She heard Stafford’s question, even understood it, but it somehow drifted inside her conscious mind, not demanding an answer, really. Just . . . there. But she heard the next one, and it did demand a reply.
“Cat got your tongue, Kirsten? It nearly did mine, but then you know all about that, don’t you? We’re waiting.”
“I . . .”
“Oh, come now. Don’t be modest. It isn’t that difficult a question – how did you feel when you abandoned me in the bowels of the earth? Did you assume I’d get out eventually? Or did you fully intend me to rot in there? As I almost did.”
Careful, Kirsten. He’s leading you somewhere with his silver tongue, and you won’t want to go there.
“I wasn’t really thinking about you at all,” she finally said. “I was just thankful to be free myself.”
“So that you could rush back and rescue your lover.” Stafford spat out the words, still in that honeyed voice, but with an after-taste of bile.
“Do you blame me for that?” The words emerged without conscious thought.
Idiot! Of course he blames you.
Now she was conscious of the attentiveness being shown by the other two people, realized that she was being drawn into the role of entertainer as surely as Stafford himself had stepped into it. He was sharing the stage with her, and the expression in his eyes told her he expected her to perform and do it well!
But not to upstage you – is that it? Yeah . . . I expect that’s exactly it. Not enough for you to brag about your achievements, your miraculous escape – you want me to back you up. I’d back you over a cliff if I ever get the chance. Bet on it!
“I offered to help you rescue Kendall. Are you forgetting that?” And now there was a peevish tone in that seductive voice, a petulant little boy demanding . . . something.
Christ! You’re starting to think in psycho-babble. Stop it, Kirsten. Stop it now before you’re as crazy as he is, as they are.
“I didn’t forget. I just didn’t believe you.”
And the truth shall set you free – and don’t I wish it could?
“I very nearly died, did you know that? I would have died, I truly think, if that cougar hadn’t dragged me free. Nearly died anyway . . . the brute fully intended to eat me. Me! What have you to say about that?”
“Everyone thought he had. The cops said there was enough blood around the cave entrance to account for you and the cougar. Speaking for myself, I’d have been happier if you’d stayed trapped in the cave and starved to death.”
Get a grip, girl! You’re not going to accomplish anything by deliberately provoking the bastard.
So she was surprised, almost amused, that her remark merely thrust the conversation off-track for a moment, into a monologue by her captor as he displayed his encyclopedic knowledge to his impromptu audience.
“Did you know that cougar – mountain lion, puma, painter . . . the name doesn’t matter – was among the favored meats for mountain men and trappers in western North America? Along with beaver tail, which is extremely rich and was convenient, since most of the mountain men were there to trap beaver, so it was a natural byproduct of their profession. But cougar was even more favored. Said to taste quite similar to chicken, but I don’t agree with that. It has a flavor all its own. Good, white meat. Succulent . . . but cloying after awhile, especially if you’ve nothing else to eat.” He fixed Kirsten with a piercing glance, his eyes filled with a gloating satisfaction.
Okay, already . . . I got the point. Everybody assumed from all the blood that the cougar ate you, or at least killed you. Too bad nobody seriously thought it might have been the other way around.
Stafford went on, and on, and on, discussing esoteric meats with a sort of abstract, almost clinical precision. Then ceased, abruptly. Turned to Ian with a confidential tone and said, “You’d understand, Ian. Of course you would. You’ve tried all sorts of exotic meats right here in Tasmania, as I recall you saying. Wombat, echidna, even platypus. A platypus tail is quite similar to that of a beaver . . . what does platypus taste like, Ian?”
Kirsten was among those who waited in silence while the tall bushman contemplated his reply, which he spent much longer thinking about than actually saying. And when it finally came . . .
“Like meat. Tough.”
. . . Kirsten had to stifle her laughter, lest it break free and become hysteria. Especially when the other two listeners, Rose and Stafford, laughed almost gaily at the terse, unimaginative reply. Even Ian grinned through yellowed, tobacco-stained teeth, seemingly happy to have done the right thing even if he wasn’t quite sure what he’d actually done.
“Food . . .” Stafford poured out the word slowly, as if tasting it. “It’s a necessity, of course, but so much more . . . satisfying when it’s delightfully prepared, when it’s something unique. An experience for the senses as much as for the mortal coil.” And he turned his attention once again to Kirsten.
“We’ve all, I expect, eaten oysters, and I doubt anyone would deny that fresh off the rocks is best. No surprise that Sydney rock oysters are known throughout the world. The ones they serve on Canada’s west coast can’t even compare. They’re too large, coarse, nowhere near as succulent. You’d know that, Kirsten.”
Then he turned to his other listeners. “Now Kirsten’s eaten what are called prairie oysters, too. She’s a child of the Canadian prairies, and that’s what they call the calves’ testicles they fry up as a delicacy after seasonal round-ups in Canada’s cattle country . . . prairie oysters. In fact” – and he graced Kirsten with one of his broadest, most comradely smiles—”Kirsten and I shared that particular delicacy at a dinner party, once. Didn’t we, my dear?”
He seemed to take her nod as a suitable reply, turned abruptly to Rose, and Kirsten fancied there was a subtle change in his voice as he questioned her.
“What about you, dear Rose? You’ve been very quiet, almost uncharacteristically so, if I may say. What esoteric and wonderful foods have passed your splendid lips?”
“Me? Uhm . . . well . . .” Rose seemed stuck for a reply, but Stafford didn’t force the issue. He merely smiled and let the conversation lapse while he rose to refill all their glasses. Then he pounced.
“Forgive me, Rose. I forgot for a moment what a sheltered life you’ve lived, here in Tasmania, away from the wickedness of the wide world. Well, don’t worry too much about it. I think we can remedy that.”
Kirsten went cold inside.
Here it comes. Now we’ll get a lecture about how nutritious human flesh is, or some other such nonsense. And then . . . ?”
“But it does worry me just a tad that you’ve brought nothing to the party, really,” Stafford said then, resuming the conversation with a twist that totally lost Kirsten. At first. “In fact, it’s been worrying me a quite a lot, because I’m not sure what you can contribute, if you take my meaning . . .”
He let the sentence run out, but Kirsten could see that he held Rose transfixed by his gaze, like a deer in the headlights.
You stupid, stupid woman. You should have run when you had the chance. And taken me with you, or at least cut me loose. Well it serves you right, sitting here having exotic discussions about esoteric foods with somebody who eats girls like you for breakfast!
Girls like US. The amended admission was an ice block in her belly, and it created such cramps that Kirsten doubled over in the agony of it, staring down into the wine glass in her trembling fingers, trying to keep from being sick, or fainting, or going instantly, numbingly – maybe thankfully – insane. She almost missed Rose’s reply, and wished instantly she could have seen the look on Rose’s face when it was uttered.
“I can give you Kendall.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Monday did not begin well for Charlie. His police vehicle chose it as a day to die, or at least become seriously wounded, so he had to call for the tow-truck before he could even begin his workday. A quick phone call to Launceston brought no good news. Kendall had received no ransom dem
ands, knew nothing he hadn’t known the night before, when Charlie had also phoned. But Kendall’s discipline was slowly but surely being destroyed. Charlie could tell that much just by the tone of his friend’s voice.
Nor would Kendall have Rex Henderson’s steadying influence much longer. Rex was off to Hobart, then back to the mainland, then on to New Zealand, assumedly with the hat and boots he’d arrived in.
Too bad you couldn’t take me with you. The way this day’s shaping up, it could only be an improvement. Ah well . . . at least I’m not lumbered with that bloody evil dog.
There was some satisfaction in seeing the electronic posters featuring Kirsten’s photo and one copied from the security tapes that showed both Kirsten and her assumed abductor. Not a good picture, by any means, but better than nothing. Maybe. Even more satisfaction that his efficient staff was out distributing the posters before Charlie made it in to work. Kirsten’s photo, supplied by Kendall, was excellent, but the best likeness they’d been able to render from the security tapes was next to useless in terms of actually identifying her alleged abductor. So bad, in fact, that the local paper had ignored it altogether, choosing instead to stick just with Kendall’s photo of Kirsten. Charlie was little surprised by this!
Which reminded him to make one more phone call, this one to a mate in the Hobart forensics division, giving him a heads-up about the fingerprints that should, by this time, have been lifted from the mysterious knife and sent from Launceston. Unfortunately, Charlie’s friend was on leave, and although the person he did manage to speak to promised a quick check of the prints when they eventually arrived, he could tell from the bored tone of voice that there’d be no urgent priority. The knife had been involved in no crime, and there was nothing but the vaguest of circumstances to link it to the abduction, assuming there actually had been an abduction.
What else could it be? It wouldn’t have been a publicity stunt. I’ll grant Kendall that much. But none of it makes any sense. No ransom demand? No threats. It’s a worry.
He was sitting at his desk, wondering whether to go out now and buy wine for tonight’s dinner date, or wait until later, when Dave Birch entered the police station, looking like death warmed over. Charlie’s psychologist friend had fared poorly in the aftermath of Ralph Stafford’s infamous exploits. He and Stafford had been job-swapping to allow Dave – an avid skiing fanatic – to spend Tasmanian winters at home, then take over Stafford’s Vancouver Island practice so he could trade Tasmanian summers for winters in Canada, and more skiing.
But in the aftermath of the Stafford affair, business at Dave’s private, low-level mental health clinic had deteriorated visibly. He’d lost customers, lost staff, lost his enthusiasm for skiing. Today, he looked as if he’d lost all enthusiasm for anything at all.
“You don’t look happy, little mate,” Charlie said once greetings had been exchanged.
“I’m not,” replied the psychologist. “I’m worried as hell, actually, and not even sure if I should be or not.”
“What’s happened? Lost one of your patients or something?” Charlie meant it as a joke, only realized after the horrid words were out that this was no time for humor.
“A nurse.” Dave Birch regarded Charlie through eyes haggard with worry and fatigue. “And as I said, I’m not sure I should be worrying at all. Except . . .”
Charlie waited patiently. He’d learned long ago that silence was the finest prompter of all. Dave Birch was, from appearance, a beaten man. Charlie hoped not, but he knew how the Stafford incidents had damaged Dave’s personal credibility along with his business. This was rural Tasmania, after all. Rumors and innuendo were quick to whelp and slow to die.
“I think there might be some drugs missing.” The words emerged in a whisper, as if by reducing the volume the psychologist thought he might reduce the seriousness of the words themselves.
“Christ!” Charlie reached for a pad and something to write with. “Okay, let’s start at the beginning with this.”
“I . . . I’m really iffy about this, Charlie,” said Dave Birch. “I really don’t want to get anybody in trouble and I’m . . . I’m not really sure—”
“You’re sure enough to be here in the first place. That’ll do me for now. Give me the details, please. Then we can talk about the other issues.”
“One of my nurses didn’t turn up this morning,” said Birch. “One of my . . . best nurses. And she didn’t phone in sick or anything, and she’s not answering her phone at home, or her cell phone, or . . .”
Charlie caught the original hesitation, also caught the fleeting expression of guilt in Birch’s eyes. There was more to this than just a best nurse situation, that much was clear. As was the likely identity of the missing nurse.
“There could be all sorts of explanations for that,” he replied. “But what’s the drum on these missing drugs?”
“I’m . . . I’m not really sure yet if there’s anything to it at all. She’s the one who’s been keeping the records, and I’ve sort of just, sort of, left it all to her.” The psychologist’s voice somehow managed to hold steadily low in volume and scream with guilt at the same time. “But I think there’s some missing. Maybe. Not a lot, but maybe for quite a while, and if there is . . . well . . .”
Charlie shook his head wearily. This didn’t sound good. Nothing to do with drugs ever sounded good, but this, coming from a friend and a doctor, no less. And . . . he shook his head again.
No easy way out, so why bother looking for one? Might as well ask the questions, even if you already know the answers, or most of them.
“Who’s the nurse and how long have you been sleeping with her?”
Dave Birch reared back as if Charlie had smacked him in the mouth. “Damn it, Charlie,” he said. “That’s a bit rough.”
“Not if it’s true,” Charlie replied blandly, knowing full well it was true, and had been true for quite some time, knowing Dave might try to deny it, but wouldn’t be able to lie to him. Dave was an extremely poor liar.
The two regarded each other in silence for a moment. Charlie sat patient as a statue behind his desk. Dave Birch fidgeted and squirmed as he tried to summon up nerve for the admissions both knew had to come.
“Rose Chapman, but it isn’t like you think.” Dave spat out the words with machine-gun speed. Then he looked away, ostensibly to collect his thoughts but in truth, Charlie knew, because the psychologist knew all too well how the admission would look, must look.
“Rose Chapman? I know that name.” Charlie did, had known it from the beginning. But then recollection struck him in a bolt of surprise. It almost forced a smile, but he managed to maintain his police-sergeant poker face. It was a struggle. “Isn’t she Teague Kendall’s ex?” he asked, and immediately kicked himself mentally for being so abrupt.
“I . . . she’s . . . been married before, I think.” The confusion on Dave Birch’s face was too thorough not to be genuine.
So you didn’t know. Ah well . . . too late now. Jesus . . . I wish you hadn’t used the word “before” like that. Bugger! If half of what I’ve heard is true, you should be glad she’s gone, little mate. That one is pure poison.
Charlie knew more than he actually wanted to about Teague Kendall’s former wife, although virtually none of it from Kendall himself. Kendall wasn’t the type to bad-mouth any woman, or man, for that matter, except in fiction. Nonetheless, Tasmania is a small place in many ways. The “six degrees of separation” concept was usually reduced to about three degrees in Tassie, and Rose Chapman’s reputation was a known thing.
“Psych nurse? From Hobart? Have to be the same one, I’d reckon,” Charlie said. “How long has she been working for you?” He thought he already knew, but it couldn’t hurt to clarify the timing.
“About two years, I think. I’d have to look it up if you want anything more specific. And she’s been a godsend, Charlie. Especially after . . . well, you know the problems I had. Patients fleeing the place like rats from a sinking ship . . . staff doin
g the same, at least right after all that Stafford cannibalism stuff hit the headlines. She and Gladys Rainbird were about the only ones that stayed with me. I’ve been damned glad to have somebody with her experience.”
“Yeah . . . I’d expect you would have been,” Charlie said. “And she’s worked out okay, up ’til this current situation?”
“Splendid. Excellent nurse, excellent . . .” The doctor’s voice faded, sagging into silence.
Excellent at a lot of other things, too, judging from the way you’re reacting, me old mate. But we’d best not go there, I reckon. Yet. You poor bugger!
“So you don’t want to get into the missing drug thing yet, I gather?” Charlie knew the answer, still had to ask.
“No.” The word emerged flatly, without emphasis. But it was what it was, effectively handcuffing Charlie. Without a complaint, without something that at least looked like evidence of a crime . . .
“There’s naught I can do about her being missing. You know that? Legally, she’s an adult, for starters. And it’s not anything like an amount of time to create concern for anyone . . . except you, of course.”
Dave Birch merely sat there, the defeat obvious in his entire demeanor. Then he reached into the pocket of his white jacket and came up with a folded bit of paper, which he handed across the desk to Charlie.
“She drives a white Honda SUV,” he said, his voice and actions united in a plea. “This is the license number. I know you can’t do anything officially, Charlie, but if you could just maybe pass the word . . .”
“Unofficially? Sure, Dave. I can do that and I will. Anything for an old mate. But it’ll cost you. I want your promise that if you can’t get this missing drugs thing totally, properly sorted out – and soon – you’ll be back in here with everything you’ve got. Promise?”
DINING WITH DEVILS -- A Tasmanian Thriller Page 10
