Authors: Gabrielle Lord
October (6 page)
The grey and white house was surrounded by lush lawns and gardens. A low hedge, trimmed meticulously, formed the front fence. A path led up to the entrance of the house, and a long
driveway
led to a triple garage. Beside the garage was a paved pathway to the backyard.
All was quiet.
We carefully crept up and peered down the side of the house. The edge of a paved terrace peeked out—a bit like the one at the back of Rafe’s place. It also looked like he might have had a bit of a vegetable patch or something growing deep in the rear of the yard.
The house was shrouded in darkness. Not a single glimmer of light seemed to show from inside. It looked like whoever was inside was in bed and asleep. No point sticking around tonight.
After Winter and I walked all the way back to her house, I decided to continue walking to St Johns Street. She told me Sligo had mentioned something about ‘spending quality time’ with her on the weekend, so I couldn’t risk staying at her place, waiting for him to pop his nasty head through her door and find me on her couch.
And so I was back in the St Johns Street dump, feeling a great sense of déjà vu. Restless and
trying
to fall asleep on the creaking floorboards, my mind was skimming over everything that had happened to me since running into the crazy guy on New Year’s Eve last year. The 365-day
countdown
was ticking away so fast. I’d come so far, but I still had so much to do.
I was thinking about some of the people who had helped me along the way—Jennifer Smith, Melba Snipe, Nelson Sharkey… and I was thinking about some of the people I hoped would help me in the future—Eric Blair, and the Keeper of Rare Books, Dr Theophilus Brinsley.
And then, of course, I was thinking about the guy who had my face. Ryan Spencer.
Boges, Winter and I had shared surveillance of Rathbone’s house over the weekend, but none of us had uncovered anything worthy of blackmail—unless you count footage of Rathbone, when he thought no-one was watching, wandering out to collect the morning paper in his undies.
I was hoping this week would give us the breakthrough we needed, but today had been no better. I’d spent the day sitting outside Pacific Tower, watching the entrance while mindlessly scratching a thin layer of black colour off my mobile phone casing.
Now I was back at Chesterfield Avenue, hiding myself and Boges’s bike in the bushes. The red Audi was parked in the driveway and a light was on upstairs.
I peered in the direction of the street when I heard footsteps walking up the path nearby.
I knew that silhouette anywhere. Winter.
‘Hi,’ she whispered, crouching down beside me. ‘I know it’s not my shift, but I needed a break from studying and thought you could do with some company—’
Winter suddenly stopped talking and pointed to the front door with her eyes.
It was Rathbone emerging, still in his suit and carrying a black briefcase. He fumbled with his keys before locking the door and heading for the driveway. The red Audi beeped, unlocked, and Rathbone climbed in and started the ignition.
‘Quick,’ I said. ‘On the bike!’
We looked through the vine-covered windows of the expensive city restaurant. Rathbone was sitting at a table in the corner with another man in a dark suit.
‘That’s not his usual briefcase,’ whispered Winter.
‘You’re right,’ I said, peering at the black bag at his feet. ‘I’ve never seen that one before.’
We looked at each other for a moment before
Winter spoke again. ‘Something different from the usual,’ she said. ‘It could mean something.’
I pulled out the camera Boges had given me on the weekend. I made sure the flash was switched off, pressed the lens to the glass and, when no-one was paying any attention, I took a picture.
I checked the image on the camera’s screen. It wasn’t a very clear shot, as the foreground was partially occupied by a couple near the window. But in the distance it showed Sheldrake
Rathbone
and his companion, and the black briefcase beneath the table.
‘Look,’ I said, noticing something else under the table as I zoomed in on the image. I turned the screen to Winter. ‘The other guy has an almost identical bag at his feet.’
‘So he does,’ she said. I looked into Winter’s dark, almond-shaped eyes. She suddenly squinted and grabbed the camera from me. ‘Hey, wasn’t that bag the one Rathbone went in with?’
‘What?’ I said, taking the camera back and looking at the image again. ‘You think they’ve done a switch?’
‘I swear he came out of his house with the bag that’s now at the other guy’s feet. It’s more
squarish
than a typical briefcase. I could be wrong…’
‘I think you’re right!’ I said.
Rathbone climbed out of his car, lugged the
briefcase
out after him, and returned to his house. Around us, the night was still and quiet, apart from a possum or two scurrying along the trees that lined the street.
‘What should we do now?’ I asked Winter. ‘The briefcase is no use to us unless we find out what’s inside it.’
‘You want to break into his house?’
Before I could answer, Rathbone appeared at the front door carrying a small kerosene lamp in one hand and a shovel in the other. His eyes darted around the yard, a clear sign he was up to no good. He leaned the shovel against the wall and disappeared inside once more.
Winter and I grinned at each other, anxious to witness whatever was about to unfold.
A few minutes later he was back, this time with the black bag by his side. He reached for the shovel, turned on the lamp, and started for the backyard.
‘You wanted
dirt
,’ said Winter, ‘and now it looks like you’re gonna get it!’
We carefully followed Rathbone down the side
of the house. He went straight for the vegetable patch down the back. There seemed to be a few cabbages or something leafy growing in three neat lines, and beside that was a low mound of soil.
Rathbone stopped at the mound of dirt and placed the lamp on the ground. A small circle of light surrounded him. He pulled up his sleeves, took the shovel with both hands and began
digging
.
We huddled down behind a birdbath water
feature
that was flowing in the corner of the yard.
‘He might be burying someone,’ I quietly joked, as the sounds of the spade hitting dirt
continued
. Winter gave me a strange look, as if to say my words weren’t that far-fetched. I shuddered, remembering my own burial at the hands of this shady guy we were watching.
The sound of digging became louder and then suddenly stopped. Had Rathbone sensed our presence? We squatted like statues, not daring to move.
After a moment I peered around the birdbath.
Rathbone was flat on his stomach, reaching into the hole he’d just dug. He grunted as if he were lifting something heavy.
He struggled, but finally squirmed backwards, pulling a wooden chest out of the earth. Rathbone
knelt over it—it was about the size of a picnic esky—and wrenched the lid open.
Buried treasure?
Winter and I stared on, riveted. I was barely breathing as I watched him shuffle on his knees to the black briefcase. He looked at his left palm before running his thumbs over the twin number locks that clasped the bag shut. He must have written the code on his hand. The bag opened and he began lifting its contents out and transferring them to the chest.
‘Cash!’ Winter whispered. ‘Wads of cash!
Thousands
and thousands of dollars!’
‘Why would he bury money in his backyard?’
‘Because he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. He doesn’t want the bank or the taxman to know about it, and he doesn’t want anyone knowing
how
he got it!’
Silently I drew out my camera. Winter reached into her embroidered shoulder bag and pulled out her camera, too.
‘Don’t forget to switch off the flash,’ I reminded her.
‘Cal, we’re gonna need it,’ she said, as she squinted through the viewfinder.
She was right. It was too dark.
‘OK, let’s both take photos on the count of three, then run for our lives. Cool?’
‘Let’s do it!’
I zoomed in as far as possible.
‘One,’ I counted. In the tiny window, the figure of Sheldrake Rathbone, solicitor, stooped as he transferred the last of the wads of cash from the briefcase into the chest. ‘Two … three!’
The night lit up with two camera flashes, one slightly later than the other, and then we were off, racing and tripping through the garden. I wrenched Boges’s bike out from behind the bush and jumped on. Winter ran around in front and hitched herself up on the handlebars.
‘Let’s go!’ she urged.
I pedalled like crazy, the bike flying down the footpath, carrying both of us. Winter’s hair flapped wildly in front of me. She gripped the handlebars and risked an awkward twist around to give me a victorious grin.
