You draw. I put you down

Rain fell like God had left the hose running and for Inspector Tim Pittman it was a massive pain in the ass. He’d spent a week chasing this fugitive. This Tate Taylor. Through sun and rain, he followed him.

Tate Taylor. Terrible name. Terrible person.

From the west of Australia to the east. Tim wasn’t sure if Tate knew he’d been followed when he left Perth but by the time he reached Mallacoota he knew. 

Tim reckoned that Tate meant to take the road north at Genoa, head into New South Wales but panicked when he realised he was being followed. Lost his sense of direction and now here they were, at the most eastern point of Victoria.

The trek started surrounded by sand and now it was going to end surrounded by forest. A weird contrast. And now here they were, the end of Australia, and to Tate, the end of the world. But like the world, it never ends. At least not now. 

Maybe in a billion years when the sun decides to stop shining. 

But today, behind those heavy grey clouds, the sun shone.

If only God would turn off the damn hose.

The wind shield wipers were working in overdrive and Tim thought they might wipe themselves out of existence, like an eraser. Ahead of him was a white BMW convertible. 

“Where is he?” came a gruff voice over the speakers in Tim’s police-issued Dodge Charger.

“In his BMW,” Tim replied.

On the other end of the line was Commander Michael Allen, Tim’s boss. “The convertible? Not very subtle is he?”

“Yeah well, at least the roof is up,” Tim said in his casual way of speaking. Like he wasn’t in any sort of hurry to let the world know what he was saying. The world could wait and so could he.

“And they said he wasn’t smart.”

“Benefits of a private education. Teach white boys to keep their tops up in the rain, and their pants down when raping.”

“Which one is it?”

“The white one,” Tim drawled.

He could hear the disappointment in his commander's voice, “Even in hiding they show off.”

“Sticks out like a birthing sheep with a lamb half out her ass,” Tim agreed.

“Where’s he going to go?”

“Hell if I know. Maybe he’ll just keep on driving until he runs out of road.”

Allen barked out a laugh, “Doesn’t look like he has much longer then.”

“Could be the car converts into a boat.”

“Like James Bond?”

“He is rich.”

“His Dad is rich.”

“Yep.”

“He’s not rich.”

“Rich enough that he has 20 grand in the boot.”

“Daddy's money.”

“Could be enough to convert the car into a boat.”

“You would have noticed.”

“Could have done it while I was asleepin’.”

The BMW turned a corner, passing by a caravan park and Tim followed. Ahead of them was the beach and the endless ocean.

“End of the road,” Commander Allen announced, watching the satellite feed from the dry comforts of his office somewhere in Canberra.

“Not if it turns into a boat.”

“It won’t.”

“You’re so confident?” 

“I will give you a boat if it does.”

“Long road ahead if it does. Could be in Auckland by the time I find an airport in this backwoods hick town.”

“It won’t. Besides you’re a backwoods hick yourself.”

Tim smiled, looking at his faithful Akubra on the seat beside him, “That I am.”

The BMW drove to the edge of the road, where it met the beach, and kept going. On to the beach, clumps of soaking wet sand kicked up as the car shifted gear and sped up.

“He’s going for Auckland,” Tim said as his own car crossed the line between road and sand. He idly wondered if there was a road beneath all this sand he was driving on. 

“Just keep following. He’s got nowhere to go.”

“Could go to Auckland.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’d like a cat.”

“Huh?”

“Catamaran.”

Allen barked out another laugh, “You even know how to use a rowboat?”

“Nope.”

“Then what the fuck you going to do with a catamaran?”

“It’ll look nice in the driveway,” Tim said, following the BMW at a leisurely pace as the wipers brushed aside the curtains of rain.

Another laugh, “A cat won’t fit in your driveway.”

“No?”

“Do you know how big a catamaran is?”

“Bigger than my driveway I’m guessin’?”

“Yep. So how are you going to fit it in your driveway?”

“I’ll sell it. Use the money to build a bigger driveway.”

“Then you won’t have a catamaran to put in your shiny new driveway.”

“I’ll use the leftover money to buy a second hand one.”

“Good plan.”

“Thanks boss.”

Tate’s BMW turned right, running parallel to the rough, swirling waters of the Tasman Sea. The convertible picked up speed and Tim followed, pressing on the accelerator a tiny amount to keep the BMW in view but far enough away that if the kid spun out he’d be out of harm's way.

“Where’s he going?” Allen’s voice came over the speakers.

“Dunno.”

“Auckland?”

“Dunno.”

The rain let up, God finally remembering he left the hose on, and the downpour turned into a light sprinkle.

“What do you know?”

“Grass is green. Sky is blue. And the car-boat has not yet been invented.

“So no BMW boat?”

“Seems so.”

“No catamaran for you then.”

“Seems so,” Tim agreed.

“What’s he doing?”

“Drivin’”

“Where’s he going to go?”

“Dunno.”

Commander Allen had developed a tolerance for Tim’s inflection and laid-back manner. Allen didn’t really care for anything but results. “According to satellite, the beach runs for a couple of kilometers before it hits the mouth of a river. There's the ocean on the left and trees on the right. He’s trapped.”

“Unless it converts into a helicopter.” 

“Tim...” Allen warned.

“It is called a convertible.”

“Because the roof comes down.”

“So they say.”

He pressed on the accelerator a bit more. With the rain letting up, he was comfortable bridging the gap between himself and Tate.

Ahead of him the coastline narrowed, thinning as it merged towards the tree line.

He watched the BMW swerve, trying to avoid a half buried log, but Tate wasn’t quick enough and the convertible mounted the log, the right side of the car momentarily airborne and a tyre flew off the rear of the vehicle and bounced away into the trees.

The convertible landed, lost control, and spun around in circles, digging deep divots and spraying sand in waves until it came to a rest near the mouth of the river.

Tim slowed the car to a stop about 20 metres away from the now stationary BMW, the wipers moving in a slow cadence, clearing away the drizzle. The formerly pristine white car was now covered in sand, dirt and sat on a slight slant due to the missing tyre.

“He’s stopped.”

“That’s an understatement,” Allen said.

“True nonetheless.”

“We want him alive,” Allen reminded him.

“I know,” Tim said and pushed open his door. He grabbed his hat and climbed out of the car. He stood behind the open door, casually scanning the scene as he put the hat on, his RM Williams boots half covered in sand. It was unlikely there would be an ambush or Tate had friends in Mallacoota but he had money and it was better to be safe than sorry. Especially in this line of business.

Slowly, but casually, he unclipped the safety guard from his gun holster in his waist belt but left his gun in there. Hands on his hips. Almost leaning against the car.

Non-threatening. Not here for a showdown.

Nothing happened. Tate stayed in the car.

“Tate Taylor;” he called in his slow drawl. He waited, listening to the waves crashing like cymbals in an orchestra and the howling of the wind, blowing sand across the beach, ever-so-slowly reshaping the world.

The BMW remained still and Tim considered his options.

He could approach, but Tate had a weapon. This much he knew. Tate could, and would, shoot without hesitation according to the psych profile. And they were remote. Commander Allen had eyes on him but in the trees, he could lose him. At least long enough he could disappear with the twenty thousand.

Or he could wait. Twenty thousand could buy a lot of food. Though not on the beach of Mallacoota.

It was a waiting game.

He looked up, the clouds were still dark and grey, ready to drop anytime now. There were a dozen places he would rather be than waiting out Tate Taylor.

“Tate Taylor,” he called out again. “Get out of the car with your hands above your head.” He felt a heavy drop of rain splash on his suit jacket.

Another shower was on the way.

He couldn’t see inside the BMW. Not from here. Not with its tinted windows, but Tim thought he saw a slight movement, the shadow of someone moving around. Finally the driver's side door opened and Tate Taylor emerged.

A good looking boy of 22, he was blonde haired, blue eyed with the body of an athlete. The looks every boy wanted and every girl desired.

Well, almost every girl.

“Inspector,” Tate said with that famous smile. The smile that made all the papers. The ones that defended him. The ones that decried him of his alleged crimes. The one that could melt icebergs or freeze hell depending on his mood. 

All Tim knew was that he was evil. He didn’t need the psych profile to tell him that.

Sociopathic tendencies.

“Hands up, Tate,” Tim called out. 

“I’m not sure I can do that,” Tate said with a shrug.

“I’d like to get this done before the rain starts again.”

Tate moved away from the BMW.

“Do you like westerns, Inspector?”

“Sure,” Tim said, moving out from behind the car door.

They stood, facing each other, 20 metres apart.

“Kind of reminds you of those movies, right? The lawman and the outlaw. Facing off against each other. Who can draw the fastest.”

“You draw. I put you down.” Tim said. Not a brag. A statement.

That famous smile turned sly. “Maybe. I’m pretty quick.”

“That’s what the ladies say.”

Tate tilted his head, the smile fading away into a scowl. He couldn’t abide a shot to his manhood like that, “I didn’t do it.”

A lie.

“Then why run?”

“It was consensual.”

“Running?”

“No, the sex. It was consensual.”

“That’s not what Greta, Sarah and Alana say.”

“They’re liars.”

“All of them?”

“Yep.”

“Well that’s between you and the legal system.”

Tate looked away, staring at the sand. Maybe it reminded him of his victims. Some insignificant speck in a life full of them. A life full of people who he thought were beneath him, to be used and tossed aside.

Maybe it was consensual. Maybe it wasn’t.

But ultimately, to Tim, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t his decision. He only needed to bring him in.

“I have money,” Tate said.

“Twenty K.”

“How’d you know?”

“Just do.”

“Take it.”

“I do need a new driveway.”

“Perfect. You take it. You let me go.” Tate started moving to the trunk.

“Tate,” Tim said quietly, though his voice carried the distance even with the constant buzz of the ocean. It was enough to get him to freeze, “Don’t make me add bribery to the charges.”

Tate’s shoulders slumped and he turned to Tim, smiling, “Worth a shot, wasn’t it?”

“Only way to know is if you give it a shot,” Tim agreed.

“You sure you don’t want it?”

“Don’t need a driveway that bad.”

“Worth a shot, you know?” Tate repeated.

Tim nodded, “You’re not the first to try.”

“Ever been tempted?”

“Be inhuman if I wasn’t.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Taken it?”

“Yeah.”

Tim thought about it. “It just ain’t the right thing to do. Taking money from criminals.”

“A man has values.”

“That he does.”

“What’s the most you’ve been offered?”

“One of the Razbojniks offered me five hundred.”

“Thousand!”

“Yep.”

“And you didn’t take it?”

“Nope.”

Tate looked at the trunk of his car, “I had no hope then.”

“Not one in Hades. Not one here.”

“Razbojniks? They’re the biker gang right?”

“Yep.”

“Savages.”

“There are good ones and bad ones.”

“How very philosophical.”

Tim shrugged, “Just how I see it, Tate.”

They stood in silence. Tim was happy to wait, he knew he needed to get Tate calm. He was a boy who worked on emotion. That’s why he raped those girls. That’s why he scarred them for life. That’s why he ran.

“I’m not coming in,” Tate said.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice, inspector.”

“Now who’s being philosophical?”

“It’s true though.”

“Did Greta have a choice not to get raped? Sarah? Alana?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“So you keep saying. But it’s becoming a habit with you.”

“I tried to make it right. I tried to make it go away.”

“Offering them money doesn’t undo what you did.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Then let the justice system sort it out.”

“I’ve already been tried and found guilty by the media.”

Woe is me.

“Running away does that.”

Tate snorted, “Greta put up a show alright but she’s a sociopath. Playing it up for the cameras. You know she came to me first, asking for money to make it go away. I laughed in her face.”

“Bet you wish you didn’t do that now, huh?” Tim said.

Tate slowly nodded, “Yeah. Maybe.” Then the smile returned, though not with it’s usual joy. “Would have saved us a lot of time.”

“Yep.”

“What would you be doing now if you wasn’t chasing me?”

“Chasing someone else.”

“Always someone to chase?”

“Always someone else,” Tim agreed.

“Never kick back on the weekend with a beer and relax? Watch the footy?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Must suck being a slave to the man.”

Tate started pacing in the rain. The sun was poking through the clouds on Tim’s side, but rain still fell on Tate’s side. Tim adjusted his hat, wiping away water droplets, while Tate cut a path in the sand, going back and forth.

“You keep walkin’ like that and you’re likely to find yourself in China soon enough.”

Tate stopped, reached into his pocket and as he did, Tim guided his suit jacket back with his hand, revealing his holstered weapon.

He held out his other hand, as if to stop Tate from 20 metres away, “Now Tate, you don’t do something you’re going to regret.” A warning. Nothing more.

The smile returned, “Just getting my phone, Inspector.”

“Why's that, Tate?”

“Gonna say goodbye to Dad.”

“It ain’t over, Tate. You put the phone down. You toss the gun I know you have and we leave together. You see your Dad. Simple and painless.”

Still smiling, Tate said, “Dad won’t see me when there’s bars between us. It’s all over. I’ve ruined the family name.”

“Empires can be rebuilt.”

“Not with disgraced sons.” He looked at the gun in Tim’s belt and pointed, “What’re you carrying there?”

“Glock 17.”

“Like it?”

“It does it’s job.”

“Just like you, huh?”

“Just like me,” Tim agreed.

“I have a Smith and Wesson 1911.”

“Good weapon. Reliable.”

“Been practising a lot with it.”

“It won’t be enough.”

“I got pretty quick. Pretending I was Eastwood. Pretending I was in a Sergio Leone film. Showdown, pulling, firing, taking out those tin cans.”

“I’m no tin can.”

“No, you’re bigger.”

“I’m telling you, Tate. Don’t draw.”

“It’s too late Inspector.”

“It’s never too late.”

“Of course it is. I did it,” Tate admitted. Cool, calm. Like talking about the weather. “I raped those girls!” He looked back at Tim, “And do you know why?”

Sociopathic tendencies.

Tim remained silent, his body tense. Waiting. Ready.

“It’s all control isn’t it, Inspector?” He spoke calmly. His voice flat, monotonous. This wasn’t a confession of feelings. Of guilt. It was a confession of fact. “I grew up with money, with power. I got whatever I wanted. I bought whatever I wanted. Whoever I wanted. How dare they deny Tate Taylor! Son of Jonathan Taylor. We control the West. The mines, the towns. We own them. How dare those sluts try to take it away from me!”

He thought he had him. He thought his rant would distract Tim Pittman long enough for Tate to pull his weapon and fire.

He’d been practising after all. Against those cans. Pretending he was Jesse James, ‘Wild Bill’ Hiscock, Wyatt Earp. All the legends of the West.

It would be enough. He’d take down the Inspector and be on his way.

Nobody got in the way of Tate Taylor. 

It was going to be enough.

Tate stood there, the gun he had hidden in the waistband of his slacks was in his hands, pointed at the Inspector. And he was fast. Fastest he’s ever pulled, he thought.

But the inspector was right.

It wasn’t enough. 

A loud shot rang out in the air. Louder than the waves and the wind. Echoing over the trees and bouncing off the distant mountains.

People would wonder what the hell that was. But Tate Taylor knew.

He knew as he struggled to breath. Each breath a hollow rasp.

Blood flowed from the ragged hole in his chest. Down his expensive shirt, and splattering the pure sand with blood.

Rain would wash it away in time. 

Time would erase all evidence of Tate being here.

But history would remember.

Of the time he raped all those girls.

Of the time he ran.

Of the time he tried to pull on Inspector Tim Pittman.

He fell to his knees.

He looked at the Inspector, who stood there, silhouetted with the sun at his back, holding his Glock. The barrel smoking, his arm at a right angle.

With his final breath came his last thought: 

He was fast.