Fatal Flaw. Sandy Curtis
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the child's head glowed with a hatred that was almost palpable, and Gordon knew he had to do whatever he was told in order to keep Toby alive. Despite fingers slippery with the sweat of fear, he managed to slide the bullet into the chamber.
'Good. You now have a choice.'
Choice? Gordon clutched at the word, hope vying with suspicion. 'What choice?'
'You can try to kill me, and hope that you're quick and accurate enough to do so before I slit Toby's throat, or…'
'You can't kill a child.' It was more entreaty than command. Gordon heard the panic in his voice as the words tumbled out.
The answering laugh held no humour. 'You'd be surprised what I've learned to do. But you haven't heard your other choice.'
Gordon fought to find saliva in his suddenly dry mouth. 'I'm listening.'
'If you put the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger, I promise you I'll put the boy back in his cot unharmed.'
'Wha… What?'
'You heard me. I want you to kill yourself. I was always taught to believe in divine retribution, but I thought I'd hurry the Lord up a bit. He seems to be a little slow.'
The sheer impossibility of the situation almost paralysed Gordon. Although a pistol club member for some years, he'd never been more than an adequate marksman, and the odds that he could shoot the face half-obscured by Toby's blond hair were slim. The way his hands were shaking, there was more probability he would hit the child. He could aim for the leg. If he took the chance and was lucky enough to be accurate, he had no hope of reaching them before they fell to the floor. The thought of the knife pushing into Toby's throat as he was crushed beneath…
Sweat oozed from every pore in his skin. He heard the vicious laughter, then the words, 'You have three seconds to decide. One…'
Like a man in the grip of a nightmare over which he has no control, Gordon stood, weak and trembling, the gun in his hand an impossible weight. There's no guarantee Toby will be safe no matter what choice I make.
'Two…' The knife pressed a little harder. Toby screamed, tears tumbling down his reddened cheeks.
Gordon thought of his wife and daughter. He imagined them seeing Toby's lifeless body, felt their grief pierce his heart and the burden of his guilt at the child's loss.
If I can get a head shot, his thoughts raced, the impact, his chest tightened, fall backwards, Toby safe.
'Three.'
Gordon lifted the gun.
CHAPTER ONE
With a grateful sigh, Julie Evans put her coffee on the lunchroom table and sank onto a chair. The clock on the wall ticked onto 11am and she glanced at it in disgust. Breakfast had been a quick slice of toast and a few gulps of tea, and she'd anticipated an earlier break in which to refuel. But her father had been more obnoxious than usual this morning and she was grateful for even this short reprieve from his foul temper.
She unwrapped the ham and salad sandwich she'd bought on her walk from the bus and picked up the morning's newspaper. For a moment she stopped, sandwich to mouth, fingers gripping the coarse newsprint, while the shock of the headlines washed through her. She put down the sandwich and read each line.
When she finished reading she sipped her coffee, nibbled distractedly at her sandwich, and stared at the headline and photos, disbelief and grief overwhelming her. Eventually she rose and made her way back to her office.
'Has Ray been back?' she queried of the middle-aged man staring at a computer screen and moving his cordless mouse with practised ease.
Michael Devine stayed focused on the design forming under his skilled fingers. He shook his head. Julie sighed her relief. While the newspaper article might explain Ray's bad humour this morning, it didn't excuse the way he had spoken to her, or to Michael. Though heaven knows how Michael managed not to be angered or humiliated by Ray's caustic tongue. There was a serenity about Michael she found hard to analyse. With his thick grey hair, strong bone structure, and smooth skin rarely displaying after-five shadow, he was quite good-looking, despite his age. Julie had accidentally discovered that he was older than he said and looked, though she'd kept this knowledge to herself.
She knew what it was like to struggle to find work, and didn't blame Michael for lying to help secure his position at GalCorp. After all, she was living a lie herself.
For the next half-hour Julie tried to concentrate on her work, but finally gave up. Memories kept surfacing, taunting her with possibilities.
'Something wrong?'
Michael was looking at her, concern in his eyes. She liked Michael, but sometimes he was far too perceptive. 'No,' she replied. 'It just hasn't been a good morning and I can't get my head around this job.'
'Perhaps Ray's upset you?'
'Ray always upsets me,' she muttered, then shook her head as Michael tilted his in query. 'It's nothing,' she said. 'I just need to talk to him.' Her stomach knotting at the thought of the confrontation, she walked up the corridor and entered a large, open room with a reception desk and cosy waiting area containing a carved rosewood coffee table and velvet lounge chairs. She barely glanced at the paintings on the wall, only too aware that the sale of one would provide her with a year's worth of house loan repayments.
The chair behind the desk was empty, and Julie wondered if Ray's secretary was in with him. She hoped not. Gaynor Farrell had the sleekness of a fashion model, but the attitude of a drill sergeant at boot camp. A drill sergeant with toothache, Julie corrected herself. Sometimes she thought Gaynor was the epitome of what GalCorp was all about - tough, no-nonsense, and with a 'screw you' mind-set.
She walked a few metres past the desk and was just about to knock on Ray Galloway's door when she realised it wasn't properly closed. The sound of angry voices stayed her hand, and she stood, listening, trying to make sense of the words.
'If it gets into the wrong hands,' Ray's voice growled, 'we can kiss the Tak Lee development goodbye.'
The Tak Lee development? Julie leaned a little closer.
'We don't have a hope of getting it back now.'
Julie recognised the gravelly tones of Eric Sweetman, GalCorp's accountant and Ray's close friend.
'They'll probably wait a while before they clear out his office,' Ray replied, 'which will give us a chance to suss out the security systems. Failing that, we'd better hope that he kept it at home. At least if it's there we might have a chance of getting it back.'
If she hadn't been listening so intently to the conversation, Julie would have heard the soft swish as the door into the reception area glided over the carpet.
'Do you wish to see Mr Galloway?' As though to emphasise the words, Gaynor Farrell tapped her biro in rhythm against a folder she was holding.
Julie quickly stepped back. Gaynor had a knack for catching people off guard, and Julie was grateful that her hand was still raised as though she were about to knock on the door. 'Yes,' she replied. 'You weren't here so I thought I'd—'
'I'll check with Mr Galloway.' Gaynor motioned Julie away from the door, slid onto her chair and picked up the phone. 'Miss Evans would like to see you, Mr Galloway,' she purred into the mouthpiece.
Julie had long given up telling Gaynor it was Mrs not Miss Evans, but the woman's deliberate ignorance still irritated her.
Ray's office door opened, and Eric Sweetman acknowledged Julie with a nod as he walked out, his usual frown creasing his high forehead. His tie was loosened, and his thin face appeared uncharacteristically flustered. As the firm's accountant, Eric normally only became agitated if his figures didn't balance, and Julie wondered what was wrong with the Tak Lee development.
Gaynor ushered Julie into Raymond Galloway's spacious office with its sweeping views over the Brisbane River. As the door clicked shut behind her, the feelings