Nobody else but her was at all relevant in any way, by Rose’s thinking. It was all me, Me, ME! She ought to have been an actress. Kendall had told her that, once. It was about as forceful a criticism as he ever ventured, even during those moments when she was slinging kitchen utensils at him and ripping his manhood to shreds with her tongue.
Kendall was a gentleman. Too much so. Rose was . . . Rose. A hedonist, an opportunist pleasure seeker with an eye to the main chance. Nothing wrong with that.
Ian was less charitable and far more accurate in his opinion of her.
~~~
Slut! Goddam bitch!
Ian was barely out the door before his mind began playing tricks on him. He knew it, too, but couldn’t fight the situation and didn’t really bother to try. There were higher priorities.
Almost without a pause, he strode over to Rose’s SUV and peered inside.
Yes!
Gently, silently, his gaze flicking back and forth from vehicle to doorway, he eased open the door of the vehicle, reached in, and liberated the plastic baggie of drugs from where it nestled on top of the other things in her handbag.
You little beauty. And he wasn’t referring to Rose.
His fingers trembled so much he almost dropped the precious cargo, but he managed to get it safely tucked into the front of his shirt, and heaved a huge sigh of relief at that small accomplishment.
Another glance at the doorway. Then take the time to rifle through the handbag and see what other goodies Rose might have secreted there – like the $500 she’d promised him. No such luck, but she had just over $100 in her wallet.
Down payment. Have to do, I reckon. Not enough, but.
I killed somebody? Never reckoned on that.
Should have asked for more money . . . more goodies.
And it was a judge! They’ll go hard with me over that, should I get caught.
He finished ransacking the handbag, knelt to check under all the seats, in the glove box, crawled halfway into the vehicle to check behind the seats. Nothing worth a second look.
In the back, maybe in with the spare? Wouldn’t put it past the conniving bitch! It was only a moment’s work to unlock the rear of the SUV, rip up the floor mat to find only a spare tire and the minimal tools that came with such a ponced-up piece of Japanese junk.
Bugger-bugger.
A judge! Bloody oath – that’s bad. I only aimed for that American’s hat. Scare him a bit is all. Fucking jack-jumpers!
He glanced again at the closed door to the shack. Then patted the lumpy plastic bag under his shirt. Good shit in here, I reckon. Wonder . . .
He almost succumbed to temptation before he managed a desperate grab for self-control. Ian wasn’t the swiftest cab off any rank, but he wasn’t a complete fool, either. Yet.
They’ll never find the bullet. Couldn’t match it, any road, if they can’t find the weapon. Easy fixed.
He reviewed the situation in his mind, replaying every step of the assassination, his escape, his trip north to Pyengana. Nothing there to worry about, and he was pretty certain, at least, that he hadn’t shot off his mouth in the pub there. He already had a mental list of hidey-holes where he could secrete the Finnish rifle. Too good a weapon to just chuck it away into the bush somewhere, or dump it into the ocean.
And without the rifle, they’d have nothing on Ian Boyd. She’ll be apples, mate. Not a thing to worry about.
Which left Rose.
And she can’t tell. Not without getting herself in the shit with me. She wouldn’t, any road. It’d be stupid.
Fucking bitch. I should shoot her, too. Serve her right.
Naw . . . I’m safe as houses. She wouldn’t say nothing. Wouldn’t bloody dare.
Would she?
He had a serious moment when he considered just shooting Rose, along with the weird woman chained up in the shack. She’d seen Ian, after all. But it went against the grain. Ian Boyd was of a generation brought up to respect women, even tarts like Rose. Sometimes, he even did.
Then he began to fragment again.
She’s a bloody nurse, the cow. All the time acting like God, giving orders.
I wonder what’s in the bag. Christ – I need something! There’s a few tinnies under the seat of me truck . . . there should be anyway. But this stuff . . .
First things first, he decided with unusual resolution considering his choices. The drugs would wait. He had them, which was the important part.
Now he needed his rifle back.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rose remained consistent in her crankiness with Kirsten. She knew there had to be something in all this that would be of value. To her. But what?
“You must have some idea what’s going on,” she said, glaring at Kirsten as if this whole situation was somehow Kirsten’s fault. “Don’t you bloody know anything?”
“What day is it?”
“You don’t even know what day it is?” Rose’s glare intensified.
Kirsten glared back. Obviously this weird woman had no intention of helping her . . . but why? “The last thing I remember it was Saturday night,” she finally replied, choosing her words carefully. This woman must know something useful, but how to get it out of her . . .
“Where are we, anyway?” Kirsten said.
“Tasmania. Don’t you even remember that?” Rose’s voice was sullen, suspicious, dismissive. Angry.
Kirsten shook her head, not as a negative gesture but in utter futility. What was wrong with this woman? “Why won’t you help me?” Kirsten asked again, this time holding out her bound wrists in a gesture of supplication.
The only effect of that was to have the woman lean the bolt-action rifle against the wall just inside the door. She made no attempt to free Kirsten, didn’t even seem to notice the plastic wrist-bindings and the chain.
“So you don’t know who kidnapped you, or why, or even where the hell you are? Not good for much, are you?” Which was true enough. Confusing, actually, but Rose wasn’t about to admit that. Damn it! Even with Ian Boyd’s somewhat questionable backup, it would be far better if she knew what to expect. And who! Whom?
She silently damned Kendall yet again, and because his face was now in her mind, said, “He won’t rescue you this time, either.”
Kirsten could only look at her, now totally confused by the abrupt dog-leg in the conversation.
“Who?”
“Kendall, you stupid woman. Who else would I be talking about? That’s what its all about, isn’t it. You’re being held to ransom for a slice of Kendall’s royalties from that damned book.”
How to reply to that one? Kirsten stayed silent.
“Well he won’t rescue you this time, either.” The dark-haired woman’s voice was scathingly contemptuous. “Kendall’s nothing but a wimp . . . a pussy. He couldn’t—”
The tirade was cut off in mid-sentence as the cabin door flew open and Ian Boyd’s tall, gaunt frame shouldered its way inside. He ignored Kirsten, glanced only briefly at Rose – his interest was in the rifle he immediately located. His huge hand reached down and grabbed the rifle while he held off a belated attempt by Rose to stop him.
“Right,” he said. “I’m outa here.” And, simple as that, he was. No time for argument, no discussion at all.
Kirsten watched through the now open doorway as the tall man stalked down the muddy track toward the vehicles, the dark-haired woman stumbling along behind him, screaming and swearing. Kirsten could hear the occasional word, things like “. . . money in this,” and “. . . dare to walk out now,” but the overall context escaped her.
She saw the woman catch up with him, saw him thrust her away with one hand, heard the sounds but not the actual words as the much smaller woman picked up a stick and rushed at him again. This time the big man was less gentle; he pushed her away so violently that she staggered into the brush beside the track and fell to her knees. Still shrieking.
“Shut up, you silly cow!”
“You’ll regret this, Ian. I
will hunt you down!”
Kirsten heard that all right. Just as she saw him reach into one of the vehicles, the shiny, relatively new SUV. He flung open the door, his arm reached in, emerged again, was raised near shoulder height.
“Go hunt this down.” And Kirsten saw something gleam in the sunlight, heard the woman’s shriek of anguish, realized the man had just thrown the vehicle’s keys away into the thick surrounding scrub.
The woman scurried after the keys. The big man reached into the vehicle again, pulled out something else – a cell phone? – glanced at it only briefly, then tucked it away in his shirt pocket. Then he strode to a battered 4 × 4, fired it up, effected a four-point turn despite the narrow confines of the track, and was gone.
Kirsten didn’t bother to follow the action after that. She turned her attention to the eyebolt and tried to focus on her original plan to somehow twist it free from the wall.
It was difficult, made more difficult because of having to keep half her attention focused on the open doorway. Kirsten had finally figured out how the leverage issue could be solved. She got one of the bent pieces of steel into the eye of the bolt – barely – then used two of the straight pieces to pry upward, using two other bits as a fulcrum to pry against.
It was tricky. She kept losing her grip on the smooth steel and having both hands tied together didn’t help, either. But slowly, eventually, it worked!
She got one half-turn with some difficulty, was more easily able to twist the eyebolt around so it was again parallel to the floor. Took the time to pause, listen, try and see what that weird woman outside was doing. Failed in that, but managed yet another turn before the sound of the woman’s voice gave Kirsten warning of her return. There was only time to pry the eyebolt back to its original, vertical orientation, albeit three turns looser . . . the important part . . . before she had to stop, turn away, position herself so as to hide any evidence of her activities.
It wasn’t loose enough to yank herself free, but each turn had come with slightly less effort. Kirsten knew she could get the eyebolt free. All she needed now was the chance to do it. And the time.
“Damn that Ian Boyd. I should have shot the bastard while I had the chance.” The weird woman was damp, muddy, as disheveled as Kirsten herself when she stamped her way back inside the shack.
She glared at Kirsten, then turned her attention to the collected foodstuffs, cracking open a bottle of water and drinking in great gulps. She made no offer of a drink for Kirsten, hardly so much as glanced at her.
“The fucker threw away my car keys, damn it! Shit! If I can’t find them it’ll mean I’m stuck here with you, unless I want to walk it. Shit-shit-shit!”
“I could help you look, if you could figure out a way to get me loose.”
The look the woman shot Kirsten was pungent with scorn. “You’ve got Buckley’s,” she replied with a sneer. And with that incomprehensible remark, she took the water bottle and stomped out again, leaving Kirsten no better off or wiser than before.
~~~
“I think we’ve got Buckley’s, but let’s run through it again. There isn’t much else we can do.” Constable John Small’s voice revealed how cranky and frustrated he was as he sat with Kendall and Rex Henderson, staring at the hotel security tapes for what seemed the hundredth time.
Teague Kendall glanced at his fellow writer, instinctively preparing to translate the uniquely Australian expression, only to sit up in wonderment as Rex’s voice emerged in a flat, obviously rehearsed monotone:
“ ‘William Buckley (1780 – 1856) had been convicted of a minor crime in England and transported to the then-new penal colony in Australia, but Buckley and two other convicts celebrated Christmas 1803 by escaping and fleeing into the wilderness. Faced with a lack of food and shelter, his comrades quickly changed their minds and turned themselves in, but against all odds Buckley managed to survive in the wild, living off the land and making friends with the local Aborigines. Incredibly, Buckley lived with the Aborigines for thirty-two years, and by the time he surrendered to a survey party in 1835, he had forgotten how to speak English.
“Buckley was pardoned and went on to work as an interpreter and guide, and when he published an account of his ordeal in 1852, his story became a national sensation. Given the amazing luck Buckley's saga of survival entailed, it wasn't surprising that by 1898 ‘Buckley's chance’ had become a popular figure of speech meaning ‘very slim chance’ or ‘no chance at all.’
“A curious coincidence, however, may have boosted the popularity of ‘Buckley's chance’ still further. The Melbourne department store of Buckley & Nunn (no relation to William Buckley) opened in 1851, and within a few years its goods were well known as the epitome of fashion. The popularity of Buckley & Nunn lent the phrase ‘You've got Buckley's chance’ the additional punning sense of ‘You've got a slim (Buckley's) chance or none (Nunn) at all.’ ”
When the recital ended, Kendall found himself staring at the Houston author, unable to voice his astonishment with any words at all.
“I studied up a bit when I knew I was coming to Australia,” Rex said, his voice almost but not quite apologetic. “That’s from The Word Detective, I think. I’m fascinated by unique word usages, things like that. It’s amazing what you can find on the Net.”
“Unbelievable,” Kendall replied. “I knew about the department store bit, there’s something about tea, or tearooms, too. But not the original source.”
“I did. Now can we pay some attention to this tape, please. Again.” John Small’s voice revealed more than he probably realized.
In a pig’s eye, you knew. You’re a shitty liar, little mate. I just hope you’re a better cop.
What Kendall said was much more polite. He’d decided early on that listening to Charlie’s advice, doing what Charlie said to do, was best. So if Charlie said this supercilious twit was “on our side,” then . . .
“We have to be missing something,” Kendall said. “But what?” All three men had reviewed the tapes a dozen times at least, but in fairness to all there wasn’t much to be seen. But again was about all they could do. The alternative was to do nothing at all while they waited. For a ransom demand. For more information. For . . . something. Anything!
The relevant sections of tape had been copied and spliced into a tape that showed Kirsten’s abductor – At least there’s no more argument about that, Kendall thought – entering the hotel lobby, then the elevator, then the corridor where Kendall’s suite was located. And then, of course, the same route in reverse, this time with Kirsten as his companion. The security cameras hadn’t been able to provide significant details about whatever happened at the door to the suite.
The three men had watched the damned tapes so often they found themselves chanting the not-too-relevant details almost in unison. “He’s six foot, maybe six-one. No more than six-three. Dark hair, looks like. Caucasian. Casual slacks, casual shirt, sneakers, or basketball boots, or some such. Or maybe boat shoes. The damned hat and sunglasses make it really hard to see his face.”
The Mole Creek caving mob had reviewed them too, before eventually being given statements to sign and then sent home, but were unable to help in even the slightest detail.
“There’s enough that I think I’d know if I’d ever seen him before. At least if I’d noticed him,” Kendall said. “But there’s nothing very distinctive.” The man’s sunglasses, given the late hour, had been one strong element in acceptance of the abduction theory.
“She isn’t fighting him, that much is obvious.” This from Rex, who was off to Hobart the next day and didn’t dare seek a change of schedule. But he wanted to. Then it was a flight back to mainland Australia and eventually to New Zealand before heading home. “No sign of a knife, or a gun, or any indication of duress. He isn’t talking to her, either, anywhere they’ve been caught by the cameras.”
John Small’s trained eye caught the only unusual aspect of the taped interludes, but it took him several viewings. “This bloke loo
ks really light on his feet,” he said. “Like a dancer, maybe? But the woman’s not. She moves more like she’s . . . what? . . . sleepwalking, maybe? That Mole Creek mob said she was properly buggered when they dropped her off, totally exhausted, but this looks . . . different, somehow. Might be just a matter of comparison, but she seems more than just tired. Drugged?”
“Not really time for it. He wasn’t in the room more than about thirty seconds, if the tapes are accurate.” Kendall sighed, shook his head in frustration, and tried to stifle the panic that was slowly eating him from the inside out.
They were doing all they could, had done everything possible. Everything logical. The knife had gone for fingerprinting, the tapes had been collected, collated, and copied and were being reviewed at police headquarters as well as here in his suite. The telephone in Kendall’s suite was rigged to tape any ransom call (relatively easy) and steps were being taken to try and get tracing equipment hooked up to the hotel’s telephone system (not so easy). Posters had been prepared for email and fax distribution to police throughout Tasmania. The media had been alerted. Kirsten’s picture would be all over the state with the evening news. The most the police would commit to publicly was “Missing,” but behind the scenes, abduction was no longer doubted.
And some things perhaps less than logical, at least this early in the game, were also being done. Kendall had already prepared a statement that he hoped would emphasize his willingness to meet any ransom demands, any demands of any sort. Stressing also the fact that until tomorrow, when the banks opened, collection of any ransom funds would be impossible. John Small had pooh-poohed that, saying it was stupid to offer what hadn’t been asked for.
DINING WITH DEVILS -- A Tasmanian Thriller Page 8