The Wizard stopped in front of the cell door and began pounding his fist against the steel. When the sleepy guard opened the peephole a few minutes later to find out what the fracas was all about, the Wizard was lying on the floor. Pressing his hands against his stomach, he was complaining about abdominal pain and passing blood. He demanded to be taken to hospital. Remembering a recent death in custody of an Aboriginal man which had caused a huge fuss, the guard called an ambulance.
The young radiographer on duty at the hospital was impressed by the Wizard’s physique. Intrigued by his tattoos, especially King Solomon’s Seal covering his back, she struck up a conversation.
‘Could I borrow your mobile, luv?’ asked the Wizard, as soon as his guard was out of earshot. ‘Just one call ...’
‘I’m not really supposed to,’ replied the radiographer, uncertain, but wavering.
‘You could just leave it over there for a moment. Go on ...’ suggested the Wizard undeterred, pointing to the X-ray machine. ‘And send him outside,’ he whispered conspiratorially, nodding towards the guard standing by the door. The Wizard knew that women, in particular, found it difficult to say no to him. Turning on the charm worked every time.
The disco in the church was in full swing. The transvestite operating the turntables was high, the music deafening, and the cigarette smoke as dense as the fog on a winter’s morning. Answer the bloody phone, mate, thought the Wizard, listening to the ring tone repeating itself with annoying monotony. Despite the loud music pumping all around him, the Undertaker was soundly asleep on the lounge. The bare-breasted girl sitting next to him took the empty vodka bottle out of his hand, reached into his shirt pocket and answered the phone.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ hissed the Wizard, frustration getting the better of him. ‘Where’s the Undertaker?’
‘Right here, asleep,’ replied the girl, giggling. ‘Pissed.’
‘Listen, luv. If you want to leave in the morning with both of your tits still attached, you better wake him. Now!’
Silence.
Closing his fist, the Wizard almost crushed the mobile. Alarmed, the radiographer shot him a disapproving look.
‘What’s up?’ grunted the Undertaker, barely able to speak. ‘Pull yourself together, mate, it’s me,’ said the Wizard.
Silence.
Two thousand kilometres away, the Undertaker sat up with a jolt. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know it was you,’ he said, massaging his aching neck and trying to concentrate.
‘Has Cassandra called?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said she was getting close. That’s all.’
‘Now, listen carefully: I want you to contact the White Wolf, do you understand?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Agree to whatever he asks. I want him here in Broome as soon as he can make it. You got that?’
‘Sure. But hasn’t he retired?’
‘Tell him, I’m calling in a favour ...’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m depending on you.’
‘You can.’
I hope so, for your sake, thought the Wizard and hung up.
For special jobs, the Wizard always brought in outsiders. The White Wolf – no one knew his real name – was a contract killer of a different kind. Supremely fit, in his late sixties, with a shock of white hair and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, he looked more like a mild-mannered grandfather than the ruthless assassin he was. Secretive, and pedantically selective about the assignments he took on, he only worked for people he knew, or who were recommended by people he could trust. As a master of disguise with a sixth sense for danger, he had eluded capture for more than forty years. His unorthodox methods – acquired during his early years in the KGB – were the envy of his rivals. Using mainly exotic poisons which had pathologists scratching their heads the world over, he left nothing behind to link him to his crimes. His fee was exorbitant – only a privileged few could afford him. He liked it that way. But he owed the Wizard a big favour.
A few years beforehand, the White Wolf had completed a tricky assignment in Melbourne, when something went terribly wrong. During his getaway, he had committed the cardinal sin: he had accidentally shot a policeman. Instead of heading for the airport, he went into hiding.
Usually, he would have been out of the country before the body turned cold. Through an associate, the Wizard heard of the White Wolf’s plight and decided to assist. That’s how important alliances are forged. The White Wolf needed somewhere to hide, a new face and a passport to go with it. The Wizard could provide all three. He brought in a plastic surgeon from Malaysia and set up an operating theatre at the Wizards’ compound. New papers were the easy bit. It was time to call in the debt.
55
Never Never Downs, 5 March, in the morning
Andrew was an early riser. He knew Muddenbudden was too, and that he would be expecting him. Unable to sleep with the storm raging outside, Andrew had gone over all the facts several times. His analytical mind, trained by years of police work, refused to accept the extraordinary conclusion emerging at the end of each exercise. However, his instincts told him that he was on the right track and that somehow, Muddenbudden was the missing link. Andrew found the bark painting in the library, wrapped it in a towel and hurried across to Muddenbudden’s cabin.
Built of rough-sawn timber in the 1890s, the cabin had only two rooms: a sitting room with a stone fireplace and a small bedroom on the side. A lean-to at the back contained the old kitchen which hadn’t been used in decades. Wrapped in a blanket, Muddenbudden sat with his eyes closed on a rocking chair facing the fireplace. For a while, Andrew stood in the doorway, unsure whether to stay or come back later.
‘Dreams are strange creatures, Andrew,’ began Muddenbudden, without opening his eyes. ‘After a while, it’s impossible to tell where the dream ends and reality begins. Come in and sit by me. I want to tell you about my dreams.’
The first thing Andrew noticed when he walked into the homestead kitchen some time later was the mouth-watering aroma of frying bacon and freshly baked bread. Seated around a long wooden table large enough for twenty, the four guests were enjoying their first cup of tea for the day. Two Aboriginal women, the homestead cooks, were preparing omelettes and pancakes by the stove. Set into the kitchen wall where the old fuel stove used to be, the cast iron stove radiated welcome warmth.
Margaret was pouring tea for her guests and Hamish was slicing bread on the chopping board. They all stopped talking when they saw Andrew’s face.
Cassandra recognised the expression at once: a deep elation bursting to be shared with others.
Without saying a word, Andrew walked over to the table and carefully placed the painting on a chair for all to see. ‘Jack, you told us yesterday that the painting was some kind of storyboard. You were right. That’s exactly what it is and I can now tell you a little more of the story,’ said Andrew, a smile lighting up his face. ‘You interpreted the first two panels for us: the family in front of the French chateau, and the strange spider’s web with the weird face in the middle.’ Andrew pointed to the centre panel.
‘However, the third panel here with all the rock art and the young woman with the short blonde hair holding a paintbrush is the really intriguing one – right? Well, I’ve just spoken to Muddenbudden ...’ Andrew paused, enjoying the moment.
‘Well? What did he have to say?’ asked Jack.
‘He spoke of a dream.’
‘A dream?’ said Will. ‘And this is going to help us?’
Andrew held up his hand. ‘To begin with, you should know that Muddenbudden is Sister Dolores’s older brother, which makes him Mungo’s uncle. A very important relationship in a Bunuba family, especially this one. Muddenbudden and Mungo were very close, just like Mungo and Pigeon were very close. What I’m about to tell you is all about trust and the power of dreams. Two years or so ago, Mungo asked his uncle for advice in a very delicate matter regarding his nephew, Pig
eon. Normally, Muddenbudden wouldn’t even have revealed that much – it would have been a breach of sacred trust. Anyway, that brings me to the dream ...’ Andrew paused again, collecting his thoughts.
‘Muddenbudden claims that since Mungo died, he keeps having the same dream over and over. Cassandra, you would understand the power of dreams better than most.’ Cassandra nodded. ‘In our culture, dreams are very important. I urge you to take what you’re about to hear very seriously. Muddenbudden believes that his ancestors are communicating with him through this dream, and I believe it’s all to do with Anna ...’ he added, lowering his voice.
‘Are you serious?’ interrupted Will again. ‘This is no longer rational, Andrew!’
Rebecca placed her hand on Will’s arm and turned to face him. ‘Please, Will, let’s hear what Andrew has to say. Okay?’ she said.
‘She’s right, mate,’ said Jack, making eye contact with his friend. ‘Especially in light of what the countess said last night,’ he added quietly.
‘You spoke to her? What did she say?’ asked Andrew.
‘I rang her and asked her about the signature on the painting ... Lucrezia,’ said Jack.
‘Well?’
‘All of Anna’s paintings are signed Lucrezia – an assumed name – a quirky whim of a budding young artist. Kind of a nom de plume of the paintbrush.’
For a while no one spoke as the implications of what Jack had just said began to sink in.
‘Then – this is Anna’s painting,’ said Will, stating the obvious.
‘Yes, and that fits perfectly with what Muddenbudden told me,’ said Andrew. ‘It explains how this painting ended up here. It offers a rational explanation for what otherwise would be no more than a baffling puzzle, leading to a dead end.’
‘You were going to tell us about the dream,’ said Cassandra quietly.
‘In Muddenbudden’s dream, the spirit of Jandamarra – one of his ancestors – appears. The spirit is floating through a cave, its walls and ceiling covered in spectacular rock art. The spirit is not alone. In the shadows behind him stand Mungo and Pigeon, looking pleadingly at Muddenbudden.’ Andrew closed his eyes and stood perfectly still, his heaving chest the only sign of life. ‘And now comes the interesting bit,’ he continued after a while. ‘In front of the spirit stands a young woman. Her skin is white, her short hair blonde.’
Andrew opened his eyes and looked at the bark painting on the chair in front of him. ‘She holds a paintbrush in her right hand and is looking up at the ceiling which is covered in Dreamtime paintings. Just like the young woman right here in the picture.’
‘It’s weird, but in a strange way ...’ interrupted Jack, shaking his head.
‘Did the spirit speak to Muddenbudden?’ asked Cassandra,
‘Apparently he did, but Muddenbudden wouldn’t reveal what it was about, except to say that he’d been expecting us.’
‘Expecting us?’ asked Rebecca. ‘Amazing ...’
Suddenly, everyone was speaking at once, asking questions, speculating, making comments, the excitement in the room rising to fever pitch.
Andrew held up his hand. ‘Not all at the same time, please,’ he said. ‘As you can imagine, I asked Muddenbudden the very same question. I even pressed him about the sensitive matter Mungo had raised with him two years ago. Unfortunately, he was very tight-lipped about it all, except for this.’ By now everyone had calmed down again and was hanging on Andrew’s every word. ‘He told me that it all had to do with the young woman in the picture ...’
‘Anna’s right here, somewhere in this wilderness,’ said Cassandra calmly, ‘and Muddenbudden is guiding us to her.’
‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ Andrew agreed. ‘However, he also said that he was expecting one more person before he could tell us more ...’
‘Did he say who that person was?’ asked Jack.
‘Not exactly, but he did say that we would find out – soon.’
‘That’s truly astonishing,’ said Jack, shaking his head. ‘How could he possibly know? There is someone ...’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Will.
‘When I spoke to the countess last night about the painting and the signature, and what it meant ...’
‘Yes?’
‘She said she’d get on the next plane to Australia and meet us in Broome ... I couldn’t talk her out of it. She’s probably on her way right now.’
‘But we’re trapped here. Just look outside ...’ said Will.
‘Up here, the weather can change,’ said Andrew. ‘Very quickly. I’ve seen it happen many times. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.’
56
Muddenbudden’s cabin, Never Never Downs, 6 March, 7 a.m.
Sitting motionless in his chair, his eyes closed, Muddenbudden was listening to the wind howling outside. To him, it sounded like the voices of a thousand tortured souls screaming for forgiveness. Cyclone Leopold was slowly moving east. Bolts of lightning criss-crossed the sky like angry snakes attacking the first light of the morning as it tried to break through the clouds. Turning dry creek beds into treacherous rivers, and rivers into raging torrents, the fury of the storm made the ground shake and the ancient boab trees tremble. Life was hiding. Seeking shelter wherever it could – in crevasses, under rocks, or deep down in the ground – it was waiting for the tempest to pass. Staying out in the open would have been risking death.
An old man staggered towards Muddenbudden’s cabin. He almost made it, but slipped and fell into the mud before he could reach the door.
Mustering the last of his remaining strength, he crawled up the porch and pushed the door open. Sensing that someone was there, Muddenbudden opened his sightless eyes and turned his head towards the door.
‘Who is this?’ he asked. A spirit? he thought, fear clawing at his stomach.
‘It’s me, brother, help me.’
‘Wake up,’ said Andrew, shaking Jack by the shoulder.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Jack sleepily, rubbing his eyes.
‘Someone just walked into Muddenbudden’s cabin with an extraordinary story.’
‘In this weather?’
‘Yes. You’ve got to hear this.’
The old Aboriginal man, feeling better after a bowl of hot soup and some tea, was resting on Muddenbudden’s bed. He had left the remote cave shelter near the Drysdale River the day before to get help, but had to make many detours through rugged terrain because the creeks had risen at an alarming rate, making them impossible to cross. His luck finally ran run out 30 kilometres from Never Never Downs.
As he tried to ford a creek that had turned into a river, his old Toyota got bogged down in the torrent before he could make it across. A tree branch floating down the river helped him make it safely to the other side. Exhausted, and without a vehicle or provisions, he started walking towards Never Never Downs. Fortunately, he knew the country well and covered the 30 kilometres in the dark by following familiar landmarks. Only someone with intimate knowledge of the land and the experience of a lifetime spent in the bush could have accomplished such a feat.
Jack looked at the sleeping old man covered in blankets up to his chin.
‘Come, sit with me,’ said Muddenbudden to Jack. ‘This is my half brother, Merriwarra. There’s no need to wake him. The time has come for me to tell you the rest of the story of the young woman in the painting ... Events have overtaken us.’
‘The person you’re expecting is the young woman’s mother, isn’t it?’ asked Andrew. ‘She arrived in Darwin this morning – I just spoke to her. As soon as the weather clears we’ll bring her here.’
Muddenbudden was not surprised. ‘Yes, it’s all coming together, just as the spirit ...’ he replied, not completing the sentence.
Jack bit his lip, excitement tingling down his spine as reason and intuition fought to gain the upper hand.
‘Three years ago,’ continued Muddenbudden, speaking softly, ‘Pigeon came to me for advice regarding a matter so serious that I had to give hi
m my word not to tell anyone about it. The only reason I’m talking to you now is because much has changed: Pigeon is dead and so is Mungo. But much still has to be done – urgently. And then there’s the dream ... I’ll tell you about that later. The matter Pigeon came to see me about concerned a young woman, a Malngadu, a white woman ...’
Muddenbudden paused and closed his eyes. Jack leant forward to hear better and Andrew held his breath.
‘Pigeon confided in me,’ continued Muddenbudden, his voice barely audible. ‘He told me that the young woman had been subjected to great suffering, for which he was somehow responsible. He also told me that she had lost her mind and needed protection. He pleaded with me to find a way to let her stay with our people. At first I was opposed to the idea. It sounded crazy. But then I met her and that changed everything ... Pigeon had brought her with him, you see.’
Muddenbudden paused again and sat in silence. In his mind’s eye, he was revisiting his first encounter with the strange young white woman.
‘Where was that?’ asked Jack after a while, breaking the silence. ‘Right here, in this room,’ replied Muddenbudden without opening his eyes.
‘How did that change everything?’ asked Andrew.
‘It’s difficult to explain. There was something special about her. She was so childlike, so different, so trusting. And so vulnerable,’ he added. ‘However, she seemed to trust Pigeon completely. No, more than that, she depended on him. In every way – just like a child. She reminded me of someone possessed by spirits, floating through life, with one foot in this world, the other in the next. From time to time, we had people like that in our family. After meeting her, I knew I had to help.’
The Disappearance of Anna Popov: A supernatural suspense thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 2) Page 25