Until Death. Sandy Curtis
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other two had skirted the site and stepped back onto the track before they followed.
A soft wail swung their attention to the undergrowth opposite where they'd walked. Marty dashed forward, then stopped. Two girls lay in the flattened bushes, the bigger one cradling the lifeless, mutilated body of the smaller one, her head rocking with each faint cry that left her shattered mouth. The shrapnel had spared her body, but smashed several teeth and torn off her upper lip before slicing open her cheek and exposing the bone.
The girl's wailing ceased as she realised someone was near, and Marty's breathing sounded harsh in the sudden stillness. He placed his rifle gently on the ground, then cautiously stepped towards the children.
'No, Marty!' Patrick's cry was cut off by Rashod's arm slamming back into his chest, preventing him from following.
Marty's feet were deliberate, steady, but his shirt strained against his shoulders as his muscles bunched with tension. Finally, he knelt down beside the girl. And saw the terror in her eyes.
'It's all right, little one,' he crooned as footsteps sounded behind him, 'I won't hurt you. I just want to help.'
The girl seemed to relax a little, then her eyes saucered as a brawny arm reached past Marty. Before the young man could act, Rashod pulled back the girl's head and slit her throat.
Marty stared in horror as the child's life ebbed away. Then he erupted in a burst of pure rage, fists flying, knocking Rashod backwards. Rashod shook his head in surprise, then, smiling, he delivered a perfectly timed uppercut that knocked Marty off his feet.
As the young man crumpled to the ground, Rashod frowned at Patrick, now making his way towards them. 'He's your problem, Patrick. We leave in thirty seconds. Make sure he's ready.'
Water splashing from Patrick's canteen soon brought Marty around. Groggily at first, then with a look of contained fury, he staggered to his feet. Patrick laid a restraining hand on his arm. 'Don't do anything, Marty. Rashod would not hesitate to kill you.'
'Why? The girl ...' Marty's voice broke and he pulled away. 'We could have taken her with us. Got her across the border to a hospital.'
'We couldn't take her. She would know we had a rebel guide. Besides, it was kinder this way. With her face like that,' Patrick shrugged, 'no man would marry her. She couldn't even make a living as a whore.'
He looked into the young man's face.
Hatred burned so fiercely in the dark eyes that, for a fleeting moment, Patrick tasted the acidity of fear. He lowered the hand he had half-raised in supplication, unslung his rifle off his shoulder into his hands, and walked back to Rashod and the guide.
CHAPTER ONE
Fourteen years later
The hypodermic reflected the living-room light as Wesley Scanlan placed it next to the ampoules in the case his companion had given him.
'Are you sure this will work?'
The other man smiled. 'Of course. I've seen the results often enough. The tablet you'll put in her drink will make her groggy and disorientated. You take her up to the bedroom and lock the door. If she starts to recover and you can't get another tablet into her before I can get there in the morning, just use that,' he nodded towards the case as Wesley placed it on the coffee table. 'Everything's arranged. By Saturday night you'll be a married man and all your worries will be over.'
'I damn well hope so,' Wesley muttered. He glanced around the spacious room with its elegant rosewood furniture, thick cream carpet and expansive views across Sydney Harbour. 'I've worked too hard to get where I am. No bleeding-heart do-gooder is going to take it from me now.'
His companion looked past him, and watched a ferry's lights twinkle on the dark water before it steamed through the garish reflection of Luna Park's harbourside face. Then he placed a hand on Wesley's shoulder. 'Don't worry. I'm not going to let that happen.'
Loud voices.
Familiar voices.
Penetrating the dark mists in her mind.
Libby tried to shake her head, but the movement swept nausea through her stomach. She stilled, forced herself to concentrate, to take control of her body.
Slowly, very slowly, she opened her eyes. The ceiling swam into the walls, and she stayed motionless until it stopped.
Recognition came like creeping fog. Her bedroom. Shadows wavered beyond the haloed light of her reading lamp as she lifted her hand to her forehead and registered her trembling fingers.
One of the voices grew louder. She struggled to make sense of the words but her brain appeared to have forgotten how to comprehend them.
Suddenly there was silence. Gently, Libby eased onto her side, then carefully pushed herself up and swung one leg, then the other, off the bed until she was sitting upright. Bare feet spaced to brace herself, she tried to stand, but the room seemed to move at the same time, so she waited a moment more, then tried again. This time she succeeded.
She struggled to make sense of how she felt. What had happened to her? She felt as though she had the granddaddy of all hangovers, but she'd only had two drinks. After that ...
Fragments of memory spun through her mind, but they were weird, too weird to make sense. If the queasiness she felt now was any indication, she'd probably contracted one of those dreadful viruses that had swept Sydney during winter.
With an unsteady gait she crossed the room to the half-open door and stumbled out into the hallway. At the top of the long, wide staircase she leaned against the wall, wondering if she should try to walk down on her own. Then her eyes focussed on the tableau at the foot of the stairs.
Two men were bending over the body of a woman. The back of the woman's head was matted with blood, her face turned to the side as though looking towards the front door for help.
Her mother.
Shock hit Libby like a blow. Her legs trembled and she hugged the wall to keep herself from falling.
One of the men spoke, and she caught the words 'dead' and 'stupid'. Then her stomach heaved as part of the reply floated up to her. 'Libby killed her.'
She shook her head, her mouth opening, but the denial in her mind refused to take voice.
The first man stood up. There was a gun in a holster at his waist and something hanging on his belt glinted. A badge? Police? He was a policeman. Oh, God! What had she done? She had to tell him she hadn't ... didn't ... couldn't possibly ...
'We don't have a choice now,' he said, 'we'll have to get rid of Libby tonight or it won't work.'
'Tonight? It's too soon. We've arranged her death for Tuesday,' the man with the familiar voice replied.
Libby stared at the back of his head, trying to place his speech, but her shocked brain refused to cooperate.
'It can still look like an accident. She has to die -'
Whatever else the other man said was lost to Libby as terror flooded through her. They were planning to kill her. She had to get away. She lurched back down the hallway to her bedroom. The long wall of mirrored wardrobes threw her image into stark contrast with the soft chintzy furnishings and lacy curtains. Her short brown hair was mussed, her pants and blouse dishevelled, and the eyes that stared back at her could have been those of a madwoman.
She gazed wildly around the room, her mind searching, grasping, trying to determine what to do next. She looked down at her feet. Need shoes, she told herself. Can't run barefooted. She slid open a wardrobe door, pulled out her sneakers, glanced over to the dressing table, grabbed her handbag, then moved as quietly as she could to the door and looked out.
No-one. She hurried down the long hallway, away from the staircase, weaving dizzily. When she reached the bathroom at the end she slipped inside and closed the door. Only moonlight streaming in through the window illuminated the pale marble and tiled room. She hesitated before