Desert Demon (Foley & Rose Book 7)

by Gary Gregor

  “Russell?” Barker asked Foley.

  He reached the back of the room, placed the now full rubbish bin next to the doorway, and returned to the front of the room. “We’ll base ourselves at Yulara for a few days at least. Sarah Collins has agreed to give us a bed and we can move between there and the Olgas, checking the tourists in case the perp decides to strike at either place.”

  “You certain this dude is going to kill again?” Barker asked.

  “Yes, I am,” Foley affirmed. “I think he is enjoying it. He’s roaming freely around the countryside. He looks just like any other tourist. There is nothing about him that would draw undue attention to himself. He fits. Looks like he belongs. He is a random, opportunistic killer wandering amongst the tourist hoards, maybe taking happy snaps like everyone else. Until he finds himself alone with some poor unsuspecting holiday maker, and then he strikes.”

  Sam Rose straightened the last of the desks, placed an upturned chair neatly behind it, then stood back and admired his handiwork. Satisfied, he joined Foley and Barker at the front of the room.

  “You agree with Russell?” Barker asked.

  “Yes, boss,” Sam answered. “I always agree with Russell. He gets all grumpy and shit if I don’t.”

  Once again, Foley glared at his partner. “Don’t listen to him, boss. He’s in a lighthearted mood because he is going to spend a couple of days with Sarah.”

  “Okay,” Barker smiled fleetingly. “Two, three days at most. You know that you have free range as far as I’m concerned. Just keep me regularly updated and then I want you both back here in three days. I want daily reports of your movements. Keep your running sheet up to date and note all interaction with likely suspects, including vehicle registration details. You both know the routine.” He looked at Sam. “Sam, no cowboy stuff. If by chance you find the perp, try taking him alive. The last thing we want is a gunfight among hundreds of tourists.”

  Sam smiled. “Don’t worry, boss, self-preservation has always been my priority.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Barker said. “Now, get the fuck out of here and find me the killer.” He strode purposely to the exit door and left the room.

  Russell Foley turned to Sam. “I get ‘all grumpy and shit’?”

  “It’s good that you recognise the faults in your personality,” Sam smirked. “The first step to a tranquil, peaceful existence is to recognise and acknowledge our limitations. I’m proud of you.” He patted Foley on the shoulder and proceeded towards the exit.

  “You’re an idiot,” Foley mumbled as he followed him. “By the way,” he added, “you’re buying lunch.”

  Sam turned to Foley. “What? I always pay for lunch! When was the last time you paid for lunch?”

  “You’re getting all red in the face and angry, Sam. What happened to all that Zen peace and tranquillity shit you were just talking about?”

  “Are you coming?” Sam asked curtly. “Or are you just going to stand there and throw insults at me?”

  “I prefer to call them observations.”

  “I’ll buy lunch if you drive,” Sam said.

  “Deal.” Foley smiled and followed. “You’re a lousy driver anyway,” he mumbled softly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Foley answered with a broad smile.

  Approximately fifty kilometres west of the intersection of Lasseter Highway and Luritja Road, Curtin Springs Roadhouse welcomed visitors to refuel, purchase food from the café, or perhaps break their trip and camp in the caravan and camping grounds adjacent. In the distance to the southeast of the roadhouse, a large dark shape protruded above the horizon. When viewed from the distant Lasseter Highway, it was a shape that many tourists traveling in this country for the first time would mistake for Uluru: Ayres Rock. In reality, Mount Conner was nothing like Uluru. It was a horseshoe-shaped, flat-topped, sand-and-rock mountain capped in sandstone and standing some three hundred metres above ground level and located on the working cattle station Curtain Springs.

  Russell Foley turned into the Curtin Springs Roadhouse and pulled up at one of the fuel pumps. “I’ll fill up with fuel while you go inside and get us something to eat. Take a fuel voucher from the glove-box or you will be paying for fuel as well as lunch.”

  “What do you want to eat”? Sam asked.

  “Hamburger,” Foley answered. “No beetroot.”

  Sam opened the glovebox and removed a fuel voucher from the booklet stored there. “It’s a shame we can’t put our lunch expenses on here as well. Bloody roadhouses charge like wounded bulls.”

  “Stop complaining,” Foley said. “They’re hard-working people trying to make a living out here in the wilderness.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the proprietor has a Bentley parked around the back.” He got out of the vehicle.

  Inside the roadhouse shop, Sam made his way to the counter. While he waited for the pretty young girl to finish serving a customer, he looked around the room. On one side, in what passed for a dining room, there were a number of tables and chairs where customers could sit in air-conditioned comfort while they dined on artery-clogging roadhouse food before continuing their journey. Only one customer sat in the dining area at the moment, and there was something about the man that attracted Sam’s attention.

  The stranger appeared to be on his own. He also appeared nervous. Occasionally, the man would glance up from his meal, look out the window, and then look around the interior of the roadhouse before resuming his meal. It was like he was looking for someone, Sam thought. Perhaps he was not alone, and he was waiting for his travelling companion. Maybe his wife was using the restroom and he was waiting for her return. But there was only one meal in front of the man. He was alone, Sam decided, and walked casually over to where the man sat. “Good afternoon.”

  The man swallowed the food he had been chewing, sipped noisily at a mug of steaming coffee, and looked up at Sam. “Hello.”

  “Are you travelling alone?” Sam asked casually.

  “I am sorry,” the man answered. “My English is not so good.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I come from Germany.”

  “You are a long way from home. Are you travelling alone?”

  “Yes, I am alone. I have a … how you say … vacation.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  The man looked at his watch. “One hour.” He cut a sausage into three pieces and shoved the largest piece into his mouth. A large forkful of egg followed.

  “No, when did you arrive in Australia?”

  “Sorry … I don’t understand,” he said, his mouth full.

  Sam spoke slowly. “How … long … have … you … been … in Australia?

  “Two weeks, I arrive here in Australia,” the man smiled.

  “What places have you seen?”

  “Oh … many places. Australia is beautiful country. Sydney very beautiful. The bridge, the Opera House. The Harbour is very beautiful, I think.” The man smiled again. “Tomorrow, I go to Mount Conner.”

  Sam thought the man’s smile seemed forced. Like it was presented purely for Sam’s benefit. It did not seem natural. “How long are you staying in Australia?”

  The man shrugged. “How long I stay?”

  “Yes, how long?”

  “Maybe long time. I have open ticket. A gift from my father. Maybe one month.” He shrugged again. “Maybe two. Maybe more.”

  “Have you seen Kings Canyon?” Sam dared to ask.

  “Kings …?”

  “Canyon … Kings Canyon. Have you been there?”

  “No, I have not seen this place. Is good?”

  “Yes, it’s good. Do you have a rental car?”

  “Rental car?”

  “Yes, a hire car. Do you have a hire car?”

  “No. I buy a car in Sydney. Good car. Not too many kilometres.”

  “What sort of car?”

  The man looked at Sam questioningly. “Sort?”

  “Sedan
car, or four-wheel-drive car?”

  “Oh, of course, I understand. I buy the four-wheel-drive car. Very nice car. Some roads here in Australia very … how you say … rough?”

  “Yes,” Sam nodded. “We have a lot of rough dirt roads here.” He turned to see the customer before him had left. “Okay, it was nice talking to you. I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.”

  The man took another forkful of scrambled eggs and chewed furiously. “Danke … oh … I mean, thank you.”

  Sam turned away from the table and immediately headed for the exit before remembering to present a government voucher for the fuel and buy something to eat. He quickly signed a voucher, gave it to the young girl behind the counter, and purchased two pre-packed sandwiches and two small bottles of orange juice before hurriedly leaving.

  “Sandwiches?” Foley said, disappointed. “Where’s my hamburger?”

  “They haven’t got any hamburgers,” Sam answered.

  “No hamburgers! What do you mean ‘they haven’t got any hamburgers’? Every roadhouse has hamburgers! It’s on top of every menu in every rest-stop in the country.”

  “Forget the bloody hamburger!” Sam said. “There’s a dude inside, shovelling food down his throat like he hasn’t eaten in days.”

  “I should be shovelling hamburger down my throat,” Foley said grumpily.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Yes, I heard you. What about the dude in the shop?” Foley queried, looking bored.

  “He could be our perp.”

  “Why, just because he’s hungry?”

  “No … well, there is that. He eats like he is starving. And, he’s travelling on his own. Drives a four-wheel-drive.”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “No. He’s foreign. From Germany.”

  “German people have names too, Sam,” Foley pointed out. “Just like us.”

  “Very funny, Russell. He’s very nervous. Sweating like a water fountain.”

  “It’s hot; everyone is sweating. I’m sweating … you’re sweating.

  “He’s continually looking out the window.”

  Foley shrugged. “Perhaps he’s waiting for someone.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Sam stated. “He’s travelling alone.”

  Foley reached across and patted Sam on the shoulder. “You would be surprised at the number of tourists travelling alone around the country.”

  “I know,” Sam said with a furrowed brow. “But this dude looks … different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Just different. Call it a gut feeling,”

  Foley opened his sandwich carton, took out one half and looked at it suspiciously before sniffing it, and putting it back in the package. “If I eat this, it will give me a gut feeling.”

  “I think we should have a chat with him,” Sam suggested.

  “Didn’t you just do that?”

  “Yeah, but that was just a short ‘hello, how you doing’ chat.”

  Foley placed the sandwich on the dashboard and looked at Sam. “Okay. I’m not hungry anymore anyway, so let’s at least see where he goes.”

  13

  Adalhard Jaeger had booked into a non-powered camping site on the northern edge of the Curtin Springs Caravan Park, adjacent to the roadhouse. Camping in commercial accommodation venues was not his preferred option but he needed a shower, a good meal, and he needed to fill water storage containers and re-stock food supplies.

  When he arrived early in the morning, the caravan park was emptying fast as overnighters got an early start, continuing their journeys to their respective destinations. By the time he had booked in and paid for his site, the park was almost deserted. Good. The less people around the more comfortable he’d be, he thought. He felt more at ease out in the desert where there was no one else, but it had been almost a week since he last had a shower and something to eat more substantial than baked beans and two-minute noodles.

  Despite notices posted on the door and on the internal wall of the park ablution block, asking guests to conserve water and keep shower times to a minimum, he lingered much longer than he should have under the steaming, cleansing shower. At that time of the day, he was alone in the male section of the block, so it was unlikely anyone was going to warn him about how long he stood under the shower.

  Clean, and dressed in un-pressed but fresh clothes, he took advantage of the lack of people around and filled his water containers before heading to the roadhouse to eat. He ordered his meal and booked a tour to Mount Conner the next day.

  He was not here to visit tourist attractions. Mount Conner, Chambers Pillar, Kings Canyon, Ayres Rock and other popular Northern Territory attractions were the least of his concern, but he figured he might seem more inconspicuous if he was part of a tour group. Sitting at a table in the dining area of the roadhouse, waiting for his meal, the urge to kill again was strong. The feeling washed over him like a brief, mild, spell of light-headedness. Maybe he would get the chance on the upcoming tour. He smiled at the thought.

  Then, there was the stranger who approached and spoke to him.

  Adalhard swallowed the last mouthful of his meal, drained his coffee mug, and sat back in his chair. He was worried. Who was the stranger? He seemed nice enough. Was he just a curious, friendly fellow traveller? Or was he the police? He did not identify himself as a police officer. Maybe he was just a fellow traveller. Maybe, like himself, he was travelling alone and just wanted to talk about where he had been, what tourist sites he had seen, and where he was going next. All perfectly innocent and relevant questions given they were both travelling in remote, iconic tourist areas of the Territory. Perhaps he should forget about the upcoming tour to Mount Connor and leave this place now—no, bad idea, he decided. If the stranger was a cop, his leaving immediately might arouse suspicion.

  He looked out the window and cast his gaze over the parking area. There were two vehicles at the fuel pumps, the drivers refuelling their vehicles, and two vehicles parked close to the roadhouse. As he watched, another vehicle, a large four-wheel-drive towing a caravan exited the highway and motored slowly over to the fuel pumps.

  He focused on the two vehicles parked close to the roadhouse. One of the vehicles, the one closest to the roadhouse entrance door, was empty. The second vehicle, on the other side of the empty car and that much further away from the door, was occupied.

  From where Adalhard sat, his vision was obstructed by the closest vehicle and it was difficult to determine how many people occupied the second car. He thought there were two. There was nothing about the vehicle that would identify it as a police car. It looked like any other normal family sedan. It was not a four-wheel-drive vehicle, though, like so many he had seen so far in his travels.

  There was, however, something about the second car that captured his attention. As he focused on it, it came to him. The occupants were two men and, although his vision of the vehicle was obstructed, he was certain the man in the passenger seat was the same one who approached him in the dining room earlier.

  Why was the car still sitting there? Why had it not continued on its intended journey? Maybe the two men were waiting for another traveling companion who might be using the restroom. Maybe the men had two travelling companions: their wives.

  With his attention focused on the vehicle, he did not notice the young lady who served his food come from behind the counter and cross to his table.

  “Can I get you something else?” she asked with a friendly smile.

  “Nein, thank you,” Adalhard answered a tad too quickly.

  “German?” the girl asked.

  “Ja, I am from Germany.”

  The girl pointed to herself. “I am from the Netherlands. We are neighbours, no?”

  “Ja,” Adalhard agreed. “Neighbours.”

  The girl began clearing his table. “I will take these away now. You have finished, no?”

  “Ja, I am finished. Danke.” He leaned back in his chair and waited while she
finished clearing the table.

  When she was gone, he glanced again at the vehicle outside. The first car was gone and now he had a clear, unobstructed view of the second vehicle. The two men were still there. What were they waiting for? They had to be police officers, he decided. Were they waiting for him to exit the shop? No, that could not be it. If they were police and they were on to him, they would come inside and take him. Maybe they were waiting for more police to come. They would know he was armed. Maybe they did not want to get into a shoot-out inside the roadhouse.

  Despite the relative cool of the air-conditioned room, perspiration stung his eyes and ran down his back under the collar of his shirt. With a fresh napkin he grabbed from several on the centre of the table, he wiped his eyes. If he did not leave the dining room soon, he was going to arouse suspicion. Every few minutes, the girl behind the counter glanced his way. Was she getting suspicious, or was she simply waiting for him to order something else?

  Finally, he got up from the table and walked to the exit door.

  “Thank you,” the girl called from behind.

  Adalhard did not answer; he pushed through the door and stepped outside.

  “Here he comes,” Sam announced to Foley.

  “Yeah, I see him.”

  As they watched, the man walked behind their vehicle and strode purposefully to the entrance of the caravan park. Foley and Rose got out of their vehicle and crossed quickly to the end of the roadhouse building where they stopped and watched the stranger stroll through the caravan park to the non-powered camping sites at the rear of the park.

  Adalhard sensed the two men were following him. It took all his willpower not to turn and look behind him. He made his way to his vehicle, unlocked the tailgate, and dropped it down. He sat on the tailgate, his legs dangling above the ground, and looked towards the roadhouse while struggling nervously with the act of rolling a cigarette from a packet of tobacco, a habit he understood was the accepted Outback Australian way of preparing a cigarette.