Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  This was all wrong now. Where is all of this going? Cate sighed. She felt cornered.

  “You know this is exactly what I didn’t want – choosing – going against the rules.”

  “What fucking rules?” The expression on Darren’s face changed from curiosity to minor irritation.

  “Not to involve your partner, your spouse and family in police business. But the truth is, you Darren, are part of this scenario. And that worries me. I know you didn’t have much to do with the actual crime part, but you’re an accessory.” She stopped for a moment. “Perhaps we could look at it differently, and say you’re a witness.” Cate was grappling with semantics.

  It was dawning on them: they each had some hard choices and hard decisions to make. Except neither was willing to discuss these choices, nor the decisions they were likely to make in the future. And, they were also going into opposite directions from each other. Unspoken recognition.

  “Let’s go out for dinner,” Cate proposed. “We can walk. We’ll follow the trail of nice aromas. I’m going to freshen up and put on a face.”

  Darren nodded, his mind already digging away at unearthing thoughts buried in suspension of time. Could throw a bomb into the clubhouse and get all the cunts all at once, Eddie and that beady-eyed cockroach. Wishful thinking.

  But he had to consider Cate, her career, their relationship. He wouldn’t know what to do without her. Now, he started to worry about her. That was new. She was a good copper and could take good care of herself. But the odds were stacked against her. Eddie and Martin, they were bad odds. It wasn’t about Cate being threatened by Eddie or Martin, no, it was about Cate putting herself right in the middle of a fire-fight. Cate was the problem, the ‘Hawk’, as she was nicknamed by her peers. She’s not going to let go once her talons are out. As far as getting in her way to protect her from harm, he might as well pack his bags and hold his wrists out in front, because she’d throw his arse in gaol for ‘obstructing the law’.

  The only choice Darren saw was to get to Eddie and Martin before Cate got anywhere near them. Cate was not going to make that easy. After tonight he would be lucky if any conversation would go beyond the weather. Or sex, maybe.

  CHAPTER 64

  A GOOD BLOKE

  “So what are you going to do?” Nick asked an anxious Rafe.

  “I don’t really know, but Peter said he might have a way out. But it meant that he’d be finished down there,” Rafe replied. The weary painter stacked the two dinner plates after assembling the cutlery onto one plate. He carried the plates to the sink and plonked them in the tepid dish-water left in the sink, from washing dishes before having supper.

  “So who are these bad guys then?” Nick asked.

  Rafe dreaded this question knowing the answer would rattle Nick’s cage. He pondered how one person could have such an impact on people’s lives. Yes, he had a very nasty and evil disposition. His whole being exuded a physical obscenity which put fear into people around him. This was fucking ridiculous. He was just a scrawny, ugly skin-head with bad eyes. He’d only met Martin twice – two fleeting moments –enough to imprint a picture of evil. But Rafe was not scared.

  “Believe it or not, Peter’s problem is that same little shit bag that smashed you in the carpark.”

  Nick was flabbergasted. “What!”

  “The same prick.”

  “Nah, come on, stop it. You’re fucking with me.” Nick the unbeliever.

  “No, I’m not.” Rafe continued clearing a few sauces from the table and stuck them in the fridge-door. “Makes sense. Remember, I told you on the first trip that I ran into him at the Marlin.” Although the dining table was not completely clear or wiped down, Rafe had enough of the cleaning duties and went to settle back on the wicker lounge.

  “Are you sure you want to get involved? Maybe this is all bikie connected.”

  “Why is everything bikie-related to you?” Rafe shook his head.

  “Look, you do what you think is best. Just leave me out of it. I told you from the start that this dope dealing caper was not your best idea.” Nick walked away and left Rafe sitting on the couch.

  The troubled painter snatched his mobile from the coffee-table and rang the South Coast number. It rang out. He pressed the re-dial button. Again no answer.

  Later, despite his fatigue, Rafe found it hard to fall asleep. He tossed and turned. Cursing one minute that it was too hot, the next minute, it was too cold. He looked at his mobile for the seventeenth time only to find it had been eleven minutes since the last time he checked. He threw his doona cover off. After several more toss and turns he drifted away into oblivion.

  In the other bedroom, Nick tossed and turned as well. His only thought was; What was it with people who were so blinded by dedication and loyalty to spur them to make stupid decisions?

  Nick woke up at seven. Not quite daylight yet, as he rubbed his eyes to figure out why he could hear a car starting. Not a car. A Kombi. Where the fuck is he going? Nick threw the covers off his bed and shuffled to the toilet. The aroma of early morning coffee percolating in the glass vessel goaded the half-dressed carpenter to the kitchen. Nick switched the coffee-maker off annoyed that his flat-mate had left it on. Want to add burning the house down to drug dealing on your list of stupid things to do in life?

  Within an hour and a half, the Kombi was racing down the Princes Highway past the entrance to the Royal National Park. Traffic had been relatively light. Rafe was pleased that he was ahead of schedule. It gave him time to try and contact Peter again. He planned to grab some breakfast near Heathcote.

  Rafe pressed the re-dial button again.

  Four rings, “Hello.”

  “Hey Peter, it’s me, Rafe. I’m coming down this morning. Don’t freak out.”

  The line went quiet for a moment. “Alright … Okay, that’s good. You can help me.” Rafe sensed his friend’s relief on the other end. “Thanks. Thanks Rafe, you’re a good bloke.”

  CHAPTER 65

  A FORK IN THE ROAD

  The road leading to Melbourne was via the Hume Highway. It was clear to Martin that they were nowhere near the Hume. It was the road back to the South Coast. Conversation had been sparse, but he was curious now. “Not going to Melbourne?”

  “Where do you want to stick the Harley? On the roof rack? Or between us?” A very sarcastic Matt answered.

  “Fair enough. Only wondering why we’re headin’ home,” a meek Martin replied. Meek on the outside, seething on the inside.

  Back home on the property Matt was furious. The Daihatsu was cranking but not firing up. He nearly broke the key from twisting it in the ignition slot. He twisted harder, longer, and with more force with each turn of the key. Martin studied his enraged cousin. You could strangle it to make it start. Yep, that’s predictable. Martin thought, now listening to the sound of a dead battery. He observed his fat and screaming cousin, kicking rocks and gravel. Fraying at the edges.

  Martin predicted the Melbourne trip would be delayed. The taste for being his cousin’s side-kick had completely soured, the eagerness for an out-of-town trip now replaced with an apathy giving way to reluctance – a reluctance giving way to an outright unwillingness – to rebellion.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Martin asked loudly from a distance.

  “I don’t fucking know. Do I look like a mechanic to you?” Matt yelled back. He tried his mobile phone but there was no service and he threw it down the driveway; like a skipping stone it bounced twice and disappeared into some bushes. “Fuckkk!”

  “Want me to drive you in?” Martin offered.

  “Fuck off. I’ll take the Land Cruiser. And find my fucking phone!” Matt stomped over to the white wagon.

  Martin stood there and watched the four-wheel drive fly-up the road. How the tables have turned.

  Finding a mechanic at three-thirty in the afternoon and getting one to come out was going to be a mission. Martin did some calculations in his head. Twenty minutes to get to town, another twenty, or
longer to find a mechanic. Then God knows how long before they could come out. We’re not going anywhere for a day or so.

  Martin went into the cottage and headed straight to his bedroom for the back-pack. The same one he carried from the Heathcote cottage to the train. The same one he used when he lifted the handguns from Balgowlah. He found the black Smith & Wesson, protected by the thick woollen sock. He groped for the box with the ammunition. It contained mostly .22 calibre cartridges. There were some loose bullets rolling around in the box. He retrieved the .38 hollow point bullets. Five of them, leaving three .45 calibre ‘showstoppers’ in the box. Martin deliberated over those large calibre bullets. They belonged to the Browning. He made up his mind. For safekeeping he retrieved them as well.

  It was time to get serious with Peter. Maybe I should get serious with Matt too.

  A soothing glow overwhelmed Martin. No longer anxious. No, he was very much in control.

  He smiled as he turned the key lightly in the ignition of the Corolla. At least his car would start. The heavy pistol was still on his lap. He stuffed it in the big woollen sock and stashed his prize under the seat.

  It would take an hour to get to Peter’s gate.

  CHAPTER 66

  THE GARDEN OF EDEN

  The road-base near the front gate had more tyre tracks in it since Rafe had put the first ones in. The entrance still needed more compacting, but there was no time for that now. The Kombi kicked up a lot of dust as Rafe sped down the windy and rough track leading into Peter’s valley. The last part was steep, even though he was only travelling at ten kilometres an hour at a near crawl, it wasn’t slow enough. Rafe applied the brakes smoothly, but the vehicle still slid down over the gravelly dirt. Relieved that the grade further down the hill was not as steep, he arrived in the valley unscathed.

  Peter breathed with relief, after watching the blue Kombi and hearing the nerve-wracking skids on the steep gravel road, he was sure that the Kombi would slew and wind up wedged between the embankment and a tree, or worse.

  “Doesn’t pay to be in a hurry coming down that hill, mate,” Peter commented as the Kombi came to a halt next to him.

  “Yeah, lucky today. Hope that’s a good sign,” Rafe replied.

  The blue-heeler was running circles around the Kombi and as Rafe hopped out of his seat, the dog jumped on him once and ran around the Kombi again. Although Peter was not unhappy to see Rafe, he remained reserved. Unlike Patch.

  Peter was wavering and hesitant. “I might have jumped the gun a bit. Maybe I’m reading too much into my situation.” He said without conviction.

  Rafe was undeterred. “Listen, mate. I’m here to help you. You said you had a plan.”

  Peter sighed heavily. He rubbed his chin whiskers and muttered, “I guess you’re right. Martin is not going to disappear. And how do you know this character?”

  Rafe explained about Martin beating Nick up. “He’s a nasty piece of work. I saw him again in Ulladulla at the Marlin, when I first came here to meet you. Never forget that ugly face. Don’t know his name though, just that ghostly face with the black marble eyes.”

  “His name is Martin,” Peter said.

  “Hmm. So what’s your plan?”

  “I have a reserve crop, a rainy day crop. It’s not far from here. There’s quite a bit and the plants are tall. The stems are more like small tree trunks,” Peter said with a glimmer of pride on his face. “If I harvest this I’ll have enough to keep me afloat for a while.”

  “When you sell it,” Rafe rightfully pointed out.

  “Yeah, when I sell it.”

  “Martin told me he would be away for a while. So it’s an ideal opportunity to ‘cut and run’.” Peter paused but quickly added, “Rafe, I promise I’ll look after you. You can make some money out of this deal.”

  “Let’s work that out later. I’m here, so how about we get to work? What do we need?” Rafe followed as Peter gathered some tools from his shed, some bush-saws, a spade and a spud bar. He took some pruning scissors from the top of the fridge on the veranda.

  By the time Peter had cranked the diesel to life, Patch was already running around in the tray. Rafe sat in the passenger seat, feeling the vibration of the diesel shaking the Land Cruiser. He was grateful that the Kombi was a smoother ride.

  Rafe brushed the overgrown branches that flicked into the open window space aside. He didn’t want to spoil the exploration adventure through thick bush by winding up the window. He loved it. This was exciting. He daydreamed of never painting again and becoming a marijuana farmer, the truck jolted him back to reality. No, it would be too far from the surf.

  They were jostled about as the truck crawled down the rocky embankment. “Wow. Pretty awesome spot here. Are we really going through that?” Rafe was unsure about crossing over the creek and getting up over the opposite rutted out embankment, which was covered in thick mud. The existing tyre tracks told a tale of repeated misadventure.

  “Don’t worry mate, those are my tracks. It looks a bit churned up.” Peter shifted the gear stick into second low-range. Another big sway in the cab, a couple of shorter jolts, and they were over. “Not far now.”

  Patch shot out of the back and he was off. “He’s chasing wallabies and wombats.” Peter joked. “Follow me, bring a spade and that bar. I’ll get the other gear.”

  He produced some hessian from behind the passenger seat. “Only a short walk, through there.” Peter pointed to the dense rain-forest bush ahead.

  Rafe stood in awe. He had never seen eight-foot high plants. And so densely packed! Flower heads as thick and long as jumbo-sized corn. “I am impressed. This is like the Garden of Eden.” Rafe said in admiration.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty amazing. I planted these a few years ago. And let them go.” Peter moved closer and threw the potato bags on the ground, keeping one in his right hand. He snipped the first flower head with the pruning scissors and caught it with the open bag. “Let’s get as many of these off first.” He snipped for his life.

  Rafe was too busy picking up after Peter to ask him for a spare set of pruners. It took an hour-and-a-half to fill the six potato sacks, with plenty left on the plants for harvesting.

  “So how many plants you think you got here?” Rafe was surveying the plantation.

  “Can’t recall how many I planted. Did lose some to wallabies, until I fenced it off,” Peter answered while clipping heads and tossing them in small piles.

  “What happened to your fencing?” Rafe was intrigued.

  “Had to use it elsewhere, besides the plants were big enough to withstand the roos.” The bushman stopped and sized up the work ahead. “Can’t do this in one trip. It’s going to take more than a few runs. Maybe five or six. With some luck we can get two done this arvo,” Peter reckoned. “Let’s stick these bags in the truck and start cutting some whole plants. The ones we’ve already pruned.”

  Rafe followed without question. He relished this adventure; it was a romantic adventure. Rafe in wonderland. He was stoked and he’d thought that only a good surf could make you stoked.

  Martin unlooped the chain at the gate. Although annoyed at having to do this and then get out of the car only to shut the gate again, he did decide it was better to shut the gate. He hated this road. It was probably doing damage to his new car. Martin’s dreams for his future did not include a rural gate, or a rocky gravel road. His vision for the future was a warm place near a beach. Palm trees, a house with tiles on the floor and a remote control door for his garage. Before going too far into the property he pulled up. He looked around him and in the rear view mirror. It was safe. No prying eyes. Reaching under his seat, he withdrew the woollen sock with the .38 in it. He lifted the sock upside down and let the pistol fall into his hand. It was like a canon. Martin’s hands weren’t very large, but they were strong enough to hold that gun like a western gun-slinger. He groped in his pocket for the bullets, loaded the revolver and continued his journey to the valley. The black Smith & Wesson rested comfortably on t
he passenger seat.

  He hoped the revolver would be secure on the passenger seat when he descended the last steep part of the track. He had to stay focused on the shaly and bony track. With both eyes peeled on the gravel road while crawling down the slippery track, he saw the glimmering revolver slide off the seat from the corner of his eye. His mind raced, shit, the car or the gun? He heard the gun come to rest on the floor of the Corolla, with a light thump. He clenched his hands harder around the steering wheel. Down the valley he saw a dark-blue van parked in the clearing.

  Other than the unfamiliar van, the valley looked deserted. No dog came running out. He drove a little further and parked his car next to the van. No truck. No sign of Peter. Martin was dismayed. He got out of the car and started towards the veranda. The clunking of his boots on the timber boards was loud in his ears. He put his hand around the faded brass door knob, turned it and pushed the heavy timber door open. The squeaking of the door was the only sound, other than a distant kookaburra and some currawongs.

  So who owns the fucking van? He stood on the timber veranda looking at the blue car. He felt the cold barrel of the .38 touching his lips, as he held the weapon close to his mouth.

  CHAPTER 67

  RUNNING OUT OF TIME

  The auto repair shop behind the servo in Moruya was a one-man show. The dark-green overalls suspended from the truck-chassis contained an average sized mechanic, whose head was concealed and stuck somewhere between a starter motor and an alternator. Undeterred by the presence of a walk-in customer, he continued his search for a ‘bad connection’ in the wiring.

  “Hey mate, you got a minute?” Matt’s patience had been on the testing circuit all afternoon. His search for a mechanic with nothing to do was an absolute failure so far, and it was nearly three o’clock already.

  “Pretty busy here, mate.” The voice resonated from under the bonnet. The truck was on the hoist and a good four-foot off the smooth concrete floor.