by Anita Bell
He dabbed the sponge with more shoe polish, wishing there was something else he could use. Jack stamped his hoof every time he got close with it. The animal pranced in place and tossed his head, making a game of the fact that he was wise to what his human was up to with that smelly sponge.
Locklin filled a feeder with grain and hung it under the stallion’s nose. As planned, the horse plunged his nose into the deliberate distraction.
‘Got ya now, Jacko,’ he said, patting the animal’s rump. But Jack continued his dance, still managing to avoid most of the sponge while he devoured the grain like a pig at a trough.
With patience, Locklin persisted, landing a dab occasionally, but progressing more slowly than he had hoped. He had a Landcruiser to watch, and this was taking him too long.
About to give up, he knelt at the horse’s shoulder trying to think of somewhere else he could hide him. If he couldn’t disguise his horse, it would be the only other way to keep him safe. In frustration, Locklin tossed the sponge into a bucket behind him, but the sound he heard wasn’t the sound of it landing. He had a visitor.
‘Interested in a trade?’ Nikki said.
He looked up, feeling a pit open up in his belly and his heart falling into it. The only thing Nikki Fletcher could have to trade with him was information on a man who shared her surname, and the fact that she realised it meant he was in far more trouble than he feared.
Unless it was that necklace …
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘What’s the deal?’
Nikki leaned against the door, with one hand on her jeans pocket and the other playing with her angel.
‘You said two days?’
He nodded.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Only your nose. It’s quite soothing, actually, but it smells a bit until it dries.’
She felt the bulge in her back pocket and smiled at the irony of trading one smell for another. ‘Legal? It’s not addictive or anything?’
He shook his head, surprised that it worried her. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘I’ll try it — on condition. No matter what happens, we agree that from now on, your business is your business and my business is my business and we don’t go blabbing or sticking our noses in each other’s business ever again, okay? It ends here.’
Locklin nodded.
That sounded fair enough. ‘You said you had something to trade?’
‘You were going to fix me up for nothing before, so let’s see if it works and if it does, I’ll trade you for it, so I don’t owe you any favours, okay?’
‘I can’t agree to a deal,’ he said, ‘if I’m not sure if I’m interested in what you have to trade.’
Nikki smiled and looked at his horse. ‘Oh, you’ll be interested,’ she said, again confirming his worst fears.
‘Hmmm, all right,’ he said, more cautious than ever. ‘I guess I’m game.’ He stepped closer to her, close enough to make her look nervous, and held out his hand. ‘Your wrists?’
She offered him one. He took it and without breaking eye contact, reached down with his free hand towards her foot. She looked down and watched him pluck a thick outer leaf from a short cactus with pale blunt spines. The cactus was in a pot that she hadn’t noticed before, but seeing it now, she realised what she had tripped over earlier when his horse had startled her.
‘Aloe vera,’ he said as he split the long fat cactus leaf lengthwise with his thumbnail. He turned it inside out, revealing the juicy flesh, much like a ripe peach, only pale green and slimy. He wiped it gently over her festering wounds and spread the gooey slime like a thick clear paste. ‘Feel good?’ he asked.
‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘I can’t smell it yet though.’
‘You will,’ he said. ‘It’s not that bad, but you’ll still smell it when it mixes with the pus,’ and right on cue, she wrinkled her nose. ‘Got anything you’d like to share yet?’
‘You haven’t finished the job,’ she said, holding up her other wrist.
‘Not very trusting, are you?’ he said. ‘I can’t talk you into payment in advance?’
But her smile said no.
‘A down payment then?’
‘Not likely.’
‘Okay,’ he said, tightening his grip as he reached back for his army knife. ‘Let’s do this properly then, shall we?’ He held up his knife, watching her eyes as he deliberately flicked the razor-sharp blade open in front of her nose.
Not good, he thought, as he watched her control her fear. Scotty cracked every time under that prank and girls were supposed to be easier to spook. Next time he saw his cousin, he’d have to point that out to him.
He lowered the steel to her wrist, concentrating hard to keep the knife from trembling as he gently punctured the swellings with the sharpest point of the blade to release the puss. He did the same with her other wrist and backed off to let her take care of them.
‘There’s a tap over there,’ he said, asking her to flush them clean.
When she was done, he passed her the leaf so she could apply a fresh coat of slime to each wrist by herself, explaining that if they’d caught the infection early enough, the redness could be gone within a few hours.
‘I usually wrap the leaf in plastic and keep it in a fridge for next time, but …’ he didn’t need to finish. If she did that, one of the family might see it in the fridge and ask questions. ‘Just come and get what you want when you need it,’ he said. ‘Twice a day should do it, but use the thick outer leaves first. They’re the best medicine.’
‘Best medicine,’ she said, mocking him. ‘You sound like a witch doctor.’ But she looked at her wrists closely when he was finished and already, the skin had laid flat and the pain had eased. Aside from feeling a bit sticky, they looked better already. ‘So what’s the scam?’ she teased. ‘You part native or something? Can you wrestle crocodiles, catch fish with your hands and rub two sticks together to make fire too?’
The tension tightened in his belly. Did she know who and what he was, or not? He couldn’t deny the blood, but he could deny having the skills. He knew nothing more than any kid who’d been brought up on a farm. But denying it wouldn’t help. If she knew who he was, then she knew the answers already.
Locklin told the truth. He picked up the pot plant and handed it to her with the label facing forward.
‘I read the instructions,’ he said, making her smile.
The stallion licked the last grains of wheat from the cracks in his feedbin and made sure his human wasn’t sneaking up on him again with that horse-eating smell.
Something was wrong, the horse realised. He could smell tension and tension meant fear. The smell came from both humans equally, but it was his human that concerned him. His human he could trust, and if his human was tense, it meant danger was near.
He whinnied another greeting to their visitor, challenging her to declare that she was friend and not foe, and again she failed to acknowledge it.
The horse tensed, confused. She didn’t smell like danger and yet his human behaved as if he sensed it on her.
‘All right, all right,’ the visitor said. ‘I guess you earned your reward. But if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with this, okay?’
She moved and the stallion shifted his weight, lining her up. She was reaching for something, something that she’d been hiding behind her back.
His human stepped between them and the horse fidgeted, unable to make the strike.
There was an exchange, a moment’s silence, and the sound of a small lid unscrewing.
The horse stamped his hoof in disgust. He snorted twice. It was his way of asking what all the fuss was about. The brown bottle the female had handed over smelled no more dangerous than his saddle.
Locklin recognised it at once and still couldn’t find the words to fill his throat.
‘Leather dye,’ she said casually. ‘Mrs Maitland threw it in the rubbish.’
He nodded, the surprise on his face t
hanking her when words wouldn’t.
‘I realise it’s probably supposed to be permanent, but that’s on dead hide I imagine. I expect it grows out eventually?’
He nodded again. ‘It’s perfect,’ he said, peering into the bottle to check if there was enough left. He screwed the lid back on. ‘I don’t know why I …’
He looked up, but she was gone. He stepped outside the stables and discovered she wasn’t the only thing to go missing.
The place beside the homestead where the Landcruiser had been parked was now empty. He ran to the place, stopping short when he realised that he’d been noticed.
Nikki was on the verandah. She was only a few metres away and he glanced from her face to the empty space and back again, and saw Thorna come through the kitchen door behind her.
‘Ah, thanks,’ he said awkwardly, leaving them to watch his back.
He heard Thorna start reciting a list of chores she wanted done while she got the twins ready for school and he forced himself to relax. He lengthened his stride and headed straight for the stables. He’d dye Jack later. Right now he had a fast ride back to the boathouse. He only hoped he didn’t look like he was hurrying.
It was less than five minutes by road between Freeman and Scrubhaven, but closer to half an hour by horse through scrub and water. By the time Locklin was within sight of the boathouse, Maitland’s Landcruiser was stirring dust with its black diesel fumes on its way out again. But with a rising sun behind it, Locklin still smiled. He could see enough through the windows to know the crates were gone.
One car, one driver, he thought, but he still approached with caution.
His training took over.
Recon first, scout the area.
Locklin circled in from the west, keeping just beyond the trees. No sign of movement at the windows and he tethered Jack behind a thicket of lantana, which was only a short run to the north of the cabin. If he had to bolt for it, he didn’t want anyone seeing him escape straight towards the homestead.
He approached low, coming in from the far side, along a wall without windows. He placed his back against the boathouse and listened.
No sounds from inside.
He edged around to the door, ducking beneath dirty windows that had cobwebs and hessian sacks for curtains. He picked the padlock again using one of the earrings out of the cigarette packet and the latch released obediently as his fingers became more nimble with the practice. Then he closed his eyes, preparing them for lower light levels inside and felt for his knife, flicking it open.
He charged his lungs. Then he flung open the door and rolled inside to the left.
He stopped with his back to a dark wall and surveyed the cabin from a crouch.
It was empty, as he expected.
Well, almost.
A blue tarpaulin covered a large lump on the other side of the room, but he didn’t have to lift it to know what was under it. The lump was the shape of a pile of crates and he could see part of one sticking out at the bottom.
He crossed the room towards them, stepping in wet footprints around the trapdoor, but as he lifted the tarp, he heard more than just the canvas crumple. It was a petrol engine, and wheels skidding as a vehicle pulled up outside.
Petrol, Locklin thought. But Maitland’s Landcruiser was a diesel.
The motor outside cut and he heard a car door close. He lunged back to the open door, crouching inside with his knife ready for the driver.
Footsteps approached but stopped short of the door. A shadow fell across the opening, then stopped and backed away.
Locklin forced his breathing to slow, listening.
Were they signalling to someone else in the car?
His thumb rubbed the steel emblem of a shark on his knife handle. Not a sound. Not a single sound to interpret! He chewed on his tongue, trying to stay patient while his blood raced in his veins.
The long skinny shadow crept back in time with slow footsteps and Locklin contracted his body against the wall like a spring winding tighter.
The shadow stopped again in the doorway and stretched out an arm.
‘Hello in the cabin!’ it shouted and Locklin swore, recognising the voice.
He punched the wall to release tension and stepped into the doorway, rolling his shoulders to relax. ‘Did you catch them?’ he asked.
‘Catch what?’ asked Connolly, relaxing too.
‘My next ten years. They took off out the door when they heard you coming.’
Connolly grinned. ‘Well, when they catch mine they can all come back together. Another scare like that and I’ll be too old to get back in the army.’
Locklin nodded and wiped the blade of his knife down his trousers. It was no secret that the town’s priest had applied for a second tour of duty as an army padre. But Connolly was forty-two now and the requests by younger priests kept slipping through the approval net ahead of him.
‘I saw our friend,’ Connolly said, referring to Maitland. ‘He was pulling out of here as I drove past and I figured I’d slip in and see what he was up to. But I guess you’ve already done that.’
Locklin nodded and pocketed his blade, hoping he was the only one to notice that his hands shaking.
Connolly was more concerned with Locklin’s face. He’d seen that look in police officers and soldiers who worked two steps closer to death than any man should have to — confusion and fear boiling under confidence! What he didn’t know was what had put it there.
‘He got back last night,’ Locklin said, sliding his fingers flat and still inside his pockets. ‘About the same time that we were here, I think. Maybe just before.’
‘Does Helen know?’
‘She should. I messaged her mobile phone last night.’
Connolly went white. ‘You don’t think he saw us? Maybe if he tried to come here first?’
Locklin shook his head. ‘If he thought his privacy had been compromised I don’t think he would have done what he just did.’
‘Oh?’ Connolly said, his eyebrows asking, what was that?
Locklin shrugged, inviting him to follow him inside and find out. ‘A bit early for you to be this far out of town, isn’t it?’ he said, leading the way.
‘Ken Murphy called me out. He was in such a flap, I thought his mum must have taken a turn.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Oh yes. She’s pushing a hundred, but I think she’ll outlive us all. Turns out he just wanted last rights for one of his old chickens,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I can see why the kids in town all call him mad.’
Locklin nodded, stopping at the tarp. Ken Murphy lived on the south boundary of Freeman and he’d always been a bit strange, but he was harmless. Compared to Eric Maitland, Mad Murphy was a saint, and he lifted the tarp to prove it.
‘Hello, hello, hello,’ Connolly said. ‘He’s left us a present.’
‘Giftwrapped,’ Locklin said, peeling the tarp away. He pulled the top crate on the pile towards him and looked for the best way to open it. It wasn’t difficult. Some of the lids had been ajar the night before. They’d been adjusted properly now so all the crates would stack neatly on top of each other, but they weren’t screwed shut. The lid lifted easily and they stared at the contents.
‘That looks familiar,’ Connolly said, wondering what was going on.
‘It should. It’s one of about twenty that have hung in the hall outside my bedroom since before I was born.’ Locklin lifted out the portrait of the Civic Guard and stared at the worthless print. Then he leaned it against the wall and lifted out the other two in the crate. None were of any value, but they were all from the house. He checked the other crates and found the rest of the paintings from the hall and a few bigger ones from the loungeroom and library. The rest of the crates were empty.
‘Nothing,’ he swore, kicking the floor.
Connolly looked through them too, scratching his bald spot. ‘You think he’s throwing them out?’
‘Well, he’s in for a disappointment if he thinks h
e can sell them. They’re all prints.’
‘Maybe he’s making room in the house for his own works? Or restoring them?’
‘No, mate,’ Locklin said. ‘He’s got a new Landcruiser to pay for. He’s up to something that’s making him money.’
‘Maybe there’s something hidden in them?’ Connolly suggested.
‘I suppose,’ Locklin said, inspecting the frames again with closer attention to the wire hooks and backing. But he still couldn’t find anything.
‘Damn,’ he said, slumping against the crates. Then he saw the wet footprints and swore again. I’m recon, he chided himself, I’m supposed to notice details.
He lifted the trapdoors, unpacking the first aid kit and flare gun, and finding the rope ladder had already been let down. It was hanging limp into the dark void and he lit the lantern again and lowered it to find that something else was different too.
The cavern was still empty of treasure, but the seepage was deeper now. Locklin could only see half the number of rungs in the ladder before it disappeared into black water.
‘Anything interesting down there?’ Connolly asked.
‘Not unless you’re a fish,’ he said, repacking the safety gear and putting everything back as they’d found it. He looked at his watch and sighed. 7.30am.
Medical supplies would leave for East Timor in a little over twelve hours, with or without him. Even if he had found evidence to support a murder investigation, he still needed time to get the information to police without getting himself into any more trouble than he was already in.
‘That’s it,’ he said, unable to contain his frustration. ‘I’m boned.’
Friday, 8.14am
Detective Burkett waited on the Roma Street platform as the next interstate train from Sydney rattled to a halt.
‘Feels weird,’ he told Parry, ‘getting here ahead of the train. This one had a ten-hour head start on us and we still made it here ahead of it.’
‘Not everyone likes flying,’ Barry said from experience.
At the second carriage from the front, they waited for a wall of people dragging children and luggage to fall out.
‘She was sitting there,’ Parry said, pointing to a seat on the other side of the closest window, ‘except her train didn’t get in until closer to midday.’
