CHAPTER FORTY
Kirsten threw Charlie a curious glance when she read through her statement in his office the next day. She raised an eyebrow, parted her lips as if to speak, then firmed those same lips and signed the statement with a firm, bold hand.
Kendall wasn’t quite so obliging. He was a man of words – he read the statement slowly, carefully. Charlie found himself holding his breath as his friend read. He could feel Kirsten’s eyes on him, tried to ignore that, too.
He’d hoped Kendall might just skim through the report (which had taken Charlie most of the morning to concoct) and miss the fact that there was no mention of how Kendall had handcuffed Stafford with cable ties, used them to shackle his ankles, then joined both sets of shackles together.
“Are you sure about this, Charlie?” asked Kendall. “I was sure those cable ties would hold . . . and if they didn’t, why didn’t he run, I wonder?”
Charlie shrugged. “You didn’t do a very good job of it. Those damned cable ties can be tricky . . . look like they’re holding and then slip. Good job you’re not supposed to be an electrician. No need to mention that, though. Be a pity to destroy your handyman status.”
He grinned, only it emerged as a wince because he shook his head as he did so, and a spasm of pain lanced in behind his red-rimmed eyes. It had been a long, long night.
“Anyway, there’s no way of telling how he managed to get free or what happened later. Might be he fell and hurt himself after he’d cut himself free. Maybe the devils gave him such a fright that he had a heart attack or something. They’d have given me one, I can tell you that. We’ll never know, I guess.”
In actual fact, Charlie wasn’t sure if there was a recorded case of Tassie devils actually having eaten anyone. Ever. He knew bushmen, and old Viv and Ian Boyd would have also, who told tales of being stalked by the creatures, bushmen who swore blue that they’d be terrified of being caught in the wilderness with a broken leg or similar injury.
But he’d thought such tales to be the stuff of local legend. Until now, when he was forced into this charade in order to protect his friend. And his friend’s lover, who probably didn’t need protecting. And he had the worst hangover he could ever remember. His mouth tasted foul and his head throbbed, sensitive to any sudden movement. This was, he decided, not the best time for doing something like this. But there was no other. It had to be now.
He paused then, firmed his voice for the clincher.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Enough, Charlie. Say no more or he’ll figure it out. Probably will anyway, but not now, not here, not in time for it to matter.
“No, it doesn’t. What matters is that your Tassie devils are more efficient than our cougars at home,” said Kirsten. Backing Charlie up, and they both knew it. Doing her best to get this part of it over quickly, for all their sakes.
She knows. Or at least suspects. Kendall’s no more a handyman than he is an aerospace engineer. It’ll be her that changes the tap washers and stuff like that when they finally get their act together.
He met Kirsten’s gaze and had his opinion confirmed. She knew!
She also knew, just as Charlie did, that Kendall would be tormented beyond endurance if he had to live with the fact of having bound Stafford up to be eaten alive by the Tassie devils, able to watch it, forced to endure their consumption of his flesh with no possibility of escape or defense. Because of Kendall.
Kendall, who would have nightmares about all this anyway. Who would probably carry guilt to his own grave because of what had happened to Rose, the ex-wife who’d tried to have him shot. Kendall looked from his lady love to Charlie, shrugged, then scrawled his name at the bottom of the statement Charlie had so carefully, cunningly, he thought, laboriously constructed from the facts he knew, the facts he’d suspected and the facts he’d totally, deliberately ignored.
The previous night had been a damned long night indeed!
Charlie and old Viv had stood outside the shack, not talking, not looking at each other, or at much of anything, as Charlie’s instructions were followed through. They definitely hadn’t looked down the track to where Rose’s body still hung, had tried not to notice as the departing police personnel – every one of them – slowed, if only ever so slightly, unable to avoid taking a final look.
Just as Viv had to look inside the shack, which he did after firmly commanding that damned dog to sit beside Charlie’s vehicle and stay there. Charlie left him to it. No sense arguing, and at least Viv had exhibited the common decency to keep that damned dog from going back into the shack and probably pissing on everything in sight. It was easier for Charlie to walk a ways down the track, lean up against the solidness of a huge blackwood tree, and think it all out. If he did this wrong, his career could be on the line. Maybe even if he did it right. Well, it needed to be done right. It needed to be done . . . that was the point!
Charlie and his curmudgeonly old friend didn’t have to speak. Charlie knew what he was going to do, what he had to do. All Viv had to do was stand outside, guard the door, and keep his mouth shut later.
Nor did it take very long. There wasn’t that much involved, after all. Charlie put on latex gloves, took up a boning knife from the collective kitchen tools on the picnic table, and slashed through the cable tie that held Stafford’s wrists to his feet, then the one holding his wrists together and the third one that held his feet together.
Snick. Snick. Snick. Simple as that.
Far simpler than the memory of how the savaged body of the victim sprang free of that ghastly bow-shape to flop limply on the floor, a dead man, now . . . not a tortured specter from some horror film. Far simpler than the memory of having to grip the remains of Stafford’s right hand around the knife before Charlie dropped it in what he hoped was a logical spot for it to be found if anyone looked. Far simpler than thinking of the consequences if he somehow managed to stuff this up royally.
Then he’d left the shack, quietly closing the door behind him and testing to make certain it would stay closed. He moved to the rear of Stafford’s vehicle, where he found that somebody, probably Viv, had carefully spread a tarp out to cover the half-carved thigh, the cheesecloth and the carving utensils that had been used to hold the cheesecloth down.
Now, Charlie could spare a moment to think what had to be done about Rose. And it only took a moment, because there was really nothing sensible he could do. What lay ahead, like what would happen inside the cabin Charlie would never enter again if he could help it, was to be determined by the crime scene specialists, the forensics people. Who might get there by morning. Or might not. There was no screaming panic involved, now. No hostages, no danger to anyone, no real need for the forensics people to wander around in the middle of the night when they could wait for daylight before even starting out from the city.
I never thought about that, damn it. Wonder what else I didn’t think about? Wonder if I can risk going out to the haul road and sending that young constable in here to baby sit, so Viv and I can go home to bed.
He looked around then, to see that the old man had taken it upon himself to give them a fire to spend the night by. Well away from the actual crime scene, thank goodness, but where they could sit, be warm, and still keep an eye on things.
You beauty, Viv. Trust you to think of the important things.
Charlie made his way to the fire, and was halfway to seating himself on a convenient log when he realized that the old man had done more than just build a fire. He was sitting there, the dog with its ugly head in his lap, and in his hand was – impossibly but undeniably – a bottle of wine.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Charlie cried, getting up even faster than he’d sat down. Noticing as he troubled to look that the old man had a whopping great camp cooler sitting there beside him. Where had that come from?
From Stafford’s truck. Charlie knew it without having to ask, almost didn’t dare to ask anyway . . . not now, when it was definitely too late to change anything. But wh
at if the cooler held . . . ? He suppressed a mental picture of Rose’s tidy ankle even as old Viv answered the unasked question.
“No part of her in here. I looked. Lots of damned good plonk, though. Reckoned we might as well have it . . . your mob’d only steal it, I reckon. ‘Sides – finders keepers. You want some?”
He extended the bottle and Charlie hesitated only an instant. He was definitely thirsty. Doubtless the old man had been thirsty too. Somewhere in Charlie’s vehicle there would be bottled water, maybe even a few aged granola bars. But this – this was Piper’s Brook. By almost any standard the finest wine produced in Tasmania . . . in Australia!
And it was evidence. Or had been. Or should be. And it was . . . 2:15 in the morning and he’d just finished manipulating evidence far more important than this was, if for much better reasons. And old Viv was, at least, speaking to him again.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Charlie.
They passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty, then replaced it with a fresh one. Charlie tried not to think of where Viv had picked up the corkscrew he wielded like a pro, tried not to think of too much at all. It was easy enough until the old man got serious.
“What’ll happen with Ian Boyd?
“It’s not up to me, Viv. You know that. But I’d reckon manslaughter, at the least. I don’t believe he meant to shoot that gundog judge, but it happened while he was committing another crime, with an unregistered, illegal firearm. It’ll go hard for him.”
“So you won’t be needing me to press charges, I guess.”
And having to admit to having that damned antique shotgun, never mind shooting it at somebody? Okay, in self-defense. Maybe. I’d give odds ‘twas you fired first, old man. Probably just damned good luck there’s no pellets in Ian as well as tooth marks.
“I can’t see much sense to it, unless you’re bound and determined to have your day in court,” Charlie said.
Which is exactly what you want, you cunning old bastard. Nothing you’d like better than to be the center of attention, I’d reckon. My God! – what a bun fight it would be. Trouble is that once they got you going you wouldn’t stop until you’d insulted somebody important, or got cited for contempt, or something. You’re worse than that damned dog, once you’re fired up.
“But it’ll go in the record somewhere how he attacked me, how me wonderful dog saved me? Saved us both, didn’t he? I’d want that known, I reckon.”
“It will certainly be part of the arrest record,” Charlie said. “I’ll make certain of it.”
Which seemed, at least for the moment, to satisfy an old man who didn’t actually want to admit he’d needed a shotgun to deal with a man twenty years his junior, twice his size, and high on drugs. Bad enough to admit he’d had to call the police, but he could slide past that formality by skiting about his new cell phone and how it worked out there in the wilderness where he lived.
And Charlie suddenly realized there was more, yet, to the old man’s attitude about this. Good, bad or indifferent . . . Ian Boyd was one of his own, a local, somebody he’d grown up with. It was, therefore, perfectly all right for Viv to have stomped Ian into the ground for shooting the dog, and he’d have done so without a qualm if he could have. Or shot him. But taking the man to court, to be judged by strangers, was . . . something else.
Charlie understood that. Sort of. As much as he understood anything about the unique culture of rural Tasmania, where the rules were different than elsewhere in Australia, different, even, than in the cities of Tasmania. He understood it enough, anyway, to know when to change the subject.
~~~
Once the statements were signed, Kendall and Kirsten hovered. There was no better way to describe the situation – they wanted to go but felt obliged not to rush away. And they couldn’t quite hide it, nor the guilt that it carried.
It took some organizing, but eventually they found a pristine copy of The Book, which both Kendall and Kirsten inscribed to old Viv – and, at Kirsten’s insistence, to Bluey as well. But neither had any enthusiasm for having to go bush to deliver it. They’d seen enough of the east coast bush for the moment, perhaps for a lifetime.
Charlie was mildly annoyed to find that although old Viv had his cell phone number, he didn’t have the old man’s, so he couldn’t even phone to suggest that Viv make a trip to town to pick up his gift. And his shotgun, which Charlie had managed to have declared an inoperable antique to avoid having to confiscate the damned thing.
Everybody’s got baggage, because of that goddamn Stafford. Except maybe old Viv. He’s old and he manages to travel pretty light. Lucky bugger.
Kendall had come halfway around the world, in part to see his old friend, only to have the visit shaken by an unbelievable but nonetheless horrifying set of circumstances. He’d brought the woman he loved halfway around the world to show her the place he often thought of as his spiritual home, only to have . . .
Charlie understood.
How could Kendall even hope to spend a fortnight showing Kirsten the scenic wonders of Tasmania when – in her mind – a devil lurked behind every bush, a semi-butchered corpse swung from every stringy-bark?
How could his friend lurch from book signing to book signing anywhere in Australia with the media feeding frenzy poised not on his current book, but with fangs bared, pack voice screaming as they imagined the book Kendall hadn’t even begun yet?
But would. Probably. Eventually.
“I’ve cancelled the signing in Hobart,” Kendall said then, as if he’d been reading Charlie’s mind. “We’ve got a ride back to Launceston and I’ve booked a flight out later today, so we’ll have to get on the road pretty soon.”
“I’d reckon so.”
Hell. What else can I say? Nice to see you . . . here’s your hat . . . what’s your hurry?
Easier to turn his attention to Kirsten and practice the gallantry he hoped to exhibit later, with a different woman, when this business was done and he could manage the time. Soon.
“It has been wonderful to meet you after all Kendall’s said. And I have to say that even his words don’t do you justice.” Charlie laid it on with a trowel, heaping compliment upon compliment, until finally he ran out of pretty words and had to slow down, then stop.
Kirsten kept it more simple. “You’ve been a good friend to Kendall and I thank you for it,” she said, then turned and gazed admiringly into Kendall’s eyes. It was the look of a smitten bubble-gummer, Charlie thought. But effective.
“Kendall is my hero,” Kirsten sighed. And sagged, body language tragic, her giggle verging on hysteria, into her lover’s arms
At which Kendall tried not to blush and Charlie tried not to laugh.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Linda fell apart with laughter when Charlie recounted to her the tale of his rescue by old Viv’s dog. And laughed even louder when he admitted his apprehension about what he described as Kirsten’s great scene.
“Here’s this woman who’s twice, at least, proven herself to be tougher than most men could even dream of being, and what does she do? She sighs, ‘My hero’ and collapses in Kendall’s arms. The bugger was so surprised he nearly dropped her.”
Charlie accompanied his exaggerated and not quite accurate tale with overdramatic gestures of his own, waving one arm, looking (he hoped) longingly upward to the ceiling. He had to look ridiculous, knew it, didn’t care. Worth it just to see Linda laugh. He loved her laughter.
“It was like something out of the worst soap opera,” he said ruefully. “She had to be having him on . . . must have been. Not that the poor bugger noticed – he was too happy just to have her where she was, and all of a piece, and I can’t blame him for that. But . . .”
Linda’s laughter slowed and she shook her head almost sadly, a contrast to the smile that still played on her lips.
“Sometimes, Charlie,” she said, speaking slowly, enunciating each word, holding him with her eyes to be sure he got her message, “a girl’s just gotta do what a gi
rl’s gotta do.
“Speaking of which . . .” Linda rose from her seat and walked over to Charlie with one hand extended and the other undoing her blouse buttons. Slowly, deliberately, extremely provocatively. She took Charlie’s hand, squeezed it in a gesture of encouragement, then turned and moved away.
Obviously, Charlie thought, he was expected to follow.
So he did.
###
About the Author
Gordon Aalborg is the (actual) author of “The Specialist” – a Five Star Publishing mystery, 2004.
He spent more than twenty years in Tasmania, and has traveled in the area where Dining with Devils is set. A keen gundog enthusiast, Gordon is a life member and foundation president of the Tasmanian Gundog Trial Association. He now lives on Vancouver Island, in Canada with his wife, fellow mystery author Denise (Deni) Dietz.
Visit his website: www.gordonaaalborg.com
OTHER BOOKS
As Gordon Aalborg
Cat Tracks [Delphi Books: 2002]
The Specialist [Five Star Mysteries: 2004]
Dining with Devils [Five Star Mysteries: 2009]
The Horse Tamer’s Challenge [Five Star Expressions: 2009]
~~~
As Victoria Gordon
www.victoriagordonromance.com
Wolf in Tiger’s Stripes (Five Star/Gale/Cengage: 2010)
Finding Bess (Five Star/Gale/Cengage: 2004)
Beguiled and Bedazzled
An Irresistible Flirtation
A Magical Affair
Gift-Wrapped
A Taxing Affair
Love Thy Neighbour
Arafura Pirate
Forest Fever
Cyclone Season
Age of Consent
Bushranger's Mountain
Battle of Wills
Dinner At Wyatt's
DINING WITH DEVILS -- A Tasmanian Thriller Page 22
