“We’re goin’ to cruise around the northern reach of Camden Sound.”
All right, as if that was helpful? “Why there?”
“When I did the radio and weather check this morning before our visitors arrived, that’s where Wally reckoned he was going to be moored tonight, off the southern shore of Darcy Island.”
“Where’s this Darcy Island?
“It’s nor’ nor’ east of Deception Bay, around forty klicks. With luck we’ll hit there before dawn.”
It sounded as good a plan as any and better than walking. There was a certain, lets us call it ‘desirability’, as well in seeing Wally’s girlfriends again and indulging in Marinara and Matsos. Then Peter tried to work through the practicalities. Fiona, when cruising, relied upon the GPS navigation system linked into something called an EPERB, plus the myriad computer screens that beeped or pinged. Here in the RIB they were a trifle lacking in those handy features and, as Lampie said earlier, the Kimberley coast was one long graveyard of unfortunate vessels. Peter felt like retracting his feet though he wasn’t any good at levitation. The reassurance of his safety vest suddenly wasn’t not when you considered the surrounding peril of the wine dark seas. Nervously he grasped for something from his nautical knowledge and a fragment of a Hornblower novel came to his rescue. “What about a sextant, you’ve got one haven’t you? Aren’t they essential for celestial navigation?”
“Yeah there’s one in my pack. Pretty useless for this, we’re travelling too fast to take the readings, do the calculations and mark them out on the chart.” That sort of sounded all nautical like but didn’t explain how they were actually going to arrive at the right spot.
“So what do we use?” He didn’t want to sound apprehensive – it wasn’t as if he was nervous, no, more like terrified!
“Don’t worry Pete I can check landmarks as we pass them.”
For a moment he was reassured. Then a number of factors engaged his attention, like it was the middle of the night and he couldn’t make out the shore any more than a black space where the stars weren’t. “What landmarks? It’s dark.”
Lampie gave a sigh and he presumed a shake of the head and possibly muttered some comment about Pommies, though he couldn’t be sure – that may have been the burbling of the outboard.
“That’s kinda true.” She tapped the fish finder sonar clipped in the cradle on her left. “However we’ve got this and apart from telling me where the fish are, it can also warn of the depth of water under the keel, so as we motor along I check where I think we are with the depth marking on the chart.”
You know when she put it like that, it felt so much better. “But how do we know we’re heading in the right direction?”
“Compass dummy. Failing that, celestial navigation.” Lampie waved her hand above her head. “That half moon’s a bit difficult to miss, don’t y’ think.”
Peter relaxed. It looked like they were going to get away, and without being chased by heavily armed assistants. He leant against the luggage and, well, enjoyed the trip, until Lampie spoilt his repose by kicking him. “Hey Pete give me a hand here!”
Grumbling complaints about draconian sea captains, he shifted in next to her at the stern. Lampie tapped her famous finder apparatus with a couple of finger. “Keep your eyes glued to this screen. If you see any large blips, let me know fast and if they start moving, let me know faster.”
He hunched up to keep the water spray off his neck and peered at the dimly glowing screen, confused. “Yes but why? If they are moving, would that be schools of fish or something?”
“Nah, around here it’s likely to be whales.”
Why was it these Aussies had lost the art of speaking in plain English? Weren’t they supposed to be worried about reef, rock shoals and that kind of nautical hazard? “Why are we worried about whales? I thought they just ate little shrimp type creatures and not people, or are we in Orca country?”
Lampie replied with that studied patience you use on people too mentally challenged to qualify for the village idiot contest. “No Pete, you’re right. They don’t eat people, but if the boat runs into one, we’ll be just as dead.”
Oh well in that case whale watching acquired a new urgency. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen for the next hour.
“Ahh Lampie, how big is a whale?”
“Pete they vary in size. The small ones are five metres while adults are twelve to fifteen metres.”
“All right, and how many in a group?”
“Usually six to twenty in a pod, depends.”
“Oh okay, then we’ve one moving pod on our left and a stationary one on the right.”
Lampie pushed him to one side and peered at the small screen. “Pete, if they’re not moving it’s not a pod.”
He gave nod of clarification as Lampie pointed out the sounding blips “Its a reef! Hold on!”
Lampie swung the vessel in an arc he was sure neither nature nor designer ever intended and missed the first breaching whale by a few metres. The plume of spray drenched the boat like a waterfall as the vessel gyrated past another surfacing beastie. Then she swung up the outboard after giving it a leftwards twist. That was just as well since the right side of their boat made a load squealing sound as it rubbed against a non-breaching, non-moving object. Peter held on to the ropes running along the side of the vessel, praying nothing would hole or rupture it. A few metres later the squealing stopped and they bobbed up and down on the rippling waves, as the whales moved off.
Lampie spoke into the silence. “Sorry that wasn’t a reef, it was a wreck.”
Peter let out the breath he was holding. Any instant he’d expected to go splash and play with the frolicking whales and to think people actually paid to do this! “Anything else in this flipping place large enough to cause problems?”
“Well sometimes white pointer sharks try for the whale calf’s. It can get a little frantic or maybe a basking shark. Got a couple more wrecks but since we found this one I know where they are.”
“Oh flipping great. At least we’re not lost!” Despite his previous reservations Peter made sure his life jacket was safely secure.
“Yeah, it actually is quite lucky we were in the RIB and using mark one eyeball. This wreck isn’t listed properly in the GPS.”
“What! I thought you said that we couldn’t motor up here in Bast because we didn’t have any fancy electronic gizmos?”
“That’s kinda true. There have been a few problems with the GPS stuff, like forgetting that reef and wrecks occupy the space around the reference point. A couple of larger ships have heard the reef warning then promptly struck the reef.”
Peter refrained from making any further comments. He was very glad his nautical knowledge only extended to knowing when to down the packet of seasickness pills. This trip was scary enough without the details.
“Don’t worry Pete, only one more hour to Darcy Island.”
In spite of whales and reefs and circling sharks, Peter found himself drifting in a placid zone between waking and sleep, as the blazing stars of the Kimberleys night wheeled above him in ordered array, sparkling with their peculiar intensity. If it wasn’t for all the creatures trying to get him, this would be a magical place and he could almost grow to like it.
Chapter 28 Wally’s Repose
That bastard Wallace was smiling at him in that smugly superior way. Standing next to him was Sid with the journal open and his finger tracing out the Latin text. Well that was odd since he knew Sid couldn’t read Latin. Then Sid turned to Wallace and whispered in his ear, the antiquities dealer gave a broad satisfied grin and beckoned over his shoulder and dozens of armed ‘assistants’ surged forward. The sound of them loading up was like the clatter of a thousand crickets and Peter knew he had to get away. He turned to run and found he was thigh deep in a mangrove swamp and cool yellow eyes blinked at him from the shadowed edges of the water. Oh flipping hell, not more crocodiles as well as gun toting goons! He was beginning to really hate the Kimberleys
. Peter tried to wade out of the mud and the jaws opened as the saltie lunged at him and he threw himself to the side.
…And landed on the deck with a thump. It took a moment of despair and confusion to realise he was wrestling with tangled sheets, not the toothed monster of the mangroves. Peter dropped his head onto the cool deck, closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. Oh God, he hated those kind of dreams where you got mired in the endless pursuit by dreaded foes all trying to incinerate, bludgeon or otherwise make your life a deeply unpleasant experience. Why couldn’t it have been something more interesting, maybe even containing a heavily erotic subconscious overtone, completely lacking in socially redeeming features like Bonded Slave Girls of Gor. Those were pretty damn good to wake up to, even if a trifle invigorating. But no, he had to have one packed full of bloody great fanged crocodiles and menacing minions. If there was a way to lodge a complaint with the subconscious, he would. He’d had enough of the menacing threat in real life. He didn’t need graphic, full colour replays in his sleep. That was supposed to be fluffy bunny time, the ones in pink furry bikinis with luscious curves!
Peter gave a last despairing groan and struggled out of the sheets. Then it struck. Reality hit home – sheets! Bunk! Oh thank God and all his saints – he was somewhere civilised! The events of last night came back in a rush, the dreadful dinner, the threat with the rifle, the sabotage, and the flight in the night, the whales! Oh yes and finally getting to Wally’s barge. That last part was the best for that meant fresh coffee and other homey treats completely free from scaly interruptions. Peter struggled into a shirt and staggered out toward the tantalising aroma – that hint of dark spiciness along with the tongue drooling smell of grilling bacon.
“Hey Pete good to see yah. Pull up a pew and have a cuppa!”
He didn’t need a second invitation. Wally was working away at the stove, doing the grilling bacon thing and splashing on a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. Peter tried to keep the salivating down to acceptable level. It felt like days since he’d eaten, then memories of the nouvelle cuisine dinner on the cruiser oozed back into the forebrain. Oh flipping hell it had been days! Nodding with grateful appreciation, he accepted the plate shoved towards him and dug in. Wally pulled up a stool and joined him, waving his hand towards the freshly brewed coffee that was issuing steaming tendrils on the bench. “So I hear from Lampie y’ve been havin’ some trouble with Sid and his new mate, not that we’re surprised. He’s always struck me as bit of a weasel.”
Peter tried a couple of different manoeuvres at the same time pouring a cup of coffee, agreeing with Wally and taking another bite of eggs and bacon. Most of them were successful. The talking part wasn’t and Wally leant back laughing as Peter balanced his slipping mug while trying not to splutter.
“Eat up mate. Questions’ll wait till Lampie comes in with Sarina.”
Thankfully he fell to devouring breakfast as Wally puttered around the kitchen. Eventually he had to admit that he was full and pushed the near empty plate away, while draining the last of the reviving black brew.
“Wally, when do you think they will be back?”
His host shook his head smiling. “Mate, it could be an hour or more. They’ve all gone for a swim.”
Peter’s imagination was suddenly filled with the glorious vision of Lampie, May Ling and Sarina, frolicking amongst the waves in tight clinging swimsuits. It was the stuff of dreams. However, no matter how attractive a daydream that conjured, he needed to get his mind above the belt line. Desperate research needed to be done as soon as possible, without alluring distractions! A quick request to Wally got him the location of a satellite USB port in the cabin his host used as a study. Great, time to get to work. As he unpacked the laptop from Freddie, he had a quick scan of Wally’s den. The retired TAFE teacher certainly took his Aboriginal and Bradshaw interest seriously. The small cabins shelves where packed with books bearing titles like Indigenous Languages of Western Australia and The First Peoples Project. Peter had no doubt that if Wally had been present the other day, Sid’s difficulties with the two Land Council representatives would have been smoothed over, that is of course if you could trust Sid not to stuff it up. Considering recent events, that was a bit much to ask.
Hurrah! The laptop still worked and gained a connection via the barge’s satellite link. Wally had warned him to stay off the graphics heavy sites, since download out here could cost as much as sixty dollars a meg and the speed was more like dial up rather than ADSL. So what was essential? What did they need to find out? He had suspicions a plenty, but very few facts so it was time to scan the internet foot print of one Mr Wallace, ‘antiquities dealer’ and rescuer.
As it transpired, he had just longer than an hour and found enough hints and clues to give him white hairs. The worst one, the really, really worst one, came from of all places, the Skaze University website. It was a press release thanking Mr Abernathy Wallace, University council member, for his effort on the recent fundraising committee. Under his direction it had secured a substantial number of donations. Just to ram home the connection he found the usual press shot of a smiling Vice Chancellor Adams (obligatory young girl in tow) shaking the hand of his good friend, Mr Abernathy Wallace. That kind of discovery was enough to turn any man’s blood to ice. Peter felt a lot cooler that a Kimberley winter. Two more media releases made favourable comments on Mr Wallace’s recent chairing of the Faculty of Commerce Operations Review Committee. So that explained the presence of the Namatjira painting. Peter could just see it now, a quiet chat over a chilled Barossa white;
“Gerald, you know I’m chairing this review committee.”
The Dean gives a smile and a nod while topping up Wallace’s chardonnay.
“Well, you see Gerald I’ve come a cross a couple of problems.”
“Oh really Abernathy. I’m sure there’s nothing serious. In any spreadsheet there’s always the odd calculation gone awry.”
Wallace can be seen sipping from his glass and giving a very pensive frown. “Sorry Gerald, it’s a bit more difficult this time. A couple of the committee members fail to understand why you have over twenty percent of your annual budget listed as non specified expenditure. The AQUA report is coming up and they’re getting twitchy about signing off.”
The Dean nervously wipes a suddenly damp brow. “Look Abernathy, we could have a few more barbeques at my place and lay on the escorts and the entertainment.”
Wallace places his glass on the coffee table and sadly shakes his head. “Sorry Gerald. As delightful as those soirees are, it’s more serious that a couple of canapés, and a Moet Chandon.”
At that, the Dean begins to panic, no doubt remembering all those little extras discretely hidden in the non specified paperwork. “Come on Abernathy. We’ve been mates for years surely we can fix this difficulty?”
Wallace runs a manicured finger along his goatee in speculation. “Well Gerald, now I think on it, there could be something you could do to help out. I have heard that you recently came into possession of a very nice Australian landscape. I would very much appreciate the chance to display it, on your behalf of course.”
A moment of panic flashes across the face of the Dean as he deciphers the request. Bloody hell, paintings like that don’t come up every day or every year!
His good friend Abernathy notices the hesitation and adds as gentle clarification to ease business along. “You know Gerald, six hundred thousand is very large amount to list as a blank. It is going to take an awful lot of convincing.”
The Dean does a rapid mental review of the unspecified list. ‘Goldfinger Escort Services’ and ‘Stallions Stables’ could be awkward to justify to an unfriendly eye, as could the case of Grange Hermitage for the senior lecturers’ dinner and those were only a few of the most memorable. A gentlemanly hand shake later and all the difficulties are resolved and they move onto the next item on the agenda.
If you think that was an unfair interpretation, just try and penetrate the opaqueness of a faculty bal
ance sheet. Peter had, too many times. That imagined scene screamed sincerity.
Well that bit of news was very disturbing. Mr Wallace had the strongest of links with his current place of engagement and during the dinner, that connection hadn’t surfaced at all, not a hint. This placed a huge obstacle in the path of his arrangement with Lampie. What would she think of him if this little gem came out? Well nothing good about Peter Wilks, that’s for sure! She might even suspect him of setting up the whole affair with Wallace. He saved that piece of information on the laptop for later and packed it up. He had more than enough to get a grip on what Wallace was after.
By the time Peter had returned to the barges’ galley, the rest of Wally’s, ahh family, had gathered around Lampie, who appeared to be regaling them with his romp with the crocodile. Oh flipping hell, that came after the scorpions and the snakes. Perhaps it would be better for his pride if he turned around and walked off.
Wally’s voice interrupted his hesitation. “Pete, we’ve just been hearin’ about your adventures. Come on in and grab a seat!”
Well since his reputation was completely ruined there seemed little choice. Peter pulled out the memory stick and plugged it into the terminal by the plasma screen. May as well do this properly. With the plasma remote in his hand, he swung to face his currently chuckling audience. This was worse that standing up for ‘show and tell’ in fifth grade. Nervously he coughed and cleared his throat then launched into it. “As Lampie has probably told you, we’ve had to do a ‘runner’ due to threat and sabotage.”
Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery) Page 36