Stealth

by John Hollenkamp

  “So what sort of problem does Peter have?” Martin needled.

  But Peter answered, “It’s you.”

  Martin shifted his gaze to Peter and he kept Rafe in the corner of his eyes as if to say to Rafe, ‘I got you in my sights’.

  “So, what’s the problem?” Martin needled again while his right hand came out from the pocket in the flannel jacket, in a calm and unobtrusive manner.

  “I want you to fucking leave. Get off my property. I don’t want you to ever come back. I never asked you to be ‘a partner’. I got no idea what possessed you to think that I asked you join me in business. You’ve got your own thing going. Why can’t you just leave me be?” Peter was trying to stand up for himself. His mouth was quivering as he spoke the last words.

  Martin fed on the pheromones from his quarry’s fears; the empowerment was intoxicating. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be leaving. I think I’ll stay a while. There’s so much work to do here. Look at all those plants.” And he swept his right arm gracefully up high in the direction of the load in the back of the Land Cruiser, as if he was introducing a new artist on stage.

  Rafe’s mind was reeling. His heart picked up beat, the adrenaline surging through his body, his ears filling with the drum beat from his pulse. It was going to be now or never. Rafe sprung into action.

  Martin grabbed his flannel jacket pulling it up so his right hand could reach around to find the .38 stuffed down his pants in the small of his back. As he retrieved the weapon, Rafe’s bulk pounded him into the side of the truck. Rafe fell awkwardly and rolled off the smaller Martin. In a twist of bad luck, Rafe fell heavily on his wrist, spraining it and causing instant pain. Although Martin was taken by surprise and winded, he managed to keep a firm grip on the Smith & Wesson and nimbly got to his feet in seconds.

  Peter was paralysed into watching the scene playing out in front of him. Rafe was clutching his wrist and holding his arm tight into his abdomen, groaning and swearing. Martin swung the .38 out, pulled the hammer back with his thumb and pulled the trigger. A haphazard, rushed shot. BANG! It slammed into Peter’s chest near his shoulder. The muzzle explosion echoed loudly in the valley.

  The hollow-point bullet flattened out and deformed as it exited through Peter’s upper shoulder blade leaving a gaping mess of ripped bone, cartilage and flesh. The pain was excruciating and Peter fell to his knees. He gasped for oxygen and winced in agony. “What have you done, what have you done?” He cried, totally disoriented, as if in a spinning room, not comprehending that he had been shot with a hollow-point bullet from a .38 Smith & Wesson. The lanky farmer fell forward on his face into the dirt. It hurt even more, so he rolled over, trying to make sense, still hyperventilating.

  Martin was still holding the gun pointed at the spot where Peter had stood moments before.

  Wide-eyed and shocked into disbelief, Rafe let go of his injured wrist and rushed over to his friend with his limp wrist tucked into his stomach. “Fuck. Fuck. Peter, fuck.” Rafe shot a furious look at the scrawny gunman. “You fucking idiot. You fucking bastard! Look what you’ve done, you moron!” Rafe bellowed.

  Moron? Moron? Those words were like an inch long fuse on a stick of dynamite. Martin incensed instantly and pulled the trigger again. BANG! Another calamitous echo in the valley.

  The bullet whizzed over Rafe’s head. He felt its slipstream in slow motion as it whooshed over him. Years of jumping onto a surfboard, like second nature, automatically when a good wave reared up. He sprang to his feet and ran. But he ran at Martin first and pushed the skeletal feather-weight into the truck again. This time Rafe didn’t hang around, he bolted, sprinting like a Jamaican runner, as hard as he could, harder, further. Within a minute, he was running through the scrub like an antelope leaping over rocks, leaping over fallen tree-branches and logs. He ran for miles it seemed, his mind completely consumed by fear and self-preservation. After ten minutes of mindless running, he slowed and stopped behind a large tree. Panting, his breathing was totally out of control. His head was aching from the panting. He forced himself to slow his breathing and to listen out for movement. Listen out for a follower with a gun.

  A few minutes passed and his breathing was slower. His thumping heart beat had subsided. Finally, he ventured a peek from around the big gum-tree. Nothing, he could see no movement. All he could hear was a few birds. He couldn’t even discern their whistles.

  Martin had blacked out briefly when the back of his head hit the steel frame of the timber tray on the Land Cruiser. He felt the pronounced bump on his head as he carefully put his fingers over it. He checked his fingers after feeling some moisture from the bump. A little blood stained his fingers. He stayed where he had fallen. Peter had rolled onto his side, curled up in a ball. Martin could see the blood oozing from his shoulder. Most of the farmer’s cream coloured t-shirt was bright red. His victim wasn’t moving. Peter had passed out.

  Martin’s left hand groped around for the revolver. With a groan, he straightened up and had a better look for his weapon. Fearing that the escaped mystery man had taken it, he jumped up and panicked. He couldn’t locate it. Then he bent down and saw the dust covered revolver in the dirt under the truck. What a fucking idiot that bloke, he could have grabbed the gun. Relieved, he was scathing of his adversary’s stupidity.

  He crawled under the truck and lifted the dirty pistol from the ground. He lovingly blew as much of the dust off, before coming out from under the vehicle on the other side. He stood up, dusted himself off and wandered back to the other side of the truck. Peter was the same as before. Bleeding out. Unconscious. Martin stared: he couldn’t risk leaving without knowing for certain he was dead. While pondering Peter’s short future, he walked to the side veranda to find his cloth. After a quick scan he found it on the front seat of his car. Considering it was disrespectful to leave a thing of such beauty covered in grime, he spent several minutes polishing the revolver until it gleamed in its former glory. He left it on the front seat.

  Martin walked back to Peter, the wounded dope-farmer was moving a little, making tiny noises and whispering, “Please help me, please help me.”

  Martin watched for a few moments before fondling the stiletto in his back pocket; he drew it out and flicked the blade admiring the shine on the stainless steel razor-sharp edge.

  “Yes, Peter. I’ll help you. I promise I’ll help you.” Martin pressed the tip of the knife against the back of Peter’s neck. “Does that feel any better? Peter.” Then, with a sudden, forceful, violent push, Martin’s blade pierced through the skin. Peter’s body tensed along with a short yelp and a prolonged gasping for air. Shortly, Peter went limp.

  “I think you’re better now.”

  CHAPTER 78

  CHASE

  It was a strange sensation. Rafe had his back pressed against the big gumtree. The forest sounds were soothing his psyche, but his heartbeat was pounding through his chest. It didn’t gel. It was all wrong. How could you be in a forest full of beautiful colours and sounds, while your heart was trying to explode through your chest? Stop. Rafe felt like he’d been dropped from an alien space craft onto some wayward planet. Was this even real? … Yes, it was. Peter’s blood was real.

  Rafe’s ears and the canals connecting to his brain were hurting from the intense concentration. Listening out for any hint. Listening out for an approaching enemy. Nothing. Nothing yet. But it wouldn’t be long. I have to get out of here. He shut his eyes and tried like hell to slow his heartbeat, forced his breathing to slow. Control your breathing. Slow it down. Just like under a giant wave. Go with the current. You’ll come up. As if he was putting himself into a trance, under water.

  Rafe gently opened his eyes, slowly taking in the wonderful colours of the bush. He breathed normally and his thoughts were gathering: he needed a plan.

  First, he had to create distance between himself and his enemy.

  Second, was to find a way to escape from his enemy altogether.

  Third, to make contact with Nick. Yes, I need
to contact Nick. And his heart started to race. No. Stop. Nick is later. Go to one. Distance. Make some distance. He supressed his anxiety, unstuck himself from the suction of the big tree and peeked around the thick bark edge. Satisfied that no one was coming, he dislodged himself from his hiding spot and to carefully tread the bush-floor and disappear towards the direction of the creek.

  There were few sounds down there in the valley. Only a gentle trickling flow of water meandering over the pebbly creek bed. Very little breeze to rustle the leaves on the tall trees. Soon, on the raised bank, he saw the nervous cattle-dog whimpering. Patch was still lying on his master’s flannel jacket, his head resting sadly on his front legs. Suddenly he lifted his head and pricked his ears. A low growl welled from his throat. Rafe whispered, “Patch, Patch, good boy. Shhssh!“ The dog jumped from his post and ran towards him, his tail wagging, but without any barking or noise. Patch knew. Dogs are smart. The blue and white speckled canine greeted his friend with copious licks and dog-hugs. “Good boy. Good boy. We have to be quiet.”

  Martin held the blade for several minutes waiting for the muscle spasms coming from the dying farmer to stop. Finally he withdrew the blade and the adrenaline in his veins slowly subsided, but now his anger was resurfacing. The other one. He had to catch the other one. He jumped to his feet.

  The Land Cruiser was still loaded to the hilt with plants, it would be too cumbersome in the bush. He had to consider various things. The Corolla was not suitable for any tracks around here. He could easily spend days looking for the fugitive. The longer he spent here, the more likely he could be caught. But who was going to find him? No one knew about Peter’s hidden valley. Except for the other one, the runaway, whose name he didn’t know. But the fugitive could identify him as the killer of the dope-farmer. Or maybe he should cut and run. After all, he had a ticket to freedom, two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth. No. I have to catch the fugitive and make sure he can’t tell any stories. The lump on his head throbbed and Martin’s teeth ground together from a surge of anger. No one throws me down and gets away!

  His white fingers were still clutching the switchblade; the tension had turned his knuckles pink. From the tip of the razor sharp blade a drop of blood dropped to the ground morphing into a red five-cent coin. Martin wiped the blood from the blade with the tip of Peter’s shirt sleeve.

  Martin peered into the direction from where the men had come before. His quarry would have gone back to familiar grounds. That’s where he would go and find a trail. With cold determination he stared into the bush in front of him. With robotic rhythm he gathered pace and marched into the forest.

  It was warm in the creek valley. Rafe felt a lot better; having found Patch gave ease to his ‘all-alone’ feeling of the previous hours. Not a chance in the world he was going back to Peter’s cabin now. Maybe tomorrow. Surely, Martin was not going to hang around. The high ground over the other side of the creek could provide him with some phone service, although he doubted that phone reception would be possible. In any case, higher ground gave him a better chance of spotting Martin if he was following. Rafe tapped his thigh a few times and softly commanded the cattle-dog, “Come Patch, let’s go.”

  The pair took off into the bush towards the escarpment, Rafe in a light jog leading the way. Patch was at his heels at first, and then, as if sensing his companion’s destination the cattle-dog took point position and led the way. Within half an hour they arrived at the foot of the steep rock-strewn face of the hill. Rafe was thirsty. There had not been time to think about water. Later they could go back to the creek, towards night-fall. Like a surfer looking for a gap in the breaking waves to paddle out, Rafe scanned the hill-side to chart the way up.

  The views were limited and the top of this hill was surrounded by ones similar. He retrieved the phone from his back pocket. No bars. No service. Disappointed, he wandered around the top of the hill, which was well vegetated with random growth of small and large gum-trees. He glanced at the screen while walking in the hope of getting some indication of phone-reception. Zip. The problems of the day started to mount. Physically he was exhausted and sore from tangling with a killer; now he was getting really thirsty, without hope of communication with the outside world. On top of all that he was being stalked by a crazed killer.

  He sought some cover in the shade of a tree and sat on the ground. Perhaps from this spot under the tree he could keep his thirst at bay and use it as a look-out. Rafe leant back into the trunk of the woolly-butt gumtree, pulled his knees up towards his chest and rested his arms on top of them. He closed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 79

  TRUTH

  Cate snuggled closer and spooned her nude body hard against Darren’s curled back. She swung her arm gently over his broad back and caressed his chest with her hand. His warm body stirred remaining in the same curled position. She withdrew her hand and moved it up over his head running her fingers through the short curls. “Too tired.” He mumbled. She persisted with her advances, finally he turned over and he mumbled again, this time acquiescing, “Okay, then.”

  “Sorry, doll.” Cate threw her legs over the side of the bed and sprang to her feet. “Having a shower now.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

  Women. Darren pulled the cover over him and went back to sleep.

  After her shower Cate dressed and hurriedly left the apartment without having her usual two cups of coffee and some toast. Things would be happening very soon, there was no time to waste. The precinct was a hub of activity already having nothing to do with Eddie and the Sinners, it was just another busy night of lunatics and dickheads causing domestic grief. Cate had contacted her understudy while racing to the office. She detoured to the staff-room and poured a coffee.

  From the corner of her eye she saw Adam coming through the door. She didn’t stop and went straight to her office. Adam bee-lined to the staff-room and came out seconds later with a coffee in a plastic up, then hurried through his superior’s open door.

  “Big day?” He enquired as he put his hot cup on the desk.

  “Possibly. Yes.” Cate replied.

  Adam noticed that Cate had dispensed with make-up this morning. Not that she wore much make-up, but there was an obvious absence of eye-liner and lipstick. Although he was a committed gay man, he nevertheless admired his boss’ natural beauty. So much so that he would even consider making love to her if he was stuck on an island with her. Silly thought. James would kill him.

  Cate interrupted his thought deviation. “Yesterday was an eventful day. Our mole uncovered some interesting developments. Stuff happening down south.”

  Cate relayed the information, starting from the pick-up of the coke package by Matt and Martin Villier to the discovery of Matt Villier’s body and the possibility of gangland violence erupting from this drug deal gone wrong. She also noticed Adam’s increasing worried expression.

  “That’s incredible.” The young officer desperately tried to keep calm despite his growing anxiety about the safety of his lover. “Do you think it was the cousin that killed him? Did he also take the drugs?” His questions didn’t wait for answers. He spotted Cate’s face changing from puzzled to irritated.

  What the hell is wrong with him? She ignored his questions deciding to lure him out in the open. “Also, I’m quite worried about our mole, he has really gone beyond the line of duty. It’s getting too dangerous for him.”

  Cate studied her nervous trainee. The ‘Hawk’ wasn’t fooled for long. Her eyes narrowed slightly, “You’re a little tense, Adam.”

  “Ah, just got up too early, maybe.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a poor liar. Something’s up. Come on, out with it. Have you left something out that you thought wasn’t important? You can tell me. I won’t be shitty.” Cate locked her gaze onto him.

  She watched him stare at her blankly, the colour in his cheeks was slowly coming back. What was he not telling her? She had to trust him – if she couldn’t trust her partner she may as well send him back to lo
lly-popping a children’s crossing.

  “I’m gay.” He blurted. “I’m gay and James is my partner.”

  At first Cate did not react. Silence filled the office. She rolled her lips tight and nodded her head ever so gently, her expression softened with an acquiescing smile. “I guess that explains why you’re the only bloke in the building that has never made a pass at me.” Trying to make light of an awkward moment.

  Adam slanted his head slightly with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Never mind that comment. It was silly. Sounds like I’m a self-ingratiating bitch.” Cate apologised.

  After another lengthy silence Cate broke the impasse, “So you have also known about James’ cover?”

  “Absolutely not. Only that he was in deep. But he never told me where and what. You have my word.” Adam was doing his utmost to reassure his superior and protect his lover. “I worked things out in the last few weeks, figured that James was our man on the inside.”

  Cate appraised the handsome young man, as she imagined him and his lover. Oddly, she experienced no feelings of revulsion or contempt. Gay men did not appeal to her as such, but she accepted male homo-sexuality as a fact of modern life. She felt comfortable around gay men, as most she had been in contact with were just normally behaved people with good taste for home décor and a fashionable sense of dress. She did not have the same view about gay women, who she thought were too blatant about their sexual preference and their overtness in their disgust for men.

  “You’re gay, that’s cool with me. It takes balls to come out with that. In this line of work anyway. Probably, a good idea to keep this to yourself. Be discreet, that would be my advice.”

  Adam lowered his head and then straightened up in his chair. ”I wanted to keep my sexuality separate from my work. People don’t react well to gay cops, especially other coppers. I know, because I’m in the same locker-room as them.”