by Marcus Wynne
The clay flakes away and a big portion of the mound cracks in two and falls, one piece forward to land at Charley's feet, the other falling back behind the mound. The piece at Charley's feet looks like a mask, and when Charley looks up he sees Bobby Lee, his head and face covered with matted dried clay, his eyes closed…
But now they open, and they are black, blacker than the black of embalmed eyes, but Charley knows that he can see, his friend is dreaming on the other side of the Dreamtime and this is the message:
"He's here, Charley," Bobby Lee's voice whispers in Charley's head. The dead lips don't move, but the dead eyes seem to gleam as though something were inhabiting them. "In these hills in the Quinkin country. She can take you to them."
Charley is silent as he looks at Kativa, who stands with her back to the mound, shivering in fear.
"The two of you together," Bobby Lee's voice said. "Then you can kill him, Charley, strike him down. Strike him down first and you will save her and revenge me. Kill him for all of us."
There were two smaller mounds nearby. Both of them flaked and broke open and one was Maxine and the other was Nicky. Maxine's eyes opened and she said, "I always loved you, Charley." Little Nicky's eyes rolled open and he said, "Please, Uncle Charley, I'm so cold… take me with you, I don't want to stay here…"
"This is where we are, Charley," Bobby Lee said. "Until you've killed the Quinkin."
Charley awoke with a shout, reaching for where his pistol would have been holstered, fumbling for a long moment until he remembered where he was and that his pistol was in the evidence locker downtown at Police Headquarters.
"God," he said. His voice trembled.
The whiskey bottle was almost done, and he had the foggiest of hangovers to deal with right now. He went into the bathroom and washed his face, brushed his teeth and gargled, then picked up the phone and called Kativa as he stared out the window at the busy street below.
"Hello?" Kativa said.
"It's Charley," he said. "You heard about last night?"
"It was on the news this morning," she said. "I'm so sorry, Charley. I tried calling but there was no answer and the machine didn't pick up."
"I didn't get in till about four this morning."
"Have you eaten?"
"No."
"Would you like me to bring something over?"
"That would be good," Charley said. "I need to talk to you."
"I can come right over."
"Do that. Maybe you could stop and pick up some sandwiches. Is your passport current?"
"Yes, why?"
"That's something I need to talk to you about."
"I'll be right over."
Charley hung up the phone, then went to the table that served as his desk and took out a battered address book. He flipped through several pages till he found the name he was looking for. He let his finger rest on the name for a moment, then picked up the phone and dialed a number in northern Virginia. The phone rang twice and then was answered by a cool male voice that said, "Extension 3067."
"Is Walker there?" Charley said.
"Yes. May I tell him who's calling?"
"Charley Payne."
"One moment, Mr. Payne."
There was a long pause on hold, then the phone clicked and the slight southern drawl of Terry Walker's voice came through.
"This is Walker."
"Terry? It's Charley Payne."
"That's what I heard, Charley Payne, the one and only major pain himself. How you doing, Charley? Still in Minneapolis, I see."
"That's where I be, brother."
"So what's up? Come to your senses? Ready to return to the job you were born to do? Or you just want to borrow some money for more film?"
"I need a favor, Terry. A big one."
The other man's voice dropped a tone. "What are you talking about, Charley? You in some trouble?"
"No. I'm not. But I need help on something. Can you talk?"
"Sure, that's the advantage of being a big muckety muck. I can do whatever I want."
"I need a check on all noncommercial aircraft that departed from Minneapolis and any other airport within a fifty-mile radius. Private aircraft with a capability for transoceanic travel. Manifests, times of departure."
"That is a big favor, Charley. What do you need it for?"
"You remember my friend Bobby Lee?"
"Sure, the super-duper paratrooper you ran with. Good guy, we had beers together in Tyson's Corner once when he was out, remember?"
"Somebody murdered him and his family last night," Charley said. He cleared his throat. "That somebody is an Australian Aborigine with some operator training. I think he flew out of here last night. There's no way for a guy as distinctive-looking as this one to have slipped away unless he flew out."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
"You say he's an Australian Aborigine," Walker said. "Trained as an operator, working in Minneapolis? How do you know all this?"
"I got some lead into him last night."
Another long silence and then Walker said, "Charley, I can see we need to talk. Stay at the phone you're at and I'll call you back shortly."
"Roger that, Terry."
"I'll be back to you in just a minute."
Charley replaced the phone in its cradle. Fifteen minutes passed and then the phone rang.
"Okay, Charles, listen up," Terry Walker said. "You're into something bigger than you may realize. What did your friend have to do with this Australian?"
"He was investigating the Australian as the prime suspect in a series of murders here… nutcase murders. The guy was eating people."
"Jesus, that's an MO you'll never forget. It fits into something else. You're not inside, Charley, and I can't give you all that I've got. But I'll tell you if you get anything on this guy, we'd be interested in what you have to say."
"I'm not going to be run, Terry. I told you what I need. If you can't do it, then don't jerk me around."
"I'm not jerking you around. It will take me a little longer to get that info for you. I'll tell you this, if he got to a plane, he'll be heading back down under, in Queensland."
"In the Laura bush country?"
Terry Walker said calmly, "You knew that?"
"I had a hunch."
"That's a damn sight more than a hunch. Who do I talk to about the investigation out there?"
Charley told him and Walker said, "I'll be talking to him. You still a contract photographer?"
"You're current on me, Terry. What are you not telling me?"
"I'm not telling you that we've had a long-time interest in a guy who fits your description and that it has to do with some controlled substances. I'm also not telling you that we have no record of him working in the States, but we've seen that unmistakable signature of his in some incidents overseas. And I'll tell you, straight out, that you're better off staying way the hell away from this character."
"The plane information?"
"I'm working on it with FAA."
"If I were to find something, say overseas, who would I call?"
"Call this number: 1-888-555-3214 and ask for me by name. That's good from overseas, night or day. All you got to do is ask for me by name."
"Thanks, Terry."
"I owe you for this one, Charley. Big time. Stay in touch and call me if you get anything. I'll have that FAA information for you shortly. Will you be at this number?"
"Standing by."
"I worry when you start in on that old military jargon, Charles. Means you're slipping on your game face. Don't try to run this alone— stay out of it. We've got people looking into it and you'll be contacted if you can help. You're not that far outside. You could probably use the money, right?"
"I'm through there and you know it," Charley said gently. "And I'd rather take pictures. Thanks for the brief, Terry. I'll wait for your call."
"I'm sorry about Bobby Lee, Charley."
"Thanks, Terry."
Charley r
eplaced the telephone and settled back to wait.
3.2
Alfie Woodard and Jay Burrell sat out on the wooden deck that ringed Burrell's house on the beach in Cairns. The tropical sun lay heavy on the water; even in the shade it was in the high eighties and muggy. Both men wore oversized aloha shirts and baggy shorts that reached to their knees. Alfie's lower left leg was heavily bandaged.
Burrell pointed at Alfie's bandages and said, "That was a serious mistake."
"No arguing that, mate," Alfie said. "Balls up all round. Nothing to be done about it now."
"Your leg?"
"Better. The lad that came in after me, he was a serious sort. Professional. Didn't expect the likes of him coming in after me."
"It won't hurt for you to drop out of sight for a while. I assume you're going up to Laura?"
"Be the best thing for me to go bush for a while and that's what I need to do."
"I need to have a way to get hold of you if things happen."
Alfie laughed. "You still don't have it sorted, do you, mate? It's just like the bloody pop tune. Just call my name and I'll be there."
Burrell regarded him for a long moment, then shrugged. "I'll call and leave a message with your friend at the Laura bar. You'll check in there from time to time?"
"That'll work, mate. Me pal Peter will take notes."
"I know."
"Right then."
Alfie stood up and stretched, favoring his injured leg. A big heavily muscled white man in his early twenties came out the sliding-glass door behind the two men.
"Heya, mate," Alfie said to the man, who ignored him and said to Burrell, "You got something for me, boss?"
"Not yet, young Tim," Burrell said. "You'll have to wait your turn. Alfie here has everything sorted, so you won't be making any trips to the States soon."
"That's not what I heard," Tim said, still deliberately ignoring Alfie and speaking only to Burrell. "Heard it was a proper cock-up."
Alfie laughed out loud and said, "Where do you find these arse-holes, Jay? The local pub?"
Tim turned and flexed in Alfie's direction. "I'd mind yourself, blackie."
Alfie brushed past Tim to get into the house. "Blackie?" he said, laughing. "See you later, china plate."
"I hate that black bastard," Tim said.
"I wouldn't muck about with him," Burrell said. "Alfie's got a bit more blood on his hands than you. Don't let that Abo bush doctor bit fool you— he's as good as it gets."
"I wouldn't have made the mess he made."
"What's done is done. You'll get your chance." Burrell paused. "Did you go over the figures on the latest shipments?"
"Right, then."
"What's it look like?"
"The U.S. interdiction effort is focused on the south borders. Our operations in Aruba are under heavy surveillance and we've lost several shipments to the Coast Guard. I think the idea of moving the product way north and then into the States through Canada and down will be the best way to go. Minneapolis would have been a good place if it hadn't been so mucked up by your friend. We can bring product into the smaller uncontrolled airfields, disguise some shipments as small hunting charters. If we keep shipping it up and off-loading it in Canada and then taking it down, we can minimize our losses."
Burrell yawned and hid it behind one hand. "You're a quick study, Tim. Keep up the good. I'm going to check out the surf."
"Right, boss." Tim watched Burrell walk down to the beach, then went into the house. He stood at the front door and watched Alfie walk away toward town.
"Bloody bastard," Tim said softly. "I'll see to you one day."
* * *
Alfie walked up to the side of a hulking four-ton, six-wheeled all-terrain vehicle parked outside a grocery store. A logo of a mountain with an all-terrain vehicle superimposed was stenciled on the side, just above the words "Adventure Company." The Adventure Company ran a series of tours and four-wheel drive expeditions into the northernmost parts of Queensland and the Cape York Peninsula. The big truck made a weekly trip up to the Jowalbinna bush camp in the foothills of the Laura River country where Alfie came from. Catching a ride with the driver was the best way to get deep into the country and the driver stopped off in Laura, where Alfie lived in the hills outside the town limits.
Alfie thumped the side of the Oka truck and greeted the driver, a young, lean, and wiry white man whose cotton shirt and shorts hung on him like oversized flags, "We ready to go, mate?"
"Just a tick, mate. Then we'll go," the driver said. "You in a hurry to go bush, are you?"
"Just to get the hell out of Cairns."
"It's changed, hasn't it?"
"Not the place it used to be."
"You that old? You look younger."
"It's clean living, the proper diet, and enough beer, mate."
The two men laughed. Now that he was heading back to his country, Alfie's look had changed. He'd swapped out his motorcycle leathers for battered khaki shirt and pants, light boots and a bush hat. With his faded and frayed canvas carryall, he looked like any other Aboriginal on the streets of Cairns. Coming back required a change in his attitude, something he reflected in his posture, which drooped as he drew into himself. There was still plenty of prejudice against the Aborigines in town, some overt, most covert unless he wandered by one of the bars when a group of workingmen were drinking. Then Alfie slipped into a long familiar state as effortlessly as stepping into his pants in the morning, a state where the words and the looks slid off an invisible sphere he kept round himself. It was something he'd learned early on, and his experiments in puri-puri had taught him how to fine-tune the art of psychic self-defense. He visualized a sphere around himself and it was as though his hearing was turned down, and he held the power he possessed in check so as not to lash out at the ignorant around him. He just turned away inward from the external fray and let himself settle in the light trance of Dreamtime wandering and let his mind go where it would.
"Let's hit the frog and toad, mate," the driver said, bringing Alfie up out of his reverie. Alfie climbed into the back of the vehicle and the driver's assistant, a quiet young girl, got into the front passenger seat beside the driver. Alfie was grateful for the din and grind of the engine and the two whites' disinclination to speak. It gave him the opportunity to drop into a light trance and begin again the communion he felt with the ancestor spirits who guided him. The outer world seemed dimmer and dimmer as they drove through the outskirts of Cairns and followed the highway north to Port Douglas, where they picked up a small family doing the Jowalbinna tour, and continued on through Mossman and up the long highway to Laura.
When they picked up the family, Alfie moved to the back of the vehicle and became even quieter, smiling and nodding at the nervous American family's attempt to make conversation. It suited him to do so, for each mile north and closer to his home and his ancestral lands caused him to shed the layers of acculturation he wore like too many layers of clothes. When he was at home, it was as though he were several people. One part of him was the experienced special operator, who read the lines of the land like a schematic for a gunfight; another part was the young Aboriginal boy who'd wandered in these hills in a time he couldn't consciously remember; another was the dark puri-puri master who looked for the slanted escarpments where the magic images could be drawn, and yet another part, a part that rarely surfaced, was the quiet Alfie Woodard who enjoyed the sense of coming home. The role he played for Jay Burrell, that of the cocky Aussie who looked like a rock musician, that part disappeared when he went home. It was a mask he wore to hide his secret self away. The principle of multiple layers the SAS had taught him, to disguise real purpose within layer upon layer of deception, seemed so natural to him since he'd applied it to all the aspects of his life.
They drove along the winding highway that followed the coastline and then headed inland before they came to the dusty little town of Laura and its single long street dominated by the Quinkin Bar and Hotel. Alfie got out of the veh
icle, nodding his thanks to the driver, hoisted his battered canvas carryall, and walked away. He stopped in the bar and nodded to the big, quiet white man behind the bar.
"G'day, Peter," Alfie said. "Got any mail for me?"
"Not a thing," Peter said.
"Thanks, then."
"Ta."
Alfie stepped out onto the porch. The sun blazed, a weight on his hat and shoulders. Alfie took off his shoes and stepped down into the dirt and wiggled his toes.
He was almost home.
He walked alongside the road for a while, enjoying the feel of dirt beneath his feet, then followed a dirt track that branched off from the main road. There were some manufactured homes where members of the Ang-Gnarra tribal group still lived. He passed small black children playing in the dust, and fat tired women who sat idly on the steps and watched him. Several of them called to their children when they saw him coming and took the children inside. There was one group of men he passed, a few elders and some younger men. He recognized several of them as Law Men who kept tabs on the younger men and punished them when necessary. He'd taken a spear in the leg from one of them himself when he'd come back here on leave and gotten himself good and drunk. It was an old punishment, but a good one. No more humbug out of him after that.
They all knew him for what he was, which was why no one spoke to him or greeted him after his periodic absences. They'd never mention it to a white man and they discussed it only among themselves. No one approached him for help with love magic or improvement spells, no one asked him to prognosticate for them, few of them dared to acknowledge him.
Sometimes Alfie wished they would.
It was a dark and lonely path he'd chosen, and here, in the place he most wished to be accepted, it was the one path that led him far away from everyone.
But what was he missing? Drunken camaraderie with other drunks? A fat and miserable wife, squalling children? He'd chosen a path to power and that was important to remember. He walked through the settlement and let their gazes beat on his dusty shirt like silent blows. He left the homes behind and, after another mile, the dirt track began to fade out as he climbed the hills, watching for snakes as he set his hardened feet carefully among the stones. He walked through a natural amphitheater, a strange circular place where the trees would not grow. There were many termite hills there, many of them the height of a man's chest. In the old times, a dead Aborigine would be put into the termite mounds until only his bones remained. Then the bones would be laid to rest in his ancestral home.
