coat. Same raggedy bullet-proof vest. Belt bulging with pouches, some kind of baton.
His mother twiddled with the stove and then moved to the kitchen entry. 'I was just cooking-'
The chair scraped a rude interruption as Kevin hauled himself to his feet, using the table for support. 'What the hell are you doing here, Hunter?'
The man held up a hand and Kevin stayed where he was. 'Calm down, sport. We're here to sort it all out.'
A woman in black walked in behind him. She wore an ankle-length skirt and a blouse under some kind of wide-shouldered, hooded Driza-Bone. Her hair was cropped close to the scalp, her face all angles, tight and hard, humourless, the mug shot of someone who'd blown up a bus. Her eyes glimmered green, like a cat's. Something about her reminded Kevin of Taipan.
Meg closed the door and walked over to hold his arm tight. He pulled her to him. This was not going to go well.
'My, quite the welcome home party we're having,' the woman said.
'My, um, supervisor,' Hunter told them. 'From Brisbane.'
The woman studied Kevin. 'Well, our star attraction's up and about. How do you feel, boy?'
'What's the story, Hunter?' Kevin demanded. 'What the hell happened? What happened to my dad?'
The woman glanced at Hunter when Kevin said his name, an eyebrow arched in inquiry, faintly amused or annoyed, he couldn't tell. Who wore a 'Bone out here in summer, anyway?
'Kevin,' his mother said. 'Stay calm, son.'
'He's fine,' Meg said. 'But the ambos are on their way from Charleville. I think he should be under observation or something.'
'Oh, definitely or something,' the woman said. 'In fact, I think he should come with us.'
'With you?' Kevin's mother said.
Meg tightened her grip on his arm. 'He hasn't done anything.'
'He is a material witness to the death of a policeman,' the woman said.
'And my dad,' Kevin added.
'And your father.'
Kevin pointed at Hunter. 'This bloke knows more about it than me. He brought that biker to the servo. He left us to die in there.'
'That's not what happened, sport.'
'Don't sport me. I saw what you did to that bloke's arm. I saw-'
'Oh, Reece,' the woman said, reaching inside her coat.
'Wait,' Hunter said. 'Mira.'
Mira gave him the look of a school teacher being told bullshit about homework not done, then walked toward Kevin's mother. She picked up a photograph of Kevin in his cricket whites, leg streaked with red from his bowling stint that netted his first five-for. 'You must be very proud to have such a fit son.'
'Very proud.'
'I like you, little mother.' She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. 'You smell of strength. Not here.' She squeezed his mother's bicep. 'Here.' A hand on her chest, dark-coloured nails glinting. His mother stood, as straight as a crowbar. 'Strength and anger. A little bit of fear, too, I think. The smells of the peasant, leavened with dirt and sunshine.' Mira's hand slid down, over his mother's stomach.
Kevin held Meg closer. He could smell his own sweat. Realised that the sausages were starting to burn, the sizzling growing louder. His pulse reverberated in his ears. Meg radiated heat beside him; a trick of his hearing made it sound as if he could hear her racing heartbeat, too, feel it thudding against him where their bodies pressed together. He could see only Mira: her face so close to his mother's cheek, the crown of her head reaching only to his mother's nose; that hand, spread wide as though to sense a baby's kick.
'Stop it,' he said, but she ignored him, lost in some kind of reverie.
'I, too, was a peasant once,' Mira said. 'So, dirt and sunshine, I understand, though I have left them far, far behind. But I do like to taste them sometimes. It is good to be reminded of where we come from, don't you think? Of our heritage. Of the blood in our veins.'
'I don't know what you people want. Sergeant, what do you people want?' his mother asked, shuffling away from Mira.
'Yes, sergeant, tell these good citizens: what is it we want?'
'We just need to talk to your son, Mrs Matheson.'
'Mrs Matheson? It was Diana this afternoon.'
Mira looked at Hunter, amused. 'The night changes everything, does it not?'
'Mira!'
'They know you, Hunter, and now they know me.'
'We know nothin',' Kevin said.
'Oh, but I think you do, boy; because you don't look very well at all.'
'I'm all right.'
'You have no idea what you are.' Mira cocked her head, listening. 'Is that the Night Riders I hear? Do you hear them, Hunter? Coming to clean up their loose ends.'
'Not necessary, Strigoi. These people-'
'The boy is officially dead-'
'The constable knows he isn't. And who else by now? You can't make the whole town go away.'
A frown. 'No, I suppose not.'
'Cut our losses, Strigoi. Take the Rogue and go.'
'I was thinking, cut and run.' A finger nail drew a thin line of blood down Kevin's mother's cheek. She tried to pull away, but Mira held her firmly by the upper arm.
The smoke alarm sounded. Mira, flinching, told Hunter to take care of the pan. Smoke spiralled over the stove as Hunter stepped toward the kitchen.
'Run, Meg, run!' Kevin pushed her out of the way and charged.
Mira shoved his mother. She smacked into the table and tumbled to the floor. He lashed out but Mira side-stepped his clumsy, distracted punch and her stiff arm slammed into his chest like a cricket bat. His feet flew out from under him and he hit the floor so hard his vision turned black, lit by fireworks. When he could see again, the woman had him pinned under her boot, the chunky heel grinding into his diaphragm, the evil snout of a pistol pointed directly at his face.
Hunter helped his mother up. Meg stood petrified, backed against the table. His mother found her feet and yanked her arm from Hunter's grip. Blood smeared her face.
Kevin pawed at the boot holding him down, but Mira shook her head at him, the gun barrel mirroring the action, and he forced himself to lie still, the anger seething inside him.
A squawk and Hunter stepped back to answer the two-way radio at his belt.
His mother grabbed the rifle. Worked the bolt and levelled it at Mira.
Hunter snapped his pistol to her forehead. Murmured into the two-way, 'Gimme a minute.'
