“I’m fine.”
“Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“All right. Head on out to the deck there, I’ll fix us something up.”
“I’ll wait,” Noone said.
MacIntyre’s eyes pinched; he affected a little shrug. He leaned his cane against the wall and hobbled to the drinks cabinetin the living room, where he poured them each a brandy. He handed one to Noone and gestured to a pair of open French doorsleading onto a raised deck. They stepped outside. A grand view over the beach and sea, the misty haze of the offing far away.Noone regarded it all expressionless. Might as well have been looking at a plain brick wall. MacIntyre pulled out a chairfrom the table and sat down heavily, wheezing with every breath. His lungs were the least of his worries, truthfully. Hisheart was failing him, as were his bowels; he struggled to walk more than fifty yards, given his knees. His mind slipped sometimesalso. He forgot things. He blanked out. He tried covering these lapses with anger and bluster, but for a long time Margarethad known. His wife was in rude health, comparatively. She would outlast him by many years. When she’d first suggested movinghere, she’d argued it would be good for him, but now he wasn’t so sure. They lived next door to her sister, she’d made plentyof friends, while he was virtually housebound. She was setting herself up for afterward, he had realized, but then he’d havebeen like this anywhere, or worse, so what did it matter in the end?
And now Noone had visited. Sitting on the other side of the table, legs crossed, sipping his brandy, body angled toward thesea. MacIntyre took a drink, his hand trembling, though it did that anyway.
“What have you come for, Edmund?”
Noone drew a long breath and let it out in a sigh. “I have run into a spot of bother, Spencer, for which I’m afraid I needyour help.”
“Oh, aye?” MacIntyre said hopefully, straightening a little in his chair.
“It’s that bloody McBride business, from Bewley, seems we aren’t quite done with it yet. Honestly, of all the dispersals I led, all the work I did, those Kurrong bastards won’t be silenced—it’s like they don’t know they’re dead.”
“Why, what’s happened? What now?”
“You’ll remember our mutual friend in Brisbane, the lawyer, Henry Wells? It seems he and Billy McBride are cooking up someplan to reopen the case, a Royal Commission or some such horseshit, I’m not entirely sure. They are coming for me, personally,Spencer. Me! The commissioner of police!”
“Some balls on the pair of them.”
“Quite.”
“You know, Billy’s a rich man. Powerful friends.”
“I’m sure he thinks so. But most rich men are fools.”
“Aye, well, I’m sorry to hear it. I always thought Billy had more sense.”
“Oh, he has no proof of anything, none of them do—it was twenty-one years ago, for God’s sake. No, the risk for me lies inthe reputational smear these rumors can bring. Times have changed after Federation. The past is an inconvenience people wouldrather forget. The origins of this country . . . they do not want to be reminded of what happened twenty, thirty, fifty yearsago. Nobody cares. Would rather enjoy the spoils in peace. Which means, of course, that when weasels like Henry Wells startclamoring for justice, a sacrificial lamb must be found. Someone to blame so the rest of them can wash their hands of historyand claim they have done nothing wrong.”
“And this is you you’re talking about? The lamb?”
“If Henry Wells had his way, yes.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
Noone’s gaze wandered to the ocean. He sipped his drink. “Billy McBride is dead. As is his little brother. As is Henry Wells.”
MacIntyre spluttered laughter. “Bloody hell. That’ll work.”
Noone didn’t say anything. His gaze on the ocean, steady and cold.
“I don’t have much influence nowadays,” MacIntyre said, such relief, such optimism in his voice, “but I can probably put aword in, help cover things up?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Do you need an alibi, maybe? I can say you were here the whole time?”
“No.”
“Well then,” he said, chuckling, “I don’t much see how I can help you. Seems you’ve taken care of it all yourself.”
Noone turned to look at him. The chair quietly creaked. “What I need for you to do, Spencer, is to die also. Today. This afternoon.Now. You are the very last of them, the people who know the truth. I cannot allow any witnesses. This Kurrong business risksbecoming the thread that could unravel me. It is time to cut it off.”
MacIntyre forced a nervous laugh that foundered as quickly as it began. “Hell, don’t go making jokes like that to a man ofmy age.”
“Your wife will be home later. I have chosen to spare her, you understand, since I assume she doesn’t know. Or, we can waitfor her return, and you can go together, whichever way you prefer.”
“Christ, Edmund, after all I’ve done for you.”
A twitch of a shrug as Noone saw off his drink.
“The reports I doctored, the crimes I overlooked—I fixed that bloody inquest for you, despite your own best efforts at buggeringthe whole thing up.”
Noone checked the time on his pocket watch. “Is that your answer?”
“You know I’d never say anything! I’ve stayed quiet twenty years!”
“You are testing my patience here, Spencer. I am trying to be kind.”
“Kind? You’re on about killing me!” MacIntyre’s eyes flicked to Noone’s empty glass. “How about I get us another drink andwe’ll talk it over?”
Noone smirked. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The gun you are planning on fetching. The dining room, wall mounted, or do you keep one in the nightstand by your bed? Thinkabout it, Spencer—how do you want to be found? Lying shot in a pool of your own shit, piss, and blood, or peacefully slumpedin that chair there, your body having just . . . given up?”
MacIntyre flinched like the thing had burned him. “This chair right here?”
“The very same. Enjoying your idyllic view.”
“You’re a fucking monster.”
Noone walked around
