by Gary Gregor
From a large, steel tool-box attached to the chassis of the Volvo, he removed several portable safety warning triangles and positioned them on the road along the length of the road-train. When he was finished, he looked back along the highway, towards the mangled Toyota. Thick, black, skid marks, imprinted on the road surface when the tyres locked, lined the road behind the truck, all the way back to and beyond where the Toyota lay.
He looked along the highway further to the north, then to the south, and saw no oncoming traffic from either direction. The Stuart Highway was a long, lonely road. It started at Port Augusta in South Australia and terminated at Darwin in the far north of the country. Apart from minor deviations where it dissected towns dotted along its length, it was wide and arrow straight all the way. While it carried a lot of traffic over its two-thousand-seven-hundred kilometres, particularly tourists keen to see the genuine Australian outback, its length meant traffic was generally spaced wide apart over the distance.
Behind Cremer, just five kilometres to the north, was Stuart’s Well, a road-house rest area half way between Erldunda and Alice Springs. Ahead of him, one hundred kilometres away was Erldunda, a large road-house and accommodation complex at the junction of the Stuart Highway and the Lasseter Highway. Traffic would come, and soon, Cremer guessed. Erldunda to the south was a very busy complex providing tourists with a full range of facilities before heading along the Lasseter Highway to Uluru, in the heart of the continent, or resuming their journey north to Alice Springs. When the traffic came, the highway would be restricted to one lane only. There would be confusion as vehicles were forced to slow down and morbid curiosity seekers would crane their necks to get a good, long look at the tangled wreck and speculate wildly at what it might contain.
Cremer took his phone from his pocket, flipped it open and dialed triple ‘O’, the police emergency contact number. The police would have to come from Alice Springs, one-hundred kilometres away; it was going to be a long wait, he supposed. As a matter of course, the police would also dispatch an ambulance to the scene. “Better bring a fuckin’ shovel,” he murmured softly. “And a hose.”
30
Russell Foley fumbled in his pocket for his phone, flipped it open and answered. “Russell Foley.”
“It’s me again, Russ,” Cameron Barker said.
“What have you got, boss?” Foley asked.
“Are you with Sam and the lads from Papunya?”
“Yeah, we’re all here together. We are about to travel down to Haasts Bluff for a meeting with the families of the hostages and bring them up to date with our progress, or should I say ‘lack of progress’?”
“Put your phone on speaker,” Barker said. “I want you all in on this.”
“Okay, wait one,” Foley said. He switched his phone to speaker and stepped closer to Sam, Sparrow and Smart. “Go ahead, boss.”
“We know where the ransom drop details were sent from,” Barker announced.
“That was fast work,” Foley said.
“This case has taken priority over everything else,” Barker said. “The tech. wizards have been working their arses off.”
“Where did the message originate,” Sam asked.
“Good afternoon Sam, and good afternoon Spog and Max. The message was sent from Erldunda, early this morning. Like the ransom demand, it was sent to the departmental secretary at the Education Department and he forwarded it to me.”
“Erldunda, two hundred klicks south of Alice? These boys are moving around,” Foley said.”
“All part of their plan, I suspect,” Barker continued. “Sending the ransom demand from Tilmouth Wells and the drop details from Erldunda are designed to throw us off the track.”
“We can’t track the phone’s location?” Foley asked.
“They’re using a different phone each time, probably only once and then almost certainly discarding it.”
“We need a lead, boss,” Sam said.”
“Yeah,” Barker confirmed. “We do, and we might just have one.”
“We’re listening,” Foley said.
“It might just be the breakthrough we’ve been hoping for,” Barker said. “We found that number plate.”
“The one from the decades old car wreck?” Foley’s interest surged.
“That’s the one,” Barker confirmed. “It was on a Toyota four-by-four involved in a road crash just south of Stuarts Well.”
“Stuarts Well is about half way to Erldunda, isn’t it?” Foley asked.
“Yeah,” Barker said. “The vehicle was heading north, towards the Alice. Ploughed head-on into a bloody great road-train.”
“Fatal?” Foley asked.
“Very,” Barker said. “Two occupants in the Toyota. Both killed.”
“I’m not surprised,” Foley said. “A Toyota versus a road-train; the road-train is always going to win that contest. Is there a connection between the accident and the kidnapping?”
“If it’s not a connection, it’s a thousand-to-one coincidence. If we put all the pieces together, it starts to look much more like a connection. One: the ransom demand is sent from Tilmouth Wells. Two: the ransom drop details are sent from Erldunda. Three: a Toyota, matching the description of the one the manager at Tilmouth Wells described, carrying two occupants and number plates stolen from an old vehicle wreck at Papunya, is totaled in a smash on the Stuart Highway, half way between Alice Springs and Erldunda. My money is on it being a connection as opposed to a coincidence.”
“I agree, boss,” Foley responded. “If the two victims in the Toyota are our perps, who’s watching the hostages?”
“There was always going to be more than one or two people involved in this thing, Russ. Wherever the teacher and her class are being held, there will be at least one perp, maybe more than one, with them.”
“And,” Foley said. “He, or they, will not know that their partners-in-crime are dead.”
“Exactly,” Barker agreed. “However, the two victims would have had time to phone the others involved and confirm that the drop details were sent.”
“Any identification details on the victims?” Sam asked.
“Too early, Sam,” Barker answered. “By all accounts the Toyota is so badly busted up it is going to take several hours to get what’s left of them out of the wreck.”
“Argue the point with a road-train and you are gonna get more than a scratch on your nose,” Sam added.
“I haven’t been to the crash site,” Barker said, “but apparently it’s so bad our Traffic chaps tell me it will be a matter of working out which body part belongs to what body.”
“Might be an idea to sit on their identification for a while,” Foley suggested. “We have no way of knowing if any others involved have access to media reports via television or radio. If they learn their two partners are dead, they might just abandon the whole thing and scamper.”
“Two million dollars is a lot of money,” Barker said. “Two dead perps will mean a bigger share for the others involved. I don’t think they will run. Whoever the two victims are, they will have next of kin who need to be advised so we can’t sit on their ID’s for long. I will suppress that information for as long as I can but, sooner rather than later, we have to name them.”
“Can we assume from that the drop will still go ahead?” Sam asked.
“While it looks highly likely that the two crash victims were involved in the kidnapping, we are not yet certain.” Barker confirmed. “Either way, they will have a partner, or partners, who will be expecting the ransom drop, so it goes ahead as planned: before dawn tomorrow morning.”
“In the meantime, we keep looking for Tracy and the kids,” Sam said.
“You need any more troops out there?” Barker asked.
“Not yet, boss,” Foley said. When we find the hostages, we will need medical personnel in case anyone has been hurt. Let’s hope that’s not the case but we need to be prepared. We will also need child counseling people. I’m guessing some, if not all, the kids wi
ll be traumatised to some degree. We will need a bus to transport them all back to their families, and a team to conduct interviews with each of them.”
“We have alerted all of the relevant social services,” Barker said. Everyone is in stand-by mode, including Task Force, waiting from word from us. What about the fly-overs by station owners you have going out there?”
“Nothing yet,” Foley confirmed. “Obviously we are appreciative of their help, but they have large cattle stations to run and already a few have returned to the demands of their properties. Besides, it is an expensive exercise for them. They’re covering a vast area and the fuel costs must be restrictive.”
“I understand that,” Barker said. “And, the government being the government, they’re not likely to see any compensation in regards to their expenses.”
“Spog and Max know most of the station people,” Foley said. “I doubt any of them will be looking for compensation. They are doing this because they want to find the kids as much as we do, but it has to be hurting their back pocket.”
“I’ll have a word with the Commissioner,” Barker said. “I don’t know if he has any sway with the government but it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
“Thanks, boss. Is there anything else?”
“As soon as we have identified the two crash victims, I will let you know,” Barker answered. “Someone took the number plates off of the old wreck out there. It’s a long-shot but a name might ring a bell with Spog or Max. I’ll be leaving here before dawn tomorrow morning to join you out there. Have the coffee on.”
“I’ll have Sam cook up some bacon and eggs,” Foley joked.
“In that case, maybe I’ll bring a sandwich,” Barker laughed.
“Thanks for the update, boss,” Foley said. “Talk to you soon.” He disconnected the call and turned to Sam, Sparrow and Smart. “Well, that was interesting. Anyone want to speculate on what happens now?”
“What’s wrong with my bacon and eggs?” Sam asked, sounding suitably miffed.
“I’ve tasted your bacon and eggs,” Foley said. “Once, and that was enough. You could burn a pot of water.”
Sam turned to Sparrow and Smart. “See, no respect! Absolutely no respect!”
“Right-oh, chaps,” Foley said. “Enough of the silliness. What is our next move?”
Sparrow looked at Foley. “I’m still confused as to how they will leave Mount Liebig after they pick up the ransom money. We put a chopper in the air and we will see them arrive to pick it up and then leave the area. It can’t possibly be that hard to follow them.”
“I think that is what the pre-dawn thing is about, Spog,” Foley answered. “Maybe they plan to pick up the ransom and leave under the cover of darkness. They know exactly where the drop will be. Can’t be too difficult to get to it in the dark; especially if they are already there waiting. They will hear the chopper carrying the ransom approach, drop the cash, and leave the area. They grab the money and get out before the sun comes up.” He looked from Sparrow to Smart. “You two chaps know just how quiet the desert is in the middle of the night; you can hear an ant fart. And, the nights are as black as a dog’s guts. They will have researched the drop and their escape from the area meticulously. If it all goes as they have planned, I’m guessing they will be long gone from the drop zone before daylight.”
“With two million dollars,” Smart said.
“Yeah, Max,” Foley agreed. “That’s true. However, remember this is not about the money. This is about Tracy and the kids. They have to be our main priority. If the perps get away with the money, so be it. We will track them down later. Now we have to focus on finding the hostages.”
31
Craig Garrett grimaced as his knees briefly protested against the effort of squatting on his haunches at the top of the ramp. He used to be able to do that with ease and sustain it for prolonged periods. However, long foot-patrols over rough, rocky, desert terrain, carrying heavy combat packs, almost on a daily basis, will eventually take a physical toll on the body. In recent times he often found himself wondering how well his body would hold up as he approached the latter part of his life. The persistent, dull ache behind his knees was a possible indication of how that was going to pan out. He shuffled awkwardly to one side of the ramp and leaned his shoulder against the wall, only slightly easing the pain.
He looked above the leading edge of the ramp at the colours blending together in the sky above the horizon to the west. There was something he found strangely peaceful about night-times in the desert. Particularly the sunsets. He remembered the images of the sun setting beyond the Hindu Kush mountain range in the Uruzgan Province of Afghanistan and how incongruently untroubled and comforting it seemed given the chaotic circumstances that led to his being in the terrorist-driven, war-torn country. Mother Nature will do her thing regardless of what might be occurring on the ground. Standing, or squatting, for a few minutes watching sunsets had become something he liked to do whenever the opportunity presented itself.
The Australian desert could be easily compared with the hot, arid, remoteness of Afghanistan. The normally dry Lake Lewis and the surrounding barren landscape was a fitting example. It was the reason the powers-that-be decided on this place as a desert-warfare training base before shipping combat troops to the other side of the world to fight in a war none of them really understood.
And then there was the silence. It was profound. Complete and absolute silence can be somewhat disconcerting for those experiencing it for the first time; mysterious and unsettling perhaps. If it were not for the vast openness around him and the star-filled sky above, Garrett could easily imagine himself alone, sealed in a vacuum where no sound could penetrate.
City dwellers were surrounded by noise twenty-four hours a day. Noise was so omnipresent in their lives it became almost imperceptible. Over time, the mind tends to block it out but it’s there, always there in some form or another. In the background. Sometimes it’s just the constant, low, never-ending hum of traffic in the distance, or the louder noise of an aircraft flying overhead, or construction noise from a nearby building site. Lots of noise from many sources, blended together, gently assaulting the ears of those who choose to live and work in the city. It was always there, mostly unnoticed: until it wasn’t. The old saying ‘silence is golden’ was never more appropriate than it was in the middle of a remote desert at night.
As he watched the sun sink low beyond distant Mount Liebig, and the surrounding pale orange and pink sky morph into a vivid mix of crimson and purple, he felt at one with the universe. It was a very odd feeling, and one he could not explain even if he wanted to. There was no logical explanation as to why he should feel this way. He was a disgraced, Court-Martialed, combat soldier. He had lost his girlfriend, Claudia, whom he once felt he would marry soon after his return from the war; until, that is, she decided she could not be married to a ‘baby killer’. He was virtually unemployable given the vast media coverage over his unfortunate discharge from the army, and his meagre military pension hardly offered promise of financial security into the future.
He was a kidnapper, and soon to be murderer of a pretty, young woman and eleven school children: not that he would pull the trigger himself, that was never the plan. However, in the long run, it mattered not who actually carried out the killings. By association he would be an accessory both before and after the fact and would, for the rest of his life, wear the title ‘murderer’ like a permanent tattoo etched into his forehead. It was already a permanent part of his life, and had been since the incident in Afghanistan that led to his Court-Martial.
Somewhere, amid the mishmash and confusion of his deepest thoughts, Garrett supposed it didn’t matter all that much in the minds of the public if it was one murder or twenty. Murder was murder. The number was relevant only to the degree of disgust felt by those who learned of it.
Garrett was smart enough to know there was very little about his life that should give him such a sense of peace but that never stopped him wonder
ing why desert sunsets did. Right now, in this moment, he was thinking only of the distant sunset and the tranquility that accompanied it. It was an all-too-brief respite from the agonising torment his life had become. A torment that he knew all too well would soon enough be back with a vengeance.
As the sun finally sank below the horizon, the sky turned from a bright orange to a deep red and finally faded to dark gray. Soon the last remnants of the day would be plunged into a blackness unique to desert skies. Billions upon billions of stars, unfettered by man-made interferences and eye-watering air pollution, would fill the sky, reaching back into the unfathomable depths of the universe in every direction. It was times like this when Garrett found himself thinking about his own insignificance in the ‘master-plan’, if there were such a thing, and wondering at the seemingly unbridled stupidity and destructive mentality of mankind seemingly hell-bent on destroying the planet.
Everyone needed to go to the desert, take a moment, and inhale the ambience of a desert night, he thought. Ridiculous, he knew. So long as there were countries led by heads of government intoxicated with the lust of power, their armies would continue on the endless path of war and destruction. Madmen, indoctrinated at a young age and brainwashed into embracing the ideology of leaders even madder than they, would continue the indiscriminate slaughter of innocence in the name of their God and a religion they believe demanded it.
Craig Garrett had never seriously thought about where he might go when he got his share of the ransom money. His friends, Mark Thomas and Liam Frayne talked about it all the time. They were going to drink copious quantities of beer and chase pretty girls in some far-flung, exotic part of the world. A nice plan to have, Garrett thought, but it was only going to last until the money ran out. Two million dollars was a lot of money, but when you start dividing it equally among your co-offenders, each share suddenly becomes alarmingly finite.