Dark Country (Dungirri)

by Parry, Bronwyn

  She left them on that plea. Walked back to her office, giving them time to think and talk and decide to take the risk of telling the truth.

  And she hoped to hell they would.

  They no longer grew cannabis in the shipping container. They took his hood off just before they thrust him into a small, barred cell in a far corner of the space, and he took the chance to study his surroundings. The size surprised him, until he realised it was double width, maybe five metres wide, two containers with adjacent walls removed, of the longer type – ten maybe twelve metres in length. Storage shelves lined one wall, half-filled with boxes and crates and a pile of old pipes, and a metre-high stack of boxes sat on a pallet towards the other wall.

  His captors left, clanging the main door locked, and a second later they cut the lights, so that he was plunged into total, black darkness. With his hands cuffed behind him, feeling around the cell was awkward, but he took it slowly, counting bars, learning the shape of the bolt-lock, using his hands, shoulder, face to feel over as much of the two ridged walls as best he could. His nose told him there was a bucket in the corner, emptied but not cleaned. Gil purposely avoided contemplating the fate of the previous occupant.

  Other than the bucket, there were only walls, bars and floor. He slid down to sit on the floor against the wall, making himself as comfortable as the circumstances allowed, stretching his legs out in front of him.

  There was no light at all, not even faint sounds from above. The metal door of the container was heavy and noisy, and would give him plenty of warning when they came back. And they would come back, when Tony arrived.

  Gil closed his eyes, rested his head back against the wall. Sleep would be the best thing. Sleep would give him strength, sharpen his senses, increase his chances. He didn’t let his mind drift to things he couldn’t do a thing about. Instead, he thought of Kris, remembered the gift of lying with her, wrapped around her, peaceful and calm. He didn’t even think of sex, just that stillness, the complete trust and closeness of being with her.

  He kept the calmness when he woke to bright light, some time later. He pushed himself to his feet, was standing upright when the door at the end scraped open.

  They strolled in – Tony, Sergio, Sean, and another man – the second truck driver from the café, before the fire. Clinton. First name or last name, it didn’t matter – he was muscular, and had the face of a thug.

  He calculated his chances of taking them all on, making it to the open door beyond, but with cuffed hands the equation came out negative, in the suicidal range, and he decided he’d prefer to endure and wait for other options. As Sean and the truckie sauntered towards him, and Tony dragged a heavy metal chair into the centre of the space, Gil sent a quick thought towards the open door.

  Now would be a good time, Blue. Any time about now.

  Paul and Jim Barrett arrived at the station within minutes of Kris getting there. In the interview room, she sat opposite them and asked straight out, ‘Is Sean involved in illegal activity with the Flanagans?’

  Jim stared at his clasped hands on the table, but Paul shifted uneasily on his chair. She had an answer. She let the silence grow, waiting for them to fill it. Paul cast a glance at his father, didn’t get any response.

  ‘I think he is,’ Paul said. ‘I don’t know for sure. I don’t see him much lately. He works for the company, a legit job, but this past few months, he’s been throwing around money. And … he’s changed. More swagger. He used to spend time with me and Chloe and the kids, but now he hardly ever comes. And when he does, it’s not like it used to be. Not … easy.’

  Jim lifted his face and, for all their previous run-ins, it hurt Kris to see the pain in his eyes.

  ‘I was glad when he got the job with Flanagan. I thought he’d stay, not move away,’ he said roughly. ‘But he’s grown hard and arrogant. I don’t know what he’s doing, who he’s with, and I don’t ask because I know I’ll hate my son if I find out.’

  ‘Do either of you know where he is now?’

  Jim shook his head. Paul hesitated, then spoke up again. ‘I don’t know where he is. But while I was working on the old Sutherland place the last few weeks, I often saw him drive past in the late afternoons, heading north on the Hammersley Road.’

  Kris thanked them, saw them out, then came back and studied the map. North on the Hammersley Road. That could lead to five of the Flanagan properties, but it ran roughly parallel to Scrub Road, kilometres apart, and a few tracks linked the two. That broadened the area considerably and brought another three properties into contention.

  Her phone rang. Steve, on his way to Dungirri. He told her Petric and Macklin were due to arrive shortly, that they’d agreed to meet in Dungirri.

  The station’s front bell sounded, and she answered it to find Karl on the doorstep, clutching several sheets of paper. He spread them out on the table in the interview room, gave her a wary grin.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you how I got this data, and it’s best if you don’t ask, okay?’

  She nodded, very cautiously, knowing he’d worked in IT for a phone company, until recently.

  ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t normally do this,’ he said earnestly. ‘But I can’t do nothing if someone might die because of it.’

  He pushed a map towards her, different from the survey maps she used. ‘I hate saying it, but I think Sean is involved. He used to be a mate, but he’s …. well, he’s not, now. Anyway, as of ten minutes ago, Sean – or his mobile phone – was somewhere in this area, between these three towers.’

  It was still a large area, but it covered the area north on Scrub Road, corresponding roughly with Paul’s information.

  ‘Sean may not be where Gil is, though,’ she thought out loud.

  ‘No, on it’s own, it’s not significant. But I skimmed over some other data, and the number Sean called yesterday morning, probably around the time he was released, was this number’ – he tapped one of the printouts – ‘and that phone is now in the same area that Sean’s is in. What’s more, that phone – let’s call it phone A – has been regularly called by phone B, which was in Sydney last night, and which is now in roughly the same place as Sean’s and phone A.’

  Tony. Phone B had to be Tony, and phone A Sergio.

  ‘Before you ask what you’re not supposed to, no, I can’t narrow the area down any further,’ Karl said. ‘But I know someone who might know if there’s a specific place out that way.’

  ‘Luke?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will he talk?’

  Karl grinned and stacked his papers together. ‘Between your police glare and the threat of my cousinly thumps, probably.’

  They found Luke at home, and he needed no thumps, threatened or otherwise. A night in the cells, and the reality of the charge of aggravated sexual assault against Megan had frightened him enough to change his attitude, and made him eager to cooperate.

  ‘There is a place Sean hangs out,’ he told them. ‘I haven’t been there, dunno where it is exactly, but he said there’s a cool house, with a home theatre and spa and all, but the guy that owns it doesn’t live there any more, so Sean uses it sometimes. He reckons there’s a freight container, under a shed. He reckoned he might use it, you know, to make stuff.’

  A freight container.

  She raced back to her office, grabbed Gil’s old maps and photos, found the relevant map mark and compared it to hers. Not a Flanagan holding. Not currently, anyway, but it was in the right area and maybe the owner was a partner, willing or otherwise.

  It didn’t matter. She’d found Gil, and now all she had to do was set up an operation to get him out of there.

  They tied him to the chair. It went against the grain, not to fight them, but that unequal equation made it too much of a risk. If he created trouble, they’d kill him in an instant.

  Sergio leaned against the wall, idly observing while Tony stood in front of Gil, the will held high, and put a cigarette lighter to it. The paper curled, burned upwards,
eating the paper.

  ‘My father thought he was clever, but this is what his schemes have come to. A pile of ashes.’

  ‘Did you know she was your sister, Tony?’ Gil asked.

  He dropped the will to the metal floor, watched the last of it burn. ‘That whore?’ He spat on the ashes. ‘She got all she deserved. I made sure of that. But it’s your fault, Gillespie. You shouldn’t have interfered, got Vince involved. He got angry, tried to tell me what to do, then he shouted his dirty little secret and said she’d get more than me. So she had to die, and before him.’ He snorted. ‘You know, people pay to do a woman like that. Instead of costing me, I made money on it.’

  Gil kept his face impassive, despite his revulsion. Tony’s slip answered some questions, and Sergio’s relaxed observation answered a couple more.

  Tony hadn’t killed his father. Sergio was the cool one, the planner, and must have arranged or carried out the assassination without involving Tony. But with Vince on life support, Gil guessed Tony had panicked, desperate for Marci to die before their father.

  And Sergio had stepped in to clean up the mess, dispose of the body, implicate another. He had to have a reason for indulging his far less effective cousin.

  ‘So, let me guess, Tony. You didn’t find Vince’s will until Saturday, is that right?’

  Tony kicked the pile of ashes with his shoe. ‘The copies are destroyed, Gillespie. There is no will. I’m his son and I’ll inherit. I’m going to enjoy spending my money.’

  No, thought Gil. Sergio will wait long enough for you to get it, and then he’ll probably kill you for it. For all Tony’s anger and violence, Sergio was the far greater danger.

  Oblivious to anything but his own desires, Tony gave a twisted grin. ‘And the other thing I’m going to enjoy,’ he continued, ‘is watching you die. You cheated me, Gillespie. You took what was mine. That requires punishment, and I’ve been waiting a long time to see you get it. And since Sean here has long desired to belt the shit out of you for killing his cousin, I’m going to let him.’

  Sean stepped forward, a wide smirk lighting his face, a heavy metal pipe gripped in both hands like a medieval sword. ‘We might take this nice and slow, Gillespie. Make the pleasure last.’

  Gil exhaled a slow breath through his nose. He could endure this. He was strong, healthy, and he had plenty to survive for. He brought an image of Kris to his mind, and focused his thoughts, his energies on two words: Endure. Survive.

  The pipe slammed into his gut and pain exploded, searing through every nerve in his body.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The good thing about Federal Police agents arriving on one’s doorstep, Kris discovered, was that they could make a lot happen in a short space of time. She had the sense their own investigation was advanced, close to the point of moving in. Whether it was the extra information in Vince’s detailed notes, or the fact of a hostage and the Russos in a known place that tipped the scales, she didn’t know, but they decided the time was ripe. Phone calls flew, and the approval for a joint operation came quickly.

  But the unsettling aspect of a hastily convened operation was that Joe, Craig and Steve were automatically part of the team. Not knowing, not being able to trust them, left her grappling with continued trepidation. The station was too small for the dozen officers called together; they gathered instead around a table set up in the hall, the late afternoon light casting a grid of shadows from the window frame across the documents spread before them.

  ‘We’ve raided these types of facilities before,’ the senior agent, Caitlin Jamieson, explained to the team. ‘There’s usually only one entrance. With a hostage inside, that makes it risky. Tear gas is the best option. The next best is cutting the power, throwing them into the dark.’

  ‘The tactical response group usually does this type of operation,’ Kris pointed out. ‘We don’t have tear gas, night vision goggles or sharp-shooters.’

  ‘Can you get the TRG here in half an hour?’ Caitlin asked. ‘I don’t think we can afford to wait much longer.’

  ‘Not a chance. It’d be three hours, minimum, before they could be here.’ Steve drummed his fingers on the table. ‘But if we cut the power and go in with torches, we’ll have the advantage of surprise, and glare. I was with tactical for a while, and I think it’s the best chance we’ve got.’

  ‘Any other options?’ Caitlin asked the group. ‘Right, what do we know about the buildings, the area, and who is there? Do we have any recent aerial photos?’

  Kris spread out a few photos on the table. ‘It’s on the edge of the State Forest, and they did an aerial survey a year or two back. We’ve got this shot here, with the house, and the various outbuildings. I’ve compared it to Gil’s photos from when they were burying the container, and the placement of the buildings in the background of that image.’ She indicated a large rectangle on the aerial photo, some distance from the house, not far from a thick band of trees and a reasonably sized dam. ‘I’m fairly certain it’s under this machinery shed. If we approach from these trees, here, we’ll have good cover, and any view from the house will be blocked by the shed itself.’

  An hour later, as the sun set, Kris scanned the shed and surrounds from the cool shadows of the trees, and breathed in the scents of the bush. The still-damp leaf litter below her feet, not yet dry after the storm. The fresh scent of the cypress trees around them. Something sweet-smelling. Another bank of storm clouds was rolling in across the sky, dark and flame-edged from the setting sun, the rumblings of thunder becoming louder, more frequent. With luck, the thunder might cover any noise they made.

  Nothing moved around the house or the outbuildings. She could just see, across the clearing, the second team was in position, ready to go in to the house. Near her, waiting for the signal, Caitlin, Steve, Joe and Craig made only the slightest noise: breathing, the brush of fabric, the soft crunch of leaves as they shifted their feet.

  Kris slowed her own breathing, made herself aware of her body, present in it. The familiar weight of the Glock in her hand. The less familiar bulk and weight of the bullet-proof vest. The soles of her feet, firm boots, firm ground beneath them.

  The soft beep on Caitlin’s phone gave the signal, and Kris set out across the open ground with her colleagues, quickly, quietly, heading towards Gil.

  Ten.

  This time the pipe dislocated his left shoulder, maybe smashed it. The fresh blast of agony blazed thought from his mind, sent him spiralling, drowning, and he was almost too weak to fight back from it.

  Survive.

  It hammered in his head, along with the screaming pain. He couldn’t let go of it. He had to hold on, not let go.

  Survive. Endure.

  Ten. He’d survived ten. There’d be a space before eleven. Maybe a fist or two, a kick, but a space before the next pipe blow. Sean gave him that space, gave him time to fully experience each agony before adding the next one.

  He wondered if they’d go for his legs next.

  Probably.

  The voices drifted, the light swirled around dark spots in front of his eyes. Someone laughed.

  He felt his mind slipping, fought it, clawed his way towards the swirling light, struggled to drag together a coherent thought.

  Now, Blue. Now would be a really good time …

  They burst through the door, Steve in front, the rest of them in quick succession, fanning out immediately in the space, torch lights running a rapid scan to count and locate occupants, Steve shouting to them to drop to the ground.

  Four, Kris counted. Four, plus Gil, slumped too-still in a chair in the centre of the bigger-than-expected space. The light from the torches cut wild arcs around the walls, constantly shifting. People shouted, and gun shots exploded, deafening in the reverberation against the metal.

  Someone charged her, and she dodged, bringing her fists down on him as he passed, sending him sprawling. Then the torch was torn from her left hand, the force of the bullet that hit it convulsing up her arm. It felt like a dead wei
ght as she lifted it to grasp her gun with both hands.

  Through the surreal, slow-motion madness of noise, firing, and confusion, she heard Gil yell her name. In a sweep of light, she saw the gun pointed at her … Gil, still bound to the chair, charging, throwing himself at the man … the sharp jerk of their bodies, and the two of them falling, smashing against the wall.

  She started for him. In the corner of her vision, she saw another gun raised, directed her way.

  She spun around, squeezed the trigger, and shot Joe Petric.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  It didn’t fall quiet when the firing stopped. The ringing in her ears continued, and the pounding of her heart, both competing with all the other sounds – groans, swearing, Caitlin giving orders, handcuffs clicking into place.

  The overhead lights flickered on, and Kris holstered her gun, crossed the floor and knelt by Gil. Still bound to the chair, his arm at a crazy angle behind him, his hand smashed, he lay sprawled over a man she assumed to be Tony Russo. A large pool of blood spread beneath them.

  Too scared to even think, she lightly pressed her fingers to Gil’s neck, seeking a pulse. At her touch, he opened his eyes, and a rush of light-headedness made the room sway in front of her.

  ‘Gil.’

  His mouth curved a little. ‘Blue.’

  She blinked the moisture away from her eyes to see more clearly, looked him over to identify his injuries. She didn’t dare move him, or untie him, until she had some clue what was damaged. His skin was too pale and cold, and the marks on his face would definitely bruise. His arm was a mess. At his waist, his hitched-up T-shirt exposed long red marks. She couldn’t tell if his legs, twisted under the chair, were okay or not, but they’d carried his weight in his mad charge against Tony. The blood beneath them was Tony’s, and he was quite dead.