by Gary Gregor
As she watched the children tossing small paper balls into the air, or into an empty cup on the floor, she arrived at the conclusion that their predicament, although dire, was temporary. There was something about the way the kids appeared to have adjusted somewhat to their situation that gave her inspiration.
They were young, resilient and adaptable. If they could survive under the austere conditions of their confinement, so could she. It was time to re-affirm her leadership; not so much to her students, they already accepted her as their leader, but more so to herself. She had to stand up. She had to harness her despair and fears and put them in a place where they could not re-surface and overpower her. More importantly, she had to think. She had to come up with a plan to escape this place. If she used her mental energy to concentrate on ways to escape, perhaps the fear and despair would remain locked away in the far recesses of her mind.
The air-vent plan had failed and, in reality, when she thought about it, that was no surprise. It was always going to fail. Their captor was right. Even if Toby and John had managed to remove the air-vent cover without being caught in the act, the shaft housing the flue that went up to the surface was way to narrow. She shuddered at the thought of one of the kids getting stuck trying to get out that way. She would never forgive herself. It had been a knee-jerk plan destined to fail.
In some bizarre way, she thought perhaps she should be relieved that the man came in when he did. Had he not, one of the kids might well have tried to climb out through the vent and now, in hindsight, the thought of one of her beloved students getting stuck and unable to move, up or down, scared the living daylights out of her.
Nonetheless, she would not abandon thoughts of escape. It would occupy her mind. Give her something to think about other than the horror of their captivity. There had to be a way out. The options were limited, in fact the options were not options plural, they were restricted to option singular. There were initially only two options; the air-vent or the door. The air-vent having been abandoned left only the door, securely locked from the outside and guarded there by a big, strong man with a gun.
She turned her head and looked at the door. It looked like an insurmountable obstacle, but it was the only option left. It had to be the way out. Already her mind was racing. Ideas came and went fast through her mind, jumbled and confusing, like a whirlwind swirling the desert sand. No particular thought materialised long enough for her to formulate anything resembling a plan. One would come however. She was certain of it. Now that she had arrived at the decision to focus on an escape plan, all she had to do was slow the thought process down and allow the ideas to come in an organised, structured manner rather than a tangled, indecipherable web of mental flashes.
Thoughts of them all dying at the hands of their captors had, at times over the last two days, been at the forefront of her thinking. The first step was to put such disarming thoughts aside. They had to, at the very least, restrict her ability to focus on what was now most important – getting her and the kids out of this place. Killing twelve people had to be an extremely difficult task for anybody, even the worst of offenders. Tracy didn’t know the man with the gun, or indeed his accomplices, or whether any of them were capable of such a horrific act, but pre-occupation with death of herself and the children was not healthy. So, when such thoughts began to surface from somewhere in the depths of her mind, she had to push them back. She would do that by focusing on the formulation of an escape plan. That focus started now.
23
Russell Foley’s phone rang, the sound of the William Tell Overture reverberating loud in the small police station office. He fumbled in his pocket, stepped around the office desk and moved away from where he, Sam Rose and the two Papunya officers, Sparrow and Smart, had been studying the large wall map of Papunya and the surrounding district. He flipped opened his phone and saw that the digital display indicated the incoming call was from ‘Yap Yap’ Barker.
“Russell Foley,” he answered.
“G’day, Russ,” Barker said. “Where are you?”
“Got back to Papunya about half an hour ago,” Foley answered.
“It’s about those details you sent me from Tilmouth,” Barker said.
“The name and the vehicle rego.?”
“Yeah,” Barker said. “Do you know how many ‘John Smiths’ there are in the country?”
“About as many as there are ‘Chins’ in a Chinese phone book?” Foley suggested.
“Almost,” Barker said. “Gotta be a false name.”
“Yeah, we figured that,” Foley said. “We had to run it anyway. What about the rego?”
“You said the vehicle was a Toyota, right?”
“Yeah, according to the roadhouse manager it was a Toyota four-wheel drive. Tray-back with drop sides.”
“Was the rego. number you gave me correct?
“It was the number written on the roadhouse check-in form. If the name ‘John Smith’ is false, it’s reasonable to assume the registration is also. Why, is there a problem?”
“Maybe,” Barker said.
“How so?” Foley asked.
“The rego. number you gave me is for an old, nineteen-seventy-seven model Ford sedan. It expired back in the nineteen-eighties and has never been re-registered.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Barker confirmed. “But that’s not all,” he added.
“Why am I not surprised?” Foley said.
“The last registered owner was a chap from here, in Alice Springs…”
“Wait one, Boss,” Foley interrupted. “I need to write this down.” He turned back to the desk and grabbed a note pad and pen. “Okay, go ahead,” he said to Barker.
“The car was stolen from Alice Springs. It rolled at high speed a couple of kilometres from Haasts Bluff. There were seven occupants of the vehicle, along with a boot full of booze purchased in Alice Springs. We don’t know who stole the car but, at the time of the accident, it was being driven by a young Haasts Bluff resident, Bobby Warangula.” Barker spelled the surname slowly so Foley could write it down. “Warangula was thrown from the vehicle and killed. Two of the passengers were also killed, and four were seriously injured. Obviously, it was long before Sparrow and Smart were posted to Papunya, but they should have some record of the accident and subsequent investigation in the station archives.”
“Do we know where the vehicle wreck was taken following the accident?” Foley asked.
“The Motor Vehicle Registry still had the vehicle details on the computer so I contacted the original owner. He is an old man now and still lives here in the Alice. He said, for insurance purposes, the car was written off. He didn’t want the wreck back and there is no record on our files as to where it was taken. It may have been kept at Hassts Bluff, or even taken to Papunya as evidence if required in the coronial inquest. ‘Spog’ might be able to find something in the old station files.”
“Okay,” Foley said. “I’ll check with him. Is that all?”
“No, there’s still more,” Barker said. “We got a hit on the ransom demand phone message.”
“Really? We could use a bit of good news. That’s fast work by the Communications lads and lasses.”
“The message was sent from Tilmouth Well,” Barker said.
“Tilmouth! Shit, we were just out there.”
“And, so it seems, were our perps.,” Barker said. “I’ve issued a BOLO for the Toyota. If it’s still carrying the Ford plates, we’ll find it, hopefully sooner rather than later.”
“What’s the rego. number?” Foley asked.
Barker recited the number and Foley added it to his list of information. “Okay, got it. Thanks, Boss. Let’s hope we are close to a break through. We need to find the teacher and those kids.”
“How much longer will you be out there?” Barker asked.
“Not sure,” Foley answered. “I want to check in with all the station owners in the region. Most of them have aircraft flying in a search pattern all over the d
istrict, looking for anything out of the ordinary. I also want to check with ‘Spog’ and see if there is anything in the old station files that might help, given what you’ve just told me. Sam and I will probably stay another night and head back to Alice tomorrow.”
“Okay, Russell. Stay in touch,” Barker said.
Foley closed his phone, put it away in his pocket, and stood for a moment reading through his notes.
“Good news?” Sam asked
“It’s news,” Foley said. “Whether it’s good, or bad, remains to be seen.” He turned to David Sparrow. “’Spog’, have you got an any old station files stored here anywhere?”
“When I first came out here there were files everywhere; in cupboards, in boxes on the floor over there in the corner, my wife even found some stored away in a wardrobe in the spare room in the house. Over time I completed a full audit on the files. I set up my own filing system, requisitioned a new filing cabinet and filed everything in some sort of order and sequence.” He indicated a four-drawer filing cabinet across the room. “That filing cabinet there,” he added.
“He’s a stickler for keeping records neat and tidy,” Smart said with a smile. “Watches me like a hawk every time I go near it.”
“Are you looking for something in particular?” Sparrow asked.
“That was the boss, ‘Yap Yap’ Barker on the phone,” Foley began. “Apparently there was a fatal car accident near Haasts Bluff, way back in the eighties. A car, stolen from Alice Springs and driven by a young bloke from the Haasts Bluff community, rolled just out of town, killing three, including the driver and seriously injuring four passengers.”
“There were seven in the vehicle?” Sam asked, astounded.
“That’s not uncommon out here in these remote communities,” Sparrow said. “Max and myself are forever issuing tickets to drivers of overloaded vehicles.”
“Got nine in a two-door utility a few months ago,” Max Smart added. “Three in the front and six, all unrestrained, riding in the tray.”
“If your destiny is to die in a car crash, that will do it,” Sam said.
“I remember reading the file,” Sparrow said. “The driver had a blood-alcohol reading so high it could easily have killed him if the accident didn’t.”
“Do you remember what happened to the wreck?” Foley asked.
“I think it was taken into Haasts Bluff,” Sparrow answered. “There’s a compound, of sorts, on the western outskirts of the settlement. Years ago, long before I came out here, the community elders wanted the village cleaned up of all the old, rusting car bodies scattered around their town creating an eyesore for their residents and visitors. There’s a fenced compound on the edge of town I believe the government paid for. All the undrivable and wrecked cars were stored there. The place is dilapidated these days; fence is rusted and falling over. The entrance gate was pried open years ago and now won’t even close. Most of the wrecks kept in there have been stripped of everything usable; like wheels, tyres, exhaust systems, carburetors, etcetera. Now, it’s big eyesore in one place instead of a lot of little ones scattered throughout the settlement.”
“What is it about that wreck in particular?” Sam asked.
“You remember the check-in form the manager at Tilmouth Well showed us?” Foley answered.
“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “The one with the obviously false name.”
“It seems the vehicle registration number listed on that form came from the wrecked car…” Foley referred to his notes. “… a nineteen-seventy-seven Ford sedan.”
“Shit!” Sam exclaimed.
“Shit indeed,” Foley said.
“So, let me be clear on this,” Sam continued. “Someone took the plates off the wrecked Ford at Haasts Bluff and put them on a Toyota four-wheel-drive that was at Tilmouth Well yesterday?”
“Great deduction, Sherlock,” Foley responded.
Sam turned to Sparrow and Smart. “That’s why I’m in Major Crime, lads. I’ve got a mind like a steel trap.” He turned back and spoke to Foley. “Are you thinking the two dudes in the Toyota might be our perps in the school bus snatch?”
Foley shrugged. “I don’t know, mate. But whoever they are, I’m thinking they have to be up to no good.”
“I wonder what they were doing out at Tilmouth Well,” Sam said.
“It seems,” Foley continued. There just might be a connection.”
“Now you have my undivided attention,” Sam said.
“Don’t I always?” Foley asked.
“Not always, Russ. Sometimes you’re full of shit and I just tune out.”
This time, Foley turned to face Sparrow and Smart. “Can you believe I’ve worked with this moron for years? No respect! That’s the problem. No respect!”
Sparrow and Smart stood side-by-side, each with an astounded look on his face, both staring at Foley and Rose in awkward silence.
“Okay,” Sam said. “Let’s stop with the funny stuff. Tell us about the connection.”
“Our colleagues in Communications have discovered where the ransom demand originated,” Foley announced.
“That was quick,” Sam said. “Tell us more.”
“The message was sent from Tilmouth Well.”
“Shit!” Sam exclaimed.
“That’s what I said to Yap Yap,” Foley said.
“The two dudes in the Toyota have to be our perps.,” Sam added.
“If they’re not, it’s one hell of a coincident,” Foley concluded.
“And we missed them by a few hours,” Sam added.
Sparrow stepped closer to Foley and Sam. “They had to have been at Haasts Bluff at some time recently to get the plate off of the wreck,” he said.
“One of them, at least,” Foley agreed.
“Not necessarily recently,” Sam said. “If the wrecked car has been there since the eighties, the plates could have been removed anytime since. Do you chaps know everyone living at Haasts Bluff?” Sam asked Sparrow and Smart.
“Yeah, pretty much everyone,” Sparrow answered. “We don’t go down there every day but we do a courtesy patrol down there at least once a month. Maybe more often if things are quiet here in Papunya.”
“I go there and visit Tracy on my days off as often as I can,” Smart said.
“It’s a booty call,” Sparrow laughed.
“Half your luck, Max,” Sam said. “Booty calls are good for the soul.”
“Spoken by a true philanderer,” Foley said.
“A true what?” Sam asked.
“Never mind,” Foley said dismissively. “How many young, white, fit, clean-cut looking men in their thirties live at Haasts Bluff?” he asked Sparrow.
“There are a couple of white men living and working there,” Sparrow answered. “They share the running of the general store with their wives. Neither of them is in their thirties. Closer to late fifties, I would guess. And, for both of them, any degree of fitness would be a distant memory.”
“No one else?”
“Not living there permanently. From time to time outside contractors might come in to town, as they do here, to fix something that’s broken, or for general maintenance on settlement infrastructure.”
“Okay,” Foley said. “We can only hope that we find the Toyota carrying those plates. Right now, it’s the only lead we have.”
“It’s been two days, Russ,” Sam said. If it is our perps., they could be in another state by now.”
“Yap Yap has issued a nation-wide BOLO for the Toyota. Sooner or later we will find it,” Foley said. “In the meantime,” he added, “we need to touch base with all the station owners involved in the search and see if they have come up with anything.”
“I can do that,” Smart offered.
“Good, thank you, Max,” Foley said. He looked at Sparrow. “Spog, you reckon we can stay another night with you? Sam and I will return to Alice Springs in the morning.”
“No problem,” Sparrow answered. “You are more than welcome. Tonight, it’s snags and chops o
n the barbie.”
Sam smiled. “Who doesn’t like a good Aussie bar-b-que and an ice-cold beer?”
“Sorry,” Sparrow said. “No beer – Papunya is a dry community. No alcohol allowed.”
Sam paused. “Oh well,” he said, sounding despondent. “I suppose a nice cup of tea would suffice.”
DAY THREE
24
Craig Garrett stood at the base of the ramp leading to the first of the four-room complex. There was a small patch of shade where the dome of the hillock cast a shadow over the entrance way. It provided only minor relief from the suffocating heat. At the top of the ramp, a heat-wave driven by the afternoon sun beating down upon the desert shimmered low in the air.
Longing for the time when he would be away from this desolate place, he wiped at the perspiration on his face with the back of his hand. The searing heat brought with it memories of the weeks he trained here prior to his deployment to Afghanistan. The tents were gone, the stinking, long-drop latrines were gone, and all the soldiers were gone. But, the ever-present, unforgiving, relentless heat was still there. Back then, when his training was over, he hoped he would never return. And now, here he was; but not for desert warfare training this time.
His phone chirped and vibrated in his pocket. Although he was expecting it and had been waiting patiently for the contact, the sound startled him. He quickly retrieved the phone, flipped it open and looked at the brief text message.
‘Message sent’ was all it said. By pre-design, the message was short. Garrett smiled, closed the phone, and slipped it back into his pocket. So far, everything was going to plan.
Thomas and Frayne had done their job well. They sent the ransom drop details to the Education Department from Erldunda, two hundred kilometres south of Alice Springs. Then, they turned around and headed back to Alice Springs. As they had done on the Tanami Road, on the return trip from Erldunda they would destroy and dispose of their mobile phone somewhere along the highway; somewhere the pieces would never be found.
