He didn’t need to ask himself if he could go through with it. He knew he could. He’d proved it with the guy in the Footscray alley. That was a guy who should have known better. He was supposed to be a professional.
Whitlam had come across him once before. Then, the man had cornered him in a parking lot, relieved him of his wallet and delivered his message via a sharp blow to the kidneys. It was supposed to play out the same in Footscray, Whitlam guessed. But then the man had grown angry, started waving the knife around and demanding more than they’d agreed. Things got messy fast.
The guy had been sloppy and almost certainly under the influence of something. He’d heard the word principal and underestimated Whitlam’s athleticism. A poorly timed lunge was countered with a lucky rugby tackle, and they hit the concrete with a crack.
The blade had flashed orange in the streetlight, and Whitlam felt the point slice across his belly, leaving a warm red line. Adrenaline and fear rushed through him as he grabbed the man’s knife hand. He held and twisted it, using his own weight to force it back toward his attacker’s torso. The man wouldn’t drop the knife. He was still holding it as it slipped into his own body. He grunted wetly into Whitlam’s face as the principal pinned him down, feeling the slowing rhythm of the blood pumping out onto the road. Whitlam had waited until the man had stopped breathing, then waited a full minute more.
Whitlam had had tears in his eyes. His body was trembling, and he was terrified he might pass out. But somewhere, buried many layers down, was a pinpoint of calm. He’d been driven into a corner, and he’d acted. He’d done what was needed. Whitlam, so familiar with the sick free-falling sensation every time he reached for his wallet, had, for once, been in control.
With shaking fingers, he’d examined his own torso. The cut was superficial. It looked far worse than it was. He bent over his attacker and dutifully performed two rounds of CPR, making sure his fingerprints smeared in blood reflected his civic actions. He found a house in a neighboring street with its lights on, and let forth the emotion he’d been holding back as he asked them to report a mugging. The attackers had fled but quick, please, someone was badly injured.
Whenever Whitlam now thought about the incident, which was more often than he expected, he knew it had been an act of self-defense. This new threat may involve an office rather than an alleyway, paper instead of a knife, but at its heart he felt it was not so different. The guy in the lane. Karen on the other side of the desk. Forcing his hand. Compelling him to act. It came down to them or him. And Whitlam chose himself.
The end of the school day came and went. The classrooms and playground cleared. No one came knocking on the office door. She hadn’t reported it yet. He could still salvage this. It was now, or it was never. He looked at the clock.
It was now.
37
“How did Whitlam get to the Hadlers’ farm?” Barnes asked, leaning forward between the front seats. “We turned our eyes square watching that school CCTV footage, and I thought his car didn’t move from the school parking lot the whole afternoon.”
Falk found the photos of Luke’s body sprawled in his truck’s cargo tray. He pulled up the close-cropped shot of the four horizontal streaks on the tray’s interior. He passed it to Barnes, along with his phone showing the photos he’d taken of his own car trunk the night before. On the trunk’s felt upholstery were two long stripes.
Barnes looked from one to the other.
“The marks are the same,” he said. “What are they?”
“The ones in my trunk are new,” Falk said. “They’re tire streaks. He rode there on his bloody bike.”
Whitlam didn’t tell anyone in the front office he was going. He slipped out of the fire door unseen, leaving his jacket on his chair and his computer switched on—the universal symbol for “on the premises, back in a tick.”
He nipped out to the sheds, avoiding the limited range of the two cameras. Thank God for lack of funding, he caught himself thinking, then almost laughed at the irony. Within minutes, Whitlam had unlocked the ammunition store and pocketed a handful of shots. The school had a single shotgun for rabbit control, which he placed in a sports bag and slung over his shoulder. He would only use that as a last resort. Luke Hadler would have his own gun, Whitlam begged silently. He’d been shooting with Sullivan. But ammunition? No idea.
Whitlam jogged to the bike sheds. He’d driven in early that morning and parked in a quiet street near the school. Pulling his bike from the trunk, he’d cycled the short rest of the journey. He’d chained his bike up where he knew it would soon be surrounded by others. Hidden in plain sight. Then he’d walked back to his car and driven it into the school parking lot, choosing a prime spot well within the camera’s range.
Now, he unlocked his waiting bike and moments later was cycling along deserted country roads toward the Hadlers’ property. It wasn’t far, and he made good time. He stopped a kilometer from the farm and picked an overgrown spot by the side of the road. He pushed his way into the bushes and waited, whispering a silent, feverish prayer that he’d timed it right.
After twenty-five minutes he was sweating, convinced he’d missed his chance. Not a single vehicle had come along. Eight more minutes ticked by, nine. Then, just as Whitlam was sliding his eyes sideways toward the end of the shotgun and wondering if there wasn’t in fact another way out for him, he heard it.
A truck engine rumbled in the distance. Whitlam peered out. It was the one he needed. He felt light-headed as he sent up a silent prayer of thanks. He stepped out onto the side of the road, dumping his bike at his feet. He stood next to it and put out his arms, waving wide and wretchedly, like the drowning man that he was.
It looked for a terrible moment like the truck wasn’t going to stop. Then, as it drew closer it slowed, pulling to a halt where he stood. The driver’s window rolled down.
“Looks like you’ve got some trouble here.”
Luke Hadler leaned out.
Whitlam’s elbow jarred painfully as he brought the sock packed with stones crashing down on the back of Luke’s skull. It connected with the top of his neck with a gritty crunch, and Luke crumpled face-first into the dirt and settled with a dead weight.
Whitlam pulled on rubber gloves pocketed from the school science lab and opened the truck’s cargo tray. With the speed of an athlete he shoved his hands under Luke’s armpits and hauled him clumsily into the back.
He listened. Luke’s breathing was shallow and ragged. Whitlam raised the sock and brought it crashing down twice more. Felt the skull crunch. There was blood now. Whitlam ignored it. He covered Luke loosely with a tarpaulin he found in the tray and flung his bike on top. The dirt-caked wheels came to rest against the side panel.