Free Lugarno by Peter Corris Page B

roughnecks like me calling on him.
    â€˜I hope Mr Price’s not in trouble,’ she said.
    â€˜Who isn’t?’
    â€˜Well, I suppose … yes, all right. Thank you, Mr Hardy.’
    And that told me something new. Junie had the hots for Marty. But Marty had Sammy and Danni to worry about. I rode down in the mirrored lift and didn’t once look at my reflection. I was afraid I’d think of how my anti-godson, Clifford Parker, had tried to call me Cliffy until I’d paid him enough money not to.
    I had lunch in a Bankstown cafe—gnocchi and a salad and a glass of red—and deliberated whether to go back to Strathfield and tackle the woman who’d got away from Tom Bolitho or try to locate Danni Price and see what manner of young woman she was. So far I’d divided the day pretty evenly between the paid and unpaid work. Time to go for the money. I drove to Lugarno and parked outside the Price gates. The button I pressed got me a muzzy female voice.
    â€˜Yes? Who is it?’
    I don’t know what made me do it, but on an impulse I ventured an imitation of Jason Jorgensen’s voice. ‘It’s Jason.’
    â€˜Oh, Jason. Thank God. Come in. Please hurry.’
    She sounded desperate and I pushed open the gate and sprinted up the path to the house. Shecame staggering through the door to meet me and shrieked when she saw me. Her face and skin were colourless and I could see a good deal of skin because she wore only a sleeveless white lace blouse hanging open and a pair of knickers to match. Her left arm was bloody from the elbow to the wrist and blood had run down her blouse to her legs. Both of her hands were dripping blood and there was more on her face and in her hair. When she saw me she tried to turn back into the house but sagged at the knees and I stepped forward and caught her.
    Her beautifully sculpted face was like a death mask as she looked up at me. ‘You’re not … ’
    â€˜No, but I’m here, Mrs Price. What’s happened to you?’
    Then I saw the deep cut in her arm below a fresh puncture mark in the spot where injecting drug users probe for a vein. It looked as if she’d hit the vein for her shot and then somehow gashed her arm. Blood was rushing from the wound and she was fighting the fatigue and helplessness that comes with blood loss. I lowered her onto a padded bench seat on the porch, pulled off her blouse and made as tight a tourniquet as I could around her lower arm. The blood seeped, then stopped. She lay back with her head turned to one side and one arm up behind her. I placed the wounded arm across her body just below her breasts.
    I stood up and swore as the bruised stomach pinched me.
    She opened her eyes. ‘Who’re you?’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter. I’m calling an ambulance.’
    â€˜No!’ The ferocity of her delivery stopped me dead.
    â€˜Your life’s in danger, Mrs Price. You’ve lost a lot of blood.’
    She had guts or enough desperation to amount to the same thing. ‘Not so much. Mostly shock. Call Dr Cross. I was trying to call him when you … but the blood made the phone slippery. The number’s by the phone. Please, please …’
    I felt her pulse and found it was quite strong. With the bleeding stopped some colour was returning to her face and she struggled to sit up. I eased her down.
    â€˜I’ll be all right. Please, call the doctor and get me a cigarette.’
    Strong voice now, in control and searching for normality. Good signs. I pulled a pillow from the bottom of the bench and propped her up. I went into the house and negotiated a trail of blood down a long, polished wood passageway, past an alcove where the phone and fax machine sat, to the kitchen where I filled a glass with water. I brought it back to her and she took a sip while I held it.
    â€˜Cigarette.’
    â€˜Where are they?’
    She hesitated but the need was too great.