DINING WITH DEVILS -- A Tasmanian Thriller

by GORDON AALBORG

  Here again Charlie paused, halting on a broad section of highway shoulder, and wondering why Kendall and Rose would have halted here, wondered even more seriously if old Viv had perhaps had one too many beers at Pyengana and if the old curmudgeon had actually seen anything significant at all.

  Why would they stop here? There’s nowhere they could go except on to the town, unless . . . Charlie hauled out his own map of the region, a highly detailed topographical map that had been over-written with various notations over the years. Roads altered, bridges out, dangerous curves, and creek crossings. Nobody but Charlie could begin to interpret it, and even he sometimes had problems. He’d inherited the map on his posting to St. Helens, and there were still places on this map he’d never seen.

  But the map wouldn’t speak to him, either, not this time. There were too many options, most of them with no logic whatsoever. If Kendall and Rose hadn’t gone on into town, they could be anywhere at all.

  Viv would probably know, the cunning old bastard. Where are you when I need you, Viv? Where the hell would they go?

  Viv wasn’t there to respond, at least not directly. Charlie’s cell phone, however, was more cooperative. The instrument chirped, Charlie flipped it open, hit the appropriate key, replied, and heard the ghastly whisper of his old friend’s voice.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It took Sunday, Monday and most of Tuesday – nearly a hundred and fifty man hours working four metal detectors through all the daylight hours there were.

  But the Tasmanian police forensics people found the bullet that had smashed through the retrieving trial judge, ending his life in a heartbeat and spawning a murder investigation with no clues, no suspects, and even less logic that anyone could figure out.

  At least they thought it was the bullet . . . only extensive DNA testing could confirm that. It was a 7.62 NATO projectile – .308 caliber by American designation – and it was in excellent condition for ballistics testing, hardly damaged at all in its deadly flight.

  But there was no rifle to compare it to, no information that could guide them to such a rifle, or to the shooter, no apparent reason for the assassination, no suspect. Nothing.

  They also found several .22 slugs, a few of larger caliber from more conventional deer rifles, an assortment of shotgun pellets, empty shotgun cartridges, a vast assortment of bottle caps, ring-pull tabs from old-style soft drink cans, a surprising number of coins both recent and predating the country’s changeover to decimal currency, several dozen fish hooks, a few lead sinkers, one wristwatch, and four pocket knives. And a dead cell phone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “We have to get out of here. If that other man comes back . . .” Kirsten shuddered just at the thought, and her final words were muffled as she tried to bury herself deeper against Teague Kendall.

  “Not before I sort out our friend here,” he replied, and the grimness in his voice was almost a living growl. Kendall thrust Kirsten away, gently, then turned his attention to the cabin’s interior and the various supplies scattered throughout.

  “Hah! This’ll do the trick,” he said, grabbing up a handful of the cable ties Stafford had brought in after Kendall had been sedated by his ex-wife. The same cable ties that had bound them both until only moments earlier.

  Kendall knelt over the still-unconscious Stafford, roughly turned the doctor over on his front, and quickly manufactured handcuffs and ankle-shackles from the sturdy plastic material. Once locked, they would be impossible to remove without being cut. Not a perfect confinement system, but it would do nicely.

  “And just for good measure,” he muttered as he bent Stafford so that he could use even more ties to fasten the hands bound behind the doctor to the circles of plastic joining his ankles. It was an effective but almost tortuous way of doing it, since it forced Stafford into a back-bent arch that would be painful, Kendall suspected, when the man awoke.

  If he awoke. The impact of Kendall’s head butt appeared to have made Stafford bite his tongue, so there was blood trickling from his smashed lips. And the head wounds caused by the chain and eyebolt, although superficial, really, had spread a mask of blood over much of the doctor’s face.

  “How badly is he hurt?” Kirsten couldn’t avoid the question . . . Stafford looked truly awful.

  “Not badly enough,” Kendall replied. “I should have killed the bastard while I was at it. No death penalty here in Australia – he could spend forty more years in jail . . . if some silly bloody judge doesn’t take the easy option and just stick him in a mental hospital.”

  Kendall’s years as a journalist had left him vividly cynical about the workings of the justice system. To him it seemed to be getting less and less effective all the time, with worse and worse offenders getting more and more leniency while innocent victims suffered.

  “I think I could kill him. Easily,” Kirsten said. But she lied and they both knew it. She couldn’t do it any more than Kendall could. Not like this, not in cold blood while Stafford was totally defenseless.

  “Let’s just get us to hell out of here before that mate of his comes back. Or Rose does, although I think we could handle Rosie if she doesn’t have a gun. Right now I’m not sure I could do much of anything, the way my head feels. That bugger’s got a helluva hard chin.” Kendall grabbed up one of the full water bottles and the bottle of pain killers while Kirsten gathered her belongings and flung them hurriedly back into her fanny pack. They were halfway out the door when Kendall stopped short, turned abruptly, and knelt over Stafford’s unconscious figure.

  “Keys,” he muttered. And straightened up a moment later with the doctor’s key ring in his hand. He looked at them, grunted, then reached out to pick up a flashlight as well. Then he led Kirsten out into the near-dark of the evening, and after a brief pause to look around and listen, they made their way through the mud to where the doctor’s 4WD squatted just off the track.

  “Do you have any idea where we are?” Kirsten asked as Kendall flung open the driver’s door and waved her around to the other side.

  “Vaguely,” he said. Which was true enough. Somewhere in the hills more or less above St. Helens and south of the Tasman Highway. Exactly where didn’t matter . . . the track from the shack would lead to some other road, sooner or later, going somewhere, sooner or later. Downhill and to the east lay the ocean and better roads and people, assuming he could find his way in the imminent darkness.

  “We only have to follow our noses and keep angling downhill,” he said as Kirsten moved around the vehicle. “If we drive into the ocean we’ll know we’ve gone too far.”

  It was meant to be a joke, but Kirsten’s scream wasn’t at all funny.

  Already halfway into the driver’s seat, Kendall flung himself out again and rushed around to where she stood, shock still and white-faced, her lips moving soundlessly and her eyes wide with shivering, soul-shaking terror.

  The tailgate of the 4WD was down, spread with what appeared to be an old sheet or tablecloth that was stained with black, irregular blotches. And atop that, covered with a flimsy layer of cheesecloth that did nothing to disguise it, nothing to soften the horror of it, was a human thigh.

  Kirsten gagged, turned away, and promptly lost the little she’d managed to eat that day. She heaved and heaved and retched until her head was light and she was near to fainting, but nothing could dismiss the images from her mind, nothing could relieve those other images – those mental pictures of her own dear sister Emma – that crowded in to add to this mental scrapbook of horror. Emma, beautiful, vibrant, alive. Emma the actress. And now, startling in the imaginary detail, Emma the victim, the corpse, the carcass. Emma – like this!

  The edges of the cheesecloth were held down by a trinity of carving knives with razor edges that gleamed in the fading light. And the thigh itself had been surgically, tidily sectioned at the thigh and knee joints, a task done so neatly only tiny scraps of cartilage clung to the rounded knobs of bone at each end of the thigh.

  This puts th
e term “tailgate party” in a whole new light.

  The thought, obscene as it was, snuck into Teague Kendall’s mind before he could shut the door on it, but he did manage not to voice it out loud as he strode forward to enfold Kirsten in his arms. Only to have her stare at him, wild-eyed, her lips firmly closed with a fierce, rigid determination before she opened them to shriek at him.

  “I’ll kill him!” she screamed, then broke free of his embrace and bolted past Kendall to snatch up one of the knives, repeating, “I’ll kill him” over and over, like a mantra, as she tried then to duck past Kendall, to run back to the cabin and . . .

  “No!”

  The shouted word halted her just long enough for Kendall to grab her wrist and twist, hating himself for the pain he knew it must cause, but certain that it was something he had to do. They stood there, locked together in that grip, and watched the glimmering knife fall from Kirsten’s fingers to the muddy ground on which they stood.

  Kendall turned, tugging Kirsten along like a recalcitrant child, ignoring her half-hearted attempts to twist free of his grip. Ignoring Stafford’s vehicle – how could they take it without somehow dealing with its grotesque cargo? Striding forward instead through the rutted mud of the track, Kendall’s mind focused only on getting away from this. Kirsten’s not focused at all.

  It was nearly full dark now, but he could see well enough to move along the rutted track, even to see the outline of another vehicle parked beside it, huddled beneath a high, spreading blue gum. It was newer, shinier, more modern than the one Stafford had used as a butcher’s block. Rose’s SUV, he thought, and they were right up to it before Kendall could see that it, too, had been put to unorthodox use by the mad doctor.

  Worse, he didn’t see until it was too late to turn away, too late to somehow shield Kirsten from the sight of Rose’s body – now one-legged and naked – suspended high in the tree. Held there by a length of rope that ran from the vehicle’s front tow-hook up and over the tree limb to where it held Rose’s remains high off the ground, encased in more cheesecloth, a hunter’s game bag of the stuff. Safe from the ubiquitous blowflies, the Tassie devils, and other vermin.

  But not safe from the devil himself. Too late for that. Bloody oath, Rosie – what have you done?

  The rope had been passed around her body under arms and breasts, then twisted and knotted under Rose’s neck just above the gaping wound that had opened her throat to death.

  He turned, hoping somehow to shield this second horror from Kirsten. But it was too late. Even as he threw his arms around her, gathering her into what he hoped would be a protective hug, he felt the tremors of terror that vibrated in his love, heard her choking, terrified sobs.

  And was strangely grateful when she abruptly sagged in his grip, her mind and body both giving up the fight against the obscenity of it all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Ian Boyd’s just shot my dog. I’m going to kill the bastard if I can. But I’m outgunned, Charlie, and I’m hurt. You’ve got to help me.”

  The connection was bad, the voice so tremulous that Charlie could only just make out the words. And he only got time to ask, “Where are you?” and hear a quavering, “Home” before the connection was lost.

  Home. For the old man, home was an isolated shepherd’s shack under Blue Tier, at the end of a truly primitive bush track. No electricity, no piped water, nobody else living within miles. But through this curious quirk of circumstances, Charlie could be there in fifteen minutes. Even in the dark. Maybe less, if he hurried.

  He did. Charlie threw the police vehicle into four-wheel-drive and used every driving skill he had to keep it moving forward and out of the ditch as he lurched and rocked his way along the constantly deteriorating track. Old Viv regularly used the road in an ancient two-wheel-drive vehicle held together by faith and fencing wire but Charlie had no time for slow, careful driving. He relied on memory to navigate, on reflexes to follow his bouncing headlight beams as he slewed through puddles and slithered through boggy sections without even bothering to check them out first.

  If Ian Boyd was there at Viv’s, he’d got there the same way Charlie was doing it, and if Ian had driven this track, Charlie knew he could also get through, provided he was careful and at least reasonably sensible.

  His vehicle soared over the final rise in the terrain, skidded through the last of many bogs that had already painted it with mud, and Charlie had to leap on the brakes as the lights picked up the shape of the discarded trawl net with Bluey’s unconscious form lying still and unmoving, half under the net and half free.

  Dead? You’ll pay if he is, Ian Boyd. Mark my words, you will! And when you get out of the crowbar hotel you’d best leave this island, because that old man will hunt you down and kill you. Slowly.

  In the headlights, Charlie could also see Ian’s abandoned four-wheel-drive and the door to Viv’s shack, and as he watched, the door opened slightly and a gnome-like visage peered out at him, a face still smeared in blood from a wound on the old man’s head. Then the head retreated and emerged again a second later, this time followed by the old man’s arm, triumphantly waving an old double-barreled shotgun.

  Waving a bloody shotgun that’s older than you are, and standing there in the headlights making a right proper target of yourself. Bloody oath, Viv, what are you thinking?

  Charlie quickly killed his headlights, then sat for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the relative darkness. It wasn’t quite full dark, so after a moment he could see reasonably well. Well enough. He could see a shadowy Viv gesturing to a patch of stringy barks, where Charlie assumed Ian Boyd might be bailed up.

  Only one way to find out, and I’d best get to it before that silly old trout goes after Ian again with that shotgun.

  Too late. Even as Charlie slid cautiously out of the police vehicle, BOOM! The shotgun erupted with a roar and a mighty gout of flame.

  “Yez might as well give it up, you mongrel bastard.” The old man’s voice was a triumphal screech. He sounded like a parrot in heat.

  BOOM! Flame spewed from the shotgun’s second barrel, and Charlie wondered what on earth the old man had been using to load his shot shells.

  Black powder? Too much of it, whatever the hell it was.

  Leaves and bark fluttered down from the trees as Charlie cautiously moved to his left, hoping for a better view.

  “That’s enough!” he said, filling his voice with an authority he didn’t quite feel. “Put that shotgun away and leave this to me.”

  No way to be sure if the old man obeyed, although Charlie doubted he would. It’d be a world first if you did, you silly old bastard. But I don’t need you complicating this now, so just bugger off out of it.

  He kept moving slowly forward and to his left, his gaze locked on where he thought Ian Boyd was, and soon enough got confirmation of that.

  Phfffft. And a tiny gout of dirt flew up a few feet to Charlie’s left. Ridiculous as it seemed, even to him, Charlie was reassured by the width of the miss. To him, it meant Ian wasn’t serious about shooting him, and that matched his own assessment of the man.

  For all his faults, Ian wouldn’t shoot me. He just . . . wouldn’t.

  He took another slow, measured pace. Then another.

  “Get away out of this, Charlie. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  “It’s over, Ian. Time to put the gun down.” Another step, slightly more to the left. He could see Ian Boyd clearly now, or as clearly as the faded light would allow.

  “So that silly old bastard can blow me in half? Not on your Nellie!”

  “Viv! Take that shotgun back in the shack and stay there!” Charlie shouted the command, but didn’t take his gaze off the tall, rangy figure ahead of him. Too far ahead for any sort of accurate pistol shooting, but that wasn’t the reason Charlie hadn’t even bothered to draw his gun.

  Ian Boyd could shoot the buttons off Charlie’s epaulets with that .22 at this range, and both of them knew it. If he was going to shoot – ser
iously shoot – it would have been done by now. Or so Charlie believed. Had to believe, or else run.

  “It’s time to put the gun down, Ian.” Spoken slowly, calmly, as Charlie took another step, then another. In his peripheral vision, he saw the old man, shotgun still in his grasp, reeling as he hobbled over to kneel beside his stricken dog.

  Charlie took another step to the left, well out of the direct line between old Viv and Ian Boyd.

  I’m not sure which of you is the most dangerous. Damn it, Viv – why can’t you ever just do as you’re damn well told?

  ~~~

  Ian Boyd was losing it. The cocktail of drugs and alcohol in his blood was foaming into utter confusion and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision and his mind.

  Charlie Banes was a policeman and policemen were authority and he hated authority and he hated policemen. But this was Charlie. Charlie had always played straight with him. He actually sort of liked Charlie. But he didn’t like that cantankerous old man, and the feeling was mutual and that old man would shoot him soon as look at him. Had already tried.

  Ian wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run to. Charlie was between him and his vehicle, and so was the old man.

  “It’s over, Ian. Put . . . the gun . . . down.”

  Charlie’s voice was steady, calm, almost convincing. Almost. Ian looked down at the weapon, then at Charlie, then over to where old Viv was crouched over the dog.

  “No.”

  “Put. The gun. DOWN!”

  “I’m warning you, Charlie. No closer. Just . . . just go away and . . . and . . .”

  ~~~

  Charlie was close enough now to see the hesitation, could feel the indecision and confusion in Ian. Close enough, almost, to be in pistol range. But he didn’t draw his weapon. That would only exacerbate the situation, might too easily tip Ian over the edge.

  Couldn’t hit him anyway. I’d be better off throwing the damned gun at him. Come ON, Ian . . . give it away, damn you.