Free Crucifixion Creek by Barry Maitland Page B

works. He holds his breath as he opens the door, bracing for an alarm
that may be independent of the main tower systems, but there is no sound. He is in
a small reception area—a computer on a desk and filing cabinets behind. He opens
a door opposite. This looks like the principal’s office—Kristich’s—with a large desk
and computer on one side of the room and a conference table and chairs over against
the external wall—full-height glass that looks out to the shimmering lights of the
CBD. There are no pictures on the wall and the furnishings look generic, as if rented
and ready to be abandoned.
    There is another room beyond this one, and the glow of a light through the half-open
door. Harry pads silently across the carpet to see. The light comes from a lamp on
a low table beside a sofa facing a TV. A private sitting room? There are some men’s
magazines and a couple of used glasses. A champagne bottle, Krug. One of the glasses
has traces of lipstick.
    He returns to the office and searches the desk drawers, finding nothing of interest.
Then out to the reception area, to the filing cabinets, which are locked. It takes
him a few minutes to find the keys in the receptionist’s desk, and he begins a search
through the files. The first drawer is full of blank forms and letterheads, the second
booklets and forms relating to tax and property, the third staff files. The client
files start in the fourth drawer. Each file is identified by a number rather than
a name, and they are in numerical order, so that he has to open each one in order
to identify the client. It takes him some time to discover one for Waterford, and
then another for March. He pulls them out, and is about to relock the cabinets when,
out of curiosity, he flicks through a few more files and comes upon one with the
name ‘Belltree’ scrawled on the front. He freezes, then slowly draws it out, turns
the locks and replaces the keys.
    He is in mild shock, his heart thumping. Now the computer. Which one should he take?
He decides the one in Kristich’s office is more likely to contain sensitive material,
and heads back there. As he steps towards the desk he feels a tightening in his scalp.
There’s something—a smell…And as he turns, a voice from behind him.
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’
    The man is a black silhouette against the electric panorama beyond the window. Harry
lays the files on the desk at his side as the figure moves to the wall and flips
the lights. A short man going fleshy, pale hair thinning. Probably no more than forty,
wearing a silk dressing gown. Harry recognises him as Alexander Kristich, and the
pistol in his hand as a US Army Ruger 1911. Kristich is staring in fascination at
the latex gloves on Harry’s hands. His voice sounds a little slurred as he advances
on Harry. ‘Hands up. Turn around.’ He waves the heavy pistol at Harry, who wonders
if he knows how to use it, if it’s loaded or cocked. He turns and lets Kristich
feel his pockets and pat his chest.
    Kristich backs off. ‘Well?’ he demands. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘I’m a student, Mr Kristich.’ Harry slowly turns to face him, lowering his arms.
    ‘A what?’
    ‘A student of your methods. I want to learn from you.’
    Kristich splutters. ‘You’re joking.’
    ‘I think you’re an expert at what you do.’
    ‘Oh yeah?’ Kristich waves him away from the desk, and cautiously flips over the covers
of the files. ‘Waterford…March. Why these two?’
    ‘Because they ended up dead. I want to find out how you did that.’
    ‘You’re a cop.’ But he sounds uncertain. ‘Or what? You after a little something for
yourself?’
    Harry says nothing, then Kristich’s face clears and he laughs, as if he’s suddenly
decided that this is a hilarious situation. ‘You want to learn from me, do you? You
want to know what my secret is? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m a student too. I study human
weakness, and then I facilitate it. Take those people…’ he waves towards the