by Jay Darby
“Sa, sa, something important.” Ronny glanced at Lyn. “In private…”
Porter huffed. “No worries...” He put his beer down and led him away from the bar. “What?”
Ronny spun in all directions, as though concerened someone would hear. “Remember when Lionel asked me about that cop who died at Bunyip Hill?”
Intrigue wiped Porter’s bemused grin from his face. “John Rhodes…And you told him you didn’t see anything...”
“Well, I lied. I did sa, sa, see them fellas who killed him...And just sa, sa, saw one of them now.”
Porter grabbed his biceps in both hands and pulled him in. “What?” He’d said it louder than intended and turned towards the bar. Patto had moved closer and stacked glasses on shelves. “Where?”
Ronny gulped, his eyes darted to the bar and back.
Porter read the fear in them. “C’mon mate, tell me. No-one can hear us, you’re safe…”
“I delivered beer to Bill Thompson’s house...” Ronny pulled a piece of crumpled paper from his overalls. “I sa, sa, stole this picture, and hid it in my undies,” he whispered. He laid the paper on a table and flattened it with a palm. He pointed to the only man in the picture without a balaclava over his face and head. “This one with the red beard, he was there when Rhodes died...He’s at Bill’s house now.”
Porter ripped the picture from under his hand and studied it. His mouth fell open, his chest sagged. Five men posed for a photo, all dressed the same as the ones’ who’d chased him up Bunyip Hill. A red-bearded man nuzzled Jane’s naked breast while a much taller one held her in bulging arms.
The taller one wore a tight black t-shirt that exposed a forearm with a tattoo. Porter squinted and brought the picture closer. A tattoo of a green and red Celtic cross. He gritted his teeth and stopped bitter vomit spewing from his mouth. He’d seen the same tattoo before, on the same muscular forearm.
He knew from his first day in Crooked River that the tattooed man, Detective Sergeant Jim Thompson, despised him. He’d labeled him an internal witness ‘dog’ and made his suspicions obvious. And, as heir to a property portfolio threatened by Carinya’s negative influence on investors, Jim also had monetary reasons to force him from the town.
But when Porter realized the chief motivation behind Jim’s hatred, it jabbed him between the eyes and he wobbled his head like a stunned boxer. The men in the picture, Jim included, were KA soldiers. He’d suspected that Bill was KA too, and now had zero doubt.
He scoffed at his own stupidity, that he’d missed what seemed so obvious. The Knights of Alba had been active in Crooked River for decades, and Bill Thompson and George Barrett had led the way. Lionel’s witness Shirley had known it, suspected their involvement in present-day human trafficking and sent Carinya to stop them. He’d finally identified KA members, but, did they have the evidence he’d need to destroy their entire network? Did they possess the Cumal files?
Porter stared at the picture, his focus on Jim and the bearded man who’d humiliated Jane. Nostrils flared, a shudder of loathing ran down his body. He stored their cruel faces in the front of his mind and vowed to kill them both.
He nudged Ronny. “How many blokes inside the house?”
“Umm…Five.”
“Guns?”
“Yep, in their belts, and rifles in the corner.”
“What they talk about?”
“Umm...” He looked at the ceiling. “Fellas who died. Bill called them…Chuck? Boozer? And other things I forget and didn’t really understand…”
Porter frowned. He’d heard the name Chuck, not so long ago. But who’d said it, and where? He searched the name registry in his brain for a clue. Nothing. “What else you see?”
“A box.”
Porter’s pulse quickened. “What kind?”
“A sa, sa, small blue one.” Ronny’s face turned crimson. “Bill keeps his photos in it. I got it from his darkroom and th--”
“Darkroom?” He recalled a conversation he’d had with Lyn regarding Kathleen Thompson’s murder. She’d been denied access to Bill’s ‘darkroom.’ “Was it only the blue box in there?”
“Yep.”
Porter sighed, he’d hoped for more.
Ronny’s eyes flashed. “Wait, there was another box…”
“What’d it look like?”
“Bigger. Kinda brown color.”
“Wooden?”
“Yep, a wooden box. Like the ones’ pirates keep treasure in…”
Porter’s heart jumped. The Cumal files? He jabbed Ronny’s shoulder. “Good man...” He turned to call Lyn and flinched when he saw her next to him.
“You guys okay?” she said. “I heard you getting excited.”
“All good, no worries...” Porter winked at Ronny, then turned to her. “Stay here and secure the pub. Gotta go…” He juggled car keys and hurried towards the exit.
“Where you going?”
“Bill Thompson’s.”
“What?” She ran ahead to block him. “Why?”
“To arrest the blokes who took Amber…” He stepped around her and yelled over his shoulder. “Have Broken Hill send a tactical response team asap, these blokes are well-armed. Call out PolAir, and block all air traffic in and out. Will phone Steve Williams en-route, and have more troops sent from Sydney.”
“Thompson? Amber? Well-armed?” She followed him outside, Ronny was close behind.
Porter got into the Landcruiser and wound the window down.
“You can’t go alone?” Her eyes pleaded. “Dan, wait for backup.”
“There’s no time.”
“At least use local GD crews, set up a perimeter. It’s suicide…”
He scoffed. “What, and trust Crooked River coppers?”
She moved closer and wrapped a hand around his forearm. “Then I’m coming with you...”
He removed her hand. “Cheers, but gotta do this alone.” He turned the key and the Landcruiser roared. He looked past her. “Ronny, come here mate.”
She shook her head and went inside the pub.
Ronny stepped up to the window. “Yep?”
“Stay here, lock yourselves inside, and protect Emma…”
He nodded, chest puffed like a peacock.
“Tell me this, mate, quick…Why are you helping me now?”
Ronny took a photo from his breast pocket and handed it to him.
Porter studied the black and white photo. A Koori girl stared into the camera, her black eyes full of contempt. She looked to be in her early teens. She had a doll-like face, its’ only blemish a scar that ran from her mouth to chin.
“Who’s this?” Porter said.
“I sa, sa, stole that picture too. It’s Bill’s favourite girl...He has more photos of him doing ta, ta, terrible things to her.” His chin dropped to chest.
The Carinya team had considered Bill their main suspect for the historical rapes on Crooked River mission. Ronny’s evidence confirmed it.
Porter noticed his trembling hands. “Seeing those photos has upset you, mate. I understand…”
Ronny glared. “No, you don’t…” He thrust the photo in front of Porter’s face and pointed to the girl. “I’ve sa, sa, seen that scar on her chin since I was a baby.” Veins at his temples quivered, his head a purple balloon ready to burst. “I’m helping you ‘cos Bill Thompson’s a rapist pig…And I’m his bastard sa, sa, son.”
FIFTY
Porter turned into Bill Thompson’s driveway and killed the Landcruiser’s headlights. He drove at walking pace towards the house, guided by silver moonlight. A hundred meters from the house he parked and continued on foot. He reached the carport, ducked to his left, found cover behind its’ brick wall and peered into the dark parking space. Empty? He cursed, he’d forgotten the torch.
He ripped the Glock from its’ shoulder holster and aimed at the front door as he crept towards it. Stairs creaked, he climbed to the veranda. He stopped to listen. A frog’s grunted chant broke the still night. He rushed to the
front door and saw it ajar, then listened for movement inside. Nothing. His denim jacket scraped against sandstone, he pushed the door open and slithered through the gap. He stood in the dark entry foyer and waited for his eyes to adjust.
He recalled his previous visit to the house and remembered that the bedrooms and darkroom were down the hallway to his right. The kitchen and dining room were straight ahead and led to a rumpus room and rear veranda. The living room, with the bar and Bill’s photos, was off the hallway to the left.
Curiosity urged him to head for the darkroom, but instinct overruled and told him to first find and eliminate any threats. He stepped forward into the dining room. His nose twitched, cigar smoke and stale beer fumes attacked it. He tuned his ears to the clock’s tick-tock, and dripping water. Too quiet…
His fingers found the light switch and flicked it on. Beer bottles and playing cards covered a table. Cigars smoldered in ashtrays. Half-eaten pies spilled open on plates. He felt the bottom of a beer bottle. Still cold…They’d been in the room less than half an hour ago, as Ronny had said, and left in a hurry. He ran to the rear veranda. His eyes searched the yard, then paddocks further afield. Nothing. He swore, because he’d lost the Cumal files. Again...
He trudged back into the dining room, like a footballer who’d missed a penalty in a World Cup final. He reached for the ceiling, stretched his back, then exhaled. A tapeworm of failure chewed his gut. A voice of self-doubt urged him to quit, told him he’d done his best but wouldn’t succeed. He clenched his fists, he’d risked too much to give up. Self-doubt could go fuck itself…
He walked towards the front door, decided he’d call Lyn from the Landcruiser and wait for the crime scene unit. When he reached the entry foyer, he stopped and listened. A noise came from the hallway on his right. The unmistakable sound of a crackling fire. He crept down the hall towards it and saw an orange glow coming from the living room.
He stopped outside the room. Why hadn’t he heard or seen the fire earlier? He aimed the Glock at the door and visualized what lay beyond it. Sofas at the far end to the left, in front of the fireplace. Bar and shelves, on the far right. Knight in armor, and photos, against the left side wall…He readied himself with a deep breath, pushed the door open, then stepped into the room. He swiveled and swept it with his Glock.
In dim firelight, he saw a human shape stretched across a sofa. He stepped towards it, Glock aimed, and opened his mouth to yell. Bright lights came on. He froze, eyes trained on the sofa, then frowned. The ‘human shape’ was a cushion.
“Hello, Porter…”
He spun towards the opposite end of the room and aimed his Glock at Jim Thompson.
Jim tapped a wooden box sat on the bench top. “Is this what you’re after?” His crooked smile personified evil. He wore a black t-shirt and cargo pants. “I’ve been looking forward to this day...”
“Not as much as I have…” Porter eyed the pistol beside the box. “Go for the gun, you’re dead…”
Jim sniggered. “Come on, where’s the fun in that? I could’ve finished you already…But you don’t deserve a bullet in the back. You’re gunna die a lot slower than that…”
Porter stepped right and pressed his back against the wall. He aimed the Glock and shuffled towards him, mindful of the knight in armor that blocked his path.
Jim moved toward the door.
Porter darted forward to stop him and tripped on the knight’s steel boot. He tumbled forward, his right hand opened in reflex as he landed on his elbow, and the Glock clattered onto timber floor. He got to his knees.
Jim stood over him, the Glock aimed down. He grunted and told Porter to stand. “Well, I’ll be…” He kept the gun aimed at him while he straightened the knight and returned a steel lance to its’ gloved hand. “Dad’s old piece of junk came in handy after all.”
Porter glanced at the wooden box. “The new secretary, eh?” He whistled, low-pitched. “You must be chuffed that Barrett went mad?”
Jim smiled, as though enjoying the game. “Barrett was a treacherous leech, I’m glad he’s dead.” He sneered. “And yeah, I’m the new Secretary, keeper of the files.”
“Why didn’t you run and hide, like your daddy has?”
“He’s the Supreme Leader now…I’ve stayed behind to protect him.”
He pointed to the wooden box. “But you’ve risked the files?”
“There’s no risk…I’m not the one who dies tonight.”
“You seem confident, for a weak bastard who hurts innocent women? Don’t reckon you’re the hard man you pretend to be…”
“That’s rich, coming from a grub who shoots unarmed kids and rolls over on his mates.” Jim’s grey eye twitched. “What innocent women?”
Eddy Tindall and Ian Betts’s faces flashed through Porter’s mind. He swallowed sour guilt. “I know what you did to Jane…And Amber at Cobb mine.”
“Prove it...”
He raised arms above his head. “Proof’s here, in my jacket pocket.”
Jim stepped forward and snatched crumpled paper from the pocket. He kept one eye on Porter and unfolded it. A mask of perversion covered his face. “Ah, selfies and tattoos, eh? The nemesis of modern bad guys…” The mask changed to one of contempt. “This picture proves nothing, there’re thousands of guys with similar tattoos. And Ronny’s a simple fool who thinks he saw something. No-one will listen…If he’s still alive…”
“I’ve got plenty of evidence, more than I need.” Porter scowled, hands curled into fists, teeth ground his jaw. He wanted to lunge and take him down, but not with a gun pointed at his head. He ignored the tinderbox of hate that sparked deep inside and willed patience.
Jim grinned, like a deranged child who tortured a kitten. “A damn shame when young Amber got away, she would’ve been sweet.” He paused, as though awaiting a reaction. “Sweet as honey, just like little Tilly Johnson was…”
Porter huffed. “Tilly Johnson? You’re the paedo Tommy Davis protected?”
“Tommy was loyal to our family. Respected the Thompson name.”
“Yeah? Too bad your sons are gunna grow up ashamed of it...I know plenty about Bill’s dirty past, and present, and can’t wait to show the world what a perverted and cowardly bastard he is.”
He laughed and waved the gun in Porter’s face. “Got nothing on him, and you know it. Only witnesses were the black bitch in Scotland, and Alec Ferguson, and both have been taken care of. You failed to protect ‘em, just like the Tindall girl…”
Porter heard Nadia’s giggle. He cringed. “You’re the one who took her from the park?”
“Nup, but I saw her die, after we’d had our fun…”
Porter fumed, his throat burned. He willed himself to remain calm. “Other victims will come forward, and you can’t kill ‘em all…”
Jim scoffed. “I’ve killed plenty to protect our name and the organization. My mother included...” He locked cold eyes on him. “Think I’ll stop? Wrong, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“You’re fucking sicker than I thought...Murdered your own mother? But you let Jane and Amber live. Why?”
“Wanted to see the look on your face...” His mouth formed a savage grin. “When I told you how much I loved licking the sweat of fear from Jane’s chocolate tits.”
Porter shook, the volcano inside him erupted. He ducked onto his haunches and swayed to his right. A bullet whizzed past his left ear. A second shot missed again. He sprang up like an NFL linebacker and drove his shoulder into ribs.
Jim winced, his giant frame doubled over.
Porter reached for the gun, managed to wedge his right index finger behind the trigger, then tried to rip it from Jim’s grasp. They struggled chest to chest, two bulls refusing to give ground, and wrestled for control of the gun. He dug his left thumb into his eyeball.
Jim howled, then responded with a headbutt. Porter’s nose crunched, he yelped. Jim shoved fingers up his blood-filled nostrils and ripped at them.
They grunted, snot blew forth lik
e steam, then released their grip on each other at the same time. The freed hands grappled in a wrestling match of their own.
Porter’s muscles ached, lactic acid burned, and he was losing the battle of sheer power. His grip on the gun loosened and Jim threatened to gain control. He dropped his weight, leaned back to open a gap between them, then twisted Jim’s left wrist. He pulled his arm, to extend it and expose the elbow joint. He pulled his left hand free of the grapple, then swung it across his body and drove a flexed palm into the elbow. Bone cracked, Jim screamed, the gun fell to the floor.
Porter snatched the Glock up and aimed it at him.
Jim stood wide-eyed, his disfigured left arm dangled by his side.
Porter rushed to the bar, kept the Glock aimed at him. He removed the magazine from Jim’s pistol, emptied all its’ bullets into a whiskey bottle, then racked the barrel slide to eject the last one. He repeated the process with his own Glock, left both pistols on the bench top, and carried the empty magazines to the fireplace.
“Let’s do this the old-fashioned way?” He inhaled, slowed his racing heart, then threw the magazines into the fire. “A fair fight…”
Jim studied him, as though he analyzed the odds of winning a fight with one arm. He moved to the knight in armor and took the steel lance in his right hand. He juggled its’ weight, then pointed the sharp end at him. “Now it’s a fair fight...”
Porter threw his jacket off, stepped into the middle of the room, and crouched into a southpaw boxing stance.
Jim raised the lance and came forward to meet him.
They circled, stares intense.
Porter feigned a move to his left, ducked under the swinging lance and smashed his right fist into his Jim’s injured arm, then spun away out of range.
Jim gritted his teeth and looked down at his elbow.
Porter lunged again.
Jim swung the lance, lower this time, and swept his legs from under him. Porter landed on his back. Jim seized his advantage, dropped his full weight onto him, held the lance across his neck and rammed his fist against his throat.
Porter tried to wriggle from under him but couldn’t move. He felt hot breath on his face, saw maniacal eyes. He tried to force his hands under the lance and push up. Hopeless. His head filled with blood, the lance’s cold steel crushed his windpipe, he gasped for air. His consciousness slipped, dizzy without oxygen. He pounded fists against Jim’s temples, but he didn’t flinch.