There, with its fangs deeply embedded in Bellotti’s thick cock, straight through his bleeding blue vein, was a large snake. A very large snake. Twisting, turning and refusing to let go, injecting more and more venom into its helpless quarry.
Muir didn’t know much about snakes, but it didn’t take Einstein to work out that with its burnt orange bands overlapping jet black scales, this was a dreaded Tiger Snake.
Its victim flailed about for a moment longer, then stopped abruptly. Paralysed? Dead? It didn’t matter, with that much venom pumping through his body he soon would be unless he could get help. Fast.
Horror-struck, Muir himself was paralysed with fear until self-preservation kicked in. He remembered the phone. Made a lunge for it. But he was a second too late. By then the snake had detached itself from Bellotti and had slithered menacingly down to the bottom of the bed, daring Muir to reach for his Levis.
He thought about it. Then thought better of it. He turned and ran. Faster than he thought he could. Out of the bedroom, towards the front door. Too late. What the fuck!? No way! The snake was already there. Blocking his escape. Rearing up. Flaring its neck. Staring him down.
He backed away. Ever so slowly. Then bolted to the interconnecting door. Yes! Beat the snake to it. But fuck it…locked! He shook it. Thumped it. Then was hit with another idea.
If I can make it out to the balcony, I can shut myself out there until help arrives.
Muir took off again. Running for his life. Breathing hard. Heart racing. Got to the sliding door. Please, please don’t be locked. It wasn’t! Laughing hysterically, he grabbed the floor-to-ceiling door and yanked it open. Way too hard. Too much adrenaline. The rollers came right off their tracks. The door jammed open. Could he fix it? No, too heavy. Not enough time. The sensor-operated balcony lights came on. He spun around. The snake was coming for him. Almost upon him. No way back. No way out. He clambered up onto the railing. High enough to keep out of harm’s way? No, the snake rose up. Swaying on its tail like he’d seen Cobras in docos do. A metre high. Metre-and-a-half. Head drawn back. Fangs dripping. Poised to strike. Damned if he did. Fucked if he didn’t. He’d seen what it did to Marco. No way. Not me, you cocksucker. I’ll do this on my own terms. Muir raised his arms. Took his last ever look up at the moon. Then dived head-first into oblivion.
Chapter 14
Joining forces.
Detective Marr was the last to leave. He’d just flicked off his desk lamp and gathered a few ‘homework’ files together, ready to call it a day – a very long day – when his landline rang. Reluctantly he picked up.
“Michael Marr.”
“Mike, got a call for you,” said the night switchboard operator.
“Ah, crap. Can you take a message, Vic? I’m shagged and my brain is full. Tell ’em I just left and I’ll call back first up.”
“If you like. It’s Acting Superintendent Brian Thurlow from the feds in Canberra. I’ll tell him that you…”
He punched the red flashing Line #2 button and hit the switch on his desk lamp which flickered back to life.
“G’day Brian. This is an unexpected call.”
“Good evening, Mike. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be there.”
“You know what it’s like, mate. Married to the job and all that. How can I help you?”
“Two ways actually. Firstly, following on from our last conversation, I thought I’d bring you up to speed. You no doubt heard that the Murrays’ bodies had been found?”
“Yeah, I missed it in the paper for some reason,” Mike said smiling to himself, as he switched the phone to speaker and cranked up the volume, “but I read about it later online. No suspicious circumstances it said.”
“Hmmm, is that so? I just got a call from cousin Denny up at Broadbeach and the autopsy findings are in. He emailed them to me; got a hardcopy right here.”
Marr leaned back, put his feet up on the desk and swivelled in his seat; his intertwined fingers cradling his head.
“This should be interesting. Lay it on me, Superintendent…I’m all ears.”
“Well, I’ll spare you the boring details, like estimated rate of decomposition, angle of instance, seat belt contusions, and all the sub-species of animals and insects that feasted on their carcasses, and I’ll relay the bits that will really make those ears of yours prick up.”
The feet on the desk hit the floor as Mike sat up straight. Of course! Why else would he be calling me!
“I can see what’s coming, Brian” Mike said. “You’re going to tell me that Robert Murray and/or his wife was bitten by a snake, aren’t you?”
“Not sure if they were bitten, but wait for this…the pathologist found blood on the front of Murray’s shirt. At first it was thought to be his but as it turned out it was animal blood. They sent it away for further analysis and – lo and behold – lab tests revealed that the blood was from a snake. Also found some on the opened blade of his pocket knife. Along with a few scales from a very large morelia spilota commonly known as a Python. Even more commonly known as a Carpet Snake.”
Thurlow paused while he let that sink in. He could almost hear Marr thinking.
“How the fuck does that happen?” Mike said at last, as much to himself as the Super. “He had to fight off a snake that attacked him while he was dying at the bottom of a 100-metre drop? No one could be that unlucky, surely?”
Straining his pricked ears, he could hear several pages of the report being turned before Thurlow answered.
“You wouldn’t think so, Mike. But it says here that Robert Murray’s hyoid bone – the U-shaped one in your throat that helps you swallow and breathe – it was crushed. Broken into three pieces, consistent with a blow to the neck…or being strangled.”
Despite his long, mentally-draining day, Marr was wide awake now, his mind exploring any and all angles, even though the thought that kept leaping out at him was the fact that carpet snakes strangled their meals to subdue them before swallowing them.
“Could he maybe have hit his neck on the steering wheel in the crash?” he asked, playing devil’s advocate.
“Negative. Steering wheel trauma was to his forehead only. The frontal cranium bone was deeply fractured but his neck was not impacted. Lots of other bones broken of course – that’s what happens when you instantly go from 200+ klicks an hour down to zero – but not by the steering wheel.”
“Hang on. His head hit the steering wheel? Wouldn’t the airbags have prevented that?”
“Very good, Detective. They probably would have…” the Superintendent paused for effect, and had it been a movie, the ubiquitous dramatic music would have kicked in.
“…if they’d been operational.”
“What? You mean they were faulty? On a brand new $150,000 Landcruiser?”
“Nope. Not faulty. They’d been tampered with.”
Marr let out a low whistle. “Tampered with,” he echoed.
“Yes. Both the front impact sensors and the firing squibs on the driver and passenger airbags had been disabled, so the airbags – including the side curtains – didn’t deploy. They probably wouldn’t have saved the Murrays from a drop like that anyway; it was virtually head-on straight into terra firma. The Cruiser was a mangled mess, two-thirds its original length and almost unrecognisable – and full credit to our forensic mechanics for discovering this anomaly – but the fact that the bags were deliberately put out of action means just one thing.”
“Foul play,” Marr said.
“Exactly,” Thurlow replied. “And now that there is known human involvement, we can finally begin to investigate your guys from Uluru. In fact, as of tomorrow I’m putting a special national Task Force together. For expediency’s sake, it will be based in Sydney and comprise myself, Inspectors Eric Weiss and Toby Winslow from the Counter Terrorism Unit, herpetologist Veejay Prasad and other specialists we can bolt on and off as needed.”
“I’d be happy to help in any way I can as well,” Marr offered.
“Of course!
That’s the second reason for my call. I’ve spoken to your Deputy Commissioner up in Darwin and I have seconded your services until further notice. I know you’re flat chat, but don’t worry, the DC is sending a couple of guys down to Alice to cover for you. You can debrief them on your cases tomorrow, tidy up any loose ends and I’ll see you in Sydney this Thursday. We’re setting up shop at The Hilton. Check your email for deets.”
***
The following afternoon, Mike had just finished briefing the relief team – a sharp eyed detective and switched-on senior constable flown in from the Top End – on his most pressing jobs, when he got a text from Brian Thurlow:
Good afternoon, Mike.
Operation White Snake (like it?) is up and running.
Everything is going well.
Only one hitch. Veejay Presad isn’t available.
He’s off to the U.S. for two months to study rattlesnakes.
Having trouble finding a replacement.
Wouldn’t happen to know any good herpetologists,
would you?
Chapter 15
A quiet word.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the stewardess’ message, “Welcome to Mascot Airport. Local Sydney time is 10.30am and current temperature is 15 degrees Celsius with showers expected. For your safety and comfort, please remain seated with your seat belt fastened until the Captain turns off the Fasten Seat Belt sign.”
Colin Caldwell smiled wryly. That’d be right. Then everyone stand up like fucken dorks and grab your bags even though it’ll be another five minutes at least before anyone moves. Shit! Look at those pushy Asians arseholes over there already standing up. Shouldn’t let the rice-munching pricks into the country. They probably claimed to be refugees…
Finally off the Jetstar Airways A320 after the routine 1 hour 50 minute flight from Tassie, Caldwell was standing around waiting for the carousel to deliver his bag – it seemed to be taking forever – when he got a tap on the shoulder.
He turned and saw two guys in suits, a tall suntanned blond of good Aryan stock who looked like he was wearing a tie for the first time ever, and a slightly shorter, dark haired guy who had a bit of an Adam Sandler look going on. Aw shit! It’s the fucking filth!
He had a closer look. The tall blue-eyed bloke looked strangely familiar. Where have I seen him before? Was he at the last Home Base rally, the “SORRY…NOT SORRY” one? Stolen generation, my arse. Those kids should be thankful they’d been allowed to live in civilised white society.
‘Adam’ who was obviously in charge, took control and there was nothing comedic about him; this guy was all business.
“Colin Caldwell?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. “I am Superintendent Brian Thurlow from the Australian Federal Police.” He flashed his badge with a well-practiced flip. “And this is Senior Detective Michael Marr from the Northern Territory CIB whom I believe you’ve already met.”
Aha! Of course it is.
“We were wondering if we could have a quiet word with you?”
“Hang on a minute. I think that’s my bag.”
Caldwell spied his unmissable brown leather suitcase approaching and walked slowly over to retrieve it, turning it around and flipping it over to make sure it was his. Stalling for time. It gave him a moment to get his thoughts together and to stem the panic that had started to set in. Chillax, man. Johansen and Somerville haven’t cracked, or else it wouldn’t be a quiet word…I’d be under arrest!
He strode back to where the policemen waited and decided to take the moral high ground, the best method of defence being attack.
“What’s this about? I’ve done nothing wrong? I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want.”
“No one said you had, but you definitely know what this is about,” Thurlow replied staring him down. “We’d simply appreciate it if you could assist us with our enquiries. Now we could talk out here if you wish, with the whole world watching and listening, or you could accompany us to the AFP meeting room down near the Qantas lounge where it’ll be nice and private. Totally up to you of course.”
Caldwell thought about it for a moment before relenting.
“Whatever. An honest man has nothing to fear. You’ve got ten minutes.”
***
As soon as they’d entered the room, even before they were all sitting down, Marr erupted, savagely pounding the Ikea-bought pine timber desk and booting a white plastic chair clear across the room.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE, CALDWELL?”
Months of frustration and fruitless speculation had come to the fore. Something sure as hell was going on, and Mike wanted to know what and why. He shoved Caldwell into a chair and stood over him.
So much for the ‘quiet’ word, thought Caldwell, Funny, I’d have thought Thurlow would have been the bad cop.
Marr ripped off the tie and tossed it on the floor, wondering why on earth city people wore the damn things.
“You and nine mates all head off on a jolly jaunt out to Uluru…” he began.
“You mean Ayers Rock,” Caldwell interjected, braver now that the detective hadn’t garrotted him with that tie.
“I mean Uluru,” Marr continued pointedly, “and within nine months, six of your homies are dead. Four snake bite victims, one suicide, and one in a super-suss car accident along with his wife. That makes seven and I was already suspicious after the first one. I repeat…what the fuck is going on, Caldwell?”
“How the hell would I know?” was the answer. “It’s got me stuffed too, and don’t forget these poor unfortunate blokes were all mates of mine.”
“Precisely!” said Thurlow, taking over. “That’s why you must know. At least you know more than what you’re letting on. C’mon, out with it. What do you know that we don’t? Why are so many people from your little outback tour group getting taken out?”
Caldwell just shook his head.
“I told you…I don’t know. I was 3,000 klicks away when Robert and his wife had their unfortunate accident; down in Tassie when Bellotti and his bum buddy bought it, and as for all the snake attacks, well what could I possibly know about them?”
Mike looked across at Brian who gave an almost imperceptible nod. He opened up his iPad and commenced reading.
“OK, let us tell you what we know. You are Colin James Caldwell, aged 38, retired soldier from 129a Liffey Street, Hobart. Served half a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Dishonourably discharged after leading a brutal off-duty brawl with local youths in which a 16-year old Afghani was repeatedly kicked, and subsequently maimed for life.”
He paused to let that sink in.
“It was self-defence.”
“Yeah, and I’m Kim Kardashian,” said Mike. He silently dared the Nazi to take it further. When he didn’t, Mike continued where he’d left off.
“Married to Janice. Divorced, no kids. On-off girlfriend is Lucy Howard, barmaid at your local pub, The Hope & Anchor. Previous convictions for petty theft, receiving stolen goods and drug trafficking. Served 12 months of an 18-month sentence three years ago for the aggravated assault of two aboriginal brothers aged 16 and 17 and their 65-year old grandmother who tried to break up the one-sided fight.”
He glared at the scowling redhead. “Gee, you were a brave soldier weren’t you, Col, a real hero bashing up kids and grannies.”
“I was provoked.”
“What…by the colour of their skin?” Marr said, getting right up in Caldwell’s face.
“Oh yeah, and you coppers are the poster boys for racial fucken harmony, are ya? What about all the abo deaths in custody?”
By now Marr was seething; Caldwell had hit a nerve. “That’s not something the force is proud of. And we’re slowly but surely weeding the racists out.”
“Calm the farm, mate. I didn’t say that it was a bad thing.”
Thurlow stepped in before Mike unleashed that right hook he was barely holding back.
“I’ll take over here, detective,” he said, before jabbing his
finger real hard in Caldwell’s chest. What? Bad cop, bad cop is it now? he thought.
“We also know that you are a card-carrying senior member of a barely-legal, extreme far-right organisation called Home Base, formerly The Lads Society; that you are still in regular contact with the remaining members of your ill-fated excursion; that you are staying indefinitely at the Medusa Private Hotel in Darlinghurst…and that you are in Sydney to recruit new members.”
By the astounded look on his face, Caldwell was about to say: “How did you know all that?” but instead went on the attack again.
“So what? It’s a totally legit organisation and if we happen to believe in standing up for white’s rights, and fighting the injustice of reverse racism and political fucking correctness, stiff shit. Someone has to stand up and stop this country being sold out to the chinks, Arabs and fuck knows who else, and from being given back to the blacks, no questions asked. And it sure as hell isn’t the government, the judges or the fucken pigs. We’re not breaking any laws. Me especially. So either arrest me for ‘Possession of Dying Friends’, or open that fucking door and let me go about my business.”
Overkill : Pure Venom Page 10
