by Ansel Gough
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.
Chris reached down into a backpack on the passenger-side floor. After a moment of rummaging, he found what he was looking for—a postcard. It had Shawn’s handwriting scribbled all over it:
“Hey, guys, just wanted to let you know how beautiful it is Down Under. Having lots of fun. Mom, you got to convince Dad to come down here one day. Thanks for letting me come. Once in a lifetime experience. Love you.”
Chris smiled, but that quickly turned to sorrow as he sucked in a deep breath. He fought back tears. His son knew him too well. He would have never come down here, not of his own will. Now he didn’t have a choice.
Good memories of Shawn filled his mind. His son had always been adventurous, full of life, wanting to explore the world, experience new things: bungee jumping, skydiving—the outback of Australia. All of it seemed so long ago. He had to make it right.
Chris flipped the card back over. He studied the picture on the front. Red rocks. Palm trees. A vast landscape. Finke Gorge National Park.
Chapter Four
The Red Centre
Finke Gorge National Park campgrounds. A few four-by-four camper trucks and tents dotted the rocky, red soil. Dry, thin trees provided the only refuge from the harsh sun. It was easy to see why they called this place the Red Centre. A couple of campers milled around, trying to escape the heat of the day. Many rested under the shade of the trees, too hot to move.
Nestled amongst the rocky terrain, a weather–beaten, wooden ranger station displayed the only evidence of authority/safety in this vast land.
Lisa stood at the front of the ranger station. She gave directions to a young family—mother, father and their two young daughters, twelve and ten years old. They all wore matching baby-blue tee-shirts, and baseball caps with the word “BAKER” written across the front.
Mr. Baker had spread out a large map of the area on the hood of his large, white four-by-four. He was animated as he engaged in conversation with Lisa. She was pointing out the best campsites for them to stay the night—Boggy Hole was their destination. A twenty-seven mile trek across challenging and remote terrain. After a moment the four of them scrambled into their SUV, as Chris pulled his Cherokee in beside them.
Lisa watched on as Chris approached with a photo of Shawn in hand. “Mr. Canada?” she said in an upbeat voice.
Chris passed the photo to her. “My son, Shawn.” He glanced around the camp grounds, letting Lisa look at the photo. He continued, “He was backpacking around here a few days ago. May have spent a couple of nights here.”
“Yeah, I don’t really remember him.” Lisa handed the photo back to Chris. “The police have already questioned all the rangers about his disappearance.”
“Do you recall if he was here with anyone else?”
Lisa shook her head. “I’m pretty sure he was here by himself but, like I said, I don’t really remember him. People come and go here all the time.”
“Isn’t it your job to keep track of people?” Chris snapped. The lack of information and assistance was taking its toll.
Lisa folded her arms. Not impressed.
“Sorry.” He breathed in. “Do you recall if there were any … rough characters, suspicious—”
“No. There were no ‘rough characters’ or ‘suspicious’ people that would target your son. This is a low crime area. It’s families and retired couples driving through, holidaying. Not serial killers and kidnappers.”
Chris scratched the side of his face, his stubble starting to come in. He tugged on his shirt as the sun beat down on him. “Please, if you can recall anything about the time Shawn was here.”
“Sorry. There was nothing out of the ordinary.”
Chris turned slightly from Lisa. His eyes darted from campsite to campsite. Nothing unusual. As Lisa said, families and retired couples on holiday.
“Do you mind if I look around?” Chris said.
“Go right ahead. But stay on the walking tracks and don’t crush any of the vegetation. And don’t bother people. Okay?”
Chris nodded as he moved away from her.
She called after him. “And don’t get lost!”
***
Chris walked under the scattered shade of the thin trees and climbed the rocky terrain. Sweat beaded his forehead and trickled down his soaked back—his body fighting to keep cool. He sipped frequently from a single bottle of water. Wandering aimlessly, not really sure what he was looking for. But what else could he do? Even if he didn’t find anything the very effort of moving, looking, searching, provided the smallest level of reprieve from the de
speration he felt. He felt sick to his stomach. Searching was his medicine.
He stood on the edge of a small cliff, looking out over the vast landscape. A large valley of trees, rock formations—red boulders on top of each other, rocky cliff faces, small hills—lay before him. Awe inspiring.
Barren.
Nothing could survive out here for very long.
A gentle breeze blew against Chris’ back. It felt good, a small relief from the heat. The singing of birds in the trees was his only company. He leant against a tree, absorbing what this strange land had to offer. His mind was blank. He didn’t know where to go from here. Where are you, son?
His cell began to ring. His wife, Kate, calling. His thumb hovered over the slider. He didn’t have any good news to tell her; hesitant to answer. Conversations with his wife, or anybody for that matter—but especially his wife—regarding their son was hard. Harder than thinking about it. It stirred up a whole range of new emotions. He felt as if he needed to provide a solution, to fix it, make everything right.
He couldn’t not answer it. His thumb gently slid across the screen, as he slowly moved the phone to his ear.
Her voice was soft and concerned. “Are you there?” Kate stood in her kitchen. It was night on the other side of the world. She was in her early forties, attractive, with long, strawberry-blonde hair. Her kitchen was upscale. Expensive appliances. She held the phone to her ear.
“I’m here.” Chris tucked his left hand into his pocket and looked at the sky. He was reserved.
Kate fiddled with an open packet of small, white pills on the countertop. She fought back tears. Even though she knew it wasn’t possible, she had high hopes that Chris would give her good news. His reserved speech was a clear indication things weren’t going so well, and there were no leads. Her eyes wandered up to a family portrait on the wall. It was Chris and Kate and their three teenage children—Shawn and his two younger sisters, Melissa, fifteen and Sarah, thirteen.
They listened to each other breathe. Their silence brought more comfort than talking, at least for now. They were both hurting. They had met in their freshman year of college and had been together ever since. She was an English major and he was studying business.
Her eyes wandered over to another photo beside the portrait. It was of two infant twin boys. “We can’t lose him too, Chris.” Her voice wavered. She stared at the photo of the boys. A tear rolled down her cheek. “He’s all we have left to remember Aaron.”
Chris breathed in deeply. He knew she was right, but he didn’t have anything to say. They had started a family soon after marriage. They were overjoyed when they heard Kate was pregnant with identical twin boys—Aaron and Shawn.
Their joy turned to heartbreak when, at several weeks old, Aaron passed away to SIDS. Maybe that was why Shawn was so full of life: he felt he owed it to a brother he never knew to live life to the fullest. It was his duty to make the most of his life.
Aaron’s passing was devastating for Chris and Kate. Their whole world turned upside down. Joy to sorrow. Every time they held Shawn, they would mourn for Aaron. Kate felt especially mournful. She felt she had failed as a mother. It was her duty to protect and provide for her new son. Her once bubbly disposition changed forever. She slipped into depression, fighting it for years.
Time did heal the wound, and she returned to mostly her former self. Shawn was at least a window into what Aaron would have been like. Losing Shawn now was like losing Aaron all over again.
Reliving the nightmare of eighteen years ago, she remembered that tragic night when she opened the boys’ bedroom door to crying. A distressed Shawn screamed from his crib, as though he knew something was wrong. She would never forget that moment. She checked Aaron in his crib and saw his tiny, lifeless body lying there. Deafening silence. She frantically applied CPR to his fragile body, tears streaming down her face. She dared not stop to call 911. Her body shook uncontrollably while she worked hopelessly on her baby son. And then, he was gone. He was gone before she entered the room, she knew that. His small life taken so quickly. Gone in a heartbeat. She was alone, with only Shawn as comfort. Chris was away that night on an out-of-town business trip.
Chris would also never forget that night. The phone call from Kate. The worst call in his life. The weeping, the desperate plea for him to be with her. He wished the call had never come. That he could somehow take back time. Maybe if he had been there and not been away working ... Maybe together they could have saved Aaron. It was reminiscent of how he was feeling at this moment. All the way in Australia, with his wife on the edge, wanting to be held, to be comforted. They couldn’t lose Shawn as well. They couldn’t lose both their boys. Kate would never recover, and neither would he.
“Why has this happened to us? What have we done to deserve this?” Kate blurted out through tears.
Chris bit his lip. This wasn’t the first time these questions had come up in their conversations. He felt they were having the same conversation as when he was in a dingy hotel room, finding out Aaron had just died.
“I don’t know.” His answer similar to that fateful night. Only now he was older, wiser—more cynical. “Shit just happens. No matter what you do.”
“Don’t you say that!” Her voice slightly raised and annoyed, choking through extra saliva in her mouth, her face wet from tears. “You have to find him, Christopher! Please! Just bring him home.” Kate slid to the floor, leaning her back against the kitchen cabinets. “Do it as fast as you can.”
“What do you think I’m doing here, Kate?” His voice slightly raised now also. “I’m not on vacation. I’m doing all I can!”
Kate brought her knees up to her chest, resting her face on them. She sucked in air, sobbing.
Chris lowered the phone for a moment to take a breather. He couldn’t bear to hear her helpless crying. He was barely keeping his own shit together and he had to be strong for her.
He glanced around to see if he was still alone, swatting at some flies buzzing him. He placed his cell back to his ear. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had a lot of sleep in this place. This place is hell.” He removed his hand from his pocket, rubbing his short hair back and forth. “I’m struggling here, Kate. No one knows anything. No one wants to know anything. It’s a different world here.”
Kate lifted her head, her eyes red and full of tears, her voice soft and mumbly. “I wish I could help you.”
“Just hang in there. Look after yourself and the girls,” Chris said in a concerned, unsure voice. “Did you see Dr. Atkinson?”
Kate nodded her head up and down slightly. “I saw him this morning.” She held back matted hair from her face. “Sometimes, I don’t think I can go on if we don’t find Shawn. Sometimes I think that—”
“I’m going to get him back. Whatever it takes. Okay?”
“I know,” Kate said with restrained hopes. Another tear broke the barrier of her eye and ran down her cheek. She caught it with the palm of her hand and quickly wiped it away.
***
Chris made his way back to the ranger’s station. The sun was getting low in the sky. It would be dark soon. As he approached the Cherokee, he noticed a beat-up, rusted-out—what used to be teal-colored—old truck, a 1960 International Harvester, blocking him in. Slowly moving around it he checked inside. Empty. The driver must be in the station.
Just as Chris past the truck, Roy Lambert stepped out from around the front of the Cherokee. He had been waiting for Chris to return. In his left hand he gripped a beer, in the other, a large, twelve-inch screwdriver. His hands were covered in black grease, dirt. In fact, he was covered in filth.
Roy took a swig of his beer, let off a belch. “You the fella messing with Frank?”
Chris stopped. This couldn’t be good. He loosened up his fingers. He wasn’t sure what the fat man was going to do with that screwdriver.
“I’ve heard ya been makin’ trouble,” Roy said with a slight drunken slur.
“I don’t want any trouble.” Adrenaline coursed
through Chris’ veins. Blood pumping. His pulse thumped the side of his head. That was all Kate needed—two missing family members.
Roy smiled, showing his blackened teeth—what was left of them anyway. Too many barroom brawls and not enough trips to the dentist. A foul man. He tapped the screwdriver on the hood of the Cherokee. “Whatta you doing here, city boy?”
Chris didn’t break eye contact with Roy. Like two cats ready to fight—if one moves, it’s all over. With peripheral vision, he searched the surroundings. Anything to use as a weapon? Only the sandy dirt under foot. Throw it in his eyes. Have to get the screwdriver. Kick to the groin. Will it take down the tough, Australian redneck?
“You hear me, Yankee bastard?!”
