Poison Bay

by Belinda Pollard

  “I’m trying to see, but the trees are in the way.”

  On the beach, Erica said, “We can’t let it get away. They have to see us this time.”

  At that moment a tiny helicopter was unveiled by the slope of the foothills, swinging around the curve of the steep shoreline, so close, maybe only five hundred meters away. Jack began swinging the orange jacket overhead, and Erica waved her arms and jumped and jumped. It was such a small helicopter, Jack couldn’t believe it could be a rescue aircraft. As the first rays of the new day’s sunshine slanted across the beach, it blinded him, and he struggled to make out the details. Only two seats by the look of it, and no doors. Heading straight for them, low and direct.

  And then he saw something that made his insides go cold. “Erica! Run! Run!” He dropped the jacket and grabbed at Erica’s arm as he turned.

  A slow half-second later, she saw what he’d seen, and turned to follow him, trying desperately to make it back to the tree cover, running, running, her heart in her mouth and her breath on fire. She reached forward for the hand Jack was holding back towards her as he ran and ran.

  ***

  On board the dragonfly, the wiry little pilot was paralyzed by disbelief. Tom had eased out onto the skids, and was lifting his rifle, lining up the sights. A man and a woman on the ground, running for their lives. Murderers, Tom had called them, but this wasn’t what the pilot had expected to happen. His reflexes made sluggish by shock, he pulled hard on the joystick as the rifle exploded into deadly life.

  ***

  The rescue chopper rounded the curve in the lake behind the dragonfly just in time for Peter to register the ugly tableau before them. Two people running across the pebbly beach towards the trees, the second one small and pony-tailed—a woman. The hunting helicopter surging towards them, Tom hanging out on the skids, rifle raised. The muzzle flash just as the forward runner reached back to grab the woman’s hand and tried to lift her bodily, but too late. Her body jerked and she fell, but the man just kept pulling, dragging her behind him like an out-of-control water skier, and they disappeared under the tree cover.

  “She’s hit!”

  Ellen heard those horrific words and opened her eyes. Rachel? She closed her eyes again, and sent up a wordless, incoherent prayer.

  They couldn’t do anything about the gunshot victim until they dealt with Tom. Hawk understood that without being told, and swung in a wide arc around the sweep of the little bay, keeping a safe but watchful distance from the dragonfly now reeling back across the lake.

  Peter raised the binoculars, fiddling with the focus as he tried to lock onto the erratic movements of the aircraft and see what was taking place inside.

  ***

  “Take me back there! There’s more of them.” Tom roared at his friend, his face mottled purple.

  “You shot that woman!”

  “They’re murderers! I told you that!”

  “Then we take them to the police. We don’t shoot them. They’re people, Tom, not animals!”

  ***

  Inside the hut, there was so much blood. Erica wasn’t screaming this time but Rachel was. “Where are you hit?” Callie said, searching desperately up and down Erica’s blood spattered body. Jack was wrenching items out of his pack, looking for something to use as a bandage, his breath roaring in and out of his lungs.

  “My leg. It hit my leg. It’s the artery. We’re so close and now I’m going to die, and I deserve it for what I did to Adam.”

  “Shut up!” Callie said.

  “Pressure,” Erica said. “You have to apply pressure or I really will die.”

  Jack grabbed a wadded t-shirt and rammed it against Erica’s thigh. “That poisonous, crazy psycho.” He bit out the words, fury clenching his teeth. “What else has he got lined up for us?”

  “It’s still bleeding,” Callie said. “We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”

  “Hold that. Hard. I’ll find something to tie it on.” He began riffling through their packs, but it was taking too long, so he grabbed Adam’s knife from where it lay beside the stove, snatched up his own rain jacket, and sliced off one of its sleeves.

  ***

  The dragonfly hovered a few hundred meters away, reasonably stable, but Peter could see a raging argument taking place between the occupants. It would seem that the pilot had not been a willing participant. Suddenly, the radio sprang into life, and they could hear it all. Accidentally or on purpose, someone had flicked the transmit button.

  “…don’t understand. We have to get them all. It’s useless if we don’t get them all.”

  “I’m not taking you back there, so put the gun down.”

  “It has to be this way. I have to do it for Lily.”

  “They’re Australians. They’ve never met Lily. What’s it got to do with Lily?”

  “My daughter will die if you don’t take me back there now. My sweet little girl or those murderers. How can you put them first? Do it now, or I swear, I’ll shoot you.”

  “You crazy…”

  Even without binoculars, they could see Tom raising the rifle, pointing it at his friend. Stupid to kill his pilot—they’d both die. Even with Tom’s limited piloting skills, they didn’t have enough altitude for him to have time to seize the controls. Peter glanced at Hawk, but he was already adjusting their position, pulling them away, increasing the distance. Out of the path of any stray bullets.

  ***

  The pilot of the dragonfly shoved the controls, tipping his aircraft as far to the side as he could without crashing it. Floored by fear and grief, he was looking down the barrel of a gun, and beyond it to a man he didn’t recognize. A good friend to so many for so many years, but turned into a stranger by emotions they could not share. As Tom’s finger tightened on the trigger, he lost his grip on the helicopter and fell through the doorless opening. His outline was lit golden by the rising sun as he dropped towards the black water of the lake. Even as he fell, legs peddling thin air, his mate could see him trying to control the angle of the rifle, still trying to get off a shot, his last act of defiance on this earth.

  ***

  Peter glanced at Hawk, but he was ahead of him again, guiding the chopper back towards the beach near the hut even as Tom hit the water, the splash rising up around him with a whoosh, and then closing over him as he disappeared till the end of time. Hundreds of meters deep, with black ice on the bottom.

  Peter removed his headset, unclipped his seatbelt, and handed his rifle through to Hemi all in one continuous movement. He was already opening the door as the skids touched the pebbles, unholstering his pistol and slipping the safety catch off as he ran towards the trees. Instinct made him crouch low as he passed beneath the whirring blades. Behind him, Hemi slipped out the other side of the helicopter, and followed Peter at a distance, ready to back him up, rifle held in a shooting grip but with the barrel pointed to the ground.

  Watching them in horrified fascination, Ellen couldn’t believe such big men could move with such catlike grace. Drawing on abundant reserves of common sense, she remained firmly strapped in her seat, and Hawk kept the blades spinning for a quick getaway should it become necessary.

  As Peter drew level with the hut, he could see the trail of blood leading across the pebbles, becoming hidden by undergrowth as it went through the encircling trees, and then emerging again up the wooden steps of the hut and in behind the closed door. It was a lot of blood. Someone was in serious trouble and they’d need to act fast. At the window, he could see the pale oval of a face, but through the trees it was impossible to discern detail.

  “There’s more of them!” Callie said. “They’re on the ground around us now. There’s even one in a police uniform.” Realizing she’d been spotted, she ducked instinctively below the glass, even though she knew the thin wooden walls would not stop a bullet.

  “Is there nothing money can’t buy?” Jack’s fury was white hot. The bleeding had slowed thanks to consistent pressure on the wound, but Erica was so pale. Shock
or blood loss, or both, he couldn’t tell, and he could do nothing to fix it with danger circling.

  Peter knew he’d been sighted, but there’d been no shots fired from the hut, and he decided to take the risk. He looked at Hemi. It was a direct look, and he received a nod of affirmation in return. I’ve got your back, the nod said. He stepped through the trees into the small clearing in front of the hut, his gun held at shoulder height, trained on the door.

  “You in the hut! Come out with your hands up.”

  Jack erupted. “I’ve had a gutful of this. I’ve had it with being scared.” He stood from his post beside Erica and looked at Callie. “Keep the pressure on her leg.” Startled by the look of righteous anger on his face, she moved swiftly to Erica’s side and began pressing, but her eyes followed Jack as he flung the door open so hard it bounced off the wall, and stalked down the steps.

  Peter saw a ragged-looking man emerge defiant and stand less than five meters in front of him. His clothes were liberally splashed with blood, and his hands were drenched in it. He held his arms not up in surrender, but wide, out straight to the side at shoulder height, fingers spread, a position that said: Here I am, shoot me. Off to the side, Hemi had raised the rifle and was staring down the sights, ready to do just that if necessary.

  He wasn’t a big man, but the roar that came out of his mouth could have stopped traffic, and his eyes were steely. “Come on, shoot me! I’m just lost, but apparently that’s a criminal offence in this country. Or maybe shooting hikers is a national sport.” He turned his head sideways and looked straight at Hemi, and when he spoke again his volume was much lower, but the words still carried. “If you’ve got enough money, it seems you can buy anything you want.”

  Peter leaned a little sideways and peered around the man into the dim interior of the hut. He could see a woman crouched, staring at him, her expression mostly fear with a gram or two of feisty. It took him a moment to discern that she was pressing on the bloodied leg of a second woman, the one who’d been shot. He’d studied the collection of passport photos so often in the past few days it was as though he was seeing old friends. Neither of these women was Rachel, and he felt that absence as a blow for Ellen. But relevant to the current crisis, neither appeared dangerous.

  He lowered his gun, slipped on the safety catch, slid it into the holster, did up the clip, and crossed his arms over his chest in a slow, deliberate movement. “You must be Jack,” he said, his voice mild. Hemi still held the rifle cocked and ready, and kept scanning for attacks from other directions.

  Jack let his arms fall to his side with a sigh. “Yes, I guess I must be.” The anger had all leaked out of him now, and he just looked tired.

  “We understood there to be a gun somewhere among you.”

  The anger flared again for a moment. “So you shoot at us?”

  “That wasn’t us.” He paused a moment. No time to explain Tom now, but he needed to be certain the situation was contained before he summoned the medical team. “I’ll explain it later. Tell me about the gun.”

  Jack was frustrated by the delay. “We’ve got two women dying in there!”

  “Two?” The crouching woman didn’t look sick. Was Rachel still alive then after all?

  “Erica was shot and it hit an artery and we’re having trouble stopping the bleeding. Rachel is diabetic and she needs help now.”

  Peter felt his spirits surge, but kept his face still. “We have the resources to help, but I must know about the gun before I bring more people in here.”

  Jack could now understand the policeman’s perspective, but what to say? He went to rub his face but saw the blood on his hands in time and stopped, went to put them in his pockets and then thought he’d better not do that either. So he just flapped them uselessly. “It’s such a long story.”

  “Give me the synopsis.”

  “Bryan gave it to Erica. He expected her to use it on us but she couldn’t. It went off by accident in a landslide and killed Adam. She lost it in the landslide.” He added, in the interests of full disclosure, “The only weapon we have is a hunting knife that belonged to Adam, and we’re not interested in using it on anyone, but I can go grab it if you want. We just want to be safe. We want to go home.” His voice broke slightly on the last word and he brought himself under control with an effort.

  Peter gave Jack a measuring look, nodded, and whipped his radio from the holster on his belt. “Hawk, power down and bring Hemi’s paramedic kit here, stat, we’ve got a bleeder. Bring Ellen too, and tell her Rachel is alive.” He knew she’d hear it from him, if she’d kept her headset on, and he wished he could have told her to her face, looked in her eyes. But there was a lot of work to do.

  “Medivac crew, do you read me?”

  The pilot responded in the affirmative.

  “The situation is now safe. Proceed to Altham Hut immediately and land on the beach. We’ve got some customers for you.”

  57

  Ellen saw the splashes of blood as she hurried towards the hut, and tried not to step in it. Was it Rachel’s blood? Hemi had already met them at a full run in the middle of the beach, grabbed the paramedic kit from Hawk, and sprinted back through the trees with it.

  Peter appeared in the doorway as she mounted the steps, and held out a hand towards her. She took it gratefully, and his grip was warm and strong. It was dim inside, and seemed to be full of people, all busy. As she entered, she reeled from a rank, caged-animal odor—it took a moment to register that it was the smell of human bodies unwashed for weeks, and constantly assaulted by fear.

  In the confusion it was so hard to make out Rachel. Hemi was busy with someone on the floor on one side of the hut, and she caught a glimpse of blood and surgical gloves. Peter steered her towards the other side of the hut, to a bunk against the wall, and a blue sleeping bag with someone in it. The face emerging from that sleeping bag. Oh that face. So dear, so very dear.

  She knelt on the floor beside the bunk. “Rachel. Oh my darling. Rachel.”

  “Mum? Is that really you?”

  “Yes it’s me. Here I am darling. I’m right here.”

  Arms fumbled out from the sleeping bag and reached for her. “Mummy. Oh mummy.” The childhood endearment pierced Ellen’s heart and she was overwhelmed. Always she’d been able to be calm and strong when her child was sick, not show her own fear, whatever the crisis. But not this time. Deep, guttural sobs burst from her as they clung to one another. Rachel wept too, a weak mucousy noise, catching in her throat. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  Standing behind Ellen, Peter felt his eyes moisten, and took a slow deep breath, composing his face. He turned and headed outside, looking for the medivac crew.

  On the beach, Peter joined Hawk, and saw a small wiry man he didn’t recognize, hanging off at a distance, fidgety and uncertain. His senses went on full alert, but then he caught a glimpse of the little dragonfly chopper parked round the far sweep of the bay behind their own machine, and the man’s presence made sense. He looked at Hawk and inclined his head in the direction of the other man, a questioning look in his eyes.

  “He’s just killed one of his best mates,” Hawk said. “He’s gutted. Hovered out there for ages waiting for Tom to come back up. Wants us to start a search, even though he knows it would be a useless exercise. And he’s worried about the woman Tom shot.”

  As soon as he’d briefed the arriving medical rescue team, Peter left Hawk to lead them through to the hut, and went to talk to the dragonfly pilot. He would take his details, tell him they’d question him formally later, instruct him to go home. Lift the burden of any further action from the man’s shoulders by a display of uniformed authority.

  But from there, the burden wouldn’t be carried by the uniform, but the shoulders inside it. The shoulders of a flesh-and-blood man who had failed to notice the pain and fear of a friend and colleague, and how despair had disorientated his moral compass and turned him into an enemy. Had seen the breath of that friend and colleague snuffed as swiftly
as a church candle, and would later this day face the task of telling a wife and mother what had happened to the center of her family’s life.

  Peter felt the heaviness of it within him, pushing his feet down further into the gravel as he crunched his way across the beach.

  ***

  Callie sat close to Jack on one of the bunks, keeping out of the way, watchful and tense. It was like being in a backwoods emergency room. They’d stopped Erica’s bleeding, but she needed fresh blood supplies. Rachel’s condition needed to be assessed before they moved her. And so Hemi pumped IV fluids into Erica while the doctor and medivac paramedic working on Rachel connected a drip, tested her blood, asked questions. Ellen moved to the head of the bunk to give them access, and stroked her daughter’s forehead tenderly.

  Hemi glanced up, saw the mood of the two healthier hikers, and grinned his trademark grin. “You guys did a great job with this one, no joke.”

  “Really?” Jack said, astounded.

  Callie said, “But it looks like a massacre in here.”

  “A wound like that, the first couple of minutes are vital. You did everything right. That’s why she’s gonna be fine.” He grinned down at Erica now, who opened her eyes and gave him a weak smile. The morphine was doing its thing. “No dancing for a coupla days though, okay?”

  The other paramedic noticed the exchange and looked over from his station near Rachel’s bunk, and said, quietly, “This one’s doing much better than we expected.”

  Callie’s face crumpled and she began to weep softly as a swirl of emotions went through her. Relief was dominant but there were so many undercurrents. So many losses—of lives, of opportunities, of innocence. She fought to keep the noise down, so she wouldn’t disturb the others.

  ***

  Jack gathered her into his arms and rocked her gently, just letting her weep it out. The encouraging words from the two paramedics seemed to have lightened his body by about a hundred kilograms. Maybe the four of them really were survivors. Maybe they really were safe. He grimaced at his red hands around Callie’s shoulders, but the blood had dried now, so he figured it didn’t matter much, and besides, she was liberally splashed with it anyway. He caught a glance from Peter, who’d paused from sorting the contents of their rucksacks in the corner. “It’s probably not the best holiday we’ve ever had,” Jack said.