessly ruined his night.

  Mumbo Jumbo

  MITCHELL

  For years my mother used to call me once a week and beg me to come home. Her tearful argument was always the same. “Sooner or later you need to grow up and rejoin the real world,” she’d wail.

  She still calls weekly but never asks me to come home. At first I was grateful that she’d given up hassling me, but as time went on I began to wonder if I’d opted out of my own family.

  I had nephews and a niece I’d never met. I’d missed weddings, birthdays and everything in between. I liked the life I’d built, but even I had to concede that my mother was right – somewhere along the line I’d stepped out of the real world.

  Life in Kaimte was about as obscure as it gets, and dealing with the likes of Mimi Traore proved it. Mimi was a nutter and I was beginning to think that turning a blind eye to her antics was detrimental to my own sanity.

  I returned to the pub with a firm plan of taking control. As soon as I walked in the door, I tossed every candle I could find out onto the beach.

  Mimi squealed as if I’d just stabbed her. “We need the good juju in here,” she protested.

  “No more juju, mumbo jumbo, hocus pocus or talk of the devil,” I demanded. “If you want to work here, those are the rules.”

  Furious, she narrowed her dark eyes and pointed a finger at me. “The witch girl got to you,” she accused.

  Shiloh had gotten to me, but not in the witchy sense. She provided a little slice of home that I realised I might’ve been missing. And I wasn’t prepared to risk losing that because I indulged Mimi’s nonsense.

  “Shiloh is good,” I told her. “And I won’t have you saying otherwise. Got it?”

  Mimi Traore was never one to back down. She had six children and usually pulled me into line by treating me like her seventh. I endured her indignant glare for as long as I could before finally breaking eye contact to serve a customer. I took his money, handed him two bottles of beer and turned around to find that Mimi hadn’t moved.

  “Don’t you have something else to do?”

  She threw her cloth on the bar. “She’s not to be trusted, dumb boy.” Her hands moved to my shoulders and shook me hard. “She will kiss you to death with lies.”

  Mimi was determined to make a believer out of me, but the notion was ridiculous. “I’ll take my chances,” I replied. “It doesn’t sound like a bad way to go.”

  Asset

  SHILOH

  Taking on a job that involved doing bad things for good reasons w
as downright damaging, and I’d caused my fair share of damage that night.

  Mike didn’t say a word as we drove away, and I’d lost all desire to talk to him. I kept my eyes on the road, occasionally glancing in the rear vision mirror to see the lights of Kaimte slip further away. After a few minutes there was nothing but darkness surrounding the car.

  There wasn’t a whole lot of sunshine and light on the inside either.

  “You don’t trust me,” Mike said unexpectedly.

  “No, I don’t.” I wasn’t in the mood for lying. I had more than enough of that to come when or if I ever made it back to the shack.

  Mike unwrapped his towel bandage and tossed it onto the back seat. “Why not?”

  “A few reasons.” I shrugged. “You won’t talk. That’s not a good sign.”

  “Some might say you talk too much,” he countered.

  He was probably right. My list of professional shortcomings was glaringly long. “I don’t think you’re AFP,” I said gruffly.

  If he was shocked by the accusation, I couldn’t tell. His voice gave nothing away. “I don’t work for your government,” he replied. “I work for mine.”

  My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and my heart started thumping, overwhelmed by the predicament I’d found myself in.

  In addition to the hundreds of other rookie mistakes I’d made lately, I hadn’t asked him enough questions. I knew he wasn’t Australian. The only thing Western about him was his name, and that was probably bogus. Mike looked and spoke like a Kaimte local, and no matter how deft his undercover skills were, those traits can’t easily be faked to fit a profile. What I didn’t know was how he’d become tangled up in my operation, or why.

  “What do you want from me?” Keeping my voice strong took effort, but I managed.

  “I want you to do your job,” he coolly replied. “Our objective is the same.”

  The car slowed as I concentrated more on him than the road ahead. “You’ll get nothing from me until you start giving me information,” I said strongly. “It’s a two-way street.”