by Jay Darby
He closed his eyes, mustered the last of his strength, and aimed a punch.
Jim swayed his head to avoid it, his injured arm swung towards the floor.
Porter grabbed its’ elbow with his right hand and yanked it down. Ligaments popped.
Jim yelped. His right hand released its’ grip on the lance and reached for his mangled elbow. The lance clattered onto timber floor then rolled across it.
Porter gasped, then filled his lungs. He threw Jim off, rolled onto his stomach, and reached for the lance. His fingers brushed steel.
Jim grabbed his calf and pulled him away from it.
He pushed his hands into the floor, desperate to stop the slide.
“Gunna finish ya.” Jim released his grip.
Porter heard a click and flipped onto his back.
Jim rose to his feet, a Bowie knife in his hand. “Gunna cut your soft, bleeding heart right out of ya.”
Porter watched him advance. He’d be stabbed if he tried to stand. He dug his heels into the floor and pushed himself across it. His right hand reached over his head and felt for the lance.
Jim stood over him, knife gripped like a dagger. He fell onto him, chest to chest, and his massive weight pinned him to the floor.
Porter’s fingers searched for the lance. He pushed his left hand against Jim’s shoulder and tried to stop the knife, but its’ jagged blade inched towards his chest. Adrenaline flooded his shaking body. Every muscle strained, every sinew twitched.
Jim snarled and grunted. The blade pierced Porter’s t-shirt, then sliced skin.
Porter grimaced, his eyes watered, he watched bright blood bubble through his shirt. His left arm went numb, unable to resist any longer. He saw excitement in Jim’s flushed face and realized he had seconds to live.
He pictured Jane’s beautiful face, heard Amber’s playful laugh. And then his right hand felt steel. He gripped the lance like a javelin thrower, swung it out to the side, then slammed its’ blunt end against Jim’s temple.
Jim groaned and slumped off him, then lay face down on the floor, still.
Porter winced as he pulled the knife from his pectoral muscle. He dropped it, then used the lance to stand. He held it one hand, the sharp end pointed forward.
Without warning, Jim rolled onto his back. He grabbed the knife and stabbed at his knee.
Porter jumped back to avoid it.
Jim lunged again, missed, and left his chest exposed. Porter speared the steel lance into it. Flesh tore, ribs cracked. Jim stared, blood spewed from his mouth.
Porter panted to regain his breath and stood over him. He pictured Jane, Amber, Lionel, and Nadia. The faces of the abducted girls and countless other’s Jim had made suffer. He leaned on the lance, plunged it deeper into his black heart, and ignored his whimpers for mercy. He smiled and watched Jim Thompson take his last breath.
He hurried to the bar. The wooden box was a meter wide and almost as deep, and a padlock secured its’ front. A padlock too thick and strong for a bullet to shatter. Could he lever the box open with the lance? No, that might damage it…Where’s the key? He rushed to Jim and turned his pockets inside out. A worn skeleton key fell to the floor. Would it unlock the Cumal files?
He inserted the key in the padlock. He sucked a breath, sent a prayer to any god who’d listen, and turned it. The padlock clicked open. He sighed, removed it, then ran his hands around the box’s rusted edges. He tilted it and heard objects move inside. Were they files sliding from side to side? Files containing the secrets of powerful men?
The heavy lid creaked open.
FIFTY ONE
Porter stared into the wooden box and realized he’d been fooled. He pulled a pile of hard-plastic folders to the side and searched for anything hidden beneath them. Found zilch…He opened a folder, his eyes skimmed over photos of Bill Thompson fishing and playing rugby. The box stored nothing but old photo albums.
Jim hadn’t risked the security of the Cumal files, because Bill had already left with them. He’d stayed behind to buy KA’s new Supreme Leader more time. Time that allowed him to escape, and take the files further away.
Porter slammed the lid shut, then punched it. “Fuck!”
He heard his phone vibrating, he picked it from his jacket. “Yeah?”
“Dan?” Lyn Foster said, her voice shrill. “Where are you?’
“Still at Bill’s house. What’s wrong?”
“Ronny’s been bashed, I’m in the ambulance with him,” she yelled above wailing sirens. “Patto got him alone in the cellar, then did a runner.”
“Patto? How bad’s Ronny?”
“Unconscious, but he’ll be okay. Patto would’ve killed him, but luckily Emma heard and pulled a shotty…”
“Bloody hell…” He frowned, and remembered that Patto had hovered in the background when he’d spoken to Ronny inside the pub. “Bill and the others cleared out before I got here. Patto must’ve tipped ‘em off.”
“What others? What exactly, is going on?”
“We’re looking for Bill and three other men. Well-trained military types. One’s stocky with a red beard. Tell the search team from Broken Hill, and circulate descriptions…Of Bill’s Landrover, and Patto’s ute too…”
“How’d you go with Steve Williams?”
“He’s sending tactical response blokes from Sydney, they’ll arrive early morning.”
“And where’s Jim Thompson?”
He glanced at the giant corpse on the floor. For a millisecond he considered telling her the truth. If he left the house intact, fingerprints and DNA might identify the men who’d fled with Bill. But wasn’t it more important to destroy evidence of his own crime? Yeah, he would burn the house to the ground.
“Dunno where Jim is,” he told her. “But reckon he’ll be feeling the heat sooner than later…”
“He’s on the run you mean?” Her tone grew impatient when he didn’t answer. “You need help there? Are you okay?”
He wriggled his broken nose, then checked the cut to his chest. Blood oozed from it and stained his shirt, but not enough to worry about. “All’s good, gunna leave here soon…Will meet you at the hospital and make plans from there.”
She agreed and ended the call.
He ran to the darkroom, found it unlocked, and turned the light on. Bill’s photos covered the walls. He searched shelves and under benches. No wooden chest…Nothing of interest, except the Australian flag that covered the far wall. A strange place to hang one?
He switched the light off and turned to leave the room, then caught a glimpse of faint light coming from behind the flag. He tore it from the wall to reveal a timber door. He pushed it open and stared at the scene in front of him.
The closet-like room had one piece of furniture. A desk lay on its’ side, broken drawers hung from it. Manila folders and magazines littered the floor. He glanced at his watch. It was after midnight, and Bill got further away with each passing minute. He picked a folder from the floor and flipped through it. Mayoral paperwork?
He scanned the photos and newspaper clippings on the walls and leaned towards a photo he hadn’t seen before. Bill fished in a creek, with a timber cabin in the background. He took it down and tucked it into a pocket.
He stepped quickly along the wall, then stopped to examine a newspaper clipping. It had a black and white photo attached to it, and he realized a larger version of the same picture hung from the living room wall. He’d seen it when he’d visited for lunch and had asked Bill about the short man posing with him, because he’d looked familiar.
He scoffed and cursed his failing memory. When Ronny had mentioned the name ‘Chuck’ earlier, he couldn’t think where he’d heard it before. Now he knew. The short man in the photo was Charles ‘Chuck’ McKinlay, the man who’d become KA1. But the pimple-faced twenty-something looked nothing like the frail old man he’d seen in the Cobb mine cavern ceremony.
He read the caption below the photo. It named the third man in it as Joseph Klose, Fred’s father. The j
igsaw puzzle in his head became clearer.
He ripped the clipping from the wall, he’d read the full story later. He started to leave, and a color photo caught his eye. Charles McKinlay and Bill Thompson posed with a much younger man. A young man dressed in army officers’ uniform. He moved closer, squinted, and studied the officer’s proud face.
Porter’s eyebrows lept, his mouth fell open. He knew the face too well. It haunted his dreams.
FIFTY TWO
Porter opened Carinya’s front door. He greeted Lyn Foster in his favorite purple pajama pants and a wrinkled white t-shirt. She grinned. He rolled his eyes at her perfect hair and ironed blouse, poked his tongue out, then led her to the kitchen. They’d worked together until 5am co-ordinating the district-wide search for Bill Thompson. They yawned and sank into chairs.
He closed his laptop, then tidied the pieces of paper strewn across the table into a pile. He pulled the pile towards him, unsure how much he wanted Lyn to know.
Her face screwed. “Your nose is still a mess, but at least the bleeding’s stopped.”
“Cheers…It was just starting to heal after Neilsen had mistaken it for a baseball…And bloody, Jim’s head, was hard as a bowling ball when he butted me last night…”
“You might have a nasty scar where he cut you too?”
He rubbed his chest. “Nah, it didn’t go too deep. A few stitches...”
She pointed to the pile of papers on the table. “What are you up to?”
He pretended not to hear. “Want a coffee?”
“I’ve had three already... How long you been up?”
He sipped coffee then checked his watch. “Half an hour, woke up close to eleven. Spoke to Steve Williams, then dozed off until Jane rang. Lucky, or I’d still be crashed out. You?”
“Grimes called me out to the Thompson fire at seven. Couldn’t sleep anyhow…Went to check on Ronny at ten.”
“How’s he going?”
“Much better. Was sat up in bed ready for lunch when I left. And Emma finally managed to contact his mum. She’s on her way from Sydney.”
“What’s happening with the fire investigation?”
“Just a pile of ash... But we did find some charred remains.”
“Bloody hell. Whose?”
She frowned. “Aren’t we beyond these silly games yet? I know you torched that house with Jim inside it. His wife ID an inscription on his wedding ring…”
He kept a blank face. “And?”
“As the most senior detective left in Crooked River, I signed off on Grime’s report to the Coroner. Jim was paralytic drunk and fell into the fireplace. An accident…No further investigation, no autopsy.”
He blew hot air through buzzing lips. Jim’s true cause of death would never be revealed. “Cheers…”
“No need, I did it for John Rhodes. Call it karma.”
“You can close your Kathleen Thompson murder case too…Jim confessed to it.”
She cringed. “Jesus, his own mum? What an animal...”
“Got that right…Steve Williams had good news, for once.”
“What?”
“Sixteen girls were located this week... Alive and well, from all parts. Seems the corrupt Interpol bosses have been spooked, and have stopped hampering investigations…”
“Excellent.”
“Yeah, except for the girls we’ll never find.”
“I know, it’s terrible…” She watched him. “And your eyes go dull whenever you mention them…”
He exhaled, the Police Force’s fuckups heavy on sagging shoulders.
She took a singing phone from her pocket, glanced at the screen then answered. “Sergeant Nees. Hi.”
Porter straightened and listened. Nees, attached to Broken Hill command, led the Operations Support Group that conducted the search for Bill Thompson and his buddies.
“Wow, really? Sarge, please hold a sec…” She held the phone against her chest. “Four men have just been shot dead trying to break through a roadblock,” she told Porter. “They sound like the ones y--.”
He reached across the table and snatched the phone from her. “Sarge, Dan Porter…Is Bill Thompson one of the dead’uns?”
“No, he aint,” Nees answered in a labored drawl. “We got the Patterson fella who works the pub, and a few fellas I aint seen before. Dressed in black, special forces types…Red-bearded fella you circulated, he’s one of ‘em…”
Porter smiled, mission complete. The men who’d hurt and humiliated Jane, were both dead. “What happened? Where were they heading?”
“We’ve got the highway blocked to the south…Crazy bastards tried to drive straight through and took us on when they got stuck. They had some high-powered weapons with ‘em, but we had more.”
“Any sign of Bill Thompson’s LandRover?’
“Nope.”
“Get your blokes to search the car and surrounding area. Thoroughly. They’re looking for a large wooden box, like a chest...”
“Job’s done,” Nees said. “Searched the car meself. Nothin’ but dead crooks and weapons. And my boys have combed the whole area. Aint no wooden box here…”
Porter’s gut wrenched. “Bill’s wanted for multiple serious offenses, he can’t slip through.”
“We’ve got all the roads blocked. No helicopters or planes have been sighted since Lyn called last night, and PolAir choppers are searchin’ too. We’ll keep goin’ until we find the bastard. Thompson aint goin’ anywhere but the slammer.”
Porter thanked him and ended the call.
Lyn frowned and took her phone from him. “Bill’s still on the run? And what’s this wooden box you keep asking about? I heard Ronny mention it last night too. Asked him this morning but he wouldn’t tell…”
He smirked. “Losing your charms?”
The frown hadn’t left her face. “Dan, I’m serious...What’s with the box?”
He’d realized during the night he needed to trust at least one person with what he knew. He needed support, and insurance should anything happen to him. Lyn could provide both. “You know that me and Steve Williams have tracked this international sex slave syndicate, the blokes abducting girls from Sydney?” He waited for her to nod. “The wooden chest contains evidence that’ll name, shame and help us lock up every mongrel associated with ‘em. I reckon Bill has it, but no idea where.”
She squinted. “Call me stupid, but from the bits and pieces you’ve told me, I still can’t make sense of it. Why are you certain of Bill’s involvement?”
He took the newspaper clipping he’d found in Bill’s secret room from the pile of papers, and handed it to her.
She read the photo caption aloud. “Founding members of the Australian National Socialist Party, Sydney branch. Bill Thompson,” her eyes widened, “Charles McKinlay and Josef Klose. Men protecting the values of white Australia. ANSP national convention, Melbourne, 1965.” She dropped the paper on the table.
“That’s one hell of a threesome, isn’t it? Crooked River mayor Bill Thompson, dead judge McKinlay, and Josef Klose. As in, Fred’s old man…”
“Unbelievable…No wonder Fred took off…”
He nodded and pointed to the clipping. “I’ve been searching the internet, trying to find who else might be involved with this mob… Most of the ANSP’s early members were Scottish immigrants. Girls abducted from Sydney were branded with the initials ‘KA’. Took a while, but we now know what it stands for…Knights of Alba.”
“What? Alba? Never heard of it...”
“Amazing what you find on the net…Alba’s a name for ancient Scotland. The ANSP called their henchmen, The Knights of Alba. The military arm of their party.”
“McKinlay, retired high court judge, was head of a white supremacy organization?”
“Crazy, but yeah.”
“Is the ANSP still a political party?”
“Officially, no, the government disbanded them in ‘75. But in reality, they’ve been active since ‘63, and are still very active today.”
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br /> “How do you know all this?”
“Me and Lionel interviewed a bloke named Alec Ferguson…Told you of him, right? Anyway, he mentioned this mysterious organization, blokes with power in high places. McKinlay kept it going after ’75, just changed its’ name to the Knights of Alba and made it very secretive.” He pointed to the photo. “Bill Thompson and his mates are more than just puppets in a multi-million-dollar human trafficking syndicate…They run the bloody thing.”
“Amazing…And Jim Thompson?”
His pulse quickened when he heard the name. “He was a member too, a murdering rapist. Like father, like son.”
“There’s evidence that Bill’s a rapist, in addition to his human trafficking links?”
“Yeah, Bill and other cops raped girls back in the ’60s…Lionel said if we found the blokes who hurt girls in the past, we’d find the ones doing it now.” Porter heard Lionel whistle a Bruno Mars tune, and despite the subject, he smiled. “He was spot on…”
“Meaning?”
“Time moves in circles...Powerful blokes will always abuse power, and it’ll always bring ‘em undone.”
She frowned, as though unconvinced. “But how does any of this, prove, Bill’s involvement? How’ does it prove he’s with this ‘organization’ that’s abducted girls?”
A shiver of doubt ran up his body and into his mouth. He swallowed. “Like I said, the evidence is stored in a wooden chest, in documents called the Cumal files. And you’re spot on…If we can’t find ‘em, we’ll have next to nothing, and a lot of evil bastards will go unpunished.”
FIFTY THREE
Porter had spent the second half of Thursday looking for Bill Thompson’s Land Rover. But, just like the multiple search teams that swept across Crooked River district, he found nothing. When he’d knocked off at 1am and spoke to Sergeant Nees, there’d been concern all around. Bosses in Sydney wanted to call off the search. The cost of the operation soared, they said, and the likelihood of finding Bill Thompson diminished with each passing hour.