Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2)

by Charles S. Jackson

  She knocked again to no avail, glancing about and glaring in frustration at whichever of the multitude of hidden cicadas were currently trying to drown out every word she uttered. Taking a deep breath, she steadied her nerves once more and tried the doorknob. It wasn’t locked, and pushing it wide she took her first step into the dark hallway.

  “Maude…?” She dropped the use of ‘aunty’ at that point. With both her parents now gone and everything that had happened, it seemed somewhat juvenile for her to bother using that title. “Are you all right, Maude…?” As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she was finally able to see as far as the kitchen at the far end of the hall, and could now also see that the china hutch that normally stood up against the northern wall of the kitchen was instead face down across the doorway, propped up at an angle by the kitchen table.

  The expensive sets of crockery that had been one of Bruce and Maude’s prized wedding gifts now lay smashed to pieces all over the linoleum floor, but that wasn’t what caused Briony to draw a gasp of breath as she paid the wreckage greater attention. Rather, it was the sprawled pair of legs projecting from beneath some of the worst of it that startled her and caused her heart to race.

  “Oh no, Maude…! Oh Lord… oh Lord, not you too…!”

  The hat fell from Briony’s hands as she ran down the hallway, her shoes crunching on pieces of broken china as she reached for the toppled hutch. Strong for her age, it nevertheless took all her strength for her to lift the wall unit back to its upright position, and even then only by placing her back against it and making use of her own body weight as additional leverage.

  She dropped to her knees, the hutch already forgotten as it thudded back against the wall at a strange angle. Ignoring the painful edges of broken crockery beneath her knees, she worked feverishly to clear the rest of the debris from Maude’s motionless body. Brandis has insisted she be taught CPR and she desperately fought to recall what she’d learned in that moment as she rolled her aunt over onto her back.

  This time, the gasp of shock became an outright cry of horror, and she sprang back against the wall with a terrified fist to her lips as she stared down at the lifeless body of Maude Morris. Even with no medical training whatsoever it was quite clear that her aunt hadn’t died from a china hutch falling on her. What was also quite clear, staring down at her bulged, red-streaked eyes and the terrible, livid, finger-shaped marks around her throat was that Maude Morris had not experienced a pleasant death.

  Briony’s mind began to seize up with fear and confusion: she’d never before experienced death first hand, and this was a particularly violent death at that. But in her peripheral vision she picked up movement in that moment and snapped her head to the left just in time to catch sight of the front door slamming shut. Leonski appeared then, stepping into the middle of the hallway from his hiding place in Maude and Bruce’s bedroom.

  “Hey, baby…” he began with a dark, malevolent smile. “How you doin…?”

  “What do you mean she’s not bloody-well here…?” Thorne snarled angrily at Constable Gambon as they stood beside the parked Land Rovers, out front of the church on Charlotte Street. “I thought you lot were supposed to be keeping an eye on this place?”

  All five passengers from both vehicles stood together beneath the meagre shade of a eucalypt growing on the nature strip, facing off with Gambon and a rather hot-and-bothered-looking Father O’Donnell as churchgoers began to file into the church behind them for Sunday services.

  “We were, sir,” Gambon replied quickly, apologetic but not ready to back down either. “Sergeant Connor needed Constable Jamieson to relieve at the station and sent me up to take over… there can’t have been a break of more than ten minutes while no one was about…”

  “Well, it was bloody long enough…! Fuck…!”

  “I’ll kindly ask you to refrain from profanity while within earshot of my congregation, Mister Thorne,” O’Donnell interjected firmly, not in the slightest bit intimidated by the man’s rank or demeanour after having been introduced just two minutes earlier. “Decent, god-fearing folk don’t appreciate the use of foul language in their presence!”

  Thorne glared sharply at the priest, ready to fire off a full verbal broadside, but the rock-solid, unwavering stare of complete conviction that came back at him caused him a moment’s pause and he forcibly stifled any impolitic response he might’ve originally considered.

  “I made a promise to a dying man that I’d take care of his family and I will not fail him with his little girl,” he explained instead, choosing his words carefully. “Out of all of us here, Father, you’re almost certainly the one most likely to know where she’s gone, so… other than the obvious, like hanging about where her mum died, could you please give us your thoughts on where the f– … on earth… else she may have shot off to?”

  “Well, I’m no expert but I know she liked to sit down at the river bank near the bridge sometimes,” O’Donnell mused after a moment’s thought, “…and of course, there’s the hotel as you said…” He shrugged. “It’s just a guess… it’s really Father Brandis who’d know: he’d be the fella to ask… if he were here…”

  “Am I…” Thorne began, his expression executing a perfect ‘double-take’ as his brain finally processed what he’d just heard “…am I possibly the only person on this f– sodding planet who hasn’t met James – ” (whispered) “ – bloody – Brandis…? Never mind… never mind…!” He continued, making a difficult, conscious decision that other matters currently at hand were far more important. “We’ll revisit that subject another time – right now let’s concentrate on finding Briony Morris.” He turned to Lloyd and Langdale, standing to his right. “You guys hang back here with Rupert; odds are she’ll come back here anyway and if Leonski is gonna try something here, I’d rather you two were on point. Alec… head back to base and see if we can get some of our own MPs out here as well – start combing the river banks working back here from the Barooga Road. I’ll go check out the Morris house then come straight back.”

  “Not on your bloody own you’re not!” Lloyd interjected, quickly adding: “Sorry… Father…” in deference to a raised eyebrow from O’Donnell. “Eileen would kill me if I let you take off on your own again and you got hurt…” He growled as Thorne gave a dry half-smile, silently raised a finger and tapped it against his air vice marshal’s shoulder boards. “…And I don’t’ care how much ‘bird shit’ you’ve got on your bloody shoulders...! Sorry, Father…””

  “I’ll come along, sir, if that’s all right?” Gambon offered, sounding genuinely eager to assist. Thorne stared for a moment, sizing him up quietly. The man was overweight and clearly sweating in that heat but he had the look of someone who might’ve been a fit man once and was probably good at his job all the same.

  “Yeah, he’ll do,” he shrugged eventually, glaring back at an unflinching Lloyd. “Leonski would have to be a silly bugger to hang about town anyway if he know’s we’re lookin’ for him. That make you happy, ‘ma’am’…?”

  “I s’pose so,” Lloyd conceded grudgingly, also looking Gambon up and down. “You know how to use a rifle, mate…?”

  “Ten years in the CMF before me eyes started to go,” the constable replied proudly. “With me specs I can still hit a bunny at a hundred yards well enough.”

  “You’ll do,” Lloyd agreed in the end, coming to the same instinctive conclusion as Thorne. “Grab a weapon you’re comfortable with out of the crate in the back of the Rover and make sure you take a couple o’ spare magazines too… Max here’s got a radio on his belt… make sure the silly bugger uses it if you end up in trouble for any reason.”

  “Understood, sir,” Gambon nodded seriously as Thorne raised an eyebrow over that last remark of Lloyd’s.

  “I’m standing right here…” he observed, vaguely miffed.

  “And you’re supposed to be on your way over to the Morris house, I believe,” Lloyd shot back, raising his own eyebrow in return.

  “Come on
, Constable… Gambon, is it?” Thorne sighed, tilting his head toward the Land Rover behind them. “‘Lord Muck’ has spoken, so we’d best be off.” He turned back to Lloyd once more. “These bloody radios work both ways, you know… I want to hear from you lot straight away if something happens too, understood?”

  “Understood,” Evan nodded in return, serious now. “He shows up here, he’ll be one sorry son-of-a… gun…”

  “Oh… Buddha…” Thorne exclaimed softly in frustration as he turned and opened the front passenger door of the nearest Land Rover. “Can I please go somewhere I can say ‘fuck’ again without getting a rap on the knuckles… sorry, father…” he added with utter insincerity, ignoring O’Donnell’s glare as he hoisted himself into the seat and the waiting driver kicked the engine over. Gambon wasted no time clambering into the rear of the Rover and slammed the door behind him.

  Briony backed further into the kitchen as Leonski advanced slowly down the hall, awkwardly stepping over her aunt’s body as pieces of crockery crunched beneath her feet. At first she felt nothing but terror as the realisation struck her that Eddie must have murdered Maude, but that fear soon made space for a growing anger as she remembered what that so-called ‘man’ had also done to her own mother.

  “You stay away from me!” She warned softly, a quaver in her voice as she raised an outstretched, warding hand. “You stay away from me, you… you…” There were no words – at least, no Christian words – that could possibly capture the building rage that was now filling her as her mother’s killer continued to walk slowly along the hallway toward her. “…You bastard…!” She spat finally, no other epithet seeming more appropriate.

  “Now, that ain’t no way to be nice, honey,” Eddie pointed out, an overtly friendly and placating tone underpinned by an audible layer of barely-controlled aggression. “I just wanna sit down and have a little chat with ya… maybe a nice, cool drink or somethin’…”

  Thinking quickly, Briony darted to her right and seized a large kitchen knife from the drying rack on the sink, holding the 30cm blade out in front of her.

  “You stay back, or I’ll bloody kill you…!” She shouted, trying to disguise her fear with her own anger.

  “You ain’t gonna do that, baby,” Eddie assured, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noted there was some fight in the young girl.

  “I will, I’m tellin’ ya!”

  “No…” Eddie countered with a smug grin, reaching behind his back and drawing the Triple-Lock .44 from his belt. Cocking the hammer with his thumb, he raised the weapon and pointed it at Briony’s head. “No…you ain’t…” He snarled, shaking his head and allowing some of his rage to see the light of day. “You’re gonna put that Goddamned knife down or I’ll shoot you in the fuckin’ face, ya little bitch...!”

  All resistance sagged out of Briony’s body at the sight of that huge handgun, its muzzle seeming as large as the mouth of a tunnel from where she stood. An innocent enough girl of her era, her mind couldn’t really grasp the concept of a fate that might be worse than a quick, relatively painless death and she slowly lowered the knife, allowing it to clatter to the floor at her feet.

  “Now, that’s better, baby… that’s much better…” Eddie grinned, lowering the revolver once more and easing down the hammer in one fluid movement. “See how much better things can be when everyone plays nice…?” His features hardened once more and transformed into an atavistic, lustful smile as he considered his next move. “You’re gonna sing for me, kid; you an’ me are gonna have us some fun…!”

  Anything he might’ve said next was cut short by the sound of a diesel engine pulling up outside. Swearing softly, he raised the Smith & Wesson once more and again pointed it at Briony, causing her to flinch as he advanced across the kitchen, kicking Maude’s body roughly out of the way with one foot.

  “You keep your mouth shut…!” He hissed, grabbing her by the shoulder and dragging her across to his left side by the back door as she whimpered softly in fear. “Make a Goddamned sound and you’ll be real sorry…!” He was glad now of those buzzing cicadas outside: that cacophonous noise that had so irritated him earlier would now work wonderfully masking any lesser sounds from within the house for anyone standing at the front door.

  Thorne stood at the front door and knocked loudly, glancing around momentarily in vague annoyance at the general sounds of buzzing insects and then shrugging it off seconds later as one of the true sounds of the Australian bush that it indeed was. Gambon stood close behind on the grassed nature strip while the driver remained, waiting and uninterested, in the relative cool of his air-conditioned Land Rover with the engine ticking over.

  “Mrs Morris…!” Thorne called out loudly, knocking again. “Mrs Morris, are you home? I’m an officer from the RAAF base…” he continued, pronouncing it ‘raff’ as was standard with Australian personnel. “I’d like to have a word if you’re about.”

  “Maybe she’s out,” Gambon ventured from a few paces behind him, moving to the front steps leading up to the veranda. In contrast to Thorne, who currently carried just the pistol holstered at his belt, the constable held a US-made M1 carbine in both hands, the short, handy weapon already loaded with one 15-round magazine of .30-calibre rounds while a pouch carrying two more clips hung strapped to the stock itself.

  “Maybe…” Thorne conceded, taking a momentary glance around before his eyes settled at his very feet, “…but I suspect someone’s been here recently…” He took a step back from the door and reached down to collect Briony’s hat from where it had come to rest as the front door had slammed shut earlier. He turned it over in both hands, staring at it for a moment as he considered what the hat’s presence might mean and his eyes narrowed.

  Instinct…! The voice in his head hissed urgently, no sarcasm or ridicule present now. Your gut instincts, always…!

  “Constable…” Thorne said slowly, reaching down and unclipping the holster strap securing his sidearm. “See if you can find a way ‘round the back, would you…?”

  “There’s a track runs right behind the house beside the railway line,” Gambon replied instantly, knowing every nook and cranny of the town back to front.

  “Good man…” Thorne nodded, speaking with cold determination as he slipped the USP from its holster and cocked it as silently as he was able. “Do be careful about it… yes…?”

  “Y-you think he’s in there, sir…?”

  “Not sure, constable, but I have a gut feeling he just might be and with this hat lying here, the girl might be too.” He swallowed deeply, steadying his own frayed nerves. “Like I said – just keep your weapon ready and be on the look out… just in case… In about three minutes I’m gonna go in – be ready covering the back when I do in case someone tries to bolt.”

  “Understood, sir,” Gambon assured, cocking the carbine and setting the safety before jogging back out onto the road and turning left.

  The M1 Carbine had originally been envisaged as a lighter and far handier alternative to the larger and heavier Garand, for use with rear-echelon and non-combat units where a full-powered rifle was unnecessary and firing a far less powerful cartridge based on the old .32 Winchester Self-Loading round. The appearance of a new assault rifle had changed that requirement somewhat and the carbine had been substantially redesigned into basically a semi-automatic-only, slightly lighter version of the M2, firing the same .30-inch M1941 cartridge (known to Thorne and the Hindsight Group as the Soviet 7.62x39mm M43). Fitted to a far more conventional wooden stock, it was quickly becoming popular with guard and rear-echelon units and with US law-enforcement agencies alike.

  At the edge of the property, Gambon turned left again and headed down a narrow laneway that ran between the cottage and the ruins of the hotel – a laneway that at the other end opened out onto the rail line running south toward the Murray River and the accompanying track that ran parallel with it, right down the back of most of the properties on Bridge Street.

  Thorne’s hand reached momentarily fo
r his radio mike, clipped as usual at his collar and within easy reach. He seriously considered calling for Lloyd and Langdale, knowing the back-up would be vital if a ‘situation’ developed, but stayed his hand at the last moment. He had no real evidence at this point that anything had indeed occurred and it would be folly to call them away now only for them to be suddenly needed back at the church, should the girl return there.

  With a shrug he activated the Viridian laser sight, the invisible beam instantly casting a faint green dot against the nearest wall. He gave the front door the once-over, confident he could probably knock it in with one good kick, then paused as he considered what might lay beyond.

  With many houses of that era, the front door often opened onto a long hallway that in some cases led right down the entire length of the structure. A cunning man lying in wait might well set up a line of fire straight down that hallway with any would-be attacker coming through that door presenting a perfect target, silhouetted as they would unavoidably be against the brightness of the world outside.

  Not having any particular desire to die that afternoon, Thorne glanced about to his left and right and checked out the windows on either side of the door. The blinds on the right were completely closed, making it impossible to see inside, but those on the left – Eliza and Briony’s old room – were open enough for him to peer carefully in. The room inside looked a complete mess, as if someone had turned the place over in search of something, but it was also clearly empty with the door to the main hallway closed.

  Checking his watch to make sure he’d given Gambon enough time, Thorne moved to his left, raised the butt of his USP and used it to smash the glass just above the middle window frame directly in front of the twist lock. Cringing against the noise, he reached in quickly and flicked the lock open, enabling him to haul the lower half of the frame upward. Taking care to avoid any stray shards of broken glass, he slid one foot through the opening, pushing the venetian blinds aside, and climbed through with his pistol ready.