A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  “That was quick. Thanks. It’ll be glued to my piggy-bank.” Darren counted the last bundle of one-hundred-dollar notes. “Make sure no one steals it.”

  “Got her locked-up at night.”

  “Probably a good idea, considering all the thieving bastards in this town,” Darren commented.

  “On another note, thought I’d let you know that we believe Eddie has gone north,” Joel spoke in more serious voice.

  “What makes you think that?” Darren’s curiosity had been tickled.

  “An abandoned car was found south of Cardwell. Had a body in it. An old Aboriginal fella. Someone snapped his neck. Poor bastard must have stopped to help whoever flagged him down. The car he was found in had no fuel. Daihatsu Charade. We checked the plates, New South Wales ones, and found it was registered to a fella who turned out to be Eddie’s cousin. Mind you, it took a few weeks for that person to fess up that it belonged to his cousin, Eddie Livanescunic. First, he sprouted that it was stolen from his place in Sydney. Prick led us on a bit of a goose chase. The dead bloke didn’t carry any ID. Took a week or so, to find his origins. A member of the public informed a local post office about an old bloke who’d gone walkabout. When we traced the old Abo’s address, his family revealed he owned a white Toyota, a Camry. That white Camry was found ditched in a creek near Cairns.”

  “Ohh. That’s not like Eddie, to kill a defenceless person,” Darren huffed. “I can’t wait to get my hands on that cunt.” He spat on the ground.

  “The law wants him too,” Joel reminded him, leaned against his car.

  “The fucking law. What are they gonna do? Sling his arse in front of a judge? Then what? He goes to gaol, gets to eat three good meals every day, watch his favourite TV shows, and pick some poor bastard to suck his cock. I don’t fucking think so.”

  “Dazza, I’m not sure I can be privy to your vendetta,” Joel said.

  “Never asked. But it would be awkward if you were in my way.”

  “At this point, I could ask you if that was a threat,” Joel said, pausing. “…But I’ll sleep on that remark.”

  Darren watched his friend get behind the wheel of the XC. Without any exchange of words or facial expressions, they parted company. Although their friendship had only been of recent times, Darren quietly hoped that this issue with Joel could be resolved. It was easy. Don’t interfere with what I’m doing with Eddie.

  Darren’s chest tightened, his heart contracted. It was hard to separate the hate for Eddie with his memory of Cate. From the depths of darkness in his mind, Cate’s lifeless body with no face would haunt him once every so often.

  ***

  Slice had made a decision to stay on Magnetic Island overnight, with no plans to book a room. He made himself scarce from Matteo’s for the moment, figuring the Italian would return by nightfall. He wanted to observe Matteo’s movements from a concealed spot, which was easy enough when daylight faded into darkness. Slice could take his time to plan his surprise.

  Three sides of Matteo’s property consisted of overgrown landscaping and out of control scrub-growth, his next-door neighbour’s house was barely visible from the clusters of cane palms, and bamboo. The rear of the property was densest, and not penetrable without the aggressive use of a machete. The other side of Matteo’s block was a vacant parcel of land, also separated by out of control undergrowth, weeds and thick scrub, but easy to get through. It was perfect for Slice’s plans, easily accessed without much chance of being seen.

  Slice tested the cover provided by the scrub growth on the boundary by leaving Matteo’s through this way, rather than the driveway. At least, he could see if there were any poisonous or harmful plants which could imperil his hiding this evening. Although he wasn’t an expert on toxic flora, he didn’t spot any plants with thorns, or fine hairy leaves. Satisfied, he made for the hire car. He’d put the parcel back in the roof space above the dunny; after all, it would be safe from going missing. Nothing was going to slip past him tonight.

  Dusk quietly slipped in. No sounds of the city on Magnetic Island. Apart from the distant calls by a few wailing curlews and close by, a couple of crickets in the surrounding bush, the evening settled in gracefully. No streetlights, neighbouring homes were dark from the absence of people, it made the wait more tedious.

  A second look at his watch confirmed time was crawling at a snail’s pace. Slice removed the sunglasses perched on his head. He’d long removed the cap as it made his scalp itchy. He groped for his daytime spectacles in the pocket of his cargo shorts. Impatient with them being stuck in his pocket, he yanked at them, consequently losing them as he pulled them free. Hearing them land on the ground next to the topless car, he leant while hanging from the steering wheel with one hand, feeling the ground for his eyewear with his other. Unexpectedly, several fingers found something foreign, strange and soft. He thought he heard a hiss, ever so slight and abrupt. Then he felt the intense pain, a burning pain in his middle finger. Instinctively, Slice retracted his hand, clutching and digging it into his chest. “Shit! Shit!”

  A fucking snake. Just got bitten by a snake!

  Panicked, feeling his face flushing with heat, he scrunched in pain. In the whirlpool of panic-pumped adrenaline, he tried to remember his first-aid steps. Then he felt the touch on his shoulder, what the fuck was that!

  “Steve. Hey, Steve. What are you doing?” Matteo’s face was close to his, hand on his shoulder, shaking him as if to wake him up. Slice jerked himself back, with eyes popped.

  “Shit. I just got bitten by a snake.” Slice slowly volunteered his hand, his fingers were trembling. Matteo’s face closed in on the shaking hand.

  “Can’t see. Wait. I have a light.” The scruffy Italian produced a small penlight from his pocket, fumbling with it to switch it on. “There. Show me your hand,” he said.

  He shone the feeble beam onto Slice’s hand. The middle finger tip was slightly swollen and angry. Evidence of a bite mark visible. Matteo swung the penlight away, pointing the vague beam onto the ground around him, sweeping. And there it was. Barely visible among the leaf debris and the shadows on the ground, recognising the shape, Matteo uttered, “Not a snake, Steve. Is a fucking spider.”

  Slice’s expression was one of horrified astonishment.

  “What kind of spider? Funnelweb?” Panicked.

  “No. Big bastard. Like huntsman, only bigger.” Matteo was trying to remember the name. “Whistling Spider.”

  “Fuck!” Slice was horrified, immediately digging the poisoned limb into his abdomen covered by his other hand.

  “No. Is okay.” Matteo slowly advanced towards the spider a couple of metres away. “It can kill a dog or cat very quickly. But people are safe.” Stopping, as the hairy, eight-legged creature darted off into the dark.

  “Is there a doctor around?” Slice winced.

  “Not close.” Matteo returned to the side of the little rental car, and pointed the fading light beam at Slice’s face. “Why are you here?”

  While the pain in his finger had travelled to the rest of his hand, he feigned a black-out after Matteo’s question, to avoid answering the Italian. Only brief, but it did the trick, spurring Matteo into action. He put his shoulder under Slice’s arm, carefully lifting the stricken visitor out of the car.

  “I have ice in the freezer. You lie here.” Matteo left Slice on the daybed on the front patio. A few minutes later, he returned with a tea towel wrapped around some ice, for a cold pack. Slice was slouched against the hard timber backrest, the small of his back cushioned by a musty pillow. Matteo gently cradled the visitor’s arm in one hand and rested the make-shift cold pack on Slice’s open palm. The hitman winced.

  Matteo appraised the visitor whose face was becoming pale. Beads of sweat gathered on Slice’s forehead, his eyes started rolling. Suddenly, he reared and started heaving. Matteo recognised the signs and helped the sick visitor to his feet, guiding him to the edge of the patio, where Slice vomited noisily.

  Slice’s eyes were dro
oping lazily, bile dribbling from the corners of his mouth, steadying himself, one hand on a timber post. The perfect hair-style had been disturbed with tufts of hair in disarray, and sweaty.

  Matteo gazed at him, “Does it hurt much? Maybe we find a doctor.”

  Slice shook his head. “Let me rest here. See tomorrow.”

  The Italian helped him back to the daybed.

  Matteo watched the wiry man shut his eyes. Sighing, he stood and thought about the remainder of the evening. This complicates tonight’s meeting.

  CHAPTER 59

  A MAN WITH TWO FACES, OR THREE

  Matteo left his overnight guest who was passed out on the daybed. It took a little convincing to get his visitor to take the pain-killers. After a couple more bouts of vomiting, a throbbing hand and a violent headache, Steve had caved in. Matteo had fed him a concoction of Panadeine Fortes and Diazepam. Steve would be asleep for a while, at least eight or nine hours – allowing him to complete his drug deal.

  Matteo perched himself on the rim of the toilet bowl and pushed the manhole cover up and aside. He reached over through the hole. It wasn’t there. His fingers slid over to the right and felt the top edge of the package. It was in the wrong spot.

  I never put the package over there. Always in front. Easy to get. He had to stretch himself to reach over the ceiling joist to retrieve the package which had fallen onto the ceiling sheet. Someone had moved the package! He inspected the parcel closely. No sign of tampering. Satisfied, but somewhat puzzled he jumped off the toilet and decided that he’d better get going before risking missing his rendez-vous.

  Making his way to the secluded beach at Horseshoe Bay in the dark had become second nature. Matteo’s night-time vision was excellent, even in the absence of a full moon. The only time he used his penlight was when he neared the almost-dry creek bed which ran along the steep dune behind the beach, sweeping the light across the creek bed looking for the tell-tale sign of stalking eyes.

  A three-metre croc had been sighted here a couple of months ago. Crocs made him nervous, although the likelihood of encountering the dangerous reptile here was low. He hop-skipped the creek bed to avoid getting his sandals wet, then charged up the thick sand dune. At the top of the dune, he signalled with his flashlight. Two flashes from near the water’s edge signalled back. Matteo made an easy stroll towards the boat with its bow beached. A single silhouette of a man was holding a rope tied to the vessel’s stern.

  “You’re late. Was about to piss off. Thought maybe you had an issue.” A croaky voice pre-empted Matteo’s approach.

  “Sorry, mate. Is a long story. My friend, he was bitten by a spider.”

  The waiting man shrugged, “Got the stuff?”

  “You have the rest of money?” Matteo responded to his customer’s eagerness.

  “Yeah. Here. Count it, if you like. Should be five thousand.” The bald seafarer handed Matteo a folded envelope.

  “Okay, I count.”

  A long minute went by, but there were no sighs or objections. It was business. Matteo retrieved the parcel from his satchel and passed it to his customer.

  “Next one might be longer time,” Matteo spoke.

  The man had already pushed the boat off the beach, shoving it out nose first pulling the stern towards the beach. With one foot on the cavitation plate of the outboard and one in the water pushing the vessel forward as he boarded. The four-stroke Honda came to life quietly. A minute later, the boat and operator were out of sight. Matteo peered into the dark of the ocean. He looked up at the stars, clouds had obscured the night’s guiding lights. Contemplative, he walked back up the beach, listening to the chewing noise of sand with every step. Did he misplace the dope in the toilet ceiling? Or was it someone else? If it was someone else they would have taken it, no? Would Steve be poking his nose? Matteo shook his head bewildered. He was too tired.

  ***

  … the giant spider galloped with huge rearing legs from eight black stallions, but there was no sound, he was tied to the ground, but there were no ropes … he stretched out his hand, fingers black and swollen like a boab … saw his hand higher, he had to ward off the dinosaur-sized arachnid … then the spider was on him, over him, he was smothered by hair, his face usurped by vile slime … nooohhhh!

  Matteo ran out of the front door.

  “Goliath! Get off him. Go home!”

  Slice spat and cursed. “Piss off!”

  The big, black Labrador had jumped off the day-bed still looking at the weird man throwing his arms around. Wagging his tail, waiting for more play, Goliath barked, only to shooed away by Matteo.

  “What the bloody hell!” Then Slice accidentally slapped the timber armrest with his venom swollen finger, causing him to scream louder. “Argghhh. Get that fucking dog away from me!”

  Goliath didn’t hang around after that, and bolted.

  “Steve. Steve. So much noise, is too early. Have to be quiet.” Matteo was shaking his head holding a mug with steaming coffee.

  If looks could kill Matteo’s head would have been rolling down the pavement. Matteo regretted the patronising rebuff. “Sorry, Steve. I apologise.”

  Slice sat up straight to try to get some clarity, still clutching his hand, now throbbing from the involuntary smack. Feeling vague from the cocktail of painkillers, and stiff from the hard surface sleep, he grunted, “I am going to drop the rental off and go back to mainland.”

  His voice was gruff and hoarse. His mouth was dry.

  “No problem, my friend.” Matteo nodded holding up his mug, “Some coffee for you?”

  “Why not. I will go to the toilet first.” Slice stood and shuffled off.

  Rather than looking for an inside toilet Slice went out to the one around the back, it was easier – he knew where it was.

  The door was ajar as before. He squeezed through the narrow opening, shutting the door behind him. While taking a piss he glanced up at the manhole. The cover had not been put back. When he finished, he carefully got himself up onto the toilet. Balancing wasn’t easy as he couldn’t use his left hand. He leaned against the wall, his forehead supporting his body as his right hand patted down the space above him.

  Nothing.

  He needed to be sure.

  He used his wrist to push himself further from the wall, it gave him another hand’s reach. Nothing.

  The package had been removed.

  Slice flushed the toilet, deciding that this battle could be fought another day.

  He opened the creaky wooden door, his face flushed with hotness, as he was confronted by Matteo, who had stood waiting outside the toilet.

  “You are okay?” The Italian asked Slice coldly.

  “Nothing a strong coffee and some fresh air couldn’t fix,” Slice replied, trying to be unperturbed to find Matteo standing there.

  “There is a toilet inside. This is one is not so clean.” Matteo took a sip from his mug without taking his gaze off Slice – he reached to close the toilet door behind the visitor.

  “No probs, Matty,” Slice dismissed with a smile. “Want to make us that coffee you promised?”

  “Sure.” Matteo nodded, holding his gaze on Slice as he slowly turned towards the kitchen door.

  ***

  Slice was relieved to have left Matteo’s after a quick cup of coffee. The dynamics between them had changed. It had unsettled him, feeling threatened was foreign to him. Although no overt threats were made, an underlying intimidation had surfaced. Matteo had walked out with him, followed him to the topless rental car. It wasn’t a hospitality gesture; it felt more like an appraisal – a sizing up of where to put the knife. This time it was Slice looking into the rear-view mirror, feeling like a hare on the run from the scope of a rifle. He returned the rental car and quickly made his way to the ferry terminal.

  The spider’s venom had done more than just infecting his finger, it had infected his psyche, unearthing things he’d learnt to control in order to flourish in his profession.

  Intimidation
and fear.

  Slice had taken a detour to the Men’s toilets at the terminal to wash his face and freshen up. In the mirror, he saw his haggard face – it was an apparition he found difficult to recognise. He was a man of many faces, a master of disguise, but today he could not disguise the fact that he was losing control.

  Slice had underestimated Matteo, another flaw in his judgment recently. Matteo was not the ignorant, silly playboy portrayed by Salvatore. Slice was rarely wrong about the messages that came from people’s eyes. And Matteo’s eyes were dangerous.

  A crowd of noisy travellers started moving towards the gangplanks, people with backpacks and trolley suitcases spreading in both directions. Slice waited until the last had embarked. Now he had control again, as the last person to board he could pick his spot, become the invisible watcher, the ghost who would shroud his prey before consumption.

  He vowed never to let his guard down again.

  CHAPTER 60

  ASK GOD

  The bright orange car stuck out like a sore thumb as it pulled out in front of her, especially since Gibbs had to slam on the brakes to avoid running into it. You moron! Road rage. Every copper had been warned that road rage was on the rise. However desirable it was to stamp out such unsocial behaviour, experience it at micro-level and the tables would quickly turn. Fiona Gibbs had never been a patient personality; spending seventeen years in the Queensland Police Service had not dulled that trait. Today she also had an advantage – she was doing traffic-duty in an unmarked police vehicle.

  The brief ‘whoop’ of the siren must have surprised the driver of the orange Falcon; Fiona could see the sudden turn of the driver’s head in front. She activated the police light on the dash, following closely behind the Falcon. She breathed with anticipation; it was at this point that things could go either way – was the driver ahead going to pull over? Or do a runner?

  Her heartbeat notched up a few decibels, echoing in her ears.

  The driver upfront did neither, he kept at a steady speed of sixty.