Robyn Parsons' funeral was the worst experience of Gary's life.
To avoid meeting her parents and his neighbours, he arrived five minutes late and sat in the last row. There were about fifty mourners. The presence of half-a-dozen neighbours made him nervous. But what really stung was the old couple sitting together in the front row - obviously Robyn's parents. Hell. What had he done? What had he done?
A neighbour saw him and nudged another. Soon they were all giving him dirty stares. He couldn't blame them. He kept his head down and avoided eye contact.
Sitting across the aisle were Detectives Marks and Phillips, and a couple of their colleagues. They glanced at him with a mixture of curiosity, disdain and pity.
He hadn't prayed since he was a kid. But he prayed for Robyn and her parents. Then he considered praying for vengeance and dismissed the idea. He wouldn't need God's help. In fact, he wanted God to stay out of the way.
The service lasted thirty minutes, which seemed like an eternity. Afterwards, he considered approaching Robyn's parents. But he could only tell them their daughter was an innocent bystander and he didn't know the killer. That would be no comfort at all.
He slipped out of the church, angry with the killer, God and - most of all - himself.
That night, he wandered into a pub just off Macleay Street, King Cross. Three hours and twelve schooners later, he'd achieved the oblivion he sought. He staggered back to his hostel and fell onto his bed.
A dark dream flooded his brain. He saw Robyn torn to pieces by the explosion. Then her parents stood in the middle of his bomb-gutted apartment, screaming that he was a murderer. Their faces spun around him, screaming louder and louder.
He awoke with sharp-edged fragments of the dream whirling around in his head. His anger at the killer was more than just an emotion: it was black molten lava, roiling around in his chest, which he had to let out before it consumed him.
He lay on the bed for several hours, while his aching brain blamed himself and blamed the bomber, looping endlessly. Eventually, his stomach demanded food. He crossed the road and joined several other burn-outs in a café. He ate sweet pastries, washed down with strong coffee.
His mood lifted a notch and he pondered his next move. There was a good chance the bomber was also searching for Trixie Powell. So the closer he got to her, the closer he'd get to him. Maybe, if he was lucky, Trixie could name the bastard.
But how could he find Trixie? He decided to return to his original plan and use Ray Boland to bug her mother's house in Lakemba.
Before he could call Ray, his mobile beeped. He put it to his ear. "Gary Maddox."
"Hey dude," a sunny voice said. "It's Lone Wolf."
Gary's brain was so mushy it took a few moments to identify his information broker, Vincent Drew. He croaked: "What do you want?"
"You don't sound too good."
"I feel like shit, but that started before you called."
"Good. Where the hell have you been?"
"What do you mean?"
"I've been trying to call you."
"Why?"
"I think I've found her."
Gary's brain was still in reverse gear. "Who?"
"The chick, of course: Trixie Powell."
Gary felt a surge of adrenalin. His head cleared miraculously. "Jesus, where?"
"Buy me a beer and I'll tell you."
"Tell me now," Gary yelled.
"No. First I've got to explain what a brilliant job I've done. So you've got to buy me a beer."
Drew obviously wouldn't change his mind.
"OK, I'll meet you in a pub, but only so I can strangle you."
Drew laughed. "Hey dude, when I tell you what I know, you'll kiss me."
"In your dreams."
Gary arranged to meet Drew at a pub in Redfern. He caught a taxi over there and found the hacker already sitting at the bar, looking smug.
Drew said: "God, you look like shit."
Gary realised he was still half-pissed and suppressed a burp. "I feel worse. Where the hell is she?"
Drew raised his eyebrows, enjoying Gary's desperation. "Beer first."
To pamper the bastard, Gary got the barman to give him a schooner of beer, but didn't order one for himself. Then he led him over to a corner table.
As they sat, Gary's nerves were at breaking point. "Where the hell is she?"
Drew sipped his beer and leaned back, looking pleased with himself. "Remember I hacked her credit card company and found out she hadn't used her card for months."
"Yes."
"There's been a development."
"What?"
"Yesterday I did another check and guess what?"
Murder was definitely back on the agenda. "What?"
"Last Tuesday she made a purchase."
"Shit. Where?"
"Would you believe, Byron Bay? A shop called Holistic Health. Must sell alternative medicines."
"What did she buy?"
"Some therapeutic oils. Cost her $74."
Gary felt his excitement grow. Trixie had just made her first mistake - a big one. He looked at Drew's beaming face. "You've done very well."
"I know."
"Drink your beer and I'll buy you another."
Finally, something was going right. Trixie Powell was at the centre of a lot of mysteries. If he found her, he could start unlocking them.