Melinda had spent a lot of time on the phone to her family when they’d first arrived in Barrabine. Dave had never said anything about the cost of the calls, but there had been times when the bill had been half as much as his weekly pay cheque.
‘Yeah.’ Mary wiped at her face.
‘He didn’t say where he was heading, or where he was going to stay?’
‘Nah. He’s got plenty of friends. I thought he’d bunk on one of their floors, or just come home.’ Her voice trailed off but then she repeated, ‘I thought he’d come home.’
‘Okay, look, he’s been gone less than twenty-four hours and we now know there was a reason he walked out. In most cases like this, they turn up within a few days. He might just need some air time—clear his head, get his thoughts together,’ Spencer said. ‘The trouble with this case is the abandoned car.’ He paused, and Dave knew it wasn’t only that—it was also the discovery of the handgun. ‘I think we should report him missing and ask if anyone has seen or heard from him in the past day.’
Dave’s heart constricted at Mary’s sharp intake of breath and the low sound she made, but he kept his face impassive.
‘Can you give me some of the names and phone numbers of his friends?’
The baby began to cry again and Mary jiggled him up and down, her despair showing.
‘I’ve got an eighteen-month-old at home,’ he told her. ‘Let me hold him for a while.’
Mary handed the child over and went to get a teledex from beside the phone. She handed it to Spencer.
‘Take it,’ she told him. ‘I know the numbers I need to know off by heart. His closest friends are Billy Keogh, Joel Boundy, but they call him JoBou, and Phil Gettes. They play darts together every Wednesday night.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘At the Barrabine pub.’
With one hand, Dave jotted down the piece of information as Logan sucked on his fist. ‘Are you hungry, little man?’ he asked, concentrating on his writing.
‘Haven’t you got someone we can call to come and be with you?’ Spencer asked. ‘A work colleague or friend?’
‘No. I’ll be fine,’ Mary said as she rubbed at her face. ‘I’ll be fine. I always am.’
Chapter 3
The bright spotlights glaring from the bullbar of the truck didn’t block out the black ink of sky studded with silver stars, and if Larry looked in the right spot, occasionally he’d be able to catch sight of the red flashing lights of the jets flying across the vast outback, linking Cairns with Alice Springs.
Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he could see the outline of the dust kicking up behind him, and the glow of the amber trailer lights picked up flashes of insects on a suicide mission bombing the mesmerising lights.
Behind him, the stock crate rattled loudly as he followed the tortuous corrugated red dirt track. It was unnerving listening to the noise. He was never sure if the banging and crashing was something to be concerned about or not.
He used to pull fuel tankers and they didn’t make any sound, just swayed and pulled on the cab as the liquid slopped around inside the tank. Nothing like what rattled behind him tonight. He’d carted fuel on long hauls up north for years. Until he had his accident. Now he wanted nothing to do with flammable liquids—just something easy, no pressure. Because when he was under pressure all he saw was the suffocating thick black smoke and the dancing flames burning on the ground where the diesel had spilled from the overturned tankers. Although he hadn’t been badly hurt, he could still feel the heat and hear his own screaming as his truck burned on an isolated stretch of highway, out from the Marble Bar roadhouse. A good bang to his knee when he’d hit the steering wheel always reminded him of the accident and ached when he sat for too long.
Thankfully the unloading yards weren’t too far ahead; after fifteen hours of driving he was ready for a stretch and walk-around. He was waiting to see the two-wheel track turn-off, hidden by a cluster of trees. It was the back entrance to the holding station and it worked well. The track was isolated and in the middle of the Simpson Desert; the station bordered sacred lands. Tourists would be rare and locals even rarer. The cattle yards were about eight kilometres in, according to Bulldust’s directions.
Larry squinted at the road, his eyes feeling as though someone had thrown sand into them. Tiredly he rubbed at one eye, keeping the other on the road. A movement caught his attention and he blinked a few times to focus. He drew in a quick breath and his heart kicked up a notch. There shouldn’t be any movement out here.
Leaning forward, he peered through the bug-splattered windscreen, trying to see what it was. Surely it wasn’t a vehicle. He’d driven all day without seeing one, he couldn’t imagine there’d be one now, not at this time of night. Even if there were tourists, they’d be parked up for the night, a cheery campfire blazing.
He wished his sight wasn’t blurry from rubbing at his eyes and the windscreen was clean, because whatever was moving out there was just beyond his headlights.
Not sure if speeding up or slowing down was the right thing to do, Larry decided to speed up, until the lights caught up with the movement.
Wha—? Relief flooded through him.
A mob of camels lethargically ambled down the track, not at all bothered by a large Kenworth truck bearing down on them. Larry slowed and leaned on the airhorn, hoping to scare them off to the side, but they didn’t shift. It didn’t take long to slow down to a crawling pace; twenty ks an hour. If he wasn’t careful the truck would stall.
‘Get out of the way, you fuckers,’ he muttered, adrenalin coursing through him; he was wide awake now.
Finally the leader veered off into the bush and disappeared into the blackness. The others followed suit and Larry took a deep breath and settled back into the rhythm of the engine and the road, and gradually he heard the music that was playing on the stereo again. He was always surprised how, when he got a fright, his hearing seemed to go. AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ was playing now. Sometimes when he was on a long straight stretch, that’s what he felt the road was. Hell. But the rewards would be worth it. Bulldust always paid well, and he could live comfortably during the off-season on three jobs like this and the normal muster.
And what would he do if he didn’t do this anyway? His family had up and gone; his kids didn’t want to have anything to do with him, said he was a loud-mouthed bogan. That had hurt him more than he cared to admit.
George Strait’s ‘Write This Down’ started to play and automatically Larry leaned forward to hit the arrow to skip it. He hated that song. Ever since Jeanie had left him. George sang about how he wanted his ‘baby’ to write down that he loved her and didn’t want her to go. Larry must’ve stuffed it up because he was the one who’d tried to write to Jeanie. He’d told her that he didn’t want her to go, but she hadn’t listened. Instead, she’d done all the talking.
‘I’m sick of you being away all the time,’ she’d told him. ‘You’re never here when I need you. There’s no point in us being together. I’d rather be with someone who comes home every night. We’re done.’
And that was that. She’d left in the ute he’d bought from his old trucking boss, before he’d hooked up with Bulldust. Left him without any wheels, without a wife and without a family.
Still, it didn’t matter, he thought as he watched the road. He was a loner anyway. What would he want with a woman? She’d do nothin’ but keep his bed warm and cook a few meals, and he could do that himself.
Bulldust had proved he was more loyal than Jeanie had ever been anyway. She must’ve thought he was stupid; like he hadn’t heard the rumours from other truckies. The ones who’d told him that she was pulling up her skirt and climbing into the bunks of trucks at the local roadhouse. Did she think he wouldn’t hear when he came home?
Of course Larry had heard and been devastated. Bulldust had patted him on the shoulder and told him not to worry about it. Women like that weren’t worth the hassle. Many weeks later he’d come home to find a newspaper cli
pping stuck to his door. WOMAN FOUND DEAD AT LOCAL ROADHOUSE, the headline had screamed. It hadn’t taken long to work out the woman was his Jeanie. He’d thought she’d died naturally, but as time had gone on and his involvement with Bulldust had deepened, he had begun to realise this might not have been the case.
He’d had to help Bulldust get rid of bodies over the years, and at one stage Larry had thought he’d be able to use that to get out of working with him. Blackmail him. But it was as if Bulldust had known what he was thinking, because his daughter suddenly called him out of the blue. She was pregnant.
Bulldust had smiled when Larry had told him. ‘I thought she’d tell you,’ he’d said. It had just been enough for Larry to know of Bulldust’s involvement. A warning.
He’d coerced her, Larry thought, but he hadn’t cared. Bulldust had made his daughter contact him and he would be forever grateful. Although the communication with his daughter was spasmodic, he was happy with the phone calls and photos of his baby grandson, which came about once a month.
Now the two of them, Bulldust and Larry, were entwined in a way no one else could understand. Larry was committed to Bulldust and would do anything that was asked of him. It helped that he liked the man.
As Larry rounded a corner full of corrugations, the stock crate closest to the cab pulled to the left. Gripping the wheel tightly, he breathed deeply and calmly, just as his counsellor had told him to do when he felt that horrible stirring of panic. He’d never wanted to go and talk to anyone—he’d seen it as a sign of weakness—but the transport company he’d worked for had made him. He would never admit it out loud, but he was grateful he had. The tips the counsellor had given him helped when the dread began to surface.
He felt the dolly pull sideways and the back trailer start a gentle sway from side to side. Larry looked in the rear-view mirror, desperately watching, hoping the trailers didn’t start to tip.
Bulldust had told Larry what to do if the trailers did roll or there was an accident, and that was to run like hell. There was no identification on any of the trailers or the prime mover; the numberplates were false and the serial numbers couldn’t be read. There would be a hell of a mess, probably dead or dying cattle, but that couldn’t be helped. If the prime mover wasn’t damaged then he’d have a getaway vehicle. If it was then the satellite phone would bring help as quickly as possible in the massive distances of Queensland and the Northern Territory.
Not wanting to think about that option as the trailers swayed, Larry continued to breathe through his fear before finally, finally on the straight stretch of dirt road, the trailers pulled in behind the cab and stilled.
And just as they did, the familiar stretch of road came into view and he knew the turn-off was about a kilometre away. He lifted his foot, cracked the truck back a gear and began to slow with a loud rumble.
In the distance there was the glow of yards lit up by spotlights. The fellas this end of the deal, Scotty Wilcox and Ron Dunstan, would be there waiting for him and they would be unloading tonight.
Chapter 4
The cattle yards were empty when Larry pulled up next to the loading ramp. With a loud whoosh of the air brakes, he put his truck into park, turned the key and listened to the tick of the engine and the silence of the country.
It was a relief to be here—no matter how many times he did this run, or one similar, until he was safely on the holding station he never relaxed. There was always the thought a stock squad inspector might pull him up, or someone might report a truck being on a road it shouldn’t be on.
Jumping out of the cab, he stretched and gave a wave to the two silent figures who had morphed out of the darkness and unpinned the gate. In the background a generator thumped away, providing the light into the yards and, Larry hoped, a fridge full of cold beer.
The calves, still missing their mums and clearly hungry and thirsty, bellowed loudly and moved around inside the steel crate, making it rock from side to side.
‘Get the buggers out of there,’ Scotty instructed Ron in a hard voice. ‘Get ’em off and into the yards.’
Scotty stood with his arms crossed, taking everything in. He was about six foot and pure muscle, and it was clear he was in charge.
Larry was very wary of Scotty. He was cold, mean and always angry, with hooded eyes that were devoid of emotion. He’d heard him screaming at Ron once. Called him a useless fuck. Then he’d thrown a punch and Ron had gone down heavily. Scotty had laid the boot in then, and by the time Ron had crawled away, his face had been bloodied, nose broken and his ribs cracked. All because his ute had a flat battery. According to Scotty, that’d been Ron’s fault apparently.
It hadn’t.
‘Got water and hay?’ Larry asked, walking towards the end of the crate, checking the tyres and the lights as he went. He always kept the truck roadworthy—he never wanted there to be a reason for a cop to pull him over.
‘All ready. They’ll sleep well tonight. We’ll brand ’em tomorrow. Give them a day or two here until they stop missin’ mum and grow a few brains, then let ’em out into the wild blue yonder. Won’t see ’em again until they’ve grown a bit.’ Ron encouraged the calves out, and with a startled jump, the first ones began to unload.
They looked around to get their bearings then their noses started to twitch. They could smell water. With a little buck, the first one ran along the raceway until it came out into a large yard with a trough. Within a few minutes the trough was surrounded with calves drinking greedily.
Larry scratched his head, listening to the slurping sound with pleasure. He liked it when the cattle were unloaded and getting a drink and a feed. He was pleased his side of the job was over, now it was time to relax. As usual there were two rolled swags by the campfire, and off to the side was a table loaded with mugs, tinned coffee and sugar, bread and barbecue sauce.
Larry would sleep in the truck with the door locked. Away from Scotty.
He caught the smell of onions and sausages cooking and his stomach gave a grumble. He’d need a feed and a good night’s sleep before he headed back to Nundrew.
The clash of the steel chain in the yards rang out into the cool night air and he waited for it to die away before asking where the beer was.
‘Out the back of the fire,’ Scotty answered in a clipped tone. ‘Don’t drink it all.’ He followed the last of the calves down the raceway and into the holding pen, giving one of the calves a hard tap on its rump to hurry it along. Fastening the chain, he and Ron rounded the edge of the yards and made sure they were escape proof.
Larry found the car fridge running off a battery where Scotty had said it would be. He grabbed two cans and said, ‘Cheers,’ before he popped the top, drinking the first can in one swallow. ‘Nothin’ bloody better,’ he said, opening the second one.
‘Make yourself at home,’ Ron said sarcastically as came over from the yards. He was frowning and rubbing his shin. Going to the fridge, he pulled out a can and tossed it to Scotty then grabbed one for himself.
‘What?’ Larry frowned as he looked over at him.
‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ Ron slumped down on his swag and stared into the flames. The onions and sausages continued to cook in a pot on the fire.
‘What’s up your arse?’ Larry wanted to know as he grabbed a ladle and started to stir the stew. He guessed Ron had been given a kick by one of the calves the way he kept rubbing at his leg. That was enough to make anyone shitty.
‘Long day,’ was the only answer.
‘You reckon? Have a go at mine.’
‘Cut it out, you fuckwits,’ Scotty said. ‘If you can’t play nice, piss off home, Ron.’
Larry sat back and looked at the two men, wondering what had happened to get both of them upset. Ron was usually quiet, trying to stay out of Scotty’s way.
They all sat silently, drinking their beer and waiting for the food to finish cooking. It was useless to try to have a conversation with the noise the calves were putting up.
After thr
ee beers Scotty got up to check the camp oven.
‘Grub’s up,’ he indicated.
Ron inclined his head towards the camp kitchen. ‘All yours,’ he said to Larry.
Larry accepted the plate, which was piled high with sausage stew and two chunks of damper. ‘Thanks.’
The other two men filled their plates too, then settled down to eat.
Larry was the first to finish and he wiped his plate clean with the damper. Scotty moved with purpose through the camp, washing his plate and putting it back into the tuckerbox.
‘What’s going on in Queensland?’ he asked.
Larry shrugged. ‘Same as usual.’
‘Did you see anyone on the road?’
‘No. I drove fifteen hours and didn’t see a single vehicle.’
‘I hear the stock squad are around.’
‘I didn’t see them.’
‘Make sure you don’t. And make sure you don’t draw attention to yourself.’ Scotty pointed his finger at Larry. ‘You know what’ll happen otherwise.’
‘I don’t draw attention,’ Larry answered.
‘Keep it that way.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He got up and washed his plate. Grabbing a couple of beers, he started to walk towards the truck. ‘Reckon I’ll get some shut-eye.’
Once in the cab, Larry made sure the doors were locked and settled back in the bunk. Taking a sip of the ice-cold liquid, he thought about the two men getting ready to sleep under the stars. What did Bulldust have on them? It would be something, because that’s how Bulldust commanded loyalty.
With blackmail.
Chapter 5
Dave let himself into the house and smiled. He could hear the giggles of his daughter, Bec, while Melinda cooed to her. It must be bathtime.
‘Hi,’ he called out. ‘I’m back!’
‘Down here,’ Melinda called.
Good, he thought. Maybe Melinda would be in a reasonable mood. Over the last three months he’d never been sure what he was going to be met with when he arrived home. She’d alternated from being manically happy to being surly and uncommunicative. As she had been when they’d first arrived at Barrabine.
Without a Doubt Page 3