Doom Creek

by Alan Carter

  ‘Shhhh.’

  I don’t need telling. I heard it too.

  Footsteps outside. Multiple. The brushing of foliage and undergrowth. The cracking of twigs. The rain has stopped, wind dropped, and in the grey dawn all that can be heard is birdsong, rushing water and these alien sounds. Whispering and human whistles. People moving into position. Mechanical clicks. Guns being cocked.

  ‘Chester. Hemi.’ Cunningham’s voice. ‘We know you’re in there. Send Georges out.’

  Thomas looks at Georges like he only just remembered he was there. Lifts his voice to a broken window pane. ‘He can’t walk. Hurt his hip, I think.’

  ‘So you guys walk out and leave him to us. No guns. Hands up where we can see them.’

  ‘Not sure we can trust you, Brandon.’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  ‘I can’t see you hurting us,’ says Thomas. ‘You don’t need that kind of trouble. Really.’

  ‘Accidents happen, it’s hunting season. Your government will make it all disappear anyway.’

  ‘Different mob now, mate. Nicer people who mean well.’

  ‘Don’t count on it.’

  While Brandon and Thomas do their verbal jousting I picture armed men edging ever closer and limiting our options. ‘Brandon, it’s me, Nick Chester.’

  ‘Maybe you can talk some sense into your Māori friend.’

  ‘Thomas,’ I whisper. ‘He’s right. He doesn’t need to slaughter us all to get what he wants. One carefully targeted stray bullet on any of us will do the job. Ruth, Morgan. You want to lose them too?’

  ‘Keep us out of it,’ hisses Ruth.

  ‘LeBlanc’s a piece of shit. Is he worth that?’

  ‘Do I have a say in this?’ asks Georges.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ I turn back to Hemi. ‘Thomas, he’s admitted what he did to Jaxon. We know now these guys aren’t going to jet him to freedom. He’s going to pay. Let them get on with it. Walk away.’

  He lifts his chin at me. ‘What about your precious rule of law?’

  ‘Greater good.’ He looks pensive but already it’s in his eyes; he’s convinced. I’m not going to give him time to change his mind. ‘Brandon? You get what you want and we get to walk away unharmed. This goes no further with us, right?’

  ‘Right, Chester.’ A chuckle. ‘We’re all gentlemen here.’

  Can I trust him? Maybe this is one more, one last, mistake among the many I’ve already made. ‘Goodbye, Georges,’ I say as we file out, hands in the air, sun glinting through the trees.

  There are tears in his eyes but I can’t feel sorry for him. There’s no remorse, just self-pity, regret that he didn’t get away with it.

  It’s agreed. We’ll pin the blown bridge on Cunningham and his mob. They’ll deny everything but it’ll be multiple versions of the same story and it’ll end up being too hard. As for Georges – yes, the traceable SMS’d photo to me shows that Thomas had LeBlanc in custody. But now Cunningham has him – which is true. We made our way out from Doom Creek via a tortuous old prospecting path through the hills and back down to a still-flooded Canvastown, sloshing our way through the knee-deep water in the ATV. The residents of Thomasland, and others flooded out further down the valley, have been evacuated by chopper and accommodated in the school hall ahead of longer-term arrangements. Civil and army engineers are working out what to do with the blown bridge. There are military exercises scheduled for later this year so the Defence department might even chip in for a quick replacement. Maybe billionaire Bryant can match it out of his petty cash. Somebody thoughtfully drove my ute back down the valley for me and left it parked at the Trout with the keys in the glove box. A breeze has sprung up and the school flag snaps briskly against a blue sky.

  ‘This is one cursed valley,’ says DC Keegan through a cloud of ciggie smoke. ‘And you guys really didn’t bump LeBlanc off? Promise?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘We’ve talked to Cunningham and he’s saying nothing too. They were all set to hand him over to us. Reckons LeBlanc legged it in the storm.’ Not easy, I’m thinking, with a dislocated hip. Keegan eyes me. ‘Could have just left him with you if that was the plan, hmmm?’

  ‘Maybe Cunningham doubts my abilities or my integrity. Wanted to make sure LeBlanc was handed over to people he could trust.’

  ‘Understandable in your case. All moot now I suppose.’ She flicks her cigarette into a puddle. ‘Anyway we’ll be winding down the search. Can’t see him surviving a night like that.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you got the chance to talk to him at all?’

  ‘Not much. He’s a tough cookie, doesn’t give much away.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But he mentioned something about that place out on the Sounds and hinted that we should be digging more into Bryant and his proclivities. He reckons that’s what the Fed prosecutor had on him.’

  ‘Not going to be easy. Bryant’s a protected species.’

  ‘But the US media must have got a whisper,’ I say. ‘FOI and all that.’

  ‘Sure, we can follow it up. But what’s it got to do with Gelder?’

  ‘Maybe whatever was on his phone backs up the rumours on Bryant. We can be pretty confident LeBlanc and the kid killed Gelder. All we need to know is why.’

  ‘With both perps out of the picture, the burden of prosecution proof is removed. Maybe the why is no longer so important, Nick.’

  ‘No, but it might give us an idea of what those people are doing here in the first place.’

  She shrugs assent. ‘That pic Thomas sent you. Ford told us about it. Pretty damning would you say?’

  ‘Worse than it looked. Yes, LeBlanc was tied up but that was only to restrain a dangerous guy.’

  ‘Perched on a high bridge that has since been blown up.’

  ‘Cunningham’s a madman. It’s a miracle we all got out of there alive.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Did Hemi question LeBlanc before you arrived? About what might have happened to his son?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘Put it this way, I think Thomas is more at peace now, and you can probably redirect resources from both the Jaxon Hemi and Bruce Gelder enquiries elsewhere.’

  ‘Any reason why I shouldn’t arrest Thomas and Morgan?’

  ‘What for? Capturing and losing a wanted man? Some people would hail them as heroes. Wonder about police priorities.’

  ‘This place. Fucking Dodge City, Yanks or no.’ She fingers her ciggie packet but decides against another. ‘Go home, Nick. Tend to your family.’

  Home. Now there’s an interesting concept.

  Vanessa seems to be on the mend. She’s strong enough to be angry with me.

  ‘What goes on inside that thick head of yours?’

  Good question. Can I seriously blame my impetuosity on my funny old head, or is it simply a longstanding character flaw? ‘I’m sorry but it seemed urgent.’

  ‘And we’re not?’ A few more salient points from Vanessa and pathetic sorries from me and she can’t be bothered any more. ‘Brick bloody wall. Honestly.’ Back to more important matters than high jinks in the high country. ‘The insurance assessor called. They’ve approved a rebuild on the same site; it’ll take anything from six to eighteen months. There’s a shortage of skilled labour, apparently. They’re all down Kaikoura or Christchurch on earthquake repairs.’

  ‘Interim rental assistance?’

  ‘They’ll look at it. And there’s a bridging payment for loss of personal belongings due soon.’

  ‘I imagine the department will help out there. And Latifa has offered us the police house in Havelock.’

  ‘We might need it. The assessor was humming and hah-ing about the fire being deliberate and the work of a foreign national, possibly now dead. Wasn’t sure his bosses would like the sound of that.’

  ‘We’ll leave the lawyers to work it out.’
I’m suddenly feeling the lack of sleep, another migraine threatens. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Sunderland is looking good right now.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘It’s no less dangerous than here. Maybe it’s even safer now with Pritchard inside, Marty dead, and the gang broken up.’

  ‘Sammy’s due out soon and I don’t trust him to forgive and forget.’

  ‘Worst case scenario? We move back to another place with psychos and crap weather. Least it’s familiar ground and I’ve got friends there who don’t say where’s your funny accent from? And there’s no sandflies.’

  Paulie’s taken his headphones off. ‘Where? What are you talking about?’

  A finger prod in my solar plexus. ‘Buck your ideas up, Nick. Something’s got to change.’

  As if on cue a call comes through offering me an appointment with the neurologist to discuss my scan results. Would next Monday suit? First thing? ‘Sure. Is it possible to give an indication now?’

  ‘No,’ says the receptionist. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Any cause for concern?’

  ‘Dr Copp will explain everything when she sees you.’

  27.

  Monday rolls around and Dr Copp’s rooms, in a quiet leafy street on a hill overlooking Nelson, are awash with sunlight through the large north-facing windows. She has no end of letters after her name, certificates and diplomas on her wall, and a scan of my head on a backlit screen. She has pointed to various white dots which seem to signify or equate with memory lapses – white holes, I suppose you could call them. I’m surprised there’s so few. Apparently they’re not uncommon and, in this case, not the main issue. Instead there’s a dark smudge that worries her. It’s been hiding just at the point where my spinal cord meets my brain.

  ‘It’s lucky you had the TGA. We might not have seen it in time.’

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know at this stage. An MRI scan should tell us. Maybe even a biopsy.’

  ‘Biopsy?’

  ‘We need to find out whether it’s malignant.’

  ‘A tumour?’

  ‘Of sorts. Yes.’

  For such a petite woman with an equally petite voice she dishes out devastation like there’s no tomorrow. Maybe that’s not the best simile under the circumstances.

  Vanessa is gripping my hand so hard it hurts. ‘How soon might we know?’

  ‘I can get you in for an MRI this week, Mr Chester. We’ll decide then whether we need a biopsy. Then within about a week of that we should have test results back.’

  It certainly puts everything in perspective. Cunningham, Gelder, Havelka; none of them matter a jot. Outside the sun still shines, the birds tweet, and the Maitai river still tumbles over the rocks.

  ‘One day at a time, love.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Vanessa.

  Because that’s all we can do – tamp down the cold, hard fear and push on. One day at a time. Vanessa winces as we walk slowly to the car. She shouldn’t really be up and about with her burn still so raw but she wasn’t to be crossed on this matter. It’s been a flat, often tense, weekend. We’re homeless, out of sorts, in pain, and scared. Some people, I know, live a large part of their lives like this and I’m in awe of their ability to hang it together and keep going. Of course they have no choice.

  Back in the safe apartment, after thanking the carer and seeing her on her way, my heart wells when I see Paulie again and I try to reassure him that the medical appointment was nothing to worry about. Tears are not far away for both Vanessa and me.

  Christ. It’s going to be a long dark road ahead.

  We’ve changed Vanessa’s wound dressing and she’s having a lie-down. Paulie’s sprained ankle is on the mend and we’re looking to send him back to school tomorrow.

  ‘Mim will be happy to see me.’

  ‘Yep, you’ll have plenty of news for her. And for everybody.’

  ‘Lot going on,’ he concedes.

  And how.

  We settle down and watch The Incredibles for the umpteenth time. Yes, I know, this kid gets far too much screen time but guess what, it doesn’t matter so much right now.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I check it from time to time. Latifa wants to know how it’s going. Keegan too. Maxwell. They can wait. Gary’s back in mobile range. Some port down south. None of it is urgent. Nigel Watson, a text.

  Busy?

  Yes

  Got some news. Let me know when suits

  Will do

  Why did I do that? Why not just tell him to talk to Maxwell, he’ll run with it.

  ‘You’re missing the film, Dad.’

  I hug him close. ‘Love you, Paulie. Do you know that?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. And it’s Paul, remember?’

  By evening we’re all going stir crazy. The kitchen in the safe house is fully equipped but we’re still living, for the most part, on takeaways and convenience food. Paulie needs to be back at school, we all need to be back under the cosy duvet of routine. Vanessa tips me the nod and I make the call.

  ‘Can we take you up on the offer of the police house?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Latifa. ‘When do you want me out of here?’

  ‘Tomorrow suit?’

  ‘Far out. Mind if I pack first?’

  ‘Make it snappy.’

  But she’s more than happy to help. Being back in Havelock gets us much nearer to Paulie’s school and we can begin to settle in to what will probably be our home for the long haul.

  If I’m around for it.

  The downside is that Vanessa won’t be so near the care she was getting at Nelson hospital, but she says she’d prefer the long and winding commute over what we have right now. ‘It’s like living in a pressure cooker.’

  ‘I’m not so sure moving house is going to ease that, love.’

  ‘Anything to distract us, keep us busy.’

  It’s heartfelt and I’m not about to argue. Another text: MRI, Wednesday. The day after tomorrow. ‘That’s handy.’ I waggle the phone. ‘It’s the same day as your appointment with the burns specialist.’

  ‘Two birds, one stone,’ she says grimly.

  It’s surprisingly good to be back in Havelock. Are we so low in resilience these days that even Nelson gives us the big city blues? I know it’s not as simple as that but one glimpse of the Sounds and those hills, logged or otherwise, and I do feel a lifting of the spirit. Paulie’s at school, Vanessa is resting at home, making a list of what she wants to change about the police house, and I’m shopping for groceries at the Four Square, recently redecorated after the unfortunate incident in the coldroom. I’m happy to pay the small-town inflated prices and accept the good wishes of fellow citizens.

  Doug bails me up. ‘This mean those Americans have gone?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Not easy to go panning up at Pear Tree Flat since they blew up that bridge. Silly fuckers.’

  ‘Some people, huh?’

  ‘Indeed. Good to have you back, Sergeant. We need a sheriff in town.’

  He salutes a farewell and starts rummaging among the vegies. Ruth is at the far end of the aisle, examining the dairy produce like she’s not just been Bonnie to Thomas’s Clyde.

  ‘You guys got somewhere to stay yet?’

  ‘A friend down the valley has a hut but they reckon the temporary bridge should be ready any day now. Then we can go home. At least collect some stuff.’

  ‘What’s Thomas up to?’

  ‘Organising the tangi for Jax. It’s the day after tomorrow, at the marae. You’re invited.’

  I tell her I’ll be there, hospital appointment permitting.

  ‘Nothing serious I hope?’

  ‘Just some tests.’

  She nods, eyes filling. ‘I don’t think we’ll survive this, Thomas and me. He’s, I don’t know. Unhinged?’

  ‘One day at a time, Ruth. He’s a good man. Have faith.’

  ‘Faith?’ She nods. ‘S’pose so. Without it we’re nothing, aren’t we?�
��

  It wouldn’t do to have both of us bawling by the soft cheeses so I head for the checkout.

  Breathe deeply.

  The next few days are a numb blur. While Vanessa has her burns checked and some grafts scheduled, I’m wheeled along a corridor into a theatre with space age machinery, beeping screens and murmuring professionals, waking up several hours later to groggily receive the news that a little bit of my head has been sent to a lab somewhere. Whatever they saw on the scan warranted closer investigation. I’ve missed Jaxon Hemi’s tangi and I envisage tears, songs, maybe even the odd sad joke, and finally a haka for a proud young man taken way too soon.

  It’s Friday morning before I’m in any fit state to get out of bed. A tag team of carers has been in the last few days tending to Vanessa, cooking and cleaning, and supervising Paulie. There’s umpteen missed calls and messages on my mobile. Paulie is at school and Vanessa still looks exhausted and worried.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Wobbly. You?’

  ‘Same but for different reasons.’

  During the day things pick up remarkably quickly. Apart from a dressing behind my ear to cover the keyhole, you’d hardly know I’ve just had a bit of brain surgery. On his return from school, dropped off by none other than Michael, Paulie is delighted to see me up and about. He remains blissfully unaware of the significance of my hospital stay and we intend to keep it that way.

  ‘Mim’s invited me for a sleepover. This weekend.’

  ‘Sure. Maybe I can check their doors and windows first. ‘You up for it, with your sore ankle?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Vanessa thinks it’s a great idea under the circumstances and I’m not about to argue. In the evening we heat up one of the half-dozen casseroles left for us by concerned citizens and watch something diverting on TV. My phone is buzzing like billyo but it can wait.

  28.

  I begin to glimpse why Nigel Watson is on the way out. Johnny No-Mates. Really. Once somebody pays him some attention he doesn’t want to let go. I must have had two dozen texts or voicemail messages over the course of this week since that earlier one saying he had some news. The tone has deteriorated sharply in the last forty-eight hours towards the accusatory and abusive. Quote, treacherous dogbreath cunt, unquote. I really don’t need this right now. Saturday morning with clouds hanging over the top of the south I decide to put him straight.