Red Centre

by O.G. Gough

  Chris peered over the steering wheel. The road lasted forever. He wasn’t used to such an uninhabited place; the surroundings alien. To him, this sparse, ancient land had turned to powdered rust—everywhere, rusty, red dirt.

  Jetlag had well and truly set in. He palmed tired, bloodshot eyes. Being in the air for over twenty-two hours and another fifteen hours on the road had taken its toll. He hated traveling. Traveling for work all the time had almost made him feel like a vagabond. The company would fly him all over stateside for meetings and at times meaningless business decisions. If he had to drive more than twenty minutes, it was too far.

  But this time it wasn’t business or pleasure.

  The task ahead of him was daunting in this sparse, foreign land. His body was also struggling to adjust to the hot climate. He had just come from Denver, where there was snow on the ground, to this—a barren wasteland. Hell was cooler than this place.

  Out of the hazy horizon, a large road train came into focus. A two-hundred-ton truck, pulling four trailers. A lot bigger than a standard Rocky Mountain double. It was heading straight for him—head on.

  Chris flashed his lights and honked his horn. “Crazy son-of-a-bitch!”

  The truck replied, blasting its large horn and flashing all its lights. The two vehicles closed in on each other. Chris eased off the gas, double guessing himself. The large truck wasn’t budging, holding its lane.

  Within seconds the truck was so close he could almost read its number plate. The truck was massive, its large, steel bull bar covered by large spotlights, ready to smash anything and everything out of its way. The rough driver waved his arm to get Chris to move aside. He wasn’t moving for anybody. With his load and weight he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. The truck horn blared again.

  Chris jerked the steering wheel, pulling into the left lane, his wheels catching the edge of the road, sending dust into the air. Not a moment too soon. The truck barely missed the Cherokee, shaking it violently as it blew past.

  Chris slammed the brakes, pulling over onto the dirt shoulder to take a breather.

  Both hands covered his face, rubbing his weary eyes and cheeks. What a day. He closed his eyes and flopped his head against the seat rest. It felt good to close his eyes for a moment, but when he did all he saw was the black road imprinted on his brain.

  A sudden knock on his window jolted his body. Chris slid his hands from his face, expecting to see a disgruntled truck driver—ready to kick his ass. Instead a young women in her mid twenties indicated for him to wind down the window. The first thing he noticed was her khaki uniform.

  What could she want? he thought, while lowering the window.

  The young woman was plain and earthy—no makeup, hair in a ponytail to keep it out of her way.

  “Ya right, mate?!” she said in a strong Aussie accent.

  Chris squinted at her, trying to understand her foreign lingo.

  “Whatta ya think ya doin’? You almost got wiped out back there! You could kill someone! You gotta be more careful!”

  Her voice was loud and quick. Chris could barely catch what she was saying, but he knew from her tone that she wasn’t happy. He eyed her uniform, trying to figure out if she was a cop. Her name badge read, “Ranger Lisa.” Luckily, she was only a park ranger.

  Lisa’s eyes wandered around the inside of the Cherokee: the leather seats, map sprawled out. She looked him up and down. His fine attire, his short, military-style hair. “Where ya heading in such a fancy car?”

  “I’m looking for the town of Hermannsburg,” Chris said in his rich, American accent.

  “Canadian, eh? No wonder you were on the wrong side of the road. Bloody hell.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s just down the road.” Lisa pointed in the direction he was already facing. “Keep heading the way you’re going. You’ll see the sign.”

  “Thanks … arrr, mate.”

  Lisa turned to make her way back to her well-used, beat-up old Toyota truck. “Stay to the left, remember,” she yelled back at him.

  Chris hung his head out the window and shouted, “Hey! You wouldn’t happen to know a Frank Corbin, would you?”

  Lisa stopped, turning back to Chris. “He know you’re coming?”

  “No. He doesn’t know me.”

  “You a reporter?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “He doesn’t like people just dropping by.”

  ***

  “As I told you and your wife on the phone, there was no point coming out here,” said Sergeant Jack MacKenzie of the Hermannsburg Police Station. “Your son’s disappearance has been turned over to the Missing Persons Unit.”

  Chris sat across the desk from MacKenzie. They were in a small, rundown office with faded, white walls. An old, pale-blue filing cabinet that looked fifty years old sat in the corner. Backed up paperwork lay everywhere. The old furniture matched the setting. MacKenzie was a country cop, in his mid fifties; a little overweight. He was in charge around here. The town only had around six hundred people. It was a small, outback Australian country town. Where lawns should be, dirt and dust decorated home fronts. Harsh conditions.

  Chris slid a small photo of Shawn, his teenage son, across the desk towards MacKenzie. “This is a recent photo of Shawn.”

  MacKenzie reached forward, retrieving the photo. “The one you emailed me was sufficient ...”

  Chris looked on with hope. MacKenzie tapped his fingers on the desk, staring down at the photo of the young man. He looked back into Chris’ desperate eyes. “Thank you. I’ll add this to his file and let you know if we find out anything else.” MacKenzie locked his fingers together, resting them on his gut. He swayed back and forth on his chair, very relaxed.

  Anger consumed Chris. His body tensed and for a moment he tried to speak but couldn’t. Were they taking his son’s disappearance seriously?

  “Don’t just file it! Get it out to your men!”

  MacKenzie leaned forward, resting his hands on his desk. “I realize this is a tough time for you and your family.” He tapped the desk with his thick fingers. “I assure you, the Missing Persons Unit will do all they can to track down your son.”

  “Where’s the search party?” Chris looked around the small, ugly office and at one cop who didn’t seem to do anything, judging by the amount of paperwork on his desk. “Where’s the search helicopter?”

  MacKenzie calmly opened his top drawer, retrieving a folded map of the Northern Territory. He unfolded it across his desk and grabbed a pen to use as a pointer. “You Yankees just don’t get it. The Territory is twice as big as Texas. Germany could fit in it four times, and it’s made up of desert and rocks.” MacKenzie held out the pen to Chris. “Show me where we should start looking.”

  Chris scooted forward on his chair, taking the pen. He looked over the map for a moment, then proceeded to draw a large circle around Hermannsburg and a nearby national park, Finke Gorge National Park. He tapped the pen on the park. “This was his last known location.”

  MacKenzie was gruff. Deadpan. “We looked there already. So did the rangers.” He got to his feet to show Chris out. “Do you get along with your son, Mr. Marshall?”

  Chris swallowed. “Sure, but he’s still a teenager—so we don’t always see eye to eye.”

  “How did ya feel about him coming out to a foreign country, so far away, at such a young age?”

  “I wasn’t happy about it … but he’s an adult now. He makes his own choices. We’re close to our son. He’s just not going to stop talking to us for no reason. Did you listen to the voice message he left me?”

  “Phone reception isn’t too good out here. Signals drop out all the time. We don’t have Internet hotshots ... or whatever you call them. You just can’t get on the googler when you want to send an email.” MacKenzie readjusted his large belt and placed his hands on his hips. “He’s a backpacker in the middle of a desert. It’s only been a few days. He could have caught a ride with a truckie an
d be in Western Australia for all we know.”

  Chris sat firm, staring into space. “Do you have children, sir?”

  MacKenzie cleared his throat. “Two girls. One grandson.”

  “As a father, you know that one of the biggest fears you have is having your child taken from you and you’re helpless to do anything about it. I realize Shawn is just another face to you. Just another statistic ...”

  MacKenzie swallowed and scratched the side of his head.

  “I told my wife I wouldn’t come home unless I had Shawn with me. And if that means bringing him home in a … box …” Chris’ voice trembled. “Please, from one father to another, help me find him.”

  “I can understand your plea, Mr. Marshall, but there isn’t any more we can do. This is a small community. Resources are stretched. As I said, the Missing Persons Unit, in Darwin, is now working on the case.”

  “His photo on a website, from their office a thousand miles away, isn’t working the case …” Chris ran his hands through his hair, leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, chin resting in the palms of his hands. Devastated and hopeless.

  MacKenzie grabbed a notebook and pen from his desk and moved around toward Chris. He held it out in front of Chris’ face. “Give me your details, where you’re staying while you’re here, and if anything comes up I’ll let you know.”

  Chris reluctantly took the pad and pen and jotted down his cell number. Handing the pen and pad back, he stood up. The two men briefly shared a cold handshake. Chris turned to leave. “Can you at least tell me where I can find Frank Corbin?”

  MacKenzie turned his head silently sideways. Interesting request. “How do you know old Frank?”

  “Only what I’ve read in the media.”

  The penny dropped for MacKenzie. He let out a chuckle. “Oh, the UFO thing? Blimey me! You think everyone that disappears in the outback must have been taken by little green men. Holy shit!”

  MacKenzie chuckled a little more. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Suddenly realizing his place, he turned serious. “I assure you, Mr. Marshall, Shawn was not taken by aliens; and neither was Emma Corbin, mind you.”

  Chapter Three

  Close Encounter

  Dust trailed behind the Cherokee as it sped down a small dirt track. It bounced over small mounds and potholes, Chris pushing it hard. Good thing it was a rental. In his rush, he shot past the turn-off for the Corbin property. The four-by-four skidded to a stop. A blanket of red dust covered it.

  Chris ripped it in reverse, stopping within inches of a barbed-wire fence line. An old, rusted gate, wrapped with an old chain (no lock), blocked his path to the house.

  The driver’s door swung open. A wall of heat hit Chris in the face as if he had just stepped into a burning building. He planted his foot firmly in the fine, soft, red dirt and made his way to the gate. A beat-up, old metal sign loosely hung from it, decorated with what looked like a couple of bullet holes. The printed writing was faded but still readable: “NO TRESPASSING.” At the bottom a few more words were hand painted in: “OFFENDERS WILL BE SHOT.” The bullet holes a clear warning the sign was serious.

  Chris placed his hands on top of the rusted gate, peering into the expansive property. There was no mail box, but there was a large, weather-beaten, wooden sign above the gate with “Corbin” carved in it. This was the right place.

  His eyes followed the small, dirt trail. Tire tracks, made by years and years of driving over that piece of earth. At the end of the trail he could barely see the Corbin house afar off, hidden amongst small, dirt hills.

  Chris glanced over his shoulder as he carefully unwrapped the chunky chain and swung the gate open. No bullets flying yet. No one around; so far so good.

  ***

  The Cherokee pealed up a cloud of dust. Frank closed his eyes as the fine dust blew over him, the front veranda, and the truck cylinder head he was cleaning on his lap. His cheek and eye twitched, visibly annoyed at the unwelcome dust and the uninvited visitor. He was perched on the edge of his wooden chair by the front door. His trusted shotgun leaned against the wall where there was enough room for another wooden chair.

  Chris rammed the shifter into park and moved his hand to click the start/stop button to shut off the engine. He stopped. His eyes quickly surveyed the area: an old man, a double-barrel shotgun.

  Glancing around the inside of the Cherokee, he saw no real weapons—nothing that would go head to head with a shotgun anyway. Working quickly, he rehearsed possible scenarios. Get the hell out of there as quickly as possible at the first sign of aggression, was his first thought. Keep the car running. If no escape, car door for cover—most likely a tire wrench in the back—not a long range weapon, but better than nothing.

  His eyes quickly moved back to Frank, carefully watching his movements. Chris lowered his window to about halfway down. The hot summer air rushed in, almost instantly heating the cool cabin. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He yelled over to Frank, “Good day, sir”—trying to mimic the popular Aussie greeting of “g’day”—“I’m looking for Frank Corbin.”

  Frank dropped his cleaning rag and, without looking, reached back and grabbed hold of his double barrel. He looked up under his eyebrows. Even at this distance his blue eyes were piercing, like a crazy person, as he stared at Chris. “Did ya read me sign?”

  Chris swallowed. His eyes darted around as he tried to think of something to disarm any possible conflict. “I’m Chris Marshall.”

  “Yank. Figures.” Frank got to his feet, bringing the gun up to rest on his shoulder. “Ya understand it?” Stepping the two steps off the veranda, he moved towards the Cherokee.

  “Shit! Shit!” Chris muttered to himself, not sure what to do. Should he run? Should he stay? His hand moved to the shifter, pulling it down three clicks into drive, keeping his eyes on the approaching Frank. “I don’t want any trouble. I just need to talk to you.”

  Frank stopped about five feet from the SUV. He circled slightly to get a better look, admiring the ride. He stopped again close to the hood. “Fancy truck. You a reporter?”

  “No. But I’m starting to think I must look like one.” He gave a small chuckle to make light of the situation.

  “What’s so funny?” Frank gave a death stare.

  Chris stared back, trying not to be intimidated by the old Aussie hillbilly.

  Frank moved around the front of the hood, keeping eye contact. Chris followed his movement. He knew he couldn’t do much from there. He would be an easy target if this got out of hand. Frank made it to the passenger window, peering in to see what Chris had. He continued to stroll around towards the rear, Chris watching from his side and rearview mirrors. Not good Chris, not good. Get the frig out of here, he thought.

  Frank continued around the back of the vehicle and then made his way back towards the veranda.

  Chris scratched the top of his head. Was it safe to proceed? He hesitated, then placed the SUV back in park, killing the engine. He slipped a clean, simple, white business card from his wallet.

  He cautiously opened his door, ever watchful of the old Aussie. He called after Frank, “My son was up here about a week ago.” Frank stopped halfway between the house and the Cherokee to listen, not turning back. Chris continued, “We haven’t heard from him in four days … He’s missing.”

  “A lot of people go missin’ in the Red Centre.” Frank continued on, making his way back to the veranda. He leaned his gun against the wall and took his seat. He grabbed his cleaning rag and continued working on the cylinder head.

  Chris followed him to the edge of the veranda roof to get out of the sun. A few dozen flies buzzed his face and eyes. He swatted at them to clear his view. He had never seen so many. Sweat poured from all his pores, running down his back and face. Why would anyone ever want to live here?

  Chris stretched out his arm with card in hand. “I thought you could help me.”

  Frank reluctantly took the card, reading over it for a moment, his greasy
fingers leaving black fingerprints all over it. “Chris Marshall, Business Strategist.” He crumpled up the card, tossing it to the side. “As you can see”—he motioned with an open hand to his dry, desert farm—“I ain’t lookin’ for a business strategist right now.”

  Chris looked around, seeing if there was something he could make reference to, to break the ice, build on common ground. There wasn’t anything around. Just the hot, dry desert, with buzzing flies. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He tried to smile and relax. Maybe he was going too head on. He needed to be calm and try to figure this guy out. “Are the flies and the heat always this bad?”

  “Cut the bullshit! What do ya want?”

  Calm and relaxed wasn’t going to work with this guy. “I believe my son’s disappearance could be connected to your wife’s.”

  Frank paused. His eyes grew wide. He dropped the rag once more, wrapping his fingers around his gun but leaving it in its spot. He didn’t look up. “Why ya really here?” he said in a stern, low voice.

  Chris’ eyes moved to the double barrel. He ran his hand through his sweaty hair and looked at the roof. “I’ve read your story. I was hoping you could help me out.”

  Frank drew his gun close to him, getting to his feet. He walked briskly toward Chris. In his face. “Get off me land!”

  “Please, hear me out.” Chris raised both hands in a submissive gesture.

  Frank cracked his gun open. Two shells loaded. He snapped it closed. “I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

  ***

  The Cherokee shot out of the gate, leaving it wide open. Chris wasn’t going to wait around to see if Frank was serious with his threat. A safe distance away he pulled over to the side of the dirt road. He let the cool air from the aircon rush over his body. He closed his eyes to relax, yawned and rubbed his face.

  He peered out the window at the expansive surrounds. Dry, lifeless desert as far as the eye could see. Maybe MacKenzie was right. Maybe he did catch a ride somewhere and he doesn’t have a way of contacting us.

  But that didn’t sit right. He had a gut feeling that things weren’t right. He had to be out here somewhere. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, deep in thought.