She quietly loaded a .303 round into the rifle and picked up the walkie-talkie again. “Tom?”
Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
“Tom?”
Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.
She tried again and again but all she got was that long, doleful whisper of static that had been hissing in the background for thirteen billion years.
Sssssssssssssssssss and then, out of the void, Matt’s sudden, startlingly clear voice: “Heather, where are you, mate? We’re waiting for you and the kids. Tom hasn’t given us the all-clear yet. Come on, don’t blow this…”
She turned down the volume on the walkie-talkie and crawled right to the last blades of spinifex.
Tom was still in his chair in the shade of the dead tree, a silhouette in the setting sun. He was wearing a hospital robe and a straw hat. That bag of saline going into his arm.
He was doing something.
He was fidgeting with the walkie-talkie.
Heather prepared to get up and walk to him.
She did a final scan of the terrain with the binoculars.
Was there anything odd?
Nah, all was—
Wait.
What was that?
A glint of light on the burned ground. On the burned ground, where there should be no light.
Sun on gunmetal? Sun on shotgun barrel? Would they have had time to dig themselves foxholes in the burned land, Matt, Ivan, some of the others?
But why hadn’t Tom warned her?
Tom would know it was a trap, he would—
Because his walkie-talkie had no batteries!
Heather backed into the grass.
She let out a breath.
Oh, Tom. I wanted to talk to you. I needed to tell you that the deal was off. To tell you that the kids had made a choice. And they chose me. They trust me to put them first and protect them and keep them safe. They still love you, of course they do, but they don’t trust you. Because of Judith. Because of what happened on the stairs. And what happened with us here on the island.
But I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to hear your side of it. I wanted you to talk to me in that Tom voice. I wanted you to convince me that Owen had gotten it wrong. Heather, are you crazy? Owen is mistaken. I found Judith like that. Kids’ brains work differently. You know Owen. He doesn’t see things straight. He doesn’t know what happened. Tell me I’m wrong; tell me I was blind too, Tom.
I fell for your whole act. You came to see me for the first time on February 14. Valentine’s Day. I’d forgotten that until a couple of days ago. We’d had three massage-therapy sessions by the time Judith died. You met me while Judith was still alive. After our third session, we went out for a drink. Remember? I told you I couldn’t possibly see a client outside of work and you were so funny and cool and you insisted. “Just a quick drink next door.” Then you didn’t come in until late May.
Judith’s accident was March 3. Was I the woman you and Judith were fighting about? Or was there someone else too? I hope it wasn’t me but I think maybe it was. Judith was smart. She sensed it. She knew it was happening again. If we hadn’t met, maybe Judith would still be alive.
I know you, Tom. You’ll deny it and you’ll talk about how people remember things differently and you’ll mention that Rashomon movie I still haven’t seen and maybe you’ll tell me I’m too young to know the way the world works.
Or maybe not. Maybe you’ll come clean about everything…and I’ll explain I have to leave you here and you’ll understand. I’ll tell you that I know that Matt’s a liar and there will be no deal and the only way to save the kids is to leave you.
Tears again.
Tears dripping down her cheeks onto the stock of the Lee-Enfield.
She thought about Tom and then she thought about her dad. She would get by without either of them. She would be by herself. And it would be OK.
Because that was the price she had to pay. To keep the kids safe, she had to abandon Tom.
The sky to the west was crimson.
Night was coming.
All this time, Tom had been getting more and more agitated. He had finally worked out that they had given him a dud walkie-talkie.
He got it now.
He’d thought the O’Neills were really going to let them go, but when they’d taken him out here, whatever he’d seen had made him realize it was a trap.
Heather watched through the binoculars as he struggled and failed to get to his feet.
“They’re here! Run, Heather! Take the kids and keep running!” he yelled from broken lungs and collapsed back into the chair.
Two of the men hiding in the dirt immediately got up with their shotguns. Two others stayed put but moved enough so that she clocked them.
There were four of them dug into the ground around the tree; they’d been waiting for her in prepared foxholes.
Clever. Matt’s idea, no doubt.
Heather didn’t run.
Didn’t move a muscle.
“Thank you, Tom,” she whispered.
She lay down next to the rifle.
The O’Neills were waiting to spring a trap.
She could wait too.
Patience was her weapon.
She turned off the walkie-talkie and lay there.
Finally, big Ivan climbed out of his foxhole and waved to the others.
“I’m calling this, lads,” he said.
There were four of them, just as she’d thought: Matt, Kate, Danny, Ivan.
Kate took the opportunity to throw up. Matt leaned over and dry-heaved. “Bloody bitch!” Kate said. They all looked sick. The water had poisoned them, and Heather was glad they’d had to lie there so long feeling terrible.
Ivan walked over to Tom. He was carrying something in his hand.
His plan B.
It was a jerrican of gasoline.
“This is your last chance to do something, Heather!” he yelled into the spinifex. “Whatever your plan is, Heather, it’s not going to work. We’re bringing more dogs tomorrow. We will find you.”
“No cops have come looking for you, Heather! No one has any idea you’re here! We’ll bloody get you,” Kate said.
“This is petrol, Heather. You really want me to do this, or do you want to give up? Last chance!”
Heather swallowed hard.
“All right, then, watch this!” Ivan said as he poured the gasoline over Tom. They were going to burn him alive in the chair.
She had only one round left. She couldn’t kill all four of them.
She knew what she had to do.
It was terrible, but there was no other choice.
Could she do it? She ripped off her T-shirt, wrapped it around the barrel, and tied it over the muzzle. She took aim.
The T-shirt would do nothing about the noise but it would help conceal the muzzle flash.
“For real this time, Danny,” Ivan said.
Danny lit a cigarette, took a puff, and threw the cigarette at Tom. There was a vast yellow fireball, but before Tom could even cry out, Heather shot him in the heart.
The shot echoed around the clearing.
“Where?” Ivan yelled.
“Anyone see?” Matt asked.
No one had seen.
Matt threw a blanket over the body to smother the fire.