Wake Read Free Page A

Theresa stared at it for a time, resting her mind. Then she scanned the settlement: the billows of smoke, seemingly solidifying in the windless air; her patrol car in the fringe of the haze, lights flashing red, white, and blue. She peered hard at every corpse, checking for signs of life—not because she hoped to help anyone, but only to see whether they still presented any danger.
    The postie was on his knees now, so tranquil that he seemed to be at prayer, his hands an offering to the maimed man and his voracity. The dragged child had been abandoned at the end of a trail of gore. And the running people had run on.
    A block ahead, just before the road rose and forked for the bypass, Theresa caught sight of a man walking down the centreline. He was carrying a woman in his arms. There was something about the way he was moving, something less absorbed than the people Theresa had seen so far. He had a contradictory look of effort and aimlessness that seemed somehow normal. The others had been energetic and zealous—they’d moved as if they had places to be and urgent things to do.
    Theresa stayed still and watched the man come. Once he was close she saw that he was a rangy fellow with thick silver hair and reddened, bright blue eyes. The woman in his arms was bonelessly limp.
    Theresa called out to him. ‘Hey!’
    He spotted her, then glanced at the patrol car. He had been looking for her. He’d come to find the emergency services.
    Theresa called out, ‘Don’t move. I’ll be right down.’
    He crouched and laid the woman on the ground.
    Theresa slithered down the gritty roof, hung off its edge for a moment and dropped onto the lawn. She strode towards the man and he got up quickly, holding out his hands in a gesture of fearful supplication.
    She went briskly past him and waded in among the rocks and flowering shrubs. She went right up to the man feasting on the postie’s fingers, and shot him in the head. Only after she’d shot him did she say to him, ‘ Stop that .’ Then, ignoring his victim, she went back to the couple on the road.
    Theresa hunkered down and put her fingers on the woman’s neck. The woman’s skin was cool already. She turned to the man. ‘What’s your name, Sir? Mine is Theresa—Constable Grey.’
    â€˜Curtis Haines. This is my wife, Adele.’
    â€˜Are you injured, Mr Haines?’
    The man shook his head. He sat down on the road, and pulled his wife towards him so that her head lay in his lap. ‘A woman back there in the antiques shop—she’s dead too.’ He stopped speaking and his throat worked.
    Theresa knew she should ask for details. She was scared of the bleak, faraway look on his face—but she’d have to write all this up eventually.
    This brief moment of forward planning came to an abrupt end, punctuated by a clang, as the postie collapsed, and his metal-encased head impacted with a rock.
    â€˜Mr Haines, I’m sorry,’ Theresa said, ‘but right now I’m reluctant to hear what you have to say.’
    He nodded. He understood.
    She unhooked her radio from her vest and put it down on the road to fiddle with its dials.
    Curtis Haines said, ‘You have a black eye and a cut on your cheek. You need first-aid.’
    â€˜Maybe later,’ Theresa said, as though he’d offered to buy her a drink.
    â€˜That would be easier if you’d use both hands.’
    Theresa’s hand had been clenched for so long that blood had set like mortar between each finger. She laid the pistol down, giving it a little shake to loosen it. With two hands free she was better able to manage her radio. She reached Belle.
    â€˜Oh, thank God,’ said Belle. ‘No one survived the helicopter crash. Where are you?’ There was a forgetful hesitation, then, ‘Over?’
    â€˜Belle, I want you go back into the reserve and lock the gate. Keep out of sight. I’ll be up to get you