by Ian Edward
And in this particular instance, worrying him.
The girlfriends he’d had in the past hadn’t loomed so large in his life. He believed, as he’d revealed once to Brian Markham, that he had a fear of getting into a serious relationship. Instinctively he felt this was because his parents’ marriage had fallen apart after his sister’s death. He’d allowed past relationships to drift away.
It was the opposite with Kate.
He’d come to know her well enough to be sure she would’ve been in contact.
He showered and left early for his drive to Brisbane and the Task Force meeting. A radio talk show couldn’t distract him from wondering about Kate.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Kate tramped at high speed across the rough, wet terrain at Walter’s heels. The wilderness dawn was as magical as it had been the day before. The grasses, ferns, marshes, water, birds and stunning natural colours came to life around her; a complex cosmic plan beyond human comprehension but possessed of the most natural beauty and energy.
She understood the anger Walter had felt toward the hunters even before Greg’s murder – anger at the perverse invasion of this virgin country; anger toward the men whose evil was an insult to the sanctity of these lands. Out here, divorced from the structures, technology and history of civilisation, the earth seemed to make more sense to Kate than it ever had before.
This was what Greg must have loved about the wilderness.
All of a sudden Walter came to a stop. He stood deathly still for a moment, listening.
‘We’re being followed, Kate. And they’re close.’
‘But how? How could they be close?’
‘Those fellas been moving much more quickly than I could have guessed. Somehow they made up ground during the night.’
Kate was breathing hard. She’d been hoping for a rest. ‘God no…’
‘We need to go faster.’ Walter slipped his backpack from his shoulders and motioned for Kate to do the same. ‘We can run faster if we’re carrying less weight.’
‘Walter, I can’t…the Landscan III…’
He gripped her shoulders. ‘Forget that for now, Kate. Our lives are going to depend on how fast we move.’
Reluctantly, she allowed him to assist her in shedding the backpack that contained the unit. ‘We’ll bury it in the bushes,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll get a chance, some other time, to come back and find it.’
‘We’d never find it-’
‘That’s a chance we have to take.’
It wasn’t long after, as they hurtled through the undergrowth, that Kate became aware of the loud, close, crashing sounds from behind. Closer and closer. She was lagging behind, the distance between her and Walter getting wider, and she cried out to him. Walter simply called back to her to run faster.
Her face and hands were cut from the sharp blades of the bushes. Each time she slipped or stumbled she bruised her knees and the palms of her hands, but she kept forcing herself forward. Her legs were like lead and she was drenched in sweat. It trickled into her eyes, blurring her vision, and the vines and branches and shafts of sunlight mixed together, disorientating her.
The thump! thump! thump! of her heartbeat was like a drum.
Rough hands encircled her ankles with the sudden impact of a tackle and sent her crashing forward face first into the ground.
She tasted blood in her mouth and then the blows began. Fists and feet rained down on her. The pain was sharp and agonising. Nevertheless she tried to struggle to her feet. Several blunt slaps to the face and the side of the head left her semi-conscious, her eye blackened and blood spurting from her nose. She was vaguely aware, through hazy sight and intense pain, of being manhandled to her feet and then half pushed, half dragged back across the wetlands. The men’s voices rang in her ears – loud, gruff, mostly unintelligible, but she did recognise the louder and stronger of the voices bellow: ‘Don’t let that tracker get away again!’
That was her last thing she heard before she blacked out.
She woke with a start, the pain now a roaring ache. Invisible knives stabbed at her temples. Her mouth was drier than she’d have ever thought possible.
Her vision came into focus and she registered the scene: the river rushing by and the small group of men on the bank, leering at her with harsh, weather-beaten faces. Nothing seemed real… There were four of them, but it was the one she assumed to be their leader who made an immediate visual impact. He was a large, barrel-chested man with thick, dark hair and an unshaven face. Outback grunge? He might have come across, at another time, like a cuddly bear of an uncle, a farmer perhaps, if it wasn’t for the messianic stare, or his sneer.
One of the other men was bopping about in front of her. Some of the men were talking but none of the sounds around her were making any sense. Aware that she was vertical she tried to pull her arms toward her but she couldn’t move. She strained harder, whipping her head about and seeing that she’d been spread-eagled, with both arms and the calves of both legs bound tight to the trunks of trees. The river water lapped at the sandy bank and her struggle brought laughter from the men. The full horror of her situation exploded in her mind like a drug-induced nightmare – eerie, improbable, but real.
This is happening to me…
She screamed out: ‘No, please no…’ but there was simply louder laughter, as though a joke had been told. Kate realised they were all drinking beer. Apparently these animals, having dragged her to this spot and having strung her like the squealing pig to the trees that fronted the river, were taking a break, chatting and boozing while they waited for her to regain consciousness.
The small man, who’d been bopping about around her, lunged forward and tore her shirt open. His face filled her view and she saw that his head was shaved and that he had narrow, squinty features. He was nothing more than a petty street thug, transplanted from some seedy urban hangout to the wilderness of the Marrakai swamps. Another man of nondescript appearance, his breath foul from too much alcohol, joined Headshave and they each took hold of one of her breasts, laughing all the while as they squeezed and roughly kneaded her soft white flesh. One of them rolled her right nipple between his thumb and forefinger and then pinched with all his strength. Kate screamed and the man’s cruel jibe, ‘Squeal, bitch!’ rang in her ears.
Suddenly the men pulled back as the bearded leader came forward, saying ‘Enough. Plenty of time for that in the whorehouses in Alice.’ Kate saw that he held a radiophone to his ear. ‘No more time for mucking around here. According to the control room there’s company out in the water, coming in. Let’s move.’
‘What about the tracker?’ Headshave asked.
‘Montague and Stetham lost him,’ the leader said, ‘and they’re back on the boat now. We don’t know what reinforcements the tracker has already contacted. There could be air and river craft here before we know it, so we take off now.’
Kate watched helplessly as this self-styled riverboat captain and his three huntsmen pushed off in two runabouts and rowed to the multi-decked cruiser out on the river. She didn’t scream out for mercy; she knew that would be pointless. She didn’t cry out for help – she knew there could be no help, not here, not now, and Walter was far away.
But she did whimper and groan as the sweat ran into her eyes, stinging them, and the ropes bit like teeth into her wrists and her calves. She saw the heads of not one or two but three crocodiles gliding rapidly toward her, eyes glinting.
When he realised Kate was no longer behind him but two of their pursuers were, smashing their way through the foliage at high speed, Walter began to run with complete abandon: he knew that his best bet was to lose these men, then sneak back in his search for Kate. He knew he could outdistance these men, any men, and he sprinted like a human tornado across the landscape of bulging ferns, water holes and rocky outcrops.
Twenty minutes later he stopped and, crouching low to the ground, listened. Several minutes later he was certain the men had given up on the chase. They cou
ldn’t take the chance of becoming hopelessly lost out here. Walter would now head directly northwest in an ever-circular movement that would ultimately return him to the riverbank, but from a different, and he hoped safer, approach.
He began sprinting again. In his heart though, he suspected the worst. Just as it had been with Greg, Walter feared he would find Kate too late. History was repeating itself and he cursed himself for allowing it to happen. He should never have been persuaded by the wily Kate to attempt this…this madness. He should have closed his ears, his eyes, and his heart to Kate’s emotional plea.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
Erickson stood on the bow of the retreating boat, binoculars trained on the shore. He would’ve preferred to stay and watch the gruesome spectacle from close range but that would mean exposing the murderous act to the newer, younger members of his crew. It wasn’t the right time for that, not until they’d been with him longer. And he needed to move the craft further upriver in case the Aboriginal tracker had alerted others.
The fewer who knew about the killings the better. Sanders, Azzopardi and Tannen, who’d helped him catch and bind the woman to the trees, were okay. They’d been with him a long time and he knew the darkness in their hearts matched his own. The other three, all petty criminals, were still unknowns when it came to something like this.
He was being paid well to do a job he loved. He didn’t want anything stuffing it up. Florida had been a lesson to them all.
He leaned forward, straining for a better view, but the curve of the river meant he could no longer see her. He cursed under his breath. He’d enjoyed a full view of the man’s death just the week before, and he’d hoped for the same today.
Erickson went down into the control cabin where his electronics guy, Colville, was hunched over the console.
‘Seems to be a flurry of movement towards the shore,’ Colville said, ‘what do you think is attracting the crocs? Another pig?’
‘Never mind,’ said Erickson. ‘We’re heading north now, pronto. Concentrate on the area ahead.’ He didn’t want Colville to know about the woman they’d left for the crocs.
‘You’re the boss.’
Erickson lingered beside the console, watching the blips on the sonar screen, scratching at his beard. There were three blips representing the reptiles, cruising quickly to the feeding area. The first there would be the lucky one, and Erickson imagined the strong jaws and sharp, ragged teeth clamping down around the pliant female flesh. The thought, as usual, caused a rush of excitement – intellectually, emotionally and sexually. But his imagination was no match for being there in person.
He switched his attention to the radar screen, positioned alongside the sonar. ‘Still clear?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Colville assured him. ‘Those two must’ve been alone. No signs of back-up.’
‘Keep watching.’
These Northern Territory assignments had been a dream for Erickson. Over twenty years before, he’d hunted the crocs along these waterways, with just a shotgun and a two-man dinghy, in the company of his father. Those had been times of great adventure. He could not have dreamed then that a little over two decades later he’d be paid huge money to command a specially designed river cruiser as he hunted the crocs with an array of sophisticated high-tech gear.
He and his crew had high-powered infra-red binoculars. Regular scans of the surrounding swamps enabled them to detect foot searchers who came too close. Sonic sensors alerted them when vehicles came into the region. Together with the radar and the sonar, they were able to detect any boats, planes or road vehicles within a radius of 200 kilometres. Knowing such movements meant Erickson could plot an evasive course, and the painted canopy could be hoisted as camouflage. It was the kind of operation you would expect from wartime soldiers in jungle terrain, and that fact appealed to Erickson’s mercenary side.
The sonar enabled them to pilot the craft with precision, steering clear of shallows. The sonar’s transducer was mounted to the boat’s hull. It emitted a narrow, rapidly rotating beam of high frequency that detected underwater objects when the beam bounced off them. It meant Erickson and his team could determine the movements of the crocodiles, follow them, and capture them.
The boat’s deck contained the mesh-covered pool where the crocs were kept in a drugged state. He looked out on the pool now. They needed just one more, which they’d capture in the next couple of days, then this particular run would be over.
He would’ve loved to stay out here another week. Ever since his childhood the Wildlife Preservation rangers – or their earlier counterparts – had been a thorn in his side. Feeding a couple of them to the crocs had been great sport. Perhaps, Erickson thought, if they caught the tracker, he would have one last chance to satisfy his blood lust.
No matter how hard he tried, Walter couldn’t stop the image of Greg being torn apart. The faster he ran the clearer the image seemed to become, distracting him, haunting him.
He stopped and looked about, disorientated. What was happening to him? He never became confused in the wilderness. But he was confused. He reckoned he should have been back at the river by now. He didn’t seem close.
Walter’s heart sank. There was no chance of finding his way back before Kate met the fate the hunters planned for her.
The first of the reptiles broke the water just metres along the muddy bank, and began its slither toward her. Kate wanted to close her eyes, to mentally remove herself from the inevitable. To pray. But she was so frozen with fear that even her eyelids wouldn’t obey a simple command; her eyes remained wide open and fixed in sheer terror on the advancing creature.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Barbara remembered when another family invited Joey to join them for a spot of fishing. They’d gone somewhere along the Northern Rocks river that flowed past the town, and Joey loved it. ‘What if you took Joey with you when you go fishing, just the two of you. Perhaps you could do some of that…male bonding.’
‘It’s a great idea.’ Costas knew the only trouble would be getting Joey to do anything at all with him, but he didn’t voice the obvious concern. He hoped his eyes hadn’t betrayed his thoughts. He knew only too well how intuitive a woman Barbara was.
He’d approached Joey with some trepidation. To his surprise Joey had agreed without resistance. They’d organised a very early morning trip.
It was the perfect morning. No wind, and the river ran with an easy, natural flow. Costas was relieved to find the boy in a reasonable mood. But then he knew how quickly that could change.
They had fun setting up and caught the first fish quickly. Then came a long period of sitting and waiting. Costas tried to make small talk but Joey’s brief replies kept it at that: small talk. After a while, Joey said: ‘My father hates me. Did you know that?’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t hate you, Joey. What makes you say that?’
‘He never showed any interest having custody of me. We’re supposed to spend every second weekend together but he hardly ever does. He’s too busy.’
‘That doesn’t mean he hates you.’
‘He might as well.’
Costas was aware of the need to choose his words carefully. ‘You know, adults are far from perfect. It’s not uncommon for adults to get so busy with their work that they overlook the truly important things. And sooner or later they always regret it deeply.’
‘I don’t care whether he ever regrets it or not. I don’t need a father. I’ve proved that.’
Costas didn’t reply. He didn’t want to upset the boy further. He looked out on the river, focused on the fishing line, and hoped the boy’s mood would soon change back again.
The coach came to a stop and Daniel, backpack slung over his shoulder, stepped down onto the pavement and looked around. Northern Rocks was a picturesque town. An appealing spread of shops and homes and plazas with several taller buildings looming over the northern sector. A bridge spanned the river to the east. Trees lined the streets. Daniel couldn’t see the beachfron
t from this point but he could smell the salt of the sea on the air and he could hear the occasional break of a wave in the distance.
Why had the girl with the face he’d recognised been here? Why had she drowned? Was he right in thinking his journey here would lead him to Elizabeth?
He didn’t notice the white van with the tinted windows that stood motionless on the other side of the street. He couldn’t have suspected it had been there since the previous night, its occupants awaiting the arrival of the Greyhound bus.
They were watching him.
Daniel was watching a young boy skipping along with his father, the two of them playfully jostling each other as they went. The boy loved every minute of it, laughing with joy. This boy was a similar age to Daniel when he’d jumped into the well and when, later on, he’d been locked for a week in the Darkness.
Daniel felt a pang of grief for something he’d never known. What was it like to have a real family, a real father?
The van pulled out from the curb and turned in an arc so it was on the same side of the road as Daniel. As it cruised into place beside him, the side panel door slid open and two men stepped briskly from the vehicle, taking hold of Daniel from behind. Before he could react they’d bundled him into the van and the door slid shut with a thud as the vehicle sped off.
Robert Hamilton considered himself a fit and healthy fifty-year old. He and his business partner had built a successful removal and odd job business, servicing Northern Rocks and the surrounding towns. At 8.35 that morning Hamilton and partner Paul Garrick lifted a large sheet of glass from the back of their truck and were about to shift it just a few metres to a shop front.