by Alan Carter
‘According to the brochure, yes.’
‘Paulie’s going to be out of sorts again. You pick him up today, okay?’
‘Sure.’
The bat woman rocks up as I’m scraping my last piece of pie through the tomato sauce. ‘You wouldn’t be eating that if you’d just cleared a possum trap.’
We shake hands. She’s Jenny from Nelson, a sprightly seventy-year-old with a long tightly plaited grey pigtail. She orders a cheese scone and I join her in another coffee.
A polite delay until the food and drinks arrive. Some small talk and then down to business. ‘So, Karel Havelka?’
‘Bob.’
‘Bob?’
‘That’s what he preferred to be called. People were always mispronouncing his name, deliberately or otherwise. Must have got sick of being called Carol. Besides I think he quite liked the idea of being a Bob.’
‘Tell me about him.’
A thoughtful sip of coffee. ‘To be honest he wasn’t an easy man to like. Quite abrasive and overbearing. The word austere comes to mind. Very competitive, he chose the furthest, longest, toughest trapline and refused to share the load.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Normally volunteers share a line and go out every other week or fortnight. Not him. He did his own, week in and week out. He didn’t brook dissent, small-talk, or suffer fools gladly. Hell in committee meetings.’
‘Bit of a loner?’
‘Understating it. The man was an island, a sub-Antarctic one.’
‘The day he disappeared, what do you remember?’
‘Well that was the other thing. Nobody noticed until a few days later. He never signed in or out, he hated bureaucracy. So nobody gave it any thought until the police came calling.’
‘His wife didn’t raise the alarm?’
‘Apparently not. It wasn’t unusual for him to go off tramping in the bush for a few days on his own. Between you and me I’m not sure they got on that well.’
‘The police searched along the trapline for him?’
‘Yes, them and some Emergency Service volunteers and a few of us too. Nothing. No trace.’
‘Did they bring in dogs, choppers?’
‘Yes, far as I can remember.’ She shakes her head. ‘Executed you say? Who’d do a thing like that?’
‘That’s what I’m here to find out. Is there a map of his trapline? Maybe I could take a look along it.’
She digs one out of her backpack. ‘Line M.’ Traces her finger along it. ‘Follow the fluoro pink ribbons through the trees. It’ll take at least three hours.’
‘I’ll come back and do it another time. I need to get my son from school.’
‘Can’t imagine what you might find up there after all these years.’
‘Me neither, but it’s nice to be able to paint a picture.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ She bites her lip, unsure of what to say next, or not sure if she should say it. ‘Sometimes it seems so beautiful and peaceful in there. And that’s what we’re trying to protect. But now and again you come across a scene from the Inquisition with a garrotted possum or whatever and you wonder if you’ve actually become part of the problem.’
‘Sorry mate, Mim can’t come over this weekend.’
Paulie is upset at the change in plans. ‘Why?’
‘Like I said, we’ll be staying in the motel for a few days. There won’t be enough room. It’s not a good time.’
‘You promised.’
‘I know but this is something we can’t help. It’s just until the end of the weekend, maybe less.’
A surly frown. ‘When then?’
‘Best to leave it until the weekend after.’
‘That sucks.’
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘Why do the police want our house?’
‘They just want to check something.’
‘Who’ll feed Spongebob and Squarepants?’
‘All taken care of. Don’t worry.’
‘Mim’s gunna hate me.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘That sucks.’
‘You said that already.’ Change topic. ‘We’ll have to buy dinner I suppose.’
‘Yeah?’ His eyes light up. ‘Pizza?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
Crisis over.
Under forensic supervision I’ve been allowed to extract toiletries and two changes of clothes for each of us plus Paulie’s game console and headphones. Without them it would be a claustrophobic teeth-grinding few days in the motel room. As we come back down the valley road, Paulie is intrigued by the roadworks outside the Lodge.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Traffic calming.’ I try to explain what that means.
‘Stupid,’ he mutters. Fearing a relapse into the bad mood I divert him with pizza talk.
Vanessa is waiting for us when we check in.
‘Got the keys already. Number six.’ There’s a queen bed plus a single shoved into the corner for Paulie. ‘Cosy,’ says Vanessa over-brightly.
I clap my hands. ‘Early dinner and early night?’
‘One out of two ain’t bad,’ says Vanessa, lifting her bag of school books. ‘Where to?’
‘Pizza,’ says Paulie. ‘Pub. Dad’s paying.’
Vanessa smiles at me. ‘Classy guy.’
Halfway through dinner there’s a call from Latifa.
‘What’s going on? I heard you got suspended.’ There’s an unsaid ‘again’. In her experience this is something I tend to make a habit of.
‘How’d you hear?’
‘They asked if I could come back in early to help Steve.’
‘No need for that.’
‘Not your call anymore. Spill.’
So I do. Lots of hmmms and yeahs like her colleague getting accused of murder is pretty run of the mill.
‘Did you kill him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘They’ll figure it out. Anything I need to know?’
‘Keep away from the Lodge, don’t worry about the water-tank sniper, just focus on traffic and routine stuff. How are you feeling? You ready to come back yet?’
‘Truth be told I’m getting sick of my mate’s whining dog, and her boyfriend’s just as bad.’
‘Speaking of which, any word on Daniel?’
‘Still due back this weekend.’ A pause. ‘Look, I’m fine, just sort yourself out, okay?’
‘Will do.’
Back to pizza with the family. Paulie polishes off the last slice and I head to the bar to pay the bill.
‘Officer. Good evening to you.’
It’s Brandon Cunningham. He’s got a young guy with him. ‘Evening. Sorry I can’t chat. Things to do.’
‘Not going to introduce us to your lovely family?’
‘No. See you around.’
He doesn’t take the hint. Strolls over to our table and holds out a hand for shaking. He homes in on Paulie first. ‘Hi there, big fella. I’m Brandon. What’d they call you?’
‘Paul.’ He holds out his hand, serious grown-up fashion.
‘This is my nephew Melvyn. He’s at the same school as you, I think. Say hi to Paul, Melvyn.’
Melvyn obediently says, ‘Hi.’
I step closer. ‘That’s enough, Cunningham.’
‘And you must be Mrs Chester. Vanessa? Is that right?’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Small towns. Everybody knows everybody. That’s why I love it here.’
Vanessa hurries Paulie up out of his seat and brushes past Cunningham in the narrow gap between wall and table. He makes no effort to move.
‘Bless my soul, that’s the best thing happened to me all day.’
Mel smirks.
We don’t need any more dramas and that’s precisely what Cunningham is trying to provoke. Paulie suddenly looks scared, like he’s caught a whiff of something rotten or dead. ‘We going now, Dad?’
‘Yep.’ I shepherd them out, my back tingling at unseen threats.<
br />
‘Great to meet you folks,’ says Cunningham. ‘Until next time, huh?’
11.
It took a while to settle Paulie, and Vanessa was unable to concentrate on her lesson preparation. She woke extra early to head into school and do her work there. Not before she lanced me over her motel instant coffee.
‘That guy is a dangerous creep. Really. You need to keep people like that out of our lives.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I mean it, Nick. I don’t want him anywhere near us.’ And then she surprises me with her vehemence. ‘Keep him away.’
I’ve seen that same look in Latifa’s eyes, in Thomas Hemi’s, and now Vanessa’s. Like an inoperable tumour took root somewhere deep inside and you can taste it in your saliva. After dropping Paulie at school, I decide today is as good a day as ever. Already suspected of murder, I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Pulling up outside the Lodge I’m aware that the tree camera will be watching. Wind down my window and look directly at it so they can see that, yes, it’s me. I haven’t handed my police issue Glock in, even though I’m suspended. Maxwell wouldn’t expect me to be using it, or maybe he forgot, or doesn’t care. It’s on the passenger seat beside me. We don’t bear arms routinely here in New Zealand, just on an as-needs basis. With Brit gangsters holding grudges against me I was given the nod to keep mine with me at all times. That particular threat might have receded a year ago but nobody has asked me to change my routines.
It doesn’t take long. There’s a loud buzz and a click and the big gates edge open. Two blokes step out, I recognise them from the hunting party that interrupted the filming at Butchers Flat. They’re both wearing camos and sidearms, low on the hip Dakota-style, and they have growly dogs on leashes.
‘Howdy,’ I say.
‘Can we help you, sir?’ Crew cut, clean-cut. Got his henchman image from a comic book.
‘Just popped by for a chat with Brandon. Is he home?’
‘I don’t think Mr Cunningham was expecting you.’ His friend is a little more wild and woolly. A backwoodsman. A real Daniel Boone.
‘That’s the thing about the country. We just drop by. I mean we’re practically neighbours.’
Daniel Boone’s not interested. ‘Come back another time, buddy. When you have an appointment.’
‘Let him in.’
‘A talking tree? Very Middle Earth. You guys are going to fit in well around here.’
They don’t like my jokes. I lock my car, they make me chuck my gun in the boot, then they walk me up the steep driveway. One of the dogs turns out to be a softie and gives me a traitorous lick on the hand. Cunningham is waiting on his expansive front balcony. He looks freshly showered and shiny.
‘Just been for a run up the hill. Beautiful up there. You can see the whole valley north and south. Coffee?’
‘Sure.’
He dismisses the henchmen and invites me into the kitchen, which is big and neat as a pin, with a view of a semi-cleared pine plantation across the river. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect to be seeing you again so soon.’
‘Didn’t you? Wasn’t that the point of the stunt with my family?’
‘Stunt? I was just being sociable. Sorry it got misconstrued.’ There’s the sound of gunshots. Individual cracks mixed in with repeated fire. ‘Some of the boys over at the range. That bother you?’ He pops a pod in his shiny coffee machine. Maybe his concern for the environment and landfill doesn’t run so deep after all.
‘Not if you’ve got the paperwork. Particularly for the automatics.’
‘Semi. That’s what we love about this country. It’s nearly as easy to bear arms here as it is in Texas. Want me to get those permits for you, officer?’
‘No need, I’m sure it’s all in order. You’ve been pretty careful with the paperwork to date. Besides, this isn’t an official visit.’
‘Social call? Nice.’
‘How about we stop playing games? Who are you people? Why are you here? What do you want?’
‘You people?’ He slides a coffee my way across a marble bench top. ‘Makes us sound undesirable.’
‘The visas you came in on, putting millions into some resort out on the Sounds. That’s not your money. Sheriff’s deputies from Sioux Falls don’t make that kind of cash.’
‘Done some research I see. So I don’t seem classy or smart enough to have that kind of money? I never figured you for a snob.’
‘If you did have that kind of money surely it would be better spent on your daughter’s medical bills? Leukaemia in the States would cost a pretty penny.’
I’ve finally got his attention. ‘Cards on the table, huh?’
‘Yep.’
‘I can’t keep calling you “officer” if we’re laying our cards on the table.’
‘My name is Nick.’
‘Do you believe in God, Nick?’
‘No.’ The coffee is good and strong but the cups are too small. Petite and pernickety, not unlike their owner.
‘Me neither. I stopped believing when he didn’t answer my prayers.’
So his happy-clappy act is just that. ‘Your daughter?’
‘Chelsey. She passed on last year.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah? Why? I get the impression you don’t like me.’
‘I don’t. But losing your child like that, it would be terrible.’ The big kitchen is echoey. ‘Chelsey’s mother?’ I venture.
‘None of your business.’
‘Okay. So we’ve agreed that we don’t believe in God and that having our kids die is a terrible thing. It still doesn’t explain why you’re here.’
He refills my little coffee cup. Another pod for the landfill and I’m beginning to buzz like it’s Christmas morning and I’m six again.
‘Do you like Neil Young?’
Do I like Neil Young, do I believe in God? All these huge questions. The answer’s the same. ‘No.’
‘That song of his – “After the Gold Rush”. There’s a group of really, really rich guys who buy into his “silver seed” line. They don’t believe they should have to die like all the rest of us. They’re the Chosen Ones.’
‘Doomsday preppers? Survivalists?’
Cunningham nods. ‘They don’t sit in the woods with tinfoil hats and rave about chem trails but they may as well. Silicon Valley tech wizards, Wall Street bankers, masters of industry and commerce. They’ve made their fortunes patenting algorithms that can reach into the souls of men and squeeze a last dollar or vote out of them.’ Outside, the hounds are barking at something. Maybe there are intruders at the Gates of Hell. ‘But when they look in the bathroom mirror in the morning all they see is a skull with a worm crawling out the eyehole. Climate change, pandemics, the collapse of civilisation, the end of oil, the end of water, the end of broadband. They lie awake at night worrying about that shit.’
‘That’s what’s behind what you’re doing here?’
‘Cards on the table.’
I didn’t expect him to be so candid. Maybe he’s very confident of getting what he wants and doesn’t give a fuck who knows. ‘You’re the advance guard. Getting everything ready. Softening us up. For what? Why all this aggro, drawing attention to yourselves?’
‘Aggro?’
‘Getting in everybody’s faces. Pissing people off.’
‘Not everybody. Some people up and down the valley like having us here.’ He sees I don’t believe him and shrugs. ‘Besides, why be shy? We’re the future. Get used to it.’
‘What if we don’t want to?’ Out the window there’s a pause in the target practice. ‘It’s all boys and men here. Women aren’t part of the plan?’
‘Sure, when we’re good and ready.’ He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a file. Pushes it my way. ‘Gun permits, building permits, visas, resource consents. All you could ask for, all in there. Your dumb, cute, decent little country is built on paperwork and gentlemen’s agreements. Worthless when push comes to shove. Some day soon somebody
’s going to come along and shake you Kiwis out of your decent complacency.’ He folds a paper towel daintily to mop coffee from his lips. ‘You should talk to your colleague, the lovely Latifa Rapata. Ask her about the great warrior Te Rauparaha. The guy your rugby players do the haka about. No quarter. I respect that in the original people of this country.’
‘I’m not sure Latifa will appreciate you appropriating her culture for your own ideological ends.’
‘Not my ends. I’m just a foot soldier. Some rich guy wants to pay me big bucks to help his Noah’s Ark fantasy come true, that’s fine by me.’
‘You don’t talk like a foot soldier.’
‘Bad guys read too. My daddy was a high school English teacher. He passed on his love of reading to me.’
I hop off the breakfast stool. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘Not so fast. This was meant to be cards on the table. I’ve just spilled my guts for you and got nothing in return. Tell me about that crazy accent of yours. Ain’t Kiwi, that’s for sure.’
‘I’m a Geordie, north-east England. We’re a stubborn, conservative lot. Don’t like change.’ I tap my finger on his paperwork file. ‘Don’t be so cocky about those silly little by-laws and rules and regulations we have here. It was tax returns that brought down Al Capone.’
‘Back in the day, sure. But which rich sucker pays taxes these days? You’ll need something better than that.’ He’s already rinsed and dried my cup. ‘Face it, Chester, you’re already beaten.’
‘It’s a thing these days, isn’t it? Seeing decency as a failing, a weakness. But you and the people you work for, you’re the ones running away from something. And look where you’ve chosen to run to. This dumb, cute, decent little country.’ A look into his eyes. ‘I think you’re still working through a lot of bad stuff and I really am sorry for your loss.’
In another time, place, or life maybe we might have got on. No, that’s crap. Mutual understanding doesn’t automatically foster love and harmony. It can just as often be another tool for knowing and defeating your enemy. Cunningham’s empty-eyed nihilism didn’t just materialise when God claimed his daughter. It’s been in him a lot longer; maybe honed on some terrified young men or women in a South Dakota police cell. Or maybe he was in the military before that – a turnkey at Abu Ghraib, or perhaps his book-loving father thrashed it into him. It’ll take something pretty special to counter whatever he has planned for us and I’m not sure we’re equipped to meet it. As long as he keeps skirting the right side of the law, we’re powerless. Is that how evil creeps in? Forms completed, permissions obtained?