Warrior in the Shadows

by Marcus Wynne

  Alfie had put his mentor Ralph into one, then collected his bones at the end of the dry season and kept them in the cave he called home. This was his songline, his walkabout path, and he came this way every time he returned from a job. The walking, the sun, the dust beneath his feet, the rough sandstone that ground beneath the calluses of his feet, they all seemed to wash something out of him, leaving him feeling free and clear.

  Free and clear of everything but his ancestral spirit, the dangerous Anurra.

  Alfie climbed the hills, following a game trail that might be over ten thousand years old, working his way through the boulders and fallen sandstone escarpments till he came to a bluff that seemed to rise directly out of the ground. He walked around to the far side of the bluff, where a narrow chimney gave the strong and flexible an avenue to lever oneself up the face of the bluff to an underhang. Alfie braced his back against the stone and worked his way up, pushing with his legs.

  There was a natural cave there, sheltered from wind and rain, deep and dry, and it had been the home to the Ang-Gnarra shaman for tens of thousands of years.

  It was where he lived. The shaman was home.

  In one corner of the large frontal cave was the neat stack of bones of the man who'd made Alfie, Ralph the old shaman who'd been shunned by the other Aboriginals because of his explorations into the dark path of puri-puri, who died at the hand of his young apprentice as his own mentor had died at his hand.

  The walls and ceiling of the cave were covered with images, some of them tens of thousands of years old; others as fresh as Alfie could make them. There were new symbols, symbols from the Dreamtime walkabout that Alfie made going out into the white man's world and making his way back, taking his pay in the white man's world, which gave him the total freedom and autonomy to do exactly as he wished to do in his world, the world of this cave.

  He stripped himself naked and set his clothes and his satchel in a small narrow natural alcove. Then he stretched out on his back, the stone cool and rough against his back and naked buttocks as he stretched out to his full length and stared up at the ceiling, lit by the slanting sunlight from outside, as though he were staring up at the stars of a summer night.

  3.3

  Charley was unsteady on his feet in his apartment; the floor seemed to swell beneath him like the deck of a small boat on rough water. His head was muddled with fatigue, sorrow, and a raging hangover. But when Kativa came into the apartment, he drew himself up, bracing himself with his feet wide apart. She set down a paper bag with food in it on his coffee table, then came to him for a silent, long hug.

  "Eat," she said.

  Charley sat down and ate his sandwich in silence, carefully chewing each bite and forcing himself not to bolt his food down. Kativa sat on a kitchen chair, her knees pressed tight together, and hunched forward to rest her elbows on her knees. She said nothing while Charley ate. The silence grew thick till Charley set down the crust of his sandwich and said, "Thank you for the food."

  "You're welcome. How are you doing now?"

  "I need you to go to Australia with me."

  "What?"

  "I need you to go to Australia with me," Charley said in a measured voice. "I need your help."

  "Help with what, Charley? I can't just take off and go to Australia. Why are you going? What are you going to do?"

  "The man who has done all this, the man who killed my friend, he's in Australia."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I have friends in the business who keep track of men like this."

  "Then you need to tell the authorities what you know and let them sort it out, that's what they do."

  "Kativa, there is more to this than meets the eye. There's something strange going on, something you know about… all this stuff about the way Aborigines think about magic and the Laura bush country. I had a dream, a terrible dream this morning while I slept. It was like the dream you told me you'd had when you were in Australia, except that when I was dreaming it was like Bobby was talking to me. It was a place like you described to me, in a clearing with these mounds of clay, and you were there with me. I know this sounds insane, but I think it's a message to me: you and I are to go to Australia together and find this man."

  "And what? Kill him? Turn him in to the police? Charley, this doesn't sound insane, it is insane."

  "You told me about your dreams. You told me that the rules of every day don't apply to the Aborigines and their magic. You've felt it yourself, you said, and you told me about my own dreams. Kat, I'm tired beyond tired, but I know something as sure as I know anything, and that is the man who killed my friends is in Australia and somehow there's a connection between you and me and him. We are meant to do something about it."

  "I can't be of any help," she said, standing and crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "I don't know anything about this sort of police work."

  "What about the dreams, Kativa? What about those? You know the truth in those. I'm getting them now. I'm putting aside all my rules for living in this world so I can understand the rules this man lives by— and I'm getting it now. Will you help me?"

  "I can't just go, I…"

  "I need you to go with me," Charley said. He stood and turned her to face him, tilted her chin up. "You know the area, you know how it all works. The Laura bush country, that's where he is now. I need you to believe in me right now, I need you to believe in what you already know. For some reason we're all connected in this. You know the area and you'll know what to ask people. We can find this guy together."

  "What will you do when you find him?"

  "What needs to be done," Charley said in a flat, final voice.

  Kativa shrugged off his hands and went to the window, her arms still tightly crossed on her chest, hugging herself fiercely.

  "I'm frightened by this," she said. "I'm not like you. I'm sorry for your friends, but I can't just go off with you, chasing something from a dream."

  "You know better than that, Kat. You've felt something happening as well. Don't deny it, you know it. You're part of this whether you like it or not. If I'm with you, I can protect you. But we have to follow him to end this. Do you believe your dreams will get any better if you stay here and pretend that there's nothing you can do?"

  Charley looked at her back, at the ridge of tension in her shoulders, and he lowered his voice, not quite pleading. "I can't do this without you, Kativa. Please."

  She lowered her head, chin to her chest, uncrossed her arms, and wiped her palms on her slacks.

  "I'll need to tell them something, at the museum…" she said.

  "Tell them you have a family emergency."

  "I'll need to pack some things…"

  "We'll go to your apartment."

  * * *

  Within two hours they were at the Northwest Airlines ticket counter, where Charley paid full fare coach for a round trip to Australia, nearly maxing out his credit card. They would fly from Minneapolis to Los Angeles, then connect onto Cairns, the gateway city to the Great Barrier Reef and the Laura bush country. It was a four-hour flight to Los Angeles, a two-hour layover, and then eighteen grueling hours on a 747 packed with pasty pale vacationers looking for sun and fun down under. They were unable to get seats beside each other because of their late booking, so they sat alone with their thoughts, and dozed, and turned with uneasy dreams.

  They went quickly through Customs in Cairns since they only held carry-ons with a change of clothing and some toiletry essentials. Outside of Customs in the public area a big sunburned blond man in shorts, flip-flop sandals, and a ragged T-shirt held a sign that said CHARLES PAYNE.

  "That would be me," Charley said to the big man, who held out his hand and said, "G'day, mate. I'm Fredo. Here to give you a lift to the hotel. You'll be wanting a washup and some shut-eye, eh?"

  "Thanks, Fredo," Charley said. "This is Kativa Patel."

  "G'day, Kativa," Fredo said. He pointed at their carry-ons. "Is this all your kit?"

  "Yes," Charle
y said.

  "Right then," Fredo said. "Let's hit the road."

  They followed the big blond man out into the parking lot.

  "I didn't know you had friends here," Kativa said.

  "Friends of my friends are my friends," Charley said. He was slightly dizzy from jet lag and the sudden change from the chill of fall in Minneapolis to the blistering heat of the tropical summer sun down under.

  They stopped before a battered four-wheel drive Toyota truck.

  "You'll have to squeeze in, or she'll ride on your lap, mate," Fredo said. "I got to have room for the stick shift." They managed to all get into the cramped cab of the truck.

  "I booked you in at the Radisson," Fredo said. "Nice American hotel right on the water. Nice view, decent enough place. You can walk right out the door and out onto the beach, go for a stroll and get some good tucker in the town."

  "Thanks again, Fredo," Charley said. "You got something else for me?"

  "Oi, mate, just a tick?" the blond man said. "Let's wait till we're away from the airport and the coppers here."

  Fredo gunned the truck to life, leaving a blue-gray cloud of smoke behind him. He pulled away and drove for a few minutes on the exit road from the airport. He pulled over to the side of the road, carefully checking his mirrors.

  "Here you are," he said, pulling an oily bundle from beneath the driver's seat. "Check it out, but keep it low, eh?"

  Charley unfolded the bundle. Inside was a battered Browning High Power semiautomatic pistol and three magazines, two of the standard thirteen-round magazines that fit flush in the magazine well, and one of the extended twenty-round magazines that protruded from the butt of the pistol. Charley kept the weapon in his lap, his elbow squeezing Kativa over into Fredo's bulk. Charley quickly stripped the pistol, examining the works and checking the firing pin, then reassembled the oily weapon and worked the action several times.

  "Ammo?" Charley said.

  "Ah, right. Kept that separate," Fredo said. "Here you are."

  He handed Charley a small rag that tinkled and a plain small cardboard box. The cardboard box held 9mm full metal jacket NATO ball rounds and the small rag held ten Winchester Silvertip hollow points.

  "Best I can do at short notice, mate," Fredo said. "The shooter's worn but it works just fine. Feeds ball no problem and it feeds those Silvertips just the same. Goes right to point of aim at seven yards and fifteen, so if you're doing your job it'll do. Don't get caught with it. It's cold and won't come back to me, but you will be in for a long cooling."

  "I got that. Thanks, Fredo," Charley said.

  "Look in the glove box there," Fredo said, pulling the truck back onto the road. "That manila folder? That's the other stuff you'll want."

  "I appreciate it," Charley said, slipping the folder into his carry-on bag.

  "No worries, mate. All part of the service."

  They drove in silence for a time, then Fredo pulled up in front of a big hotel and stopped short of the entrance. He turned off the truck, then handed the keys to Charley.

  "You can drive a manual, right?" he said.

  "Sure can," Charley said. "Everything okay on the truck? Anything I need to know?"

  The big man scratched at his face and said, "Check the oil once in a while, feed her good gas, she'll take care of you. You'll need it if you're going bush. There's spares in the bed and toolbox, complete set of tools. There's a false bottom in the toolbox and a twelve-gauge shotgun with a box of 00 buckshot in there. That's legal, but barely. You won't run into any problems if you've got it handy in the bush, but keep it low around here."

  "I'll do that, Fredo."

  "My number's in the folder," Fredo said. He got out of the truck. "Cheers, mate, miss. See you."

  Fredo lumbered off, his hands buried in his pockets as though he were only out for a stroll. Kativa watched him go and said, "Who is that man? And why the gun?"

  "He's a friend of a friend, Kat, like I said. And the gun… I need to be able to defend us if we run into this guy."

  Kativa shook her head and combed her fingers through her hair. "I can't make any sense of this," she said. "I'm too tired, I need to sleep."

  "We'll take care of that," Charley said. He reinserted the ignition key and started the truck and drove into the self-park garage beside the hotel. They took their bags and walked through the garage into the hotel lobby, decorated in a faux tropical motif complete with a trickling stream and artificial trees holding a variety of stuffed birds. After they checked in, Kativa led the way straight to the room without saying another word. She ignored Charley while she stripped down and went into the shower.

  While she was in the bathroom, Charley flipped through the manila folder Fredo had left with him. Fatigue weighed heavy on him and he fought the droop of his eyelids. He pulled out a thin sheet of onion-skin typing paper and read the short note:

  This is who we're looking for. We've been looking for him for the same reasons. We're interested in what you find. I know you're not on board, but consider it favors in the favor bank. You can call us for a bailout and we'll take care of the sweeping after. Try to keep things clean and hand it off to us. The other guy is his boss. We'd like to have a long chat with him as well.

  See you when you get back. Good hunting.

  T.

  Charley pulled out the first of two 8x10 photographs. This one was grainy black and white, but despite the slight blurring there was no mistaking the face: this was the man who had been standing over Bobby Lee's body. At the bottom of the photograph was written "Alfred 'Alfie' Woodard." The shot was of a man, dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket and dark pants, coming out of a storefront. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his face partially obscured by sunglasses. But the face was the face in the image Charley pulled up effortlessly from his photographer's memory.

  The other photograph was of a handsome, sunburned man, bare-chested and dressed in baggy surfer's shorts and holding a short surf-board. At the bottom of that photograph was the name Jay Burrell and a local Cairns address. Charley studied the man's face and memorized the round, smooth face that was younger than the eyes. Jay Burrell. He'd need to get a street map, get oriented, and then pay a visit to Mr. Burrell.

  Behind him, Kativa came out of the shower, wrapped in a long towel.

  "It's free," she said. She slipped beneath the covers in the bed and turned her back to him.

  Charley looked at her reflection in the mirror, then slid the photographs back into the envelope. He undressed quietly, turning the lights down, then showered, letting the heavy beat of hot water wash some of his tiredness away. After, he slipped into the bed where Kativa slept heavily, and carefully wrapped himself around her, and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

  3.4

  Jay Burrell listened to the edge of fear that had come into his caller's voice; that was something he hadn't heard in this man's voice before.

  "We don't know where he is," the caller said. "He's a material witness for the police and he's dropped off the face of the earth, nobody can find him anywhere. He might be off looking for you, unless you decided to disappear him and not tell me, like you didn't tell me a damn thing about this whole mess."

  "He's not going to come here," Jay said.

  "He was that cop's best friend," the caller said. "He's a forensic photographer for the police but he's not a cop. He was some kind of intelligence officer for the Army, so maybe he has some way of sussing you out."

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Don't ask me to do another thing… I'm done with all this," the caller said.

  "You're done when I tell you you're done," Jay said. "Things got out of hand," he conceded.

  "You don't know how much," the caller said, his voice breathy. "All this wasn't necessary— you should know better that I would never do anything against you. I had no part in anything those two had going. But the FBI is here now, looking into things…"

  "There's nothing more for them to find. There's no track, no
trail. It all ends there," Jay said. "You just need to stay cool, keep your mouth shut, and monitor the situation. I've arranged for additional payment to cover your difficulties. And then you can just go back to your life because, like you said, things got out of hand. I won't be doing any more business in Minneapolis."

  "I want to be through with this."

  "Pretty soon," Jay said with certainty. "Pretty soon."

  He hung up the phone and stared out at the ocean through the big glass-sliding door, his hands locked behind his back. After a long while, he picked up the phone and entered the long-distance number for the Quinkin Bar in Laura.

  "Hullo, Quinkin Bar and Hotel," a male voice answered.

  "Yes," Jay said. "I'd like to leave a message for Alfie Woodard."

  "He won't be in for a few days, is it urgent?"

  "Not particularly. Would you have him call Jay when he comes round?"

  "No worries, mate. Call Jay. That's easy enough."

  "Right then, ta."

  "Ta."

  Jay studied the surf and the cut of the waves and thought of getting his board out again. He surfed every morning. That was his favorite way to start the day, rolling out of bed and getting his board into the water first thing. It was a heaven he'd made for himself, starting first in Humboldt County in California growing marijuana, then moving down the coast to Huntington Beach outside of Los Angeles till the law enforcement heat got to be too much. His dope-financed surfing vacations provided him with plenty of good places to go. Australia was perfect for his operational headquarters because he moved no drugs in or out of the country; all he moved was money and information. His aircraft were headquartered in Mexico; his major finances in Caracas, Venezuela, and Oranjestad, Aruba; his trucking operation in Arizona, and his domestic money laundering operations in Minneapolis and Dayton, Ohio. Now he'd have to divest himself of the properties he managed in Minneapolis, carefully but quickly, and expand his operations in Dayton. He didn't want to pump that up too much, but it would have to do until he found a new opportunity in the Midwest.