Desert Demon (Foley & Rose Book 7)
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Desert Demon
Foley & Rose Book 7
Gary Gregor
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Dear Reader
Author Bio
Copyright (C) 2021 Gary Gregor
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter
Published 2021 by Next Chapter
Edited by Tyler Colins
Cover art by CoverMint
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
On the morning of 9th June 1987, on the banks of the Victoria River in Australia’s Northern Territory, German tourist Joseph Thomas Schwab shot and killed father and son, Marcus and Lance Bullen, who were on a fishing holiday in the remote and isolated area.
Five days later, at a campsite at the Pentecost River Crossing in Western Australia, Schwab shot and killed Phillip Walkemeyer, his fiancée Julie Warren, and their friend, Terry Bolt.
Following an intense police search, Schwab was eventually spotted on 19th June 1987 hiding in remote bushland near Fitzroy Crossing in Western Australia. When Police approached and identified themselves, Schwab fired on them and after a protracted shoot-out, he was shot and killed.
While this book is a work of fiction, it was inspired by the deeds described above and I respectfully dedicate it to the families of those who lost their lives at the hands of a deranged killer and to all the police officers from both the Northern Territory and Western Australia involved in the manhunt and eventual deadly confrontation with Schwab.
Acknowledgments
A number of people play a role in getting an author's story from an initial idea to a published book. For some of them, that role is small, for others it is significant. All who contribute in some way, regardless the level of input, are important to me, and although it might be cliché, it is true that this book would never have seen the light of day without each of them.
If I must nominate just a few, I would start with my former colleagues in the Northern Territory Police Force. These wonderful folks are the inspiration for my characters and, while those characters are fictional, I occasionally draw on the personality traits of some of those I have met while in the job. If you recognise yourself in any of them, please remember that you are there because you inspire me.
My beautiful wife, Lesley, who tolerates my long hours in front of the computer without complaint, I love you and I thank you, although I still insist my love of writing is not an obsession.
Last, but by no means least, I thank all at Next Chapter Publishing. The Next Chapter team took a punt on an unknown, and that's rare in this business. I hope I can justify your gamble. I know I'll never stop trying to honor that leap of faith; thank you.
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Forty-two-year-old Gordon Watson was the owner and licensee of the Mount Dare Hotel situated in South Australia, on the western edge of Witjira National Park in the Simpson Desert and just ten kilometres south of the Northern Territory border. The Mount Dare Hotel was about as far away from Adelaide, South Australia’s capital city, as anyone could be without being labelled a Territorian. Watson owned and managed the ‘Outback’ pub jointly with his forty-three-year-old wife Margaret, and their fourteen-year-old daughter Jacinta.
The decision to take the not insignificant gamble and buy the remote, extremely isolated hotel three years earlier was precipitated by the much anticipated and feared closure of the General Motors Holden vehicle manufacturing plant, located in the satellite city of Elizabeth, approximately twenty-five kilometres north-east of Adelaide.
Gordon and Margaret first met on the vehicle assembly line at the huge GMH plant when they were both in their late teens and had worked there, virtually side-by-side, ever since. It was a repetitive job, some would say mundane and boring but, after twenty-five years on the line, it was all either of them knew how to do. Their combined income was sufficient and adequate for them to enjoy a reasonably comfortable, middle-class lifestyle, but the upcoming plant closure meant there would be in excess of nine hundred former employees competing for just a handful of job opportunities in totally unfamiliar, unrelated fields of employment.
It was the Watson’s love of the great Australian adventure that motivated their ultimate decision. They had, ever since Jacinta was a toddler, enjoyed annual holiday sojourns into the great Aussie outdoors; and the more remote, the better.
At first it was in a tent, strapped securely on top of their conventional two-wheel-drive vehicle, a Holden of course, which was packed tight with all the necessary camping gear. Then, as their confidence and love of the Aussie Outback grew, they graduated to a four-wheel-drive, another Holden, and an off-road caravan.
They were good times and, at the end of a long day exploring the surrounding wilderness with Jacinta, Gordon and Margaret, while sitting around a camp-fire sipping wine, often talked of how wonderful it would be to live permanently in ‘the bush’.
Having worked so long for the company, both Gordon and Margaret received substantial superannuation payouts when their employment came to a premature end. This, combined with their slightly more than modest savings, left them not wealthy but reasonably comfortable, and confident they could survive financially for some time while they searched for employment opportunities they could enjoy together, as a family.
By pure happenstance, Gordon spotted a small article in the weekend newspaper reporting that the historic Mount Dare Hotel in the far north of the state had been placed on the market by the current owners. As a family, the Watsons had briefly visited the hotel a few years earlier on one of their more extended Outback getaways to the distant Dalhousie Thermal Springs. The Springs were a popular camping spot approximately seventy kilometres south of Mount Dare Hotel, and for those hardy travelers brave enough to traverse the vast distance over rough, corrugated dirt roads, it was an idyllic location to stop, camp for a while, and soak in the invigorating warmth of over one-hundred-and-twenty thermal springs.
Gordon remembered how he, Margaret, and Jacinta loved the history, remoteness, and sheer beauty of the Witjira National Park and, considering it was just a small part of the huge Simpson Desert landscape, for the Watsons, it put a whole new perspective on the term ‘desert’.
He remembered how, on continuing their journey, they talked for hours about how wonderful it would be to live in that part of the country. Now, by a strange yet fortuitous twist of fate, it see
med that all the stars were aligned, and this was their chance to finally live the dream.
The asking price for the hotel was in keeping with a potential purchaser’s expectations, given the geographical isolation of the place and, fortunately, it also worked in favour of the Watson’s budget considerations. They could afford to buy the pub without the need to take out a mortgage against their current home. It would knock their savings around somewhat but at least they didn’t have to spend a lot of time convincing their bank manager that buying into a remote hotel on the fringes of the Simpson Desert was a financially viable proposition. It was a bold career change by anyone’s standards, but they had lost the only job they ever had; they had reached the middle-age milestone and, sometimes in life, you simply had to look beyond the negatives and dive into the deep end.
Realistically, there were only two reasonably well-formed roads leading to the Mount Dare Hotel, one from beyond the Northern Territory border to the north, and one from Adelaide over thirteen-hundred kilometres to the south. Neither road was sealed over its complete distance and, regardless of the direction of travel, from the north or the south, traversing either was totally dependent on the prevailing weather conditions. There were other ways to move across Simpson Desert but such ill-defined, challenging tracks were generally used by the more adventurous and dedicated four-wheel-drivers, rather than the annual, family-orientated tourist using their annual leave for a brief, exciting, perhaps once-in-a-lifetime excursion to arguably one of Australia’s most remote desert attractions.
It rained rarely in the Simpson Desert, but when it did, it almost always rained heavily, sometimes for days on end without respite. The roads became impassable, even to the most enthusiastic four-wheel-drivers, and it was not uncommon to find the odd fool-hardy motorist bogged to the axles and stranded in the middle of nowhere, desperately waiting for help to arrive and save them from their own stupidity.
Tourist attractions like Dalhousie Springs and Mount Dare became inaccessible in the wet and were subsequently cut-off from to the outside world, sometimes for days, or even weeks at a time. After three years managing the Mount Dare Hotel, Gordon and Margaret Watson knew better than to try attempt to head south. The rain had not affected the southern part of the Northern Territory, however, and with the border just ten kilometres away, it was the best and only option if they were still determined to holiday back in Adelaide.
The Watsons elected to take the northern road, not because they preferred to, but because the southern road was closed. Ultimately, it was a decision that would cost them their lives.
“Look at that,” Margaret Watson said, pointing at a dust cloud on the road some distance ahead of them. “That’s the first car we’ve seen since we left the pub.”
“Someone else who doesn’t want to get stranded in the mud in the middle of nowhere,” Gordon suggested.
Fourteen-year-old Jacinta yawned and sat up from where she had been napping, leaning against the side window in the back seat behind her father. “What is it, Mum?” she asked sleepily.
“Just another car up ahead, darling,” Margaret answered. “Go back to sleep, dear.”
Jacinta fluffed up her favorite pillow she’d brought with her from home, laid back against the window and promptly fell back to sleep.
Although they were traveling at a sensible and cautious speed given the rough, corrugated road conditions, the Watsons seemed to be gaining rapidly on the vehicle ahead.
“He’s going bloody slow,” Gordon muttered.
“Probably being over careful,” Margaret offered. “It’s been a while since they graded this road.”
Accordingly, as the gap between them closed, the dust cloud thrown up by the vehicle ahead thickened considerably, offering little more than an occasional glimpse of the other vehicle and forcing Gordon to slow down to a much safer speed lest he run into the back of the car ahead. It was a four-wheel-drive utility he noticed through the swirling dust, with a soft, canvas canopy over the rear cargo bed and two spare wheels secured on a roof-rack over the cabin.
“Can you go around him?” Margaret asked.
“Yeah, maybe,” Gordon said. “But he’s driving in the centre of the road and it’s hard to see what’s up ahead of him through this dust.”
“I’m sure it will be safe,” Margaret assured him. “What are the odds of there being three vehicles on this road at any one time?”
“I’ll pull out a bit until I can see past him.” Gordon began to move slowly to the right, drifting beyond the centre of the road to a point where he could get a view of the road ahead of the utility.
Suddenly, through the dust cloud, the brake lights on the utility glowed red and the vehicle slowed and stopped in the middle of the road.
“Shit!” Gordon exclaimed loudly. He pressed his foot hard on the brake pedal and slowed to a stop less than twenty metres behind the utility. “What the hell is he doing?”
“Maybe he’s got engine trouble,” Margaret suggested. “Move up alongside him and we’ll ask him if he needs help.”
That was the second bad decision the Watsons made.
Gordon eased his foot from the brake pedal, pulled out and moved slowly forward, coming to a stop when Margaret’s passenger side window drew level with the driver’s side window of the utility.
Jacinta opened her eyes and, straining against the tug of the seatbelt, leaned forward between her parents. “Why are we stopping?”
“We think this man has engine trouble, Jac,” Gordon answered, using his daughter’s nickname. “Maybe we can help him.” He leaned forward and looked past Margaret at the vehicle next to them. “Wind your window down, hon.”
Margaret pushed the button on the armrest of her door and the window slid silently down.
The stranger in the utility was alone. For a moment, he sat motionless behind his closed, dust-covered window, staring across at Margaret peering back at him through her open window.
“Are you okay, sir?” Margaret called.
The man did not stir.
“Sir, are you okay? Can we help? Are you having engine trouble?”
The stranger glanced down briefly, and his window began to slide down. He looked back at Margaret and smiled.
“We thought you might be having car trouble,” Margaret smiled back at the man.
Suddenly, Margaret’s eyes widened in fear. A freezing chill clawed at her chest and ice-cold fingers wrapped tightly around her heart and squeezed.
The man moved slightly in his seat, and then his hand appeared out through his open window. In his fist he held a gun. He reached out into the narrow void between the two vehicles, smiled even wider and pulled the trigger—twice.
The first bullet hit Margaret slightly above her right eye. Her head jerked violently sideways, and a bright-red blood spray spattered the windscreen. Restrained by her seatbelt, she slumped sideways, across the centre console between herself and her husband. She never even heard the gunshot.
Gordon Watson never had time to register shock or horror at what had just happened to his beloved wife. The second bullet, fired almost instantaneously with the first, hit him in the centre of the forehead, just above his nose. His head flew back, cracked hard against the driver’s side window, and then he slumped forward, his head crashing against the top of the steering wheel. Gordon had heard the shot that killed his wife—he’d never heard the second one.
Gordon’s foot slipped from the brake pedal and the car, still in ‘Drive’ mode, began to move slowly forward, veering to the righthand verge of the road. It bumped across the slightly raised verge and finally jolted to a sudden stop, wedged on top of a large clump of desert spinifex approximately twenty metres from where the Watsons’ had stopped to help a fellow motorist. Gordon’s lifeless hand, still resting on the gearshift lever, reacted to a nerve spasm and nudged the lever forward into ‘Neutral’ and now the vehicle, with its engine idling quietly and the driver’s side-front wheel raised slightly off the ground, rested at an odd
angle on top of the spinifex. The wheel turned slowly for a few revolutions and then finally stopped.
Jacinta screamed and screamed. Confused and disorientated from sleep, she had no real concept of what had just happened, except that it was bad. Her parents were slumped awkwardly in their seats in the front of the vehicle and there was blood—so much blood. It was all over the front windscreen and her father’s side window, and both their faces. All she could do was scream. Rational, constructed thought was non-existent. She screamed as the vehicle rolled across the road, over the verge, and onwards, until it came to rest on top of the spinifex. The ungodly screaming pierced the relative silence of the isolated location. She never stopped screaming until the passenger-side rear door opened. She turned her head away from the horrible visions in the front seat and looked across at the smiling face leaning into the vehicle.
A dirty, unwashed face leered across the narrow gap between herself and the stranger. Then he raised his hand, and for the first time, Jacinta saw the gun. In the confined space of the rear seat, it looked huge. Frozen by terror into numbing silence, she wanted to scream but could not. Fear gripped her so tightly, her throat contracted to a point where she could hardly breathe. And then she didn’t—ever again.
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