He leaned forward, trying to press his lips to hers, but she turned her head to the side. He mustn’t taste the vomit. She attempted to distract him with a sensuous moan.

‘C’mon, babe,’ Tye said. ‘You’re going to love this. Don’t be shy.’

Another sleepy giggle.

He positioned himself at her feet and slipped off her trainers and socks. ‘I’m going to make you look real pretty.’ He picked up a can of spray paint and shook it. The ball inside the can rattled, then her toes spasmed as a chill wave washed over the top of her foot. Her nose and mouth stung with the fumes of fresh paint.

‘Just wanted you to get an idea of the final effect, seeing as you won’t be around to see it.’ He lifted her foot to show her. She smiled inanely while her heart felt ready to explode with fear. When he let her foot go it fell to the ground with a thud as if it really was weighted with gold.

‘But where to put the end product?’ he mused. ‘Monty’s car perhaps? Now there’s an idea. I’ll just give you back to him, all pretty and posed—a pretty picture for him to dwell on while he rots in jail.’

Through slit eyes she saw him pick up the scissors and move to the outer seam of her jeans.

Now!

Her double-barrelled kick caught him under the chin, knocking him onto his back. He hit the concrete hard. ‘You bitch! You fucking bitch!’

She sprang towards the table, turned her back to it and seized the gun between her bound hands. Tye was on his feet and about to lunge when the pull of the slide and the sound of the chambered bullet stopped him in his tracks.

With her back to him and twisting her neck around as far as she could go, she knew the only chance she had of getting away was to kill or disable him now. But the swaying of her body told her that despite her efforts, she’d still absorbed some of the drug. The bullet could fly anywhere.

She couldn’t think rationally.

In the middle of debating the pros and cons of recklessly letting the shot fly, she became aware of feet clanging down metal stairs. Then Monty was bellowing her name and pounding on the door.

‘In here!’ she called, the feeling of giddy relief now compounding her dizziness. ‘Open the door and let him in,’ she commanded Tye.

He was frozen on the spot several metres away from her. He looked from Stevie to the door, shook his head and smiled, in control again.

The hammering on the door stopped.

Cramping pains shot up her neck as her body reacted to its twisted position. To unbolt and unlock the door she’d have to drop the gun and she doubted her reactions would be quick enough to coordinate both movements. Keeping the gun on Tye as best she could, she edged herself closer to the door.

‘I’m in here, Mont, but I can’t open the door!’

With a heavy thump and a curse the door bowed but the lock held.

Tye dived towards her, and in the same moment a hollow banging sound from the floor made the spotlight above her shudder, the door vibrate.

Stevie fired. The bullet cracked into the far wall and ricocheted around the room like a slammed squash ball. She closed her eyes, waiting to be hit by the bullet, the impact of Tye’s body or both.

But when she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

26

Many sociopaths will study psychology books and become skilful imitators. One example is Australia’s notorious multiple murderer, Tye Davis, the exclusive subject of this study.

De Vakey, To Catch a Killer

Monty cut through her bindings with the discarded scissors and passed a hand across her face as if needing reassurance she was still alive. Oblivious to the blood dripping from the back of her head he attempted to draw her to him.

She held him back with straightened arms; it was all she could think of to keep them both in the here and now.

He came to his senses and sprang to his feet. ‘Where the hell’s he gone?’

‘A trapdoor, here.’ Stevie pointed to the open wooden lid in the floor in front of them.

‘For Christ’s sake.’ He began to descend the rusty metal ladder, turning when she tried to follow to scowl at her, ‘You’re not coming. Go wait out the front for back-up. They’ll be here any minute.’

Stevie’s body contradicted her expression of stubborn defiance, forcing her to turn her back on him and heave again. It was like the opening of a floodgate she could no longer control. When it was over finished she whirled back to the open trapdoor in time to hear the fading ring of Monty’s footsteps on the metal rungs, a soft thump, then silence.

She sat on the edge of the hole for a moment, glancing around the ghastly room with her legs dangling. She found her eyes drawn to the misted silhouettes on the floor and a shiver rippled up her spine.

‘Bugger this for a joke,’ she said aloud. Feeling for the top rung with her foot, she eased her way into the hole.

The fishy odour that rose to meet her as she reached river level made her stomach lurch. Holding her nausea back by willpower alone, she stepped off the last rung and crawled through a short tunnel until she came to a wooden flap not much bigger than a doggie door. Once through this she found herself on a small sandy ledge about three metres above the sloshing river. The scrabble of frantic movements from the bank above made her look up into the wet night.

The rain that had started as a misty drizzle earlier in the evening had turned into a downpour. While the cold on her face served to drive away some of her drug-induced fuzziness, the rain made for poor visibility. She narrowed her eyes and tried to see through the wind and lashing rain, but all she could make out was the looming mass of the riverbank above her. With hands outstretched, she blindly groped against its muddy face for fistfuls of grass. The damp of the earth through the knees of her jeans and the sting of rain on her face caused a sudden wave of euphoria. A surge of heart-thumping adrenaline washed away more of the fuzziness in her head and the churning of her gut. She was alive. Unbelievably alive.

At the top of the bank she caught a glimpse of Tye running across the weedy plot between the riverbank and the power station. Dressed in his black wetsuit all she could make out was the pale backward and forward motion of his pumping hands and feet. The blurred outline following some distance behind had to be Monty.

All at once, several beams of light pricked the darkness. The sound of sliding tyres on mud broke through the noise of the rain and she saw Tye veer to the right almost into the path of a braking police car. A second sharp turn and he was face to face with another. Outflanked, there was only one way left for him to go and that was ahead.

Monty was closing the gap. She wanted to follow him, but staggered first to the uniformed officers scrambling from their cars.

‘Block the exits,’ she gasped. ‘You need to surround the perimeter. You can’t let him get out of here. Inspector McGuire’s in pursuit, I’m following...’

She attempted to rejoin the chase, but found herself held back by a pair of strong arms.

‘You’re in no fit state, Stevie. Stay with me.’ It was Wayne and he pulled her close. She felt the rain on her neck, heard distant voices and the crackle of car tyres as the uniforms dispersed. She didn’t have the strength to fight any more. As she buried her head in Wayne’s shoulder, she knew he was the only thing keeping her upright.

Tye’s only chance of escape was up, and by the time Stevie lifted her head he was already on the flat roof of the power station with Monty clambering up the maintenance ladder after him. One of the cops aimed a powerful spotlight and she held her breath as she saw Monty ease his way from the ladder onto the roof, his silhouette swaying in the wind. Soon he was pounding across the roof after Tye, who was heading towards a higher level of steeply pitched tin.