Murder with the Lot by Sue Williams Page B

worrying about a possible infection. I rustled up a smile and gave him a wave as he drove away.
    â€˜You know anything about the signs of rabies, Brad?’ I snapped on my seatbelt. I was pretty sure there was foam involved. At the mouth. Was that awful dog foaming at the mouth? All I could recall was teeth.
    â€˜No rabies in Australia, Mum. There’s lyssavirus, but that’s in bats.’
    â€˜Could it pass to a human through a bat-bitten dog?’
    â€˜Dunno. Possibly.’ He got in the car. Turning the ignition, he started up a briefing on lyssavirus, how long it takes to incubate, all the convulsions and delirium, how long you take to die. ‘In atrocious pain, probably.’
    I stared out the window, trying not to think of all the ways a dog might meet an infected bat, of the reasons the bat might bite the dog. An angry bat; a hungry bat. A bat could have a lot of reasons.
    A road train overtook us, the blast of air juddering against the car.
    Brad started up on his favourite desert rant, the one where he lists the two hundred endangered Mallee species. ‘The place is dying, Mum.’ He thumped the steering wheel. ‘Once the last desperate hangers-on have left it’ll just turn into one big empty salt plain.’
    Did he consider me one of those hangers-on? I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. It’s the potential of the place that gets to you. What it could be, if it rained.
    We crossed a dry river bed. A kestrel landed in a paddock, its feet extended. Maybe the weather was getting to Brad. It was headache weather, oppressive, like it wants to rain but can’t remember how.
    I told Brad about the weird stuff in Noel’s van, those spikes and the mini-scimitar, Clarence and his handcuffs. ‘So what’s Noel up to with that lot?’
    Brad looked at me, his face had a worn-down expression, like he’d packed on some extra years today. ‘Well, it’s obvious,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a choice of three.’ He gave me a little list:
    One, the mini-scimitar was an actual mini-scimitar, used for slashing unarmoured opponents either mounted or on foot.
    Two, the spikes were used for tree climbing and the mini-scimitar was some sort of handsaw used by an arborist for pruning trees, or maybe by a scientist collecting tree samples.
    Three, they could all be tools used for some weird sex game.
    Options one and three were fairly unappealing. Option two seemed too sensible for Noel somehow; too law-abiding. Anyway, not much call for an arborist around here.
    â€˜And surely a reputable scientist type of person wouldn’t look so scruffy,’ I said. ‘He’d drive a natty car provided by the uni, neat logo down the side, not that rusting van.’
    He snorted. ‘You met many scientists, Mum?’ Then he shrugged. ‘Look, he’s probably an environmentalist. He’ll be doing something useful for the planet, maybe bird research.’
    â€˜Without binoculars? And what’s an environmentalist doing with handcuffs?’

A long wait and three injections later, I was declared dog-infection-free. Leaving the hospital, I spotted a parked ute, dusty orange in Hustle’s main street. Terry got out and started limping along the street, staring at the footpath.
    â€˜Terry,’ I called out. He turned. He still had that bruise on his cheek.
    â€˜What happened to your leg, Cass?’
    â€˜Oh, a minor accident,’ I waved a careless hand. ‘I see you’ve got them, then?’
    He gazed at me, an intent type of gazing. Like there was nothing else around to see. I didn’t mind it at all. I moved a little closer.
    â€˜Sorry?’ he said.
    â€˜Clarence and Aurora. I see you’ve got their ute. From Ernie’s shack.’
    Terry expelled his breath. ‘Wow. You’re one observant woman.’
    I smiled.
    Brad folded his arms and stared at the road, suddenly fascinated by the bitumen.
    â€˜Nah,