A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  “Go on. On your way, buddy. Thanks for the ride,” Joel said brushing some mud splatter off his trousers. He ignored the fresh arrivals and went to join Fiona.

  “Forensics are going to be very busy. The car looks to have exploded and is burnt beyond salvage. It was a taxi, because you can see where taxi light bar once was on the turret.”

  She interrupted him, “On the turret?”

  “Yeah, the roof of the car. Can I finish?” Not waiting for a reply as she stared at him, he continued, “I do not believe anyone was in the cab when it burned. I am positive that some evidence of charred bones would have remained. However, I did find something disturbing near the wreck,” and Joel cleared his throat.

  “What was that?”

  “Burnt bits of clothing. With human skin attached.”

  “How do you know it’s skin? Are you a forensics expert? You’ve really had a full-on day, haven’t you? Bloody hell, first day on the job, …scratched the new pride-and-joy of the department, seen your first dead body, well, one in a boot anyway and taken photos of a burnt-out taxi, all by yourself.” Fiona turned away to meet the new arrivals, who were down the creek’s edge gawking at the semi-submerged car.

  Joel was left standing on his own.

  Fiona joined the two men standing near the water’s edge. The larger of the two already large police officers turned to speak to her.

  “Better get a tow-truck here soon. The only reason that this car’s been discovered is because of the big tides at the moment. Three metres makes a shit load of difference. And when the bastard turns and runs in, it’ll wash this baby further down, or worse take the boy in the boot, separately. Never find him, if that happens.” He chucked his cigarette in the water; the butt started floating away, up stream.

  “Joel. Can you hear me?” she shouted from below.

  “I can.”

  “Get us a tow-truck, really quick. I mean really quick.” Fiona had her eyes peeled on the water flow around the sedan.

  The skies were closing in. Dark grey clouds were gathering. The humidity was stifling. That it would rain soon was a sure bet, how much was unknown, but it would definitely make everything that much more difficult this afternoon. Fiona looked up and decided not to wait for the inevitable downpour; she clambered up the short incline.

  “We need rope. Do we have any?” she asked with a panting voice.

  Joel was on his mobile talking, then he turned to face her and said, “Doubt it. Not in that shiny rig. But I’ll have a peek in the back, if you like.”

  “Don’t bother. They’ll have what we need,” Fiona pointed to the approaching red truck. “Good timing. Forgot about them.”

  The beautifully polished fire truck pulled up close to the other cars. The diesel sounded like a symphony orchestra of perfect mechanical harmony in engine music. Joel marvelled at the rig. Three fire-men emerged efficiently from the rear cab. Joel greeted the men politely with a nod, and a ‘thanks for coming’. The men reciprocated with a nod and polite greeting.

  Fiona approached the men, “Finished with your male bonding, boys?”

  “G’day, Fiona,” the shortest of the firies greeted.

  “They let you in the truck today, Gavin. You guys must be short-staffed today.”

  “See you still have that great sense of humour,” Gavin replied.

  Joel stepped back a few paces, his eyes widened and his face screwed up with a ‘what-the-fuck’ expression. Behind him, two more firies ejected from the truck. The driver remained behind the wheel.

  “Hey, Gibbo, how they hangin’?”

  “I’ll let you know when they go south,” she answered superficially.

  The crew leader moved from the band and waved his hand, “Right, can we dispense with the crap. What are we doing here? Let’s get to work.”

  Joel stepped into the ring and took charge, “We’ve got a small sedan partially submerged in the creek, and there’s a body in the trunk. This vehicle needs to be secured before the incoming tide dislodges it from the mud and we lose it and the victim.”

  It was immediate action. Three firemen rounded the truck to retrieve gear and the other two raced to the creek to assess the situation and put a plan together. Then the heavens opened up; it was hard to imagine that so much water could exist up there.

  ***

  By nightfall, the tow-truck was the last of the swarm to leave. Without the assistance of the Fire & Rescue Squad, the Mitsubishi sedan would have washed down the creek. The crew were successful in securing the car, and subsequently winching it up the embankment. The Coroner had come, confirmed the boy was indeed deceased, and transferred the body from the trunk to the Coroner’s transport, for autopsy. Forensics did come out but the rain had all but washed out the crime-scene. They went to the other site, where the burnt-out taxi was – at least there would be more to salvage.

  Joel shut the door of the Commodore; his trousers were muddy and wet from trapesing up and down the embankment. The floor-pan was soiled with mud and wet sand. He turned the key and the six-litre V8 rumbled to life.

  “You did well today,” Fiona said and she punched him lightly on the arm.

  “Thanks,” he said meekly.

  “Seriously mate. You really measured up. This was a difficult day. In fact, I can’t remember a day with so much content, in my whole career. I’m fucked. Drained.” She pressed her head against the headrest and yawned.

  “Don’t mind me asking, but what was that all about? I thought we were supposed to be professionals, all of us. But that tit-for-tat went beyond camaraderie. You nearly sounded like a bunch of high-schoolers. And who is Gavin?”

  ***

  “Gavin and I have history. A long time ago. In this case, time has not dulled the senses. The guy is an embarrassment. He’s a pea-brain,” she was agitated.

  “Embarrassment to you or himself?”

  “Both. Let’s just say, he has a penchant for telling out of school stories. Personal things. Nothing is sacred. He has followers, I have followers. The firies are a blokey lot. My followers are not in the Fire Brigade.”

  “Where are your followers then?”

  “Few and far between,” she replied blankly.

  CHAPTER 8

  DRAWN IN

  Darren was woken from a dream. The high-pitched screeching from the lorikeets, the noise had carried him through a time-tunnel; for a vague moment, he couldn’t work out if they were the screams from a panic-stricken crowd in his dream or just the annoying pitch of parrots squabbling over flowers. Darren opened his eyes. Bloody noisy bastards! Then his phone rang. And that’s how quick the day starts, no choice: first, the birds, then the humans – you’re drawn in.

  ‘Pete’ his name splashed on the phone-screen.

  “You’re early,” Darren mumbled.

  “They found the cab. Burnt-out. It’s out at Sandy Point . In the scrub. Need you to go out and check it out. Can you do that?” Pete’s shorthand lingo.

  “Why me?” Darren replied with annoyance.

  “I can rely on you.”

  Darren didn’t say anything.

  Pete broke the silence, “Be here in thirty. Counting on you.” Click.

  ***

  Darren made it to the depot in thirty-two minutes. How did he know that? Because Pete used his ‘stop-watch’, he was an OCD clock-watcher. Some people measured everything in dollars and cents, Pete measured life in ETA’s, although he didn’t really like the notion of ‘estimated’. Even the ‘stop-watch’ was digital; according to Pete it allowed him to accurately and quickly confirm the time in order to record the statistics in a special notebook. Pete reasoned that he could assess a driver’s productivity on the basis of minutes of ‘lateness’, quantify the figures in lost hours. He would use the numerical result to threaten any slow drivers with a termination notice.

  “Two minutes behind schedule.” Pete tapped his watch, his bushy eye-brows accentuated the frown.

  Darren dismissed Pete’s reprimand.

&
nbsp; “Get a grip, mate. You are setting yourself up for a stroke one day,” Darren said as he clocked in.

  ***

  Pete’s directions for the exact location of the taxi were sketchy. He sent Darren because Pete was mortified at the thought that charred remains would still be in the cab. Darren was pretty sure that the coppers wouldn’t have left any human remains in the cab overnight.

  Predictable, Darren thought, when he saw a squad car parked where the turn-off into the track was supposed to be. He pulled the taxi up close to where the two uniforms were standing. The coppers had their serious faces on. Rehearsed, they approached the taxi: one asked Darren to remain seated, the other walked around the cab, and wrote down the rego and the cab ID.

  “Boss sent me out to check out the taxi,” Darren ventured.

  “Can I see your licence, please?”

  What felt like would be the start of a long bureaucratic process, turned into a brief, amicable exchange; Darren appreciated the clear directions to the site.

  ***

  To Darren’s surprise, the site was manned by none other than the pain-in-the-arse but very-nice-to-look-at blonde copper from yesterday morning. A small world it is, he mused.

  Equally surprised to run into this taxi-driver Fiona Gibbs said, “Oh, not you again.” And rolled her eyes. But then, she smiled with a closed mouth and cocked head.

  Darren was guarded in his greeting. Today, she was accommodating and friendly, he followed her, catching himself ogling her rounded buttocks, wrapped tightly by her uniform. He felt that stupid feeling of guilt again. It was ridiculous; the Cate thing still hovering. Six months on, and he thought about her every day; although these days the yearning for her had long gone. Darren knew from the past that time did heal most wounds, on most days, but sometimes the ‘insurgence’ would resurface – and he’d have to fight those demons again.

  “Hey mate, are you okay?” Suddenly, she was facing him, and Darren nearly walked into her. Stopped in his tracks, he mumbled an apology, then continued on leaving her behind. He paused at the yellow barrier-tape which surrounded the burnt wreck.

  “No bodies?” Darren asked.

  “No. Not in the car anyway. Forensics did scrape up some human skin, just there,” Fiona pointed to the front of the car. “Anyway, I shouldn’t even be telling you this. Police business. Highly classified.”

  Darren looked at her. She’d rolled her eyes again.

  “You always this cynical, or having another bad day?”

  “I’ll go with cynical.” She turned on her heels.

  He shifted a few paces and stuck his head closer to inspect the charred interior. Disinterested, he moved away from the wreckage.

  “Okay. I’ve been. Anything I’m supposed to sign or verify? I really don’t know why I need to be here.” Darren followed her to the cars.

  “That makes two of us,” she commented. “I think it has something to do with you confirming it’s a taxi, and that it’s one of yours. Probably for insurance purposes, no doubt they’ll pull a rabbit out of a hat, so they won’t have to pay up.”

  Darren chuckled, “Ain’t that the truth.” He casually glanced at the squad car, “Not as flash as yesterday’s ride.”

  “Ha, ha. Nope.”

  Half a minute on, “Where’s your offsider?”

  “On my own today. I’m a big girl you know. I can look after myself,” she replied assertively, and kept walking.

  Darren’s reply was sharp, “I’ve heard all that before. It doesn’t stop you from getting killed.”

  Her reaction was blunt, “Bugger off, how would you know?” She continued and yelled out without looking at him, “A few have tried, but I’m still on the beat!”

  Darren was left standing a few paces behind her, “Some weren’t so lucky.” He stomped back to his cab.

  Fuck this. She was a stranger, one able to stir a bad memory.

  He was here to check out a burnt-out taxi. Instead, he was sitting behind the wheel trying to suppress frustration at not being able to get Cate out of his mind.

  “Anything else you want to look at, before she’s towed to the Forensics lab?”

  “No.” He drove off.

  She was watching him. Darren could see her in the rear-view mirror. He kept her in his sights until the scrub cut the view. As he pulled up to the bitumen from the track, he wondered when he would see her again.

  CHAPTER 9

  CUT AND RUN

  They didn’t have to bang real hard to be heard. After all, it was just a bit of aluminium sheeting fixed to a light steel frame. Nevertheless, they did and the whole caravan rattled and shook as their angry fists pounded the caravan door. The sudden chaos roused Eddie from his sleep. Bewildered and angry, he sprang to his feet.

  “Eddie! Open the fucking door!”

  It was Davo. Eddie’s mind started ticking over: open the door and pummel Davo and whoever else was out there or be a nice boy and find out what they wanted. Eddie chose the first option, took a step back and tightened his hundred-and-thirty-plus kilo frame, his elbow and shoulder tucked in, he burst through the flimsy door.

  Eddie roared like a lion as he pounced on Ryker pinning him to the ground. Wild and furious, Eddie raised his fist ready to drive it into Ryker’s face, but Davo tackled him. In an instant, Eddie felt Davo’s arm around his throat, tightening and squeezing his airways. He grabbed Davo’s forearm, but even Eddie’s fingers couldn’t get enough grip around the massive forearm to get purchase, instead they kept sliding from the sweaty skin.

  Eddie smelled Davo’s heavy breathing next to his face, the bikie kept the pressure on, before warning, “I won’t stop. You gonna be a good boy and settle down?” He tightened his grip to bolster the question. Eddie refused, not giving in as he tried to dig his fingernails further.

  “You busted me shoulder,” groaned the other bikie on the ground. Ryker wasn’t a big guy by bikie standards, being a founding member of the Redemption Riders entitled him to be ‘the big guy’. Ryker was a name bestowed upon him by the other followers. His real name was Ryley. Ryker was borrowed from the word, “Reicher”, someone who championed the infamous Nazi Reich. Ryley, the Reicher, aka Ryker, because no one could spell it properly. Eddie always thought that a stupid analogy.

  “You’ll be right,” replied Davo. “First, we need to calm this animal.”

  Eddie started to choke, and loosened tension to escape from Davo’s forearm, deciding to make a ‘yes’ movement with his head. In response, Davo slackened his grip without giving up his hold. “Gonna behave, mate?” Eddie nodded from his constrained position. He felt Davo shifting his weight and releasing the tension in his arm from around his throat, he could breathe again.

  Eddie sat up nursing his throat. There were many thoughts running through his mind, most of them ended up with the same conclusion: how he would deal with these two clowns – permanently. Through the corner of his eye, he saw Ryker getting up and coming towards him. Here we go again, Eddie readied himself. Davo jumped in front of the irate bikie. Terse words were exchanged, “Later. You can sort him later.”

  Clear to Eddie. It was time to fuck these morons off.

  Ryker shot him a dark, furious look before walking to the parked wagon.

  “Guess you didn’t want me to hear you. Sneaking up in the Commodore,” Eddie sneered at Davo.

  “We didn’t come to rough you up.”

  “You got a strange way of coming in peace. Look at the state of the door.” Glancing at the door hanging askew from one hinge.

  “I think you took care of that yourself,” Davo countered.

  “Well, get on with it. What did you come for then?” Eddie rose to his feet.

  “They found a burnt-out taxi and a body in the boot yesterday. Guess where they found it? Let me fill you in on that one, to save some time. Sandy Point . In the scrub. Sound familiar? I’ll save us some more time. Same spot where I picked you up the other night. So, what the fuck you been up to? Because we don’t want a bar o
f it,” Davo rattled off.

  Eddie said nothing and stared at Davo blankly. His mind was doing cartwheels. There was no body in the boot; he took care of the driver in the creek. And he never set the taxi alight, although the thought crossed his mind at the time. Where did the bikies get the info anyway? Was it in the papers? Asking them for their source was an admission of guilt. They would be even more suspicious. Deny any knowledge.

  “My moons must not be aligning real well,” Eddie said as he brushed the dirt off his bare knees. “A coincidence. I might have been there, but I ran to that spot to get away from those arseholes who did me over. I escaped from some street a few kilometres away. It was fucking dark and all I could think of was, go somewhere darker. I bailed and ran as fast as I could. And found myself on the main drag. I just kept going and was relieved to wind up near the scrub. So, I hid. Arseholes drove past a few times, but must have given up. That’s when I rang you. Now you know the reason why I asked you to drive past.”

  Davo said nothing and turned his back to Eddie, he started to leave but stopped,

  “You spin a good yarn, Eddie. You’re full of shit. Regardless, I’ll relay your story to the boys, but don’t expect any applause,” Davo said looking over his shoulder, continuing his exit, but not before uttering the words, “A warning, mate. Better watch your back. Maybe you ought to cut and run.”

  A threat, not a warning. Eddie watched the bikie saunter off. He felt the heat from the morning sun breaking through the cloud cover. His neck and shoulders were starting to smoulder. It was going to be a hot day. Time to get out of the heat. In more ways than one, he mused.

  The landlord wasn’t going to be happy with the caravan door hanging by one hinge. Eddie spat before going back in. A rowdy visitor slipped off the step and pulled the door off its hinges. Sounded good enough to Eddie.

  His recent move to the caravan park was an improvement over having a bunk in a store-room next to the Riders’ clubhouse. It was the first step Eddie had initiated to distance himself from the Riders’ nosiness.

  Fuck. Why is it so hard to find that rug-rat thief? Eddie was getting the shits with Townsville. Its spread-out suburbs made it hard to search out his targets. The initial camaraderie with the Riders had truly worn off, and the relationship was diffusing his quest. He needed to get his head straight, sever his ties with the Riders altogether.