Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  He approached the timber steps leading onto the veranda and was confronted by a black crow that had hopped from behind the half-shut front door. It squawked and bolted, flapping past him in haste. Another two emerged from inside and he reflexively ducked as they flew past either side of him. Bushy stopped in his tracks: the sight of the crows coming out of the door had spooked him to no end.

  Mojo stepped onto the timber floorboards. With his right arm stretched out he gently pushed the door. The creaking noise from the dry hinges added to his guarded breathing. Two large brown rats stared him in the face and reluctantly retreated from their feeding plate, the open cavity of the courier’s skull. The rodents scurried off into the back room.

  It was difficult to associate the distorted face on the floor with the porky courier who liked party-pies in the boardroom. Mojo steeled himself as he inched towards the body. The hands and the face, or what was left of it, had already turned a purple-blue shade of grey. He could smell other body odours. A quick examination of the room, the remains on the floor and congealed blood splatter stuck to the fridge summarised a clear picture-book story. As he went through the front door he picked up his pace dramatically and virtually threw himself off the veranda, as he heaved and vomited. After bending over and waiting for the dry-reaching to stop, he composed himself. He cast a look over to his partner and shook his head. Bushy briefly glanced at his mate and stepped up to inspect inside the cottage. He poked his head inside past the open door. It took three seconds for him to retreat, his face ashen.

  “Fuck. Fuck that’s bad. Who is it? Is it that dude, the courier?” Bushy rushed from the veranda, after a few seconds he gagged. His face was still pale, “Disgusting.”

  Neither spoke for a few minutes. They listened to the sounds of the gum-tree forest telling stories of bird sing-song. The rustle of wind-fanned leaves in the tall spotted-gums sweeping the air clean. “We got to find what we came here for,” Mojo finally said. He walked over to the Land Cruiser: it was the easiest place to start.

  After tossing a twenty cent coin half a dozen times, they tied for heads and tails. Neither wanted to go back inside the cottage. In the interest of not wasting more time, they agreed to both enter the cottage and search for the package. Bushy even opened the fridge door, although he stood at arm’s length to reach the handle with two fingers, so as not to touch the gooey stuff. They turned the place upside down and inside out. They combed through the machinery shed, opening every box, uncovering sheet metal debris and anything that could conceal a parcel, and went through the Land Cruiser again, before admitting defeat.

  “I reckon his skinny brother has fucked off with it.” Bushy said.

  “Yeah. His cousin actually,” Mojo agreed. “He probably shot him as well, there’s a lot of money in that little package, about two hundred and fifty thousand bucks worth of killing motive.” Straightaway, Mojo wished he hadn’t used the word ‘motive’.

  “Fuck. You sounded just a like copper!” Bushy laughed. Suddenly the laughter turned into a nervous chuckle. “Eddie is going to be out of his mind pissed off.”

  Mojo spotted a group of seven wallabies hopping back to the green patch of undergrowth up ahead as they left the cottage behind.

  Out on the main road back into Moruya, many thoughts crossed Mojo’s mind. How was Eddie going to react to this news? Badly. What were the chances of finding the coke package soon? Buckley’s and none. Was this situation enough to start a war between the Sinners and the Italians? Very likely. Few thoughts were given to the dead courier on the kitchen floor getting nibbled on by crows and rats.

  He had to contact Cate and tell her that the shit was about to hit the fan.

  CHAPTER 76

  MISSING LINKS

  Peak hour traffic had a record day. Mojo cursed, it was even hard going for a couple of motorcycle outlaws. Arriving back through the gate of the mechanical repair factory in Narrabeen felt like the end of a world tour, except that the tour wasn’t over yet. The chequered flag would be bringing the news about the missing package to a towering ill-tempered bikie boss. This time Eddie wouldn’t be chucking a phone. It would probably be one of them. Mojo and Bushy locked eyes, neither of them spoke, but they knew exactly what each other was thinking. Let’s get it done. And run for cover.

  Mojo stood still at attention, wincing at Bushy while watching wild man Eddie swinging his arms, swearing and ranting death wish slogans. At least he hasn’t smashed anything yet. Eddie was huffing and puffing, and pacing around the room, but after a few minutes he walked to the bar, poured himself a large shot-glass of tequila, slammed it back draining the glass.

  “You think the scrawny fucker blew him away?”

  “Hard to say. Everything points to it. He knew about the coke. He’s not there. Coke’s not there,” Mojo reasoned.

  Bushy shrugged his shoulders and agreed with a short quick nod and said, “Sounds good to me”.

  Eddie didn’t like his choice of words, “Whaddaya mean ‘sounds good’, it is not good, it’s fucked! You goddamn moron. The Italians will do their nut; they’ll want payment in blood. We might be staring down the barrels of a few shotguns tomorrow.” The cap was still off the tequila bottle, so he poured another. It was going to be a long night. “Fuck off, the pair of you.”

  Surprised to be let off so lightly, Mojo took the lead and marched to the door, Bushy hot on his heels.

  Both bikies returned to their parked Harleys and went their separate ways, once out of the gate.

  Mojo went straight to the drawer of his side-table. He picked up the mobile phone. The time on the screen displayed 10.58pm. He noticed that the battery was low, nevertheless, he pressed the speed-dial on the device. It rang a few times.

  “What’s up?” Cate was lying on the bed, Darren was fondling her ample breast, kissing her free arm. “What?” She sprang up.

  Darren rolled his eyes and threw up his arms in frustration; she put her finger to her lips and warned him with her eyes.

  “So when did all of this go down?” She listened. Then she swung her legs over the side of the bed and got up. She reached for her night-gown, thrown over the back of the bedroom chair only moments before. She cradled the phone in the dish of her collarbone, “You haven’t called the local boys in, have you?”

  “No.” Mojo went over to his fridge and retrieved a can of Jack Daniels and Coke. He popped the ring and brought the cold drink to his lips. “There’s a lot happening as we speak.” He paused for another drink from the can, then he laid out the events as he’d pieced them together involving the missing cocaine.

  “That sounds like a Guy Ritchie story. It all gets unravelled because someone’s truck has broken down.”

  Mojo added, “I think if they hadn’t diverted for the Pantec none of this would have panned out, for us.”

  “What’s your take on the killer? Think it’s his cousin?” Cate asked.

  Cate was trying to string some decisions together. Buying time was of the essence at this stage of the game. She paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, Darren watching her every move.

  “I’m pretty sure it was him. No idea why, though. They were cousins, family, after all. As to a possible motive: I guess a quarter of a mill in cocaine can change family ties,” Mojo added in speculation.

  “Okay, James, I want you to be really, really careful now. Things are heating up, which means that mistakes are going to be made. Rushed decisions and frayed tempers.” Mojo gripped the phone as his boss said, “I’m considering pulling you out in the next day or so. We’ll have to figure out how to make you disappear for a while. Find out what you can in the next day. But I don’t want you around anywhere when the Italians front. Do you understand?” Cate ordered. “Get some sleep.” Mojo put the phone down slowly.

  She pressed the end button and tossed the handset on the bed, next to Darren.

  “Am I sleeping with a phone tonight?” He joked, although his mind was sharp as a tack, having taken in every single word Cate utte
red while on the phone. Darren was not happy. In fact, this development sounded dangerous; more stuff to draw Cate even closer to a looming show-down.

  “No. Some interesting events have unfolded.” She paced back and forth.

  “Although I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, I am going to, because just maybe we can help each other.”

  “I’m all ears.” Darren sat up straighter against the bedhead. Yes, come on Cate, fill me in. So I can do something.

  “First, something I haven’t told you. The other day we got wind of a possible connection with your stolen Ruger, which killed a bikie in Wollongong, to a murdered young girl found in a national park near Heathcote.” She cleared her throat.

  Darren held up his hand, “Slow down a sec. What? That gun kill a girl?”

  “No. Let me explain better. The description of the guy that sold the Ruger matches the description of a person that the dead girl described in her diary, a person she befriended not long before she went missing and was murdered. Unfortunately, the investigating officer didn’t follow it up because he didn’t think the link was strong enough.”

  Darren didn’t quite follow, “You’re losing me here.”

  “The detective in charge of that murder case deemed the evidence and description of the suspect coincidental and basically shoved the theory under the carpet. It was some months later that this description of him, your mate Martin, came to light. I’ll be clearer. The lazy arsehole swept it under the mat, because he couldn’t be bothered going through everything again. But we are looking into this now.”

  “Stop right there. You mean to say that Martin might have murdered a girl. That’s news to me. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Why should I? You’re not part of this investigation.”

  “Yes, but I’m you’re fucking partner and worried about all this shit!” Darren snapped. His eyes were wild with anger.

  Cate stared at him with a blank look. After a few moments she said, “Suppose I should let you in on some things…Promise not to interfere, and I am serious …I see you lurking around the Sinners’ again, well …that’ll be it. I will ban you from seeing me until all this is over. Got it?”

  “Maybe,” Darren replied with reluctance.

  Cate assessed him, irritated at his stubborn stance. “Alright I will let you in on a few details. I must be mad.”

  She explained how the couriers had come to pick up their package, but somehow diverted back to their hide-out down the coast, to change vehicles. Presumably something to do with picking up a Harley for Eddie, while in Melbourne.

  “This is where it gets tricky, because the Italians want their coke back. Sorry, didn’t tell you, the package was worth a quarter of a million bucks in cocaine.” Excited she rushed on, “Get this, a couple of boys from the Sinners are sent down there to find the coke and bring it back for collection by the Italians. Instead they find a courier with his head blown off. The fat one, not the scrawny one.” She tried to gauge his reaction. “Martin is still alive.”

  Darren just stared, she could see the wheels in his head spinning. Then Cate added, “The golden nugget is missing too.”

  Not being quick off the mark, “What gold nugget?”

  Cate threw her arms up in despair, “The cocaine, you sweet beautiful man, who will never make detective. Thank Christ!” She flung herself on the bed next to him.

  She didn’t know why she was so happy, but she was.

  Darren lay awake for hours. A light snore coming from Cate as she slept was amusing, seeing as she taunted him about his snoring. Eventually, he dozed off, but slept lightly.

  A light sea-breeze entered through the window every so often, causing the light fabric curtains to dance around, like a couple of flirting ghosts. Darren lay in a state of semi-slumber. The same theme going through his head. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t run away from it, he couldn’t shut his eyes and make it disappear. It was an apparition of Martin wielding a sword and he dreamed that vision at least four times. Each time it was different, once with a dog darting around him, scared, Martin chasing it. The second or third dream, he tried to recall, was Martin chasing a girl with that sword and she was screaming. The last dream, the one that woke him up, was of Martin holding a head by its hair in one hand, and the sword in the other. Darren tried like hell to figure out whose head it was. But it was pointless, his mind just went round in blank circles.

  Thirsty, tired and deeply disturbed by his nightmare, he touched his way around in the dark to find the kitchen sink. He drank from the cold water tap. As quietly as he could he crept back into bed. A groggy Cate put her arm around him, “You okay sweetie?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” He kissed her on the forehead. He wasn’t good at all, he was anxious. Darren was not a believer in superstition or omens and voodoo, but he felt an overwhelming urge to respond to a calling – one that would draw him to confront evil.

  CHAPTER 77

  AMBUSH

  “With a bit of luck it will clear the low branches near the top.” Peter hoped. He pulled the tag end of the rope down hard and finished the truckie’s knot with adept skill. He flung the other rope over and Rafe jumped with his arms up to catch the end of it on the other side of the load. Peter came around and used his practised skills to tie the load securely for the trip up the hill and the rough and overgrown track to the cottage. Patch was milling around the truck. Even to the cattle-dog it was clear that his spot in the back was taken. Peter called the dog and threw his flannel jacket on the ground. “You got to wait here,” he commanded. Patch cocked his head sideways and sat. A dismayed short whine from the canine indicated his feeling on the matter. “Be a good lad.” Peter patted his trusty mate on the head and scratched the dog behind his ears.

  “Won’t he run after us?” Rafe was worried.

  “Nah. He’ll be fine. He’ll lie on my jacket and wait for us to come back. It’s all good. Come on.” The lanky farmer got into the truck. Rafe quickly bent over and rubbed the dog’s head and assured, “We’ll be back buddy.”

  “Don’t worry about Patch, mate. He knows the way back. He’s sniffed out this valley, those hills, and probably the whole property. He’s fine, believe me.” Peter steered the laden Land Cruiser down the muddy embankment towards the gently flowing water washing down the creek. Patch had followed the truck to the mound, but didn’t go any further. Peter glanced in the side mirror and saw his dog peering at them in a firm and determined guarding stance.

  Martin heard the struggle of an engine in the distance. He’d been sitting in the sun, his legs dangling from the two-foot high veranda edge, polishing his stiletto knife with a cloth he kept for buffing machine oil on the handguns. He narrowed his eyes and hopped from the deck, comfortable he had at least another five or ten minutes before his quarry arrived. He went to the open passenger side window of the car, and took the Smith & Wesson from the seat. Calm, cool and collected, as he imagined he should act, he sought his hiding spot where he would wait for their arrival. He play-acted and, like practising a scene in a movie, he folded his arms in front of him and then like a cowboy slowly prancing to a gunfight he lowered his arms and stuck his thumbs into the left and right front pocket of his jeans. He looked around for a window to see himself. The engine noise was coming closer, the revolutions of the diesel varying with the bumps. He readied himself and hid behind the water-tank to the far side of the cottage.

  “Can’t see any cars, other than mine.” Rafe said with relief.

  “Yeah, that’s good. Just hope he doesn’t turn up,” Peter said.

  The loaded truck groaned to a halt. Rafe yawned prolonged and demonstratively with his arms stretched out in front of him. Peter went straight to the rope nearest the cab and started to untie the knot. Rafe turned his back to the cottage, and went to untie his end.

  “That’s a nice bundle of plants,” came a loud statement from the cottage, shocking both of the men at the truck. They couldn’t see each other, but if they could have,
their eyes would have locked in absolute disbelief. No way.

  Martin corralled the two men between their truck and the ‘potting’ shed. He opted not to produce his revolver, or his sharp surprise from the back pocket. Martin wanted to gauge his quarry first. Perhaps, they could be of use. Maybe, he could get them to work for him.

  “What are you looking at?” Martin sneered at Rafe.

  Rafe was apprehensive, but he wasn’t afraid. “I remember you. The Mona Vale Hotel. You’re the little grub that was chucking beer bottles at my mate. And then you attacked him from behind, like a coward. He was in hospital for weeks, broken ribs, severe concussion, smashed lips, and face. You really did a number on him.”

  Martin’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember you.”

  Rafe returned Martin’s quizzical look with angry eyes.

  “Do remember kicking the shit out of some stupid fuck though!” Martin boasted.

  “Yeah, a real hero you are.”

  Martin shifted his weight. His fingers were itchy; he stuffed his hands into the lower pockets of his flannel jacket. “Nice stack you got there.” He tipped his chin up pointing to the harvest in the truck. He moved a little closer to the tray and stuck his hand out stroking a few thin branches overhanging the side rail.

  “Thought you said you didn’t have any more,” Martin mumbled without looking at either of the men. “Did you get this from your neighbour?”

  Neither of the men spoke. Martin continued, enjoying the lack of reply. “And who are you? You still haven’t told me shit.” Martin turned around and looked directly at Rafe.

  “I’m his friend.” Rafe nodded towards Peter. “I’m helping him to sort out a problem.” Rafe considered his answer with care, deeming it prudent not to be too provocative.