The Cait Lennox Box Set

by Roderick Donald

  Boss-man had given his underling no option. Frog had to leave the state. And now. It went with the territory of being a member of the Warlocks and a professional criminal. And Boss-man was the boss.

  “How will I know him . . . what did you say his name was again?”

  “Dirtbag. You can’t miss him. You’ll certainly hear him. He’ll be the fat dude on the hog and he’ll probably arrive with a few mates. He belongs to the Nunyas.”

  “Eh?”

  “You heard me, shit for brains, the Nunyas, as in Nun’ Ya Fuckin’ Business.”

  “Hey Moose, yeah, had to get rid of Frog, but he’s gone away for a while. Problem solved.” Boss-man was on his mobile, talking to the next person up the food chain.

  “For fuck’s sake, no names. How many times I got to tell you, dickhead?”

  “Yeah. Slipped out. My bad.”

  “Mate, you just got out of the nick,” replied the voice on the other end of the call. “You trying to do your best to get put back inside?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Don’t tell me to piss off, arsewipe, or I’ll put you back there myself.”

  With the police having the power to wiretap these days, it was strictly de rigueur not to say anything while on mobile, unless it was a burner which was used for a job and then thrown away afterward. And even then talk had to be circumspect.

  “You piss off,” Boss-man said again, this time with a nasty inflection to his voice. Boss-man had a bad temper, a really, really bad temper, and he was starting to get pissed off big-time with all the crap that was being heaped on him by the likes of Moose and Mongrel.

  “And don’t threaten me,” hissed Boss-man over the phone, “or you’re fuckin’ dead meat. I know where your family lives.”

  Boss-man was a biker and Moose was one of his “business” contacts outside the MC club whom they dealt with. He was a member of the Warlocks, a small-time white supremacy motorcycle gang with maybe thirty or forty patched members in the Melbourne chapter, and strong links to other gangs around the country. And the Warlocks had one huge bonus over their opposition: a brilliant drug-crazed chemist on the payroll who manufactured the most amazingly pure crystal meth. Not on-again, off-again shit that was great one batch and really bad the next. His labs never blew up, his product was always good, and it didn’t kill people, which was a bonus.

  Unless they OD’d of course, and then it was their own fault.

  And Moose was one of the Warlocks’ major upline distributors. He was a well-connected lawyer who’d had his license to practice suspended several years ago because of a nasty love affair with cocaine that saw him raid his trust account to feed his burgeoning habit. When Moose was still at the Bar, he had successfully kept Boss-man and a few other members of the Warlocks out of jail and on the streets. And as is often the way with corrupt professionals, he ended up one of Boss-man’s primary dealers who took as much crystal meth off his hands as Boss-man could supply him with.

  To Boss-man’s knowledge, Moose was mates with Mongrel, as far as anybody could be with that prick, so it paid not to annoy him too much . . . unless of course Moose crossed the line, then all bets were off. Moose might have been useful, have good connections, move heaps of meth and know how to launder money, but he wasn’t patched.

  The Warlocks’ cook was their cash cow, and Boss-man was a valuable part of the team, charged with “protecting” their asset. Boss-man was certainly above cannon fodder in the pecking order, and much more user friendly than Mongrel, who, as the Warlocks’ president, was just a plain thug. Boss-man had handy links to the underworld, plus his sheer size, shaved head, and intimidating looks made him a useful enforcer when a heavy was needed. He was used to violence and survival in a dog-eat-dog world, hated immigrants and wogs, and thought “wife” was an acronym for “washing, ironing, fucking, etcetera.”

  Boss-man had worked his way up through the ranks of the Warlocks, proving his loyalty by inflicting a beating here and doing a job there, and he was currently sergeant at arms in charge of a small platoon of petty criminals, thugs, and drug dealers, making money for the faceless men in their suits above him . . . and skimming a large portion off the top for himself, and the Warlocks of course.

  They were all doing very well, thank you very much.

  And Boss-man had the camaraderie of all his brothers in the Warlocks. They stuck together like shit to a blanket. The motto plastered across the back of their leather vests said it all: Only Death Separates Us. Their trademark tattoo which they all had was a cobra. Boss-man’s started at his neck and wound its way down his left arm, its head menacingly looking like it was about to leap off his body and strike, adding a sting to a vicious left hook.

  Boss-man and Moose’s relationship was very symbiotic, but Boss-man couldn’t let him know that, so he always played hardball with him. Boss-man looked after distribution for the Warlocks and needed Moose for his contacts, knowledge of the law, and his ability to move the meth—kilos of it—and in return, Moose needed Boss-man and the Warlocks to feed him a continuous supply of ice. And enforcement when needed. Plus Moose had valuable contacts to launder dirty money through.

  “And you guys got to pull your heads in. Go to ground. Word’s out that the cops are starting to make some headway. Think they’re already onto Frog.”

  Moose had made the connection between Boss-man and Cait’s abduction after he had seen the identikit in the paper. And Moose knew that if he was able to make the connection, it certainly wouldn’t be long before those dickhead cops did as well. Or maybe one of his rivals who wanted to see Boss-man put away. So Moose confronted Boss-man about his involvement and much to his surprise, he fessed up. In fact, Boss-man even asked Moose to keep his ear to the ground for any news regarding the police investigations.

  “Yeah, whatever. Just let me know half an hour before they knock my door down,” Boss-man chided.

  Boss-man lived outside the law and really couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the bitch. Or the police, for that matter. It would have been nice to scare her out of her wits and shut her up for good, but she probably got the message in any case. Besides, if it all started getting too hot, he’d just disappear for a while. Maybe go to Thailand where the whores were cheap, and the drugs even cheaper.

  Cait woke abruptly, bathed in a lather of cold sweat, her pajamas glued to her body.

  Visions of the cobra had returned, threatening her, intimidating her. As usual she had been riding on the snake’s back, clinging for dear life as it twisted and turned, throwing her around as if she was astride a bucking bull in a sideshow. But this time when the beast turned its huge bald head to attack, opening the black chasm that substituted for its mouth, Cait held her ground and gazed back with a Medusa stare that was intense enough to turn the vile apparition to stone.

  But then the serpent fled. And Cait woke, gasping for air, but not from a nightmare; rather, it was more like she’d just had an epiphany.

  She had faced up to the beast!

  Cait, Jools, and G were outside 21 Squares, sitting on a mix of inverted plastic milk crates which doubled as seats and classroom castoffs from Elwood High School: wooden chairs with curved backs that still bore the wear and tear of past students, plus their graffiti. They had Mia with them, G’s beloved border collie, and she was currently scavenging around the empty tables for any morsels of food which had inadvertently ended up on the ground.

  “Large cap for me. Mum, you having a latte?” Jools had her nose in a copy of the Weekend Australian Magazine which someone had left behind and was currently engrossed in an article about a woman who’d had a near-death experience.

  “Sorry? Oh, yeah, latte please.”

  “G. The usual?”

  Kiwi Dave had spied Cait outside and came over to serve them personally. He didn’t really need to as he knew they’d come inside to the counter, but well, Cait and Jools were there and they were both hotties at opposite ends of the age spectrum, so it gave him some eye candy and helped br
eak up the morning’s frenetic activity. In fact, he knew exactly what they would order before they even opened their mouths.

  Unless they wanted some food of course.

  “Yeah, cool,” said G, nodding in time to the Foo Fighters as Dave Grohl belted out their song “Rope” in the background, its high-intensity beat driving the cold away.

  G may have been in his mid-fifties, but he was a child of the seventies and had never lost his love of pile-driving music. A vestige of his misspent youth he would joke about when he was in the mood to shock: “You know, sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. My gen invented it.”

  G was like that. He liked to throw it out there to see the response. Cait and Dec knew about their father’s past—well, the parts he divulged from time to time—and respected him even more for having survived the days of peace and love . . . and the odd joint or ten.

  But that was another age, a memory long buried in the distant past. Now G was a father, a husband, a businessman, a confidant, and occasional guru to family and friends. He had a high-paying job in IT, a mortgage, a dog, and was still married to his first love and soul mate, Jools.

  Regardless, Cait thought it was a hoot that her father was still into rock ’n’ roll in a big way. He was soooo unlike most of her friends’ dads.

  It had been raining nonstop for the past four days and finally the sun had broken through, providing some respite to the monotony of a bleak and cold, gray Melbourne winter. There was still a chill in the shade, but the recent rains had scrubbed the air clean and the penetrating warmth of the sun was like taking an instant happy pill.

  “What a bonus to sit outside for a change and soak up some rays,” commented G, looking up through sailor’s eyes at the powder blue sky, transfixed by the puffy white clouds that were being blown south by a high atmospheric breeze.

  The peacefulness of the moment was rudely shattered by a loud pop-pop-thump-pop-pop-thump sound at a decibel rate that had to be pushing the envelope past what was legal. A Harley Davidson that had been cruising past suddenly accelerated to get through the traffic lights on the corner . . . followed by another, and another, and another. A total of seven bikers shot through the intersection with an urgency resembling a rolling grid start at a racetrack and the starting line was obviously the pedestrian crossing area running across the road.

  Cait immediately felt goose bumps cover her body like a rash. A cold shiver shot down her spine as a threatening, ominous presence enveloped her, invading the calm of the moment.

  “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” said Jools, noticing that Cait’s pallor had instantly changed from winter rosy to a grayish tinge, her blue eyes widening and lips subconsciously parting as her jaw dropped slightly.

  “It’s, ah . . . I can’t describe it, Mum. It’s like someone, or something, just tried to enter my body. It felt really evil.”

  Cait quickly shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, her upper body continuing the invasive movement down toward her hips like a stadium crowd doing the wave. It was as if she was attempting to cast off whatever it was that had momentarily invaded her space.

  The bikers! Jools thought.

  “Cait, do you think it was the Harleys? Did they remind you of something that happened? Maybe you heard them when you were bound up in the back of the van?”

  “No, Mum. That’s the first time it’s ever happened. Ah, must be imagining things.”

  “Cait, write it on your mind map. You never know.”

  It just may be a premonition, Jools quietly thought to herself.

  “I’ve been a bit edgy lately. Sorry. The noise just shocked me, that’s all.” Since her kidnapping, Cait had only just started to venture out of the house on a regular basis over the past week or so.

  “Must be a healing thing happening.” But she didn’t sound too convinced.

  The noise of the Harleys had scared the daylights out of Mia, and she was currently trying to climb onto G’s lap.

  “Mia! Stop that! Don’t be such a wimp,” said G, pushing her off his knees and guiding her to lie down under his legs. As he was calming Mia, stroking her soft ears, he was listening to Cait and Jools’s conversation, sensing that Jools was having one of her mentoring moments with Cait.

  “Cait, flashbacks and strange revelations . . .” G paused to gather his thoughts so what he was about to say came out the right way. “They’re a normal part of recovery. It’s your mind letting go of memories it’s been trying to suppress.”

  “Dad, I’ve studied psychology, remember. But you’re right. I’m sure all these weird premonitions and dreams that I’ve been having are just part of the recovery process.”

  “Hey Caitie, it’s great that you can recognize that. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow and let it happen,” said G.

  Cait nodded.

  G paused, then continued, “It’s hard to self-heal, especially the mind. Sometimes you need an outsider to point out the obvious. Weird, heh?”

  “Suppose you’re right.”

  “You’ve got to be aware of something first before it can become obvious. It’s a chicken and egg thing.”

  “Never thought of it like that. Yeah, you’re right of course.”

  “So maybe Jools is right. Add the Harleys to your mind map. You just never know.”

  “Jesus, did you hear those Harleys before?” said Kiwi Dave in his strong south island New Zealand accent, instantly killing G’s conversation with Cait. He placed their coffees down on the low table and continued, “Almost rattled the cups off my espresso machine!”

  He snuck a furtive glance at Cait and Jools as he wiped the table, inadvertently catching Jools’s eye. He noticed how she had worn her hair down today, her friendly face framed by her flaming, wavy, auburn red hair that bounced off her shoulders as she looked up. Dave felt himself blush—yet again, damn it!—as Jools returned the glance with one of her infectious smiles that always, almost magically, sucked Dave in every time.

  You really are a MILF. Cait certainly comes from a good gene pool, Dave half said to himself as he spun around to return to the relative safety of his beloved espresso machine.

  “Think Dave’s got the hots for Mum,” teased Cait. “You better watch out, Dad!” G took his nose out from his newspaper and half smiled, more at the fact that Cait was actually almost laughing for a change instead of her doom and gloom persona she’d adopted of late.

  “Yeah, I’ll grab a couple of tats on the way home. I might have some stiff competition here.”

  “You better not, darling husband—I like your virgin skin as it is, thank you very much.”

  “So, how’s my favorite goddaughter doing?” Steve looked at Cait and thought about how the spark that was always such a delightful part of her usual bubbly personality was somehow missing. Instead, there was an aura of darkness that seemed to be draped over her very presence, weighing her down as surely if she had a ball and chain around her neck. He couldn’t pin it down, but it was like Cait was wearing the shadows of her innermost self on the outside.

  Cait was in her usual spot, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, back against the window. Since waking up earlier she’d been glued to her mind map, tracing the colored spaghetti lines with her eyes, looking for clues. Jools had suggested to her daughter in one of her recent “mentoring” sessions to just open herself up to The Gift and let it help find a pattern:

  “There’s a hidden portal out there, Cait, a threshold that you need to cross, and The Gift will reveal itself . . . and it’s not really hidden or difficult to find; you just need to know where to look.

  Cait, we need to talk about your heritage; about the long line of magical women who are in your bloodline. There’s a mystical and secret world out there—a parallel world—a world of the Druids that has been passed down in your maternal line by secret word of mouth for thousands of years.

  The Druids are your ancestors; they’re in your DNA. And the female Druids were shamans—masters of s
hapeshifting and the healing arts. They were both mystical and magical at the same time.

  And you are directly descended from an ancient maternal line of Druids. These women lived apart from their families for part of each year on the Île de Sein, off the coast of Brittany, where a sisterhood of miracle workers practiced their magical healing arts, and also on the Isle of Avalon. That’s the place where King Arthur was taken to heal after he was mortally injured at the Battle of Camlann while fighting Mordred. This magical place was a training ground for sorceresses and healers and is part of the lost world of Atlantis.

  Cait, these are your ancestors, and they’re trying to communicate with you. Listen to them. Let them help you and guide you. They’ll open up a gateway to the Otherworld—their world—and introduce you to eolas—the Gaelic term for knowledge of the magical arts.”

  But Cait wasn’t in the mood for Jools’s mumbo jumbo today. Rather, she was too intent on finding a way through the maze of possibilities that were in front of her right now on her mind map.

  I know there’s a link there . . . somewhere.

  Cait looked up at Steve and her eyes smiled, calling him over, but it was one of those sad smiles that conveyed the distinct impression of someone who was spending half their life searching, half crying. Steve was momentarily lost for words, wanting to help but not knowing what to say.

  “Ah, Cait . . . I’m . . . I’m, ah . . . so sorry. G said you were doing it tough. What can I do to help?” Steve’s attempt at a sentence hung in the air as he entered Cait’s bedroom and uncomfortably eased himself down onto the floor next to her, his knees cracking as he tucked his legs underneath his backside and sat on his haunches. The experience of having three daughters himself, his twins being close to Cait’s age, had taught him that sometimes it was best to say nothing; all they wanted in times like this was just to know that someone was there for them. They’d speak to him when they were good and ready.