The sergeant cocked his head and looked at him as if to say mate, are you still flogging that dead horse. Everyone knew that Marr had a real bee in his bonnet about that cold case, even after 5 months.
“So, the snake finally confessed?” he said, trying to hide a smirk.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up but I gotta tell you there’s some real weird shit going down at the moment.”
Mike seemed so deadly serious, Simpson dropped the sarcasm. “How so?”
“Well, as you probably know, I’ve been looking into it fairly closely since I got back from Uluru; Googling the shit out of it and getting some inside info from an expert.”
Simpson used all his poker skills not to smile at the mention of inside info; the whole station knew who he was getting inside. Lucky bastard! She might be part of the loony left, but she was damn hot.
Marr continued. “Wait till you hear this. So far this year Australia has recorded three snake fatalities, including our mate Stomann. That’s three times as many as last year and here it is, just gone June.”
“Yeah, bad year for snakes. So?”
“Well, what if I told you that all three of these victims knew each other, in fact they were buddies.”
Simpson sat back down. “I’d say pure coincidence,” he said, “except there’s no such thing. That’s the first thing they teach you at police academy.”
“Exactly. 26 million people in Australia and these three mates are the ones who get killed. You’ve got more chance of winning a huge Powerball jackpot than that happening. Even if you didn’t buy a ticket.”
Simpson agreed, but had to play devil’s advocate. “Unless of course, I dunno, maybe they had some sort of bet or something to see who could catch the most snakes and went chasing them.”
“Even that would be a coincidence. But I doubt very much if Theo Stomann was looking for one in his hotel room shower. And Chris O’Connor, his mate from Adelaide, sure as hell didn’t hope to find one in a confessional. Nor his other mate Brent Dickinson while he was mowing his lawn over in Perth. If it had just been that last one, you’d go ‘Oh yeah, bad luck mate’, but a hotel room? And a church?”
Simpson ran his fingers through his thick wiry hair and scratched his head; you could almost hear him thinking.
“A church, eh? So, were these guys part of some sort of religious group or something?”
“Not a hope in hell! I interviewed a few of them after Stomann’s death, including O’Connor himself about a deep scratch on his face, and the bloke who organised the trip, Colin Caldwell, and neither of them gave me the impression they were god-botherers. Far from it. In fact, if O’Connor was in a church, he was probably robbing the goddamn poor box.”
“Ha! Yeah, I know the type. But tell me, this Stomann guy, he was from Victoria from memory wasn’t he?”
“Yep, Warrnambool.”
“So, we’ve got Warrnambool, Adelaide and Perth…these mates are spread right across Australia?”
“They sure are. There’s a few more from Sydney, a couple from Melbourne, one from Brisbane and Caldwell himself is from Tasmania.”
“Then what makes them mates, what’s the connection?”
“I don’t know Sarge, could be ex-military, they were fit enough. Apart from old mate Stomann that is. But I’ll tell you one thing – judging from the tats and attitude on Caldwell and a few of the other guys, it ain’t stamp collecting.”
“And you’re obviously keeping tabs on them all. How?”
Marr opened up his laptop and turned it around, so Simpson could see the screen. “I’ve got them all here on a spreadsheet…names, ages, addresses, occupations, and any other info I can glean from Facebook, Twitter and other socials. Plus I’ve got each of them set up with an alert in case there’s a blip on their radar. That’s how I found out about Brent Dickensen. Otherwise it might have slipped through to the keeper.”
“I see. So the three red X’s next to Stomann, O’Connor and Dickenson obviously mean they’re deceased…”
“Yair.”
“But what’s the yellow question mark next to this guy?”
“Robert Murray? Well, him and his wife have disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Chapter 9
Flashback # 2. Out of luck.
“NO! LET HER GO, YOU BASTARD COWARDS! NGANGKARLI!” shouted Billy Guttuk, as the men hauled his granddaughter kicking and screaming out of the van. Caldwell savagely chopped her hand away as she clutched desperately onto the door handle.
“Stop it! She’s just a kid. Leave her alone. Take it out on me.” Gone was the pigeon-English he bunged on for the tourists.
“On you?” said Caldwell. “Fuck off. Who’d want to rape you?”
“NO!” Guttuk yelled as he rushed down the aisle of the mini-bus, only to receive a vicious right cross from Van Heerden, a former army combat instructor and amateur cage fighter. The two-metre tall giant knocked out two of his front teeth and left his throbbing head ringing.
It wasn’t enough to stop him however. Nothing would. His hands were bound with a large black cable tie, but he still had his feet and with one surprisingly swift roundhouse kick, split his assailant’s top lip. Screaming with rage in his native Anangu – Kurrarritjilpa yurna kumpukurra! (You foul-smelling, piss-weak piece of pus!) – he aimed his second kick for the big man’s balls, but Van Heerden was ready for him.
He caught Billy Guttuk’s left foot mid-kick with both hands and brought his leg down hard and fast onto a stainless steel luggage rack. Billy’s thin leg snapped with a loud crack and he sank to the floor of the Toyota in agony, his leg at an impossible angle and a jagged fibula actually protruding through the skin and out through the rip in his jeans.
“Shut up, Gramps,” Van Heerden ordered needlessly and then added with a blood-stained smile, “We’d let you watch, but it’s kinda private and some of the boys are a tad shy.”
With that the men dragged Cassie off to a clearing about 20 metres from where the Toyota was parked, off an obscured side road on the way to Kata Tjuta.
Guttuk stared after them through blurred, tear-filled eyes as they pushed and pulled her away into the dark. Struggling to free his wrists from the ropes, he couldn’t see them, but he could hear everything. Starting with a ‘pep talk’ by Caldwell.
“Guys, before we have some fun and games,” he said, “let me tell you about my cousin Lisa. 15 years old. Pretty as a picture. Nice as pie. Lived in a little country town north of Ballarat. Anyway, a few years ago Lisa was riding her bike home from school along the back road, not a care in the world, when a carload of boongs came along. And you can guess where this is heading…
“They ripped off her school uniform, threw her in the boot and drove her way out into the bush. There they bashed and raped that poor defenceless little white virgin so many times, she stopped counting after 20. Then as night fell, they drove off laughing and left her, naked, bleeding and shivering in the cold, alone and lost, miles from home and afraid that they’d come back and kill her.
“Now she wishes they had. Because wouldn’t you fucking know it, they got her up the duff. She refused abortion and adoption and now she’s 18 and has a three-year old black bastard who reminds her of her ordeal every fucken waking moment of the day. She wonders how many countless other innocent little white girls these pricks have raped. And who’ll be next.
“But Lisa doesn’t want your pity… she wants revenge!”
The spiel had fired the boys up. Caldwell had known it would, especially the bit about the black bastard son, who could think of anything worse? It was all bullshit of course. He didn’t have any cousins.
Billy had the power to block the sounds of Cassie’s ordeal out completely, but that would have been too easy. After all, he was the one who invited her along to help scam some petrol, so he forced himself to listen…
Two loud rips as the last of Cassie’s dress was torn off, followed by her knickers.
Cassie screaming indignantly.
; A shout of “Shut up, bitch!” (Johansen)
A slap. A punch. A kick.
Cassie whimpering, crying and then silent.
The men arguing over who’d be first.
“Me!” (Van Heerden)
“No way, you’re hung like a horse, Ed. You’ll spoilt her for the rest of us.” (Caldwell)
Laughter. Hooting and hollering.
And then all of them taking their turns on her, as the rest of them yelled their encouragement.
First Stomann.
“Hey, Theo. She’s bleeding! I think you took her cherry, mate.
Either that or you squashed her.” (Dickinson)
Then O’Connor.
“Ride ’em, cowboy! Christ, she looks tight…hurry up!” (Muir)
“Oh fuck, look, the bitch has scratched his face. Bash some manners into her, Chris! Attaboy!” (Van Heerden)
Then Dickinson.
“Give it to her, Dicko! Look at that, she’s loving it…the rougher the better!” (Johansen)
Then Murray.
“Get on with it, Rob. It’ll be morning, soon.” (Dickinson)
Then Johansen.
“Make the black bitch suck it, Dave. That’s the way.” (Muir)
Then Somerville.
“Oh yeah, doggie-style! And you’ve got her panting like a bitch in heat!” (Stomann)
Then Bellotti and Muir taking turns in a drunken tag team, with Bellotti doing most of the rooting and Muir holding her down.
Then Van Heerden.
“Good job we loosened her up for you, Ed! Wow, just listen to her squeal! She loves a big cock, that’s for sure.” (Stomann)
And finally, Caldwell.
“Hey, look at Col. The dirty bastard…he’s busted down the backdoor! And judging from that whimpering…she’s right into it! Mate, I think you’ve finally made the bitch come.” (O’Connor).
***
Billy Guttuk had heard enough; switching his mind off to the excruciating pain he was about to experience, the Kurdaitcha man did what had to be done.
***
The party was well and truly over for the ten rapists. All of them had had their way with the 17-year old, several of them twice, and a couple both at the same time. Her jaw was sore from giving head. The violence and depravity, spurred on by mob mentality, had escalated as the hours ticked by. Cassie was too battered and shattered towards the end to even beg them to stop. They wouldn’t have anyway, not until the last drop of semen had been sprayed over her face and in her hair. Then Caldwell had thought it would be ‘a real hoot’ if they all pissed on her and her degradation was complete.
The big brave men were now milling around, the excitement as spent as they were. It had been fun while it lasted, but all good things must come to an end. An uneasy silence fell over the ten as a question formed in each man’s mind: “What now?”
Caldwell took control.
“Ok, you men wait here and mind the old black bastard. Not that he’s going anywhere with that busted leg. But keep an eye on him anyway…he’s as mad as a cut snake for some unknown reason. Ed and I will sort him out when we get back.”
“Back from where?” asked Murray.
Caldwell looked at Van Heerden and gave him a sly wink.
“Why, back from escorting the young lady home of course. Can’t leave her out here wandering around stark naked in the dark now can we? Who knows what might happen to her? Dangerous place, the desert.”
And with that Caldwell and Van Heerden pushed, pulled and carried Cassie, struggling desperately despite being physically exhausted, to the car. They tossed her in olas bolus, locked the doors and drove off.
***
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Twenty. Time dragged on as silence reigned.
An almost full moon breached the horizon and rose steadily through the starry sky, providing enough light for each of the eight remaining men to study each other’s faces. A wide spectrum of emotions showed: fear, anger, concern, worry, impatience, confusion, uncertainty. Everything but guilt.
It was not each others’ faces they should have been watching; Caldwell’s warning that they should keep an eye on “the old black bastard” went unheeded. Little did they know that through a series of yoga-like muscle contractions and stretching combined with deep breathing, Billy Guttuk had managed to finally free his arms. If he’d been able to do it sooner, the shaman may have been able to save his granddaughter’s life – and that would haunt him until his dying day – but now was not the time for regrets. It was time for vengeance.
Though appearing to be unconscious, Billy Guttuk had put himself into a manarrpa, a deep trance.
Only his lips and hands were moving; he was getting ready, invoking the spirit of his ancestors and removing sacred items from the lining and pockets of his dungarees to construct a purturtu, a death bone. They included emu pin feathers – which his mob called blood feathers – a thin strand of long white hair taken from his great, great grandfather on his deathbed, spinifex resin and, most importantly, a freshly shed snakeskin.
Slowly and surreptitiously, he smeared the resin on the sharp end of the snapped bone jutting out from his calf and jeans. He then stuck the blood feathers onto the resin using first the hair and then the snakeskin to hold them firmly in place. Just touching the bone was agony; jostling it around to get the feathers attached was torturous. He almost passed out twice, but he had to persevere. Cassie had experienced worse.
The job was almost done, the only thing left to do was ‘sing’ his power into the bone. This was the most dangerous part of the procedure; if the ancestors did not approve of what he was about to do, or if his heart was not pure, he would be the one to die.
Billy Guttuk started quietly humming his song; to his captors it sounded like he was simply moaning in pain. Fair enough, he did have a badly broken leg.
***
Billy lay still until the Toyota was almost back from its murderous mission, and while all the men’s attention was focused on the approaching van, he made his move. He leapt up onto a metre-and-a-half high boulder, landing on his right leg.
“AAAARRRRGGHHHHHHHH!”
With a bloodcurdling roar borne of anger, grief and excruciating pain, he wrenched his broken fibula away from the attached muscle tissue and membranes on his left leg and snapped it clean off.
The primal scream, coming as it did out of almost total silence, made everyone jump and turn around. It would have carried for miles.
There in the headlights of the minivan, perched like a jabiru on the boulder, was a sight that sent shivers up and down everyone’s spine; the old man sneering, snarling and brandishing a raw bone – his own leg bone – wrapped in snakeskin and dripping with blood.
Gripping the feathery end, he spun the jagged business end around and pointed it at each of them in turn as they stood there transfixed.
“Die, Robert Murray!”
“Die, Theo Stomann!”
“Die, Chris O’Connor!”
“Die, Brent Dickinson!”
“Die, Matthew Muir!”
“Die, Marco Bellotti!”
“Die, David Johansen!”
“Die, George Somerville!”
By now Van Heerden and Caldwell had pulled up in the people mover in a swirling cloud of dust, and got out, doors slamming, to witness this eerie spectacle. Guttuk turned the bone towards them in turn, his voice particularly loud and clear and dripping with pure venom.
“Die, Eddy Van Heerden!”
“Die, Colin Caldwell!”
All of the rapists were gobsmacked, not only by the fact that Guttuk had performed this macabre bone-pointing ritual, but also that he knew their full names. How was that possible? Only Caldwell was wearing a name tag, with just his surname on it. And what was the story with the two front teeth that Van Heerden had knocked out…how could they have possibly grown back, longer and pointier than ever?
Caldwell, although shaken, was the first to recover and break the chilling silence. “Well of
course we’re going to die arse-wipe, everyone does sooner or later. But in your case, you one-legged black cunt, it’s going to be sooner. Let’s get him, boys!”
His bravado spurred the men into action. With him and Van Heerden leading the way, the men rushed at Billy, who dropped down behind the boulder.
“Grab that fucking bone and stick it fair up his abo arse.”
But when they reached the boulder there was no bone there, nor was there any abo arse. All that remained was snakeskin.
Chapter 10
A distraction.
Detective Marr was watching his cock slide in and out of his favourite herpetologist. He was lying on his back. Ronda was straddling him, facing away reverse cowgirl style, her long blonde hair and her superb tits dangling down and rocking to and fro with every downstroke. It felt and looked so bloody fantastic with her freshly shaved pussy squeezing him rhythmically… her strong, smooth thighs grinding across his…and her arse was so damn cute…especially with that super-sexy bikini tan line and the Lady Snake tattoo…and those dimples where her arse cheeks met her shapely long legs…that unless he could think of a distraction…and fast…he was definitely going to lose it…
Overkill : Pure Venom Page 7
