The Cooktown Grave

by Carney Vaughan

  “Are yer there, Monk? Over.”

  The question seemed to begin and end with a sob.

  “Yeah, I’m here, Jack. Are you sure you’re OK? Over”

  “Yeah, Mate. Honest, I been after yer all day. Where are yer? Where’s the skipper? Uh…Over.”

  “We ‘ad the two-way off. We’re in the Olive River and he’s just gone up Glennie Creek to an old croc shooter’s hut with some people. But I can’t say where we’re goin’ from here, if it got out the place’d be crawlin’ with boats. You know what they’re like. Over.” Monk was satisfied that he had protected Reg and Billy’s destination from the fleet.

  “OK. Over ‘n out.”

  “That’s funny,” thought Monk, “he didn’t say what he wanted.”

  Chapter

  68

  Salazar waited until they left the Monterey Star. He was reasonably sure they were going for booze. He had followed them last night, and the night before. Most unattached males were creatures of habit and these should be no different. The first day the boat came off the slipway it was moored in one of the rainwater canals similar to many that empty into Smith’s Creek. This one was alongside a workshop and by the end of the day all of the various mechanical faults had been repaired. The boat was then taken to the other side of the creek and anchored in the shallows where access to it could only be gained by dinghy.

  Cade had been monitoring the boat’s maintenance programme and for Salazar the time to act had arrived. The boat’s dinghy was tied to a waste outlet pipe on the shore, Cade undid the rope and under cover of early darkness he pushed out from the bank. The current was quite strong but on Salazar’s direction he gave the outboard a miss. By the time he had paddled the hundred or so metres to the Star he was breathing hard and sweating profusely. Salazar climbed onto the deck and Cade returned the dinghy to the outlet pipe. He retreated into darkness to await the Colombian’s return.

  “You c’n drive, Jack, I’m too pissed.” the first deckhand fell into the stern while the other wrestled with Cade’s granny knot at the waste pipe. “Shit, Bert! ‘ow long you been goin’ t’sea an’ yer still can’t tie a fuckin’ bowline?”

  “Course I can, I did.”

  “Bullshit.”

  The dinghy rocked its way across the inlet to the Monterey Star and with some difficulty they secured it to the transom. Their next task was to climb onto the larger vessel and after some leg-ups and pushing and pulling the two were finally on board. One urinated over the side with a loud splashing which prompted the other to join him. They stood shaking their penises and swaying.

  “Come on mate, le’s ‘ave a swordfight.” Bert advanced.

  “Gefucked, I’m gonna ‘ave nuther beer. Wan’ one.”

  “Nah, I’ve ‘ad nuff, gunna bunk down.”

  In the shadows Salazar heard the hiss of a beer can being opened and some time later another. He heard a few slurred snatches of the ‘Battle of the Boyne’. Not long after that the sound of drunken snoring in the wheelhouse doubled in volume. Just before dawn Salazar returned in the dinghy and picked up Cade who paddled them back out to the Monterey Star.

  “No noise and don’t bump the boat,” Carlos whispered a warning.

  Both deckhands had collapsed on the skipper’s bunk, one face up and one face down. Cade and the Colombian took an end each of the face up body and carried it to the back deck. With the lid raised and the baffles removed the empty brine tanks, after cleaning, were airing. They dumped their load carelessly into the empty tank. Salazar loosened the rope tackle and lowered the lid. In the wheelhouse Cade stood beside the still form of the other deckhand while Salazar rummaged in his ever present carry-on bag. Cade knew the ritual by heart. First the rope to bind the victim. Then the gag with the ever present threat of the knife. He felt no emotion and despised himself because he was becoming inured to these bloody sessions. With the gag in place the dreamlike struggles of the drunk caused Salazar to order, “Hold him.”

  Jack’s consciousness eventually returned and his eyes, dumbed down by grog, blinked open. He peered out through a red crazed pattern of capillaries. Jack had absolutely no understanding of where he was, what was happening, why he couldn’t move or what the two shadows were which confronted him.

  “Good. You are awake,” said the Colombian, “I want you to listen very carefully, soon I will remove the gag from your mouth but first I must tell you of the consequences you will suffer if you cry out.”

  The querulous light in the deckhand’s eyes gradually became a blaze of anger as realisation of his predicament sunk in. “I’ll kill yer, yer skinny bastard when I get out’a this,” was translated into a series of muffled grunts through the gag. He felt a searing pain in his left ear that caused tears to flow and the slim shadow passed a knife blade across his vision. He recognised something carried on the point.

  “Yes,” said Salazar, “it is your earring my friend, still attached to the lobe of your ear.” The dawn light was filtering through the wheelhouse windows. The grisly specimen was flicked from the knife and the blade was laid along the victim’s nose. The anger in the eyes was replaced by fear. “Make sure you understand fully what I’m telling you. Soon I will remove the gag, you will not scream or shout, you will answer my questions and you will do exactly as I say. If you choose to ignore my instructions then the rest of your body will follow your ear in similar sized pieces. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  The slight inclination of Jack’s head became a violent nod as Salazar’s knife moved menacingly towards the other ear.

  “Excellent!” Salazar motioned to Cade to remove the gag. “Now, what is your name?”

  Jack considered assuming another identity but he couldn’t remember anything so bad in his past which would cause this misery to visit him. He decided against it. And anyway, perhaps it was Bert they were after. “McKenna, Jack McKenna.” He sobbed.

  “It’s all right Jack, nothing more will happen to you if you please me. Now, where is the Paragon? I know that there exists a close association between this boat and the Paragon.” Salazar waved the knife.

  “They wouldn’t tell anyone. They ‘ad some passengers ‘n I think they were gonna do some sort o’survey.” The knife pricked the good ear. “Honest, Mate. I c’n get ‘em on the two-way.” he squealed.

  Salazar looked at Cade and then at Jack. “Very well, but understand that you will die, slowly and painfully, if you alert them or anybody else in any way.” To Cade he said, “Make Jack some coffee.”

  Chapter

  69

  “Paragon… Paragon… Paragon… Do you read me?… Monterey Star to Paragon… Come in Paragon. Over.” It was four in the afternoon, Jack had been reciting the call parrot fashion every ten minutes or so since six thirty in the morning.

  The bloke with the knife seemed patient enough. Jack had relaxed to the point of thinking his sliced ear was going to be the worst injury he was going to suffer at the hands of these two bastards. He’d get ‘em back, he’d track ‘em down with help from the fleet. Its network wasn’t just confined to this area. Then these pricks would lose both their ears at least. They had untied Jack’s hands and perched him on the seat behind the wheel but his feet remained bound and tied to the chair, he couldn’t go anywhere in a hurry.

  Once more the monotonous, ritual recital, “Paragon… Paragon… Paragon…Do you read me?…Monterey Star to Paragon… Come in Paragon. Over.” And a repeat.

  The radio crackled back, “Paragon to Monterey Star. Keep yer hair on Jack. What’s yer trouble? Over.”

  Cade leapt from the bunk where he’d been sitting most of the day. Jack sat stiffly upright on his perch. Salazar applied pressure to the knifepoint at his throat. Enough to draw blood.

  “Aagh. Where are yer Monk, where’re y’been? I been after yer all day… Uh…is the skipper there? Over”

  “No he’s just gone ashore wit
h…Wait there, get on the trunk. Over.”

  “Are yer there Monk? Over.”

  The question did begin and end with a sob.

  “Yeah, I’m here, Jack. Are you sure you’re OK? Over”

  “Yeah, Mate. Honest, I been after yer all day. Where are yer? Where’s the skipper? Uh…Over.”

  “We ‘ad the two-way off. We’re in the Olive River and he’s just gone up Glennie Creek to an old croc shooter’s hut with some people. But I can’t say where we’re goin’ from here, if it got out the place’d be crawlin’ with boats. You know what they’re like. Over.”

  “Yeah. OK. Over ‘n out.”

  Salazar removed the blade. “Turn off the radio and show me, where is this river?”

  Jack unfolded some admiralty charts which showed enough of the land mass for him to pinpoint the Olive River and the croc shooters hut as well.

  “You did well Jack. Now we will tie your hands once more and when it is dark we will replace the gag and leave the vessel. You will be left to your own devices. I am sure you will be able to summon help in some way after we leave.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Where’s Bert?”

  “We placed him in the large tank on the rear deck.” the Colombian was becoming amiable. To Cade that only meant that his partner was anticipating something pleasurable.

  “The brine tank. Shit! He’ll die in there. It’s insulated, it’s airtight.”

  Salazar motioned to Cade. “Go and see to Bert, place something under the lid to allow him some air.”

  Cade lifted the sorting tray and peered into the tank, he didn’t know and couldn’t tell if Bert was alive or dead. For appearance sake he lay a broom handle across a corner and lowered the tray onto it. “He’s OK,” he said upon entering the wheelhouse. Suspicion faded slowly from Jack’s eyes.

  As the sun crept towards the mountains in the west shadows were growing longer and Cade knew when daylight was done, so too would be Jack’s life.

  In an eerie twilight Cade stood in the dinghy and untied the rope. As Salazar passed the brine tank he removed the broom and he lowered himself into the little craft. Cade knew Jack was dead, he would read how in the newspapers. He pulled to the shore and tied the dinghy to the waste outlet pipe.

  Chapter

  70

  Mac pulled the cord and the alternator came to life, he adjusted the voltage and the frequency and plugged in the power board. The lights came on and the television set blinked awake. “There you go,” he said, “information and illumination,”

  “No telly on our first night, please. What do you say, Jan, would you like to go for a walk?” Helen asked. “There’s a nice little beach right alongside our jetty.”

  Sep and Mac exchanged glances and Sep said, “I think you had better defer your walk girls, until we check this place out.”

  “Why?” They both asked.

  “As soon as it gets really dark I’ll show you why.” Mac said. All of the gear had been stowed and the cabin was looking shipshape. Sep fixed a rope line to divide the area into two sections for sleeping and hung a couple of blankets over it for privacy. “Pick your side girls,” he said.

  When darkness fell Mac grabbed the torch and said, “Come with us, ladies.” He led the way out of the shack and they trooped to the end of the jetty, Mac, Helen and Jan with Sep bringing up the rear. By torchlight Mac swept the far side of the creek in a slow arc. At first the girls saw nothing and then Jan thought she saw an orange pinpoint of reflection. She pointed for Helen to see but there was nothing. In the first sweep of the light Mac had seen what he was looking for. He extinguished the light. The sudden darkness was almost palpable and nobody moved for fear of falling. Mac was the first to speak. “I’m going to flash the torch upstream near the far bank, concentrate on that. Are you ready?”

  “My God!”

  “The little orange lights? That’s what I thought I saw before.” said Jan.

  “Those little orange lights are the eyes of crocodiles.” Sep told her.

  “Crocodiles?” Helen’s remark was a query.

  “And some big buggers too,” said Mac.

  Jan could see an eye reflection some thirty metres from the jetty and then another close by the first, “There’s one, no two, just there. Look!” she said.

  “That’s one.” Mac said. “And a big, arrogant mother at that. The eyes must be a foot apart.”

  Jan gave a shudder and was thankful for the encircling arm as Sep moved close. The four returned to the cabin and in the light Jan’s pallid features was the excuse for an after dinner drink. Sep produced a black labelled bottle and was given tacit approval by all. The talk turned into an instructional session on the merits and demerits of the crocodile.

  “They’re survivors, dinosaurs, but they’ve outlived that age. They’ve had no need to evolve yet, they’re perfect for their environment and they help to prove Darwin’s theory of evolution. Either you’re quick and strong or clever, or your genes won’t survive.”

  “What does that mean?” Jan asked.

  “It means you’re dead. And the genes of others who are quicker or stronger or more clever are passed on. It’s natural selection at work, but back to the crocs. They’re mainly active at night,” Mac said. “Although I don’t think they’re fussy about what time of day it happens to be when there’s a juicy morsel within range.”

  “And what would they consider a juicy morsel?” asked Jan.

  “You,” answered Sep. She gave him an unfathomable look and he reddened.

  “He’s right, he means we all are, but it all depends on the size of the croc,” Mac told her, “some big buggers will take half ton cattle, they grab them by the snout, while they’re drinking, and they knock them off their feet by bringing their great tails around.”

  “How would they eat a thing so huge?” Helen was amazed.

  “They manage,” Mac said, “when they roll, bits are torn off the carcase, and their mates muck in and give them a hand as well. What’s left over they stash somewhere, for afters.” Jan gave a grimace and shuddered. Sep flicked on the television set.

  “…police have released this footage from security surveillance cameras installed in the reception area as a result of recent robberies. It shows the man police are seeking to interview over the murder. Any member of the public with information that could help is requested to call the number at the bottom of their screen…”

  The number flashed and the newsreader moved into a story about cattle duffers on the tablelands.

  “He seemed a bit familiar. I wonder what that was about?” Mac rubbed his jaw.

  Sep brandished the bottle. “Would anyone like a refill?”

  “Not yet, Mate,” said Mac and the girls shook their heads, “but stick the telly on the ABC, see if we can find out where that murder was.”

  It was the lead story. The death of callgirl Mary Magellan in a unit of the Island Sands Motel, at Palm Cove,

  “…had a number of similar aspects to the slaying of hospital worker Elaine Johnson. Police wish to interview the person shown in the following footage of film captured by security cameras. He is a person of interest. They think he may be able to help them in their investigation. Police are also seeking this man…”

  Mac’s face appeared on the split screen both bearded and clean shaven.

  “…in connection with several other murders in the district, and the disappearance of two hospital employees. And now…”

  The rounded vowels broached another local sensation, but the four were no longer interested in television.

  “Jesus!” Mac was shocked. “They’re blaming me for the murder of some of these people.”

  “And kidnapping the three of us.” Sep grinned.

  “You and me, Sep, they wouldn’t know about Jan.” Helen allowed the fleeting ghost of a smile until she saw the
look on Mac’s face.

  “That must be the real reason Russ Byers is back in town, he must think I’m the one responsible, too. Christ!” Mac felt the beginning of despair taking hold. Think man, he told himself, these people are your friends, they know you they don’t think you’re a killer. “You don’t think I’ve killed anyone. Do you?” He looked at the three in turn for reassurance.

  “Would we be here, Mac?” Helen gently scolded. She moved to his side.

  Jan broke her silence. “Helen, that’s the man who broke into your house with John Cade.”

  “You could be right Jan, it looks a bit like him.” Helen agreed.

  “I am right, I know. And I’ve seen him before.” Jan looked at Mac and then continued. “The police want him for the murder of Elaine Johnson and the callgirl at Palm Cove. David I think, now, that Danny was right. I think that Mister Mitchell was murdered. But now I’m sure Danny was murdered. I don’t know how, yet, but I’d bet anything that these two, Mister Cade and this man were involved.”

  “I think I’ve seen him before too,” said Mac beginning to recover his composure. “Somewhere,” he added.

  Sep refilled the glasses and the mood became less intense. The conversation a bit more relaxed and he asked, “What if Jan’s right and these two are murderers? All of the victims were people we knew except for the girl at the motel. Maybe she’s connected to us somehow and there’s something we don’t know. The cops connect her death with Elaine’s. They wouldn’t do that unless there was some evidence that linked the two. And they’re looking for this other bloke for those murders.” Sep drained his glass.