by Gary Gregor
“Does he have a police record?” Sam asked.
“That’s the first thing we checked,” Sparrow answered. “He’s a clean-skin. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he has no record.”
“We did learn he doesn’t have a driver’s license,” Smart added.
“What the fuck was he doing driving the school bus?” Sam asked, astounded.
Sparrow shook his head and shrugged. “That sort of shit goes on out here,” he said. “He’s been driving the bus for as long as both Max and I have been here. We assumed he was licensed. He’s never given us any reason to think otherwise.”
“What about the offender?” Sam asked.
“Don’t know who, or even how many,” Smart answered. “But we believe there had to be at least two of them. One to drive the vehicle from the scene and one to drive the bus away. There also appears to be three sets of footprints in the loose dirt at the side of the road which would confirm that. One set would belong to the bus driver, so it indicates there may have been two offenders.”
“There are tyre tracks just over there also,” Sparrow indicated a spot on the verge of the road. “It looks like the offenders’ vehicle was parked there. Maybe that’s why Tjapanangka stopped and got out of the bus.” He shrugged. “We just don’t know.”
“To help a stranded motorist?” Foley suggested.
“Maybe,” Sparrow nodded.
“Where would they go?” Sam asked.
“Look around,” Sparrow said, sweeping the area with an outstretched arm. “There is nothing out here but endless miles of nothing but flat, desert country. A bus has gotta stick out like the proverbial dog’s balls.”
“We never passed any buses on the way out here,” Sam said. “What other roads are there?”
Sparrow indicated the nearby junction. “That’s Gary Junction Road,” he answered. “It leads to the Tanami Road on the southern edge of the Tanami Desert.”
“Could they have taken that road?” Foley asked.
“Yes, they could have,” Sparrow said. “But then, they could have gone cross-country where there are no roads. Either way it would be a very rough, slow ride. Road maintenance out here is virtually non-existent. But, it’s flat, and hard,” he said with a shrug. “It could be done.”
“Yeah, but why would they go cross-country? Like you said, there’s nothing out there. Where would they hide a bloody bus?”
“What time did all this happen?” Foley asked.
“As close as we can determine, about nine-thirty this morning,” Sparrow answered.
Foley looked at his watch. “It’s one-thirty now,” he said. “They’ve got a four-hour head start. How far could they get in four hours?”
“The roads are very rough and corrugated,” Sparrow explained. “They’re in a conventional-drive bus, not a four-wheel-drive. If they stick to the road, maybe two hundred kilometres, a bit more perhaps. Less than that if they go cross-country.”
“How many people on the bus?” Sam asked.
Sparrow deferred to his second in charge. “Max?”
Smart referred again to his notebook. “Eleven students,” he said. “Five girls; two white and three Aboriginal. Six boys; three white and three Aboriginal. Then there’s the teacher,” he paused momentarily before continuing. “Tracy Cartwright. Caucasian, single, twenty-eight years old, no police record, six months left on a two-year tenure at Haasts Bluff school.” He looked at Sparrow who nodded almost imperceptibly.
Smart looked at Foley and continued. “I need to declare a personal interest at this point,” he said.
“An interest?”
“Yeah,” Smart nodded. “I have been seeing Tracy Cartwright, the teacher.”
“Define ‘seeing’,” Foley said.
“We are in a relationship, sort of.”
“’Sort of’. What does that mean, exactly?”
“Well,” Smart continued. “She lives at Haasts Bluff, I live at Papunya. We don’t see each other that often.”
“I assume you are both single,” Foley said.
“Yes,” Smart confirmed.
“Then, I see nothing morally wrong with the relationship. If I have any concerns at all it would be if you can still do your job if you have a personal interest in the case.”
“I can do my job, sir,” Smart said.
Foley patted Smart on the shoulder. “Good,” he said.
Sam smiled at Smart. “Don’t worry about it, Maxwell,” he said. “We’ve all got girlfriends, even Russell.”
Foley glared at Sam. “Let’s get back to the case of the missing school bus, shall we?”
Sam looked at Sparrow. “Any ideas on motive?” he asked.
Sparrow shrugged. “That’s anybody’s guess. Why would anyone want to snatch a bus load of school children?”
“Money would be my guess,” Sam suggested.
“What about the families?” Foley asked. “Do any of them have the sort of money that would motivate a potential kidnapper?”
“We know all of them,” Sparrow said. “Obviously we are not familiar with their individual financial status, but most of the aboriginal families are on welfare and, to the best of my knowledge, none of the white families are particularly wealthy. Besides,” he added. “Why would you come out here in the desert to work if you had plenty of money?”
“Good point,” Foley said. “So, that leaves us with – why?”
“Where are the families?” Sam asked.
“All the children are from Haasts Bluff,” Smart answered. “They were on a day excursion to Papunya. The families are at Haasts Bluff, gathered at the school waiting for an update from us.”
Russell Foley moved away and crossed back to the edge of the road where tyre imprints were obvious in the soft, loose dirt. He squatted on his haunches again and examined the tracks. “You get photos of these tyre tracks?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, several,” Smart answered. “The footprints also.”
Foley stood. He took a few moments to look out over the vast, open, flat, landscape. In the distance, a heat haze shimmered on the horizon. He turned back to the group. “Okay,” he said. “I suppose we better get to Haasts Bluff and talk to the families.”
5
The man leaned forward, reached past Tracy, and pointed out to the front of the bus. “Drive over to that hill,” he ordered. “Stop just in front of it.”
Tracy adjusted her direction slightly and headed to where the man indicated. She stopped in front of the hummock and stared out at the feature. A section of the ground at the base of the hill seemed to slope down, like there was a path, or and entrance of some kind leading downwards, underneath the hill.
“Turn off the engine,” the man ordered.
Tracy glanced down, turned the ignition key, and the engine fell silent. When she lifted her head and again looked out to the front of the bus, she almost gasped in surprise. There was someone emerging from beneath the hill. First, she saw his head, and as he emerged, she noticed the bottom half of his face was obscured by a bandanna; like a bank robber in an old western movie. Then, slowly, the rest of his body rose and appeared at the top of the path. It was like he was materialising from the bowels of the earth right, before her eyes.
It wasn’t so much the sudden, unexpected emergence of the man seemingly from nowhere that particularly frightened her, it was the rifle he carried slung casually from a strap draped over his shoulder. As she stared at the stranger, he strode purposely towards the bus and stopped just a few metres in front of it. He unslung the rifle, held it across his chest, and looked through the windscreen, directly at her. Tracy’s focus was drawn to his eyes above the bandanna; intensely blue, clear, unblinking and staring fixedly at her through the windscreen. She stifled a moan, and another tear escaped the corner of her eye and ran down her face.
The man behind her stood. “We’re all getting out of the bus now, Tracy,” he announced. “I want you to get the children out, quickly and orderly. I want you all to stand toget
her over there, at the base of the hill,” he pointed at the hummock. “I want you to keep the rug-rats quiet. No screaming. No running. Just stand together in a nice little group over there. Do you understand?”
“N… no,” Tracy stammered. “I don’t understand. W… why are you doing this? What do you want with us?”
The man removed the gun from his waistband and placed the barrel against the side of Tracy’s head. It was a deliberate and calculated action, not sudden and violent, but nonetheless unexpected. There was an audible gasp from the students behind her. Tracy jerked her head sideways and it cracked loudly against the side window. She raised her hand protectively, as though it might stop a bullet should he choose to pull the trigger.
“Oh, God, no!” she gasped. She leaned heavily against the driver’s side door of the bus, silently wishing it would magically open and she could get out and away from the man holding a gun to her head.
“Tracy,” the man said. “I am not going to argue the point with you. Get out of the bus! Get the fucking kids out and gather together over there at the base of the hill! Now, do… you… understand… me?”
“Y… ye… yes,” Tracy stammered. She moved to open the driver’s door.
“Not that way,” the man said. He stepped back, away from Tracy. “Get out the side door. Kids first and then you follow. Don’t be a hero, Tracy. If you and your precious little ankle-biters want to get out of this alive, just do as I say.”
“O… okay,” Tracy said. She rose from her seat and stepped around the man, trying to keep as much distance between herself him as possible in the confined space. She reached for her handbag.
The man grabbed her arm. “Give me the purse!” he ordered.
“Wh… what?”
The man snatched the handbag from her fingers. “Give me the fucking purse!” He opened the handbag, rummaged through the contents, and removed Tracy’s mobile phone. He dropped the phone onto the floor and stomped down hard on it shattering the glass. He thrust the bag back at Tracy. “Now, get the kids off the bus!” he ordered.
Horrified, Tracy looked down at the smashed phone and the tiny pieces of glass and plastic scattered at the feet of the stranger. “You broke my phone,” she muttered, more to herself than to the man with the gun.
“Very observant of you, Tracy, now get the kids off the bus!”
Tracy moved to the side door, paused, and looked along the length of the bus at her students. “We are getting out here, children,” she announced. “Please come with me. Stay together and gather outside.”
“What’s happening, Miss?” a voice asked from within the group.
“It’s okay, Toby,” Tracy answered. “Everything will be okay, I promise. Please just come with me now.” To Tracy, her words sounded hollow and insincere. She wondered if they sounded that way to the children. How could she promise them everything would be okay? How could she promise them something she couldn’t deliver? She didn’t know what was happening. She didn’t know who these people were, or what they wanted. She had no right to make promises she didn’t know if she could keep, especially not to a group of confused and frightened children.
The children, each clutching a small back-pack carrying a light, packed lunch for the excursion to Papunya, rose hesitatingly from their seats.
“Leave the back-packs!” the man called loudly.
The children froze and stared wide-eyed at the man standing close behind their beloved teacher.
“They have their lunch in their back-packs,” Tracy said. “Let them take them, please.”
“Leave the back-packs,” the man insisted.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Tracy said hurriedly said to the children. “Leave your back-packs on the bus and move down here to the door. Everything is going to be alright.”
The children placed their back-packs down, some on the nearest vacant seat and others on the floor of the bus. Then, they began to cautiously make their way down the aisle of the bus in a tightly packed group. No one wanted to be on the outer fringe of the pack and they jostled and bumped against each other in a clumsy, disjointed attempt to position themselves in the perceived security of the middle of the group. They stopped, crowded close to their teacher as she leaned down and opened the side access door.
“It’s okay,” Tracy said to the children. “Get off the bus. I’ll be right behind you.”
One of the young girls, Mary Altuncaga, the eleven-year-old daughter of an aboriginal elder of the Haasts Bluff community, grasped the hem of Tracy’s skirt and looked up at her teacher. “They’ve got guns, Miss,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Tracy looked down into the girl’s wide, pleading eyes and wanted to sob with despair. She grasped the girl’s hand and gently squeezed. “It’s alright, Mary. It’s alright. I’m getting off the bus with you. I won’t leave you.”
The children hesitated. No one wanted to be the first to climb off the bus. They stood packed close, staring wide-eyed and fearful through the open door at the unknown waiting for them outside.
“Go now, children,” Tracy urged in a tone she hoped sounded reassuring. “Please hop off the bus. I’m coming with you.”
“I’ll go first, Miss,” Mitchell Lord, twelve-year old son of the Haasts Bluff community administrator offered. He grasped the hand of his twin sister, Rachel and pushed his way to the front of the group where he paused on the brink of the step leading down to the ground.
“Thank you, Mitchell,” Tracy said. She addressed the rest of her class. “Please follow Mitchell and Rachel, children. Gather together outside and I will follow.
Mitchell Lord, holding tightly onto his sister’s hand, stepped down off the bus and moved a short distance away from the door. Tentatively, the rest of the students followed and they huddled together, waiting for their teacher.
When the last of her charges had left the bus, Tracy turned and faced the man holding the gun casually but nonetheless menacingly at his side. “Please don’t hurt the children,” she begged.
The man leaned closer to Tracy. He raised the gun and tapped it against the palm of his free hand. “Nobody will get hurt as long as you all do exactly as I ask,” he said. “You are their teacher. They look up to you. They listen to you. Your job is to keep them quiet and under control. Let there be no misunderstanding, if you try anything heroic, I will start killing kids and will continue killing them until you are the only one left. Now, get off the bus!”
Tracy turned away and stepped hurriedly from the bus. She crossed immediately to the children and, like a mother hen protecting her brood, she huddled them closer together with outstretched arms.
The second man, the man with the bandanna and the rifle, stood several metres away watching her gathering her children close. For an instant, Tracy caught his eyes again and although it was impossible to tell, she was sure that beneath the bandanna he was smiling. What do these awful people want she asked herself yet again? Would they really kill the children? Would they really kill her? She bit down hard on her lip suppressing the urge to cry. She had to keep it together.
Tracy knew nothing about guns. She had never actually seen a gun up close. Her boyfriend, Richard had a gun, and she had only ever seen that holstered at his waist. Now, she had seen two guns up close. One of them, a hand-gun held by the man on the bus, had been so close she could still feel the pressure of it against her temple and almost smell the oily, metallic scent of the barrel. Her boyfriend, carried a gun because he was a police officer; it was his job. These two men were not police officers. These men were dangerous, evil men who were threatening to kill her students and then her. Tracy wished Richard was here right now. He would know what to do. Richard was a strong, determined, caring police officer. The two evil men holding her and her students captive, were not.
Then, Tracy heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. She looked back the way they had come and saw the four-wheel-drive slow down and pull up about thirty metres behind the bus. It was the same vehicle. The sa
me vehicle Walter had stopped to help. She stared at it and, as the dust settled around it, she focused on the dust-smeared windscreen. She could see only one person inside. It was not Walter. Walter was not in the vehicle.
Despite the distance between herself and the vehicle, the tiny flutter of recognition she had at the ‘breakdown’ site was back as she focused on the driver through the dirty windscreen. Who was the man? Did she know him or was it just her scared and confused mind playing games? Where was Walter? The anonymous man behind the wheel did not get out. From where Tracy stood, he seemed to stare at her briefly and then lower his head, like he was looking at something in his lap.
The man on the bus stepped down and crossed to where Tracy stood with the children. “Over there,” he said, indicating with the gun. “Over there, to the hill.”
Tracy looked to where the man pointed. There seemed to be a ramp of some sort, going downwards at the base of the hummock. She gently herded the children towards the hill, talking softly to them, encouraging them. Reassuring them. Comforting them. At the top of the ramp, she called the children to a stop and looked down the short, narrow, dirt path. Just a few metres in length, the path led down to what looked to her like a metal, box-like structure, the bulk of which appeared to be buried beneath the hill. She could see only one end of the structure and quickly recognised the corrugated façade of a shipping container.
There was an open door in the centre of the structure and there appeared to be a dull light of some sort glowing from inside. Another wave of fear washed over her as she stared down at the open door. Although the thought of approaching it frightened her, it appeared harmless. It could not hurt her or the children. It was just a shipping container. As benign as it appeared to be, she did not know what to expect on the inside, and fear of the unknown was a very real emotion. As scared as she was, the open door seemed to beckon her. What was this place, she wondered? What manner of frightful things awaited them inside this mysterious place? She turned and looked at the man with the hand-gun, following close behind.