Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  Martin screamed, ”Stop.” He covered his head and face with his arms; then with flailing legs and body, he tried to roll away. He screamed again, as if crying, “What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck? I didn’t do nothin’.” Martin curled up like a millipede.

  Matt kicked his cousin, repeatedly, targeting his arms, legs and lastly in the gut. “You fucking ungrateful cunt!” He stood next to Martin, breathing heavily and then, out of breath he collapsed next to his sobbing cousin. Matt sat on the dirt ground trying to catch his breath, the adrenalin sapped from his body.

  “What the fuck did you make me do that for?” Still trying to catch his breath; Matt’s fury had deflated to anger. “I’ve fucking looked after you, I’ve fed you, I’ve kept you in coin and you repay me by sneaking around my back and giving me lip.”

  Martin’s sobbing had stopped. Still clenching his stomach, he tried to utter a response, but it faded into a quiver.

  Matt stared into the scrub and in an act of regret, he put his hand on Martin’s head. Martin flinched. “No more. I’m not going to hurt you again,” Matt said softly and he stroked his cousin’s hair. He put his arm around Martin’s neck and cradled him, pulled him closer. “I’m sorry, little mate. I’m sorry, bud. But you got to understand, it was for your own good. Alright?” He hugged his smaller cousin.

  The magpies flew off.

  CHAPTER 58

  SAVINGS

  It wasn’t Wednesday. Dogs can’t tell what day it is, but Patch was ready to board, as if it was. As soon as Peter started up the diesel Patch took a running leap and clambered into the back of the tray-top Land Cruiser. He pranced around the timber tray occasionally letting out a high-pitched yelp.

  Peter steered the heavy truck up the track and effortlessly, it idled up the hill. Patch jumped around in the back snapping at twigs from low hanging branches.

  The desert-brown truck didn’t go as far as the gate, Peter turned into a narrow and overgrown track which disappeared into the scrub. It was not a new track, just an old one not used for six months. Peter negotiated the heavy vehicle through the thick undergrowth until he came to a steep descent. He slipped the shorter gear lever into low range, with a crunch. First gear ground a little as he pushed the clutch down to the floor. He let the truck find its way down the steep and rocky path.

  The sound of flowing water signalled the proximity of his destination. Recent rain had kept the creek flowing. The sight and the sound of it soothed Peter’s mind and relaxed his aching muscles. Rocks and small boulders were strewn randomly around the edges of the stream. He turned the steering wheel sharply to the left and the truck edged its way along the flowing water. Another fifty metres and he could cross the creek. It was only three metres wide, at the most. Not even the length of the truck. Peter had cleared rocks from the crossing a few years ago when he found the creek. This valley was hidden and well-obscured from prying eyes from above.

  After traversing the shallow crossing, he inched his way up the embankment, straddling some natural ruts created by stormwater rushing down the hill. Up and over the greasy embankment he pulled the truck up and turned the key until the diesel stopped. Silence. He listened intently to the sounds of the bush. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the ironbark stands near him. He breathed in deeply, taking in the smell. Patch was wagging his tail, waiting for his signal. “Come on. Out you get.” And he was out before Peter even finished his command. Patch ran off into the scrub. Sniffing, darting from left to right, right to left, turning, sniffing and darting again. Peter got out of the truck and followed Patch’s path. He ducked under some low branches from a fallen gum. He kicked some of the detritus aside; termite eaten and decayed bits of blood-wood. Probably should take some back for firewood. He would consider that later.

  His destination appeared in view. In a clearing shielded by gumtrees, surrounding his plot like an army of guarding soldiers, he marvelled at the marijuana plants, standing nearly eight-foot tall. A small tight forest of plants. Beautiful finger-leafed plants with flower-heads so big and heavy they were hanging down pulling the tops of plants over. A crop he hadn’t harvested. He had planted these a few years ago and had let them be; forgotten about them, like savings.

  Peter squatted on a partially disintegrated log on the ground. Admiring the breeze combing through the soft foliage, with his hands clasped together elbows resting on his knees he swore an oath. Martin was never going to get his hands on this crop.

  After fifteen minutes of silent respite, he rose and walked back to his truck. He whistled and he whistled again, a bit longer and louder. He could hear the rustle from the scrub, like a pig running. Patch shot out through the bush and raced past him straight to the Land Cruiser. Peter clapped once and commanded, “Hop.” And Patch flew into the back of the truck. Panting, with his tongue hanging out the side of his slobbered mouth and his tail rotating like a chopper’s rotor.

  Peter turned the key and the diesel cranked up. Then he remembered that he had to ring Rafe back. Something in his gut told him that Rafe could possibly help him, could have the key to unlock the cage where he was trapped.

  It meant that he would have to go to Milton. He could kill a few birds with one stone. Ring his contact and fill up the spare tank with diesel, in case he had to do a midnight escape run. Am I paranoid? It wouldn’t hurt to have the extra diesel, he thought.

  Coming this far, he decided to go to the supermarket in the main street. He parked the truck in the church carpark across the road. It had been well past an hour since Rafe had tried to contact him. In fact, it had been nearly three hours. His mate probably wanted his last supply, before it all disappeared. But he did catch a few words through the broken lines over the phone, “…need my help.”

  He pressed the buttons on the phone. He listened to the ringing.

  Finally, “Hello this is Rafe.”

  “Hey mate, sorry it took so long to get back to you.” Peter apologised.

  “It’s cool, dude. No fucking worries at all.”

  “What can I do for you?” Peter asked.

  Rafe cleared his throat and uttered his customary surf-sniff, then, “Look dude, although our friendship is mostly a business arrangement, I respect you as a decent person and a friend.”

  Peter didn’t say much in return, “Thanks.”

  “I think you need some help.”

  Peter noticed the early evening shoppers scurrying over the footpath across the road. Busy people from a long day at work, rushing into the small convenience supermarket to purchase the night’s missing dinner ingredients. How uncomplicated life was for those people. The glare from a high-beam over the road flashed into his eyes and shook him back into reality.

  “Hey, Peter, are you there?”

  Peter collected his thoughts, “Sorry, mate, I was distracted for a sec. I appreciate your offer of help. Likewise I’d like to think of you as a friend. I’ve always respected your easy going manner and your loyalty.”

  “Friends help each other out.” Rafe came straight to the point. ”And I think you need a friend right now.”

  Peter went quiet.

  “Are you there still?” Rafe wondered again.

  “Yes. Yes, mate, just a bit overwhelmed.”

  “I got the feeling that you got yourself into some sort of jam.”

  Again a pause, but this time Peter replied sooner.” Yes I am in a bind. I fucked up badly. Now I don’t quite know how to get out of this.”

  “I’ve got time. Fill me in. Maybe I can help you.”

  “A few weeks ago I met this guy at the pub. Seemed an alright sort of bloke. Anyway, it was a full-on party night at the pub, live music. Heaps of people. And I got sucked into drinking a few more than I normally do, like fucking Bundies and heaps of them. Next thing we’re smoking numbers on the veranda. Anyway, didn’t realise I had given this bloke my number. So he finds me and the next thing you know he’s over. Initially it seemed cool, another bloke that wants to buy some mull. But then it changed, he wa
nts everything, and more. It’s like he’s thrown this giant net over me and I can’t get out. He scares me. He really scares me. The stupid part is that he’s half my size. I could probably sit on him and crush him. Don’t know, something about him scares the fuck out of me.”

  Rafe was breathless and felt a shiver, like an invisible blanket of dread covering him. “Is he a scrawny looking character, with black beady eyes?” He hesitated in asking. I don’t really want to know.

  “How did you know?” Peter replied.

  CHAPTER 59

  A TWISTED KILLER

  A strip of light under the front door of the last unit at the end of the corridor, on the third floor, had just disappeared. Cate switched off the halogen down-lights in the living room, after checking the front door lock. She had more questions burning on her lips.

  She pulled the quilt cover back, slipped under and moved closer to Darren until she felt his warm body against hers. Unable to contain her curiosity, “Who stole the guns again?”

  Darren rolled onto his back and folded his arms under his head, on the bulky pillow. “A scrawny low-life, named Martin. Don’t know his last name. Same bloke who decked my mate Nick.”

  Cate could feel Darren’s chest. His breathing wasn’t shallow and relaxed anymore. She felt his upper body swelling, his breaths were longer. The exhalations were like sighs, but they weren’t sighs at all. They were exhalations of anger and anguish. She put her arm over his chest and held him closer. He trembled slightly. Her face was resting against his cheek now. She felt his jaw muscles flexing, gritting his teeth. She lifted her head and in the light from the moon delicately casting a glimmer through the partially drawn curtain she thought she could see him fighting back a tear. “You’re upset. If you want to …”

  “No.” He ran his hand over his face. He went to sit up and re-arranged his pillow aggressively; out it came. ”That motherfucking son of a bitch butchered his dog! And I could have stopped him!” With that explosion of words, he sprung out of bed.

  Cate switched on the bed-side lamp, she had never seen him in this state before. Darren pressed himself against the wardrobe door, his arms behind his back, fury in his eyes.

  “Talk to me, Darren.” She repeated, gentle and softer, “Talk to me.”

  “I knew it when I went through his gate to leave. I knew that dog was history. I could have stopped it. But I didn’t.” He started pacing the bedroom, with a look of anguish and guilt; wanting to turn back time.

  “Stop. Darren, stop. Come and sit down with me.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, Cate held out her arm and grabbed hold of his fingers, coaxing him to her just like in the carpark of the Mona Vale hotel. He surrendered and plonked next to her on the bed.

  “I went to his place to have a look at the gun, out of curiosity more than anything else. That’s when I spotted this poor little kelpie in the far corner of the yard. Scared shitless. That worm told me he’d just flogged her.”

  Darren moved sideways further down the bed to face her, “Let me try to paint a picture of that little creep. He’s short and skinny; scrawny with beady evil, black eyes. First meeting, he’s a skin-head wearing lace-up jackboots with a devil’s white face and marble black eyes gleaming with hatred. Second meeting, he’s a scrawny passenger with a bit of hair on his head, behaving like a rabid hyena for stopping him from killing a bloke the last time we met. Third meeting, he is a dangerous psycho trying to sell me a Smith & Wesson. Martin, the devil in human disguise, sometimes I see his ghost in the middle of the night holding up the bloodied body of a mutilated dog.”

  Cate gazed at him, surprised at his obsessed hatred for the skin-head. If she reacted the same as he did to some of the cruelty she witnessed in her line of work, she would be in a nuthouse.

  “In my life, from my cab-driving and just talking to different people, from all walks of life, you learn stuff. All the stories, I could sit here for a month and still not be finished …So, Johnno wasn’t squeaky clean and at times handed out some rough justice, but he never hurt innocent people.”

  “Well, I heard he had a rep for roughing up punters that didn’t pay their bills. Wouldn’t call that exactly innocent,” Cate interjected.

  “Look, there might have been a few casualties. Let’s face it, if you pay your way, chances of meeting a debt-collector do diminish. Really, he was not a bad man. In a less than an honourable line of work maybe. The point I’m trying to make is that, out of most people I’ve met, despite many being strange, some very peculiar, there are still good folk out there. And, I have met some real cunts. But Johnno did not belong to that category.”

  Cate mumbled in passive acceptance, ”Fair enough.”

  Then Darren’s expression darkened. “But Martin, he’s not just bad, he is pure evil. And I feel deep inside that I have not seen the last of him.”

  “That sounds scary.”

  Darren stared into the robe mirror. Cate looked into the mirror and fixed her eyes on his. They sat still, like a photograph.

  “I found out in the next few days that this shithead had knocked off those guns from Johnno’s. So we went back to retrieve them. By the time we’ve gone back to his, he’s long gone.” He paused. “He left his dog, or what was left of it.” A look of deep regret overcame his pallid face. “The poor thing would have suffered. Left her mutilated.” He got up. “That dog didn’t deserve his cruelty. He carved her up to make himself feel good about it.” Before he left the room he added, “I guarantee for blokes like him that would have only been the beginning. He’s a twisted killer.”

  Cate sat on the bed still looking in the mirror; she saw how her expression had changed from inquisitive to fearful. But she wasn’t scared of Martin. She was fearful of Darren’s premonition that he would meet Martin, the psychotic killer again.

  CHAPTER 60

  THE BOYS FROM THE BUSH

  Cate had read the faxed document a couple times and was processing the information, while keeping her eyes on the document. She was in deep thought when her mobile buzzed on the desk for the third time. “Private number” illuminated the screen. She picked up the phone and pressed the green symbolled button. “Hawkins,” she answered curtly. There was a brief silence from the other end. Then, the voice spoke clearly but quietly, “There’s a meeting this arvo. Boys from the bush, picking up a package. Destination unknown.” Click.

  Cate summoned her protégé. Adam left the pile of paperwork on his desk and made a beeline for her office. Without knocking, he entered her sparsely decorated office.

  “Just got a call. Apparently there’s a meeting this afternoon at the clubhouse.”

  “What time?” Adam stood at attention and ready for anything.

  “No idea. I think he was in a hurry, or didn’t know. Whatever. This is low-key, observe only. Get your coat and meet me in the carpark in ten.”

  The apprentice nodded and swiftly left her office. Cate was pleased, a young and motivated constable who could follow orders without too much ado. Always thinking on his feet, it was a refreshing change from her last ‘partner’. He was a department veteran who didn’t take well to a woman being his superior. Lucky for him the department offered him early retirement. His eager acceptance of that offer was met with great relief by others as well. She was equally happy not having to sit next to him in a stake-out car and smell his B.O.

  The dark blue station wagon with the tinted windows remained parked in the underground carpark. A maroon coloured Hyundai was her selection today, also with tinted windows. Quite dark. There were no other distinguishing features other than a faded bonnet and a visible dent in the passenger door. Mechanically, the little four-cylinder car was in excellent condition. Cate loved spearing the pocket-rocket through Brookvale’s busy streets.

  “You probably could have given Mark Webber some tips,” Adam remarked as he held on tight to the ‘oh, fuck’ handle in front of him. She stayed focused on her driving and loving every second of it. “So this thing here is not a standard set-up, is it?�
�� he enquired.

  Cate squeezed the small hatchback between a bus and a 15-tonne tipper-truck, at more than seventy clicks. “No, not quite standard. Tweaked suspension and a bit of tinkering by the boys in our workshop.” She displayed a playful, evil grin.

  “Hey, boss, ever been booked?” Adam pushed into his seat with a grimace.

  “Uniform know better than to fuck with the ‘Hawk’, when she’s on a mission.”

  She put her foot down as the car jettisoned from between the two colossal vehicles. She only slowed her racing when they approached the traffic lights at the Garden Street turn-off. From there she drove the car at a non-descript speed, blending into the sparse traffic.

  “Hopefully, we’ll find a suitable spot.” Adam remarked.

  It was just past midday: a good time for a stake-out. Parking was easier, as the work-force rushed out with their cars to get their lunches before it was all over.

  “My tip is that we’ll find a vacant spot, just counting on something not too close, or far,” Cate casually answered. “Lunchtime, a few punters will be picking up lunches. Losing their carparks in the process.”

  “You’re not just a pretty face, are you?” Adam ventured, hoping his boss wouldn’t regard him as insolent.

  “No, not just a pretty face.” Cate looked at him briefly and smiled in return. She settled for a vacant spot further up the road, on the opposite side of the mechanical shop. They were parked a good two hundred metres away, well obscured from their target’s possibly watchful eyes. “Pass me the binos.” Adam obligingly reached into the plastic box on the back seat.

  Cate peered through the lenses: a clear view. She put them down between her and Adam, glancing at her side-kick biting into his ham and cheese sandwich with one eye, while keeping the other eye on the target. “You know you could pass an audition for a singer in a boy-band. Be rich and famous. Instead you’re doing this job.”