Dark Country (Dungirri)

by Parry, Bronwyn

  He couldn’t risk taking his eyes off the men. He heard the bike start, the engine rev. And he heard engine sounds alter as it started to move. He waited a second or two, then lifted his thumb from the phone.

  They didn’t give him any more time. They rushed him, tackled him to the ground, shoving his face into the sand. He tried to twist away, but a boot slammed into his gut. Pain screamed through his body, his head and, somewhere in the middle of it, he heard a shot, then another. They dragged his arms behind him, cuffed them and hauled him upright. Panic giving him strength, he fought them, needing to turn, to see down the road.

  ‘Let him look,’ Sergio ordered. ‘It will give him plenty to think about, while we wait for my cousin to join us.’

  The bike lay on its side on the road, Megan and Deb sprawled nearby – silent, still heaps on the blood-reddened sand.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Despite Gil’s calm, almost casual, voice when he’d set up the meeting, Kris’s uneasiness kept building. He wouldn’t have set her up to go into danger without warning, but the sense that something was wrong couldn’t be ignored.

  According to the clock in the unmarked police vehicle, she crossed the creek at twenty past ten. She’d shifted into four-wheel drive earlier, the deep, sandy ridges on the road a hazard. She glanced again at the dark clouds gathering on the western horizon, their ominous colour a vivid contrast to the rest of the blue sky and the sunshine, gold on the dry paddocks. The forecast storms were on their way; with luck, she’d be off this road before it turned into a quagmire.

  Four kilometres past the creek, she started looking out for Gil and his bike. When she saw a figure waving in the middle of the road, she thought for a moment that it was uncharacteristic of him. And then she saw it wasn’t him … Deb slumped to the ground as she stopped. Kris leapt from the car and ran to her, then saw the blood on her hands, on her shirt, and covering her lower leg.

  ‘Kris! Thank God it’s you,’ she gasped, gripping her calf. ‘Megan’s shot. In the back.’

  The unease solidified into outright fear, but Kris pushed it down, made herself focus on the here and now.

  ‘Is she alive? Where? How far?’

  ‘Just up the road. I was going for help, but shit, it hurts.’

  ‘You’ve done well, Deb. Let’s get you into the car.’

  Kris helped her to her feet, half-carried her to the car, and guided her onto the back seat.

  ‘Slide back if you can, and put your leg up on the seat. The higher it is, the better.’

  She found the first-aid box and pulled out dressings. She tore open packets, pressed a couple of dressings against Deb’s leg. ‘Press as firmly as you can, Deb, and hold it there. I’ll call for an ambulance as we go.’ Then she asked the question she dreaded hearing the answer to. ‘Do you know where Gil is?’

  ‘They took him. He exchanged himself for us. He tried to get us a chance to escape on the bike, but the bastards fired before we’d got far. Megan was hit, and then me, and I lost control of the bike. We went down. I told her to stay still. We didn’t move until the car drove off. It was a black Land Rover, but I couldn’t get the number.’

  Kris nodded, made her way back to the driver’s seat, thoughts racing, screaming between terror and anger, cursing Gil at the same time as she wanted to shake him and hold him and yell at him for making her so damned afraid she almost couldn’t cope.

  Her hand shook as she gripped the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition. But she managed to keep her voice clear and steady as she radioed in to report the shooting, and request paramedics.

  Eight hundred metres down the road, she found Megan … She was conscious, in pain from the wound in her side, and rapidly, Kris assessed, going into shock. She pushed back Megan’s top, quickly located the entry and exit wounds, an inch or two from the side, just above her waist, and desperately tried to remember what anatomical parts were where.

  ‘It hurts, Kris,’ Megan whispered.

  Kris took Megan’s cold fingers in hers, brushed her hair from her face with her other hand. ‘Sshh, Megan. Lie as still as you can. There’s an ambulance on its way. We’re not far from Birraga, so it won’t be long.’

  Fifteen minutes it took, before they arrived. Fifteen long, lonely minutes during which she did the little she could for Megan, questioned Deb some more and briefed her colleagues on the situation by radio, giving orders and forcing herself to think professionally and objectively, as though the man in the custody of the Russos was simply a citizen, and not the man her heart cried out for.

  She kept being a cop, doing what she had to do, holding the saline bag for Megan until the second ambulance arrived with more paramedics, supervising and liaising and thinking and planning while she did so, because letting herself fall apart would fail Gil and all the others she was responsible for.

  Deb had hung Gil’s jacket on a dead tree branch above in an effort to provide a small amount of shade for Megan, but after the ambulances finally departed, and while her colleagues were busy on the radio, Kris unhooked it from the branch, hugged it to her body, and tried to pretend that the warmth in it was Gil’s.

  Bound tightly at wrists and ankles, with a thick hood tied over his head, Gil lay on the floor of the vehicle, relaxing his body as much as the rough road allowed, and listening to everything the five men said. He didn’t give himself a whole lot of chances, but he intended to take any single one that presented itself, and the more he knew, the more prepared he’d be.

  He didn’t, couldn’t afford to, let his thoughts go to Deb and Megan. If he did, he’d lose his concentration, maybe miss his chance, and no way would that help them. If they were alive, Kris would find them. If not, he’d grieve for them after he killed Sergio Russo. Either way, he needed to be alive, and ready to act.

  The men didn’t talk much, but Sergio made a phone call to Tony, talking quickly in Italian. Gil guessed a word here and there, similar to English words, but the only one he really knew was ‘Dungirri’.

  They’d certainly been in the vehicle long enough to be getting close to Dungirri, although they’d stayed on dirt roads, not sealed ones, and taken many turns. Reality was, they could be anywhere within a seventy-k radius of Birraga.

  They stopped at last, after a long, bumpy track, and the men dragged him from the vehicle, laughing when he hit the ground. Ignoring the bruising, he took the chance to scrape his fingers over the cool ground, identified leaf litter rather than bare dirt, broad leaves as well as fine needles. He breathed in deeply and slowly, got faint scents through the cloth that might have been the native cypress, and the white and pink spring-flowering bush he’d never known the name of. All of which suggested somewhere in the bush, on the Dungirri side of the scrub.

  Two pairs of arms grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. Something firm pressed against his temple.

  ‘We’re going to free your feet, Gillespie, and you’re going to walk. Just remember I’ve got this Glock in my hand, and if you do anything stupid, I’ll use it. Your extremities first, I think, because my cousin does want you to be alive when he gets here.’

  They marched him across some flat, sandy ground, and into a building. A large shed, he thought, because of the way the voices echoed, and the swallows that shrieked around their heads.

  ‘There’s some narrow steps, now,’ one of the men said. ‘Don’t lose your footing, Gillespie.’

  He made it down the first couple of metal steps before they pushed him the rest of the way. He twisted, landing mostly on his side, his arm scraping on the cement floor. They jeered, of course, while his arm and shoulder throbbed with pain. He heard the clang of a metal door and as they kicked him and told him to get up, he realised where he was: walking into a buried shipping container, about twenty-five kilometres north of Dungirri.

  The emergency department at Birraga hospital buzzed with people working and speaking in low, urgent voices, against a constant background of electronic beeps.

  Kris sat on the hard chai
r by Deb’s bed, in an alcove at one end of the department. They’d given Deb painkillers, seen to her leg, and Kris kept her occupied by going over the details of the night for any more information she had about identities, locations, and the intentions of her captors. But Kris turned most of her concentration to the curtained bed at the other end of the area, listening for the lilting accent of the new emergency doctor, only recently arrived from India, or the Scottish brogue of Morag Cameron, the local general practitioner. Neither of them spoke loudly, though, and there were only snatches of information from the nurses and technicians who went in and out.

  When Morag finally emerged from behind the curtain, Kris sprang up and went to her.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s stable, but there’s still some internal bleeding,’ Morag explained, succinct as ever. ‘We’ll airlift her to Tamworth. They’ll have theatre teams ready. Can you inform her next of kin?’

  ‘Her father …’ Her mouth dry, she swallowed, made her voice normal. ‘He’s been abducted. I’ll have someone inform her grandparents.’

  She went outside, into the garden beside the building, where she could hardly hear the beeps and where the perfumed roses drowned the hospital smell. The storm clouds were overhead now; along with the scent of the roses, the air carried the scent of rain, not far away.

  Beth had stayed with the Russells overnight, so Kris dialled her mobile number, spoke with her briefly, glad she could rely on Beth to handle things at that end. She would find someone to drive the Russells to Tamworth if they were fit enough to go.

  Steve Fraser swung out of the ward block on the other side of the garden, and crossed over to her as she hung up.

  ‘I’ve just been speaking with Mark,’ he told her, after she’d given him the latest on Megan and Deb. ‘Gotta love a politician with a gift for faces, names and voices. We might have IDs on a couple of the men. I’ll follow up the leads now.’

  ‘Good.’ She nodded, although a voice inside her head argued that they needed to know where, not who. ‘I’ll go back to Dungirri. Half the town’s been working for Flanagan properties in one way or another, and I’m going to interrogate the lot of them if necessary.’ Especially Sean Barrett and the Dawson boys, she added to herself.

  ‘Okay. Keep in touch, let me know what you learn.’ He turned to go, then remembered something. ‘Petric and Macklin are on their way back. Seems Tony Russo left Sydney this morning, heading this way.’

  Desperate not to waste valuable time, she had one of the constables drive her back to Dungirri, using the forty minutes in the car to go over notes and maps and make phone calls, including one to Adam.

  ‘Get together as many people as you can at the hall, Adam. Tell them I’m giving an update. After the meeting, we’re going to have to find and interview Sean, and the Dawson boys, and Luke Sauer. Don’t say anything to alert them. I don’t want them disappearing.’

  Her phone bleeped during the call, and when she retrieved her messages, Alec’s deep voice greeted her.

  ‘Kris, I’ve been in touch with some colleagues in the Federal Police, specialists in drug importation cartels, and they’re on their way to Dungirri. They’re already investigating Sergio Russo, so give them whatever you’ve got on him. You can trust them, Kris. Oh, and I’ve notified your Commander about the Feds, so the protocol’s dealt with.’

  Bless Alec for his thorough professionalism. She hoped the Feds had more information than she did, and were willing to share it. She’d give them a copy of Vince’s notes, see what they could make of them.

  Wind gusted leaves and small branches across the road ahead of the car, and large drops of rain plopped onto the windscreen.

  ‘Storm’s catching up to us,’ the constable observed, glancing into the rear-view mirror. ‘I hope the rescue chopper got away okay.’

  Another thing to worry about. Kris lifted her phone to call and check, but Ghost Hill was coming up on their left, and there was no signal.

  Then the rain fell in torrents, and even above it and the engine noise they could hear the thunder rolling. Water sheeted across the road, and the constable slowed the car, driving with care. She was young, this constable, only a few months out of probation, showing promise but inclined to under-confidence in her abilities.

  Kris suppressed an impatient sigh and focused on the maps again. The storm would pass, they’d get to Dungirri, and then she’d confront the town’s residents at the meeting, see what she could get from them. And if Sean Barrett and mates didn’t show, she’d go hunt for them.

  She compared the list of Flanagan properties with the survey maps again, but this time, using a pencil, she shaded in the rough locations.

  By the time they reached the edge of Dungirri, the rain had eased – Dungirri usually missed the best rain – and she’d identified a possible pattern in the locations of the properties. The Flanagan landholdings predominantly fell into two loose clusters – one, southwest of Birraga, with considerable frontage to the Birraga River, and the second group, expanded to a large area in recent years, northwest of Dungirri, edging the scrub in places, with parcels of land incorporating Dungirri Creek, Friday Creek and up to the eastern, upstream end of the Birraga River.

  She tapped her pencil against the map, thinking. Last night, the helicopter’s path had headed to the southwest. This morning, Gil had met with Russo in the same general area. It suggested that they’d holed up somewhere in that vicinity overnight. Deb had been blindfolded the whole time, but she’d mentioned hearing hordes of cockatoos squawking this morning, and they tended to congregate in the open plains, more so than the scrub area.

  If they’d gone southwest last night, Kris doubted they’d stay long in the same area. So, if they were using one of their own places, they might – might – be closer now, somewhere within a forty-kilometre radius of Dungirri. That still made a damned huge search area, and no clues, yet, to pin them down.

  And she could be wrong. They could be anywhere – heading for the Queensland border, going back to Sydney, over to the coast, or any other direction. There were too few police resources in this vast, sparsely populated region for effective road blocks, even if they’d been able to put them in place straight after Gil’s abduction.

  She gnawed on her lip, trying to keep a lid on her panic. Gil was out there, somewhere, and Tony wouldn’t let him live for long.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Adam and the local community networks brought together a good proportion of the town’s population in the hall, despite the short notice. Kris strode through them to the front of the room. In stark contrast to Saturday night, tight expressions and subdued talk reflected the apprehensive mood. The talk died when Kris reached the front and faced them.

  Someone had set out some chairs for the older people, and Beth sat in the front row, between Esther Russell and Eleni and George Pappas, holding Esther’s hand. In the second row, at the end, Delphi O’Connell sat beside Frank Wilson. Sauers, Dawsons, Barretts – a few from each family were there but not, as far as she could see, Sean, Luke or the Dawson brothers.

  Desperate not to let the air of fear and distress undermine her own shaky composure, she launched straight in to what she had to say.

  ‘You will all be aware that there have been a number of serious incidents in the area this week. Several locals have been seriously injured, as well as two visitors. I can report to you that Mark Strelitz is likely to be released from hospital later today. Liam Le, one of our visitors, was also injured while trying to stop an abduction, and remains in a serious condition in Tamworth hospital. Megan, the Russells’ granddaughter, and Deborah Taylor, another visitor, were both released by the abductors this morning, but were shot as they left the scene. Deborah’s injuries are minor, but Megan is currently being airlifted to Tamworth, in a critical condition.’

  Esther Russell cried quietly into her handkerchief, and Kris added, on a softer note, ‘I am sure Megan, and Doctor and Mrs Russell, would appreciate everyone’s prayers and p
ositive thoughts.’

  She gave them a moment. A couple of heads bowed, others whispered to each other. George’s worry beads rattled softly as he moved them through his fingers.

  ‘Folks, I’m not going to beat around the bush. Highly organised criminal elements from Sydney are working with local people, and they are armed and dangerous, and not averse to murder. This morning, knowing the risks, Morgan Gillespie exchanged himself for Megan and Deborah. We have grave fears for his safety. We need to find him quickly, and I need your help for that.’

  ‘Why should we help Gillespie?’ Johnno Dawson said, from the back of the room. ‘Isn’t it his fault all this shit’s happened?’

  She saw red before her eyes. Blazing red fury raged in her head and burned, for long seconds, her capacity for coherent words.

  ‘No, Johnno,’ she said finally, not caring if her words towards him were scathing, ‘it is not his fault. If you want to condemn a man, then have the guts to do it on hard, factual evidence, not blind prejudice and lazy gossip. Gil Gillespie is no criminal.’

  Johnno had wilted under her gaze, and a couple of his mates had subtly moved away. Good.

  She turned her attention to the rest of the room. ‘However, speaking of criminals, I’m aware that some of you may have been forced to turn a blind eye to illegal activity, to not ask questions. Some of your sons, and maybe your daughters, have been drawn in to criminal activity. Maybe they got out of it. Maybe they haven’t.’

  She took a deep breath, scanned the room again. ‘We’ve been through dark times these past few years. But on Saturday night, we gathered in this hall to celebrate the good things in the community, to build hope for our future. We don’t have much choice about drought and economic downturn and climate change, but we can do something about crime. There’s a cancer in this district, and it needs to be cut out, now. This town deserves better than that. We deserve better than that. Some of you have information that may help save the life of a man – a good man. I’m asking you for that information. Talk to me, give me a slip of paper, email me, text me – I don’t care. Just tell me or Adam what you know.’