Crystal Coffin (17 page)

‘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 thanking 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 he 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.'

‘She could have walked through to another carriage before she got off,' Burkett offered. ‘Unless her luggage was heavy.'

Parry studied Burkett's face again, unable to read what he was thinking. ‘You think she did it?' he asked.

Burkett rubbed his chin.

‘She's five foot nothing,' he said, ‘slight build with twigs for arms and a clean record. It took a lot of strength and a lot of anger to do what happened to her mother. So if she did it, she borrowed someone else's body first, I think.'

Parry nodded. If the boy was crooked, he did a good job of hiding it. ‘All right,' he said. ‘You have your own theory?'

‘No sir, I mean, I do, but I try to keep my assumptions out of it at this point. Fact is, the girl's running, either because she did it or because she thinks she's going to wear the blame for doing it. Either way, she knows more about what happened than we do and if we want a piece of that, we have to find her, and then we have to gain her trust.'

‘Okay,' Parry said, impressed. ‘Let's assume she's innocent. If she knows who did it, and if it wasn't her, why wouldn't she just say so?'

‘I'm not saying she knows who did it. If she did, she probably would have been screaming their names from the top of the Sydney Harbour Bridge from day one. But she knows something. And it's scared her enough to make her run away instead of running to us. That suggests she thinks we can't be trusted, and frankly, I don't blame her.'

Parry was thinking the same thing.

‘Her mother was a Commonwealth Minister,' Burkett added. ‘The kid circulated at the top, and she can't be a stranger to corruption and political backstabbing, even if her mum was one of the good ones. If she knows where the rot starts, chances are it's with powerful people.'

‘That's stretching it a bit,' Parry said.

‘I'm a fisherman's son, sir,' Burkett answered honestly. ‘I cast my net wide and set loose all the rejects until I get down to the fish I want. I can't see how you'd have a problem with that, unless you're one of the fish that could end up in my net,' he added, making it jokingly clear that he wouldn't be intimidated.

Parry slapped him on the shoulder. ‘You've got a bit to learn about diplomacy son, but I think there may be hope.' He stepped up beside the younger detective, turning him around so they both had their backs to the train. ‘So here we are, a frightened teenager. We've just stepped off the train to start a life in hiding in a strange city, and what do we see?'

Burkett clutched his fingers around an imaginary bag and crouched down a little, trying to see the world from a young girl's shorter perspective. He bent himself a little more and an advertisement nearby became visible beneath a departures and arrivals sign. He headed for the placard only two seconds behind Parry.

‘Good jobs fast, no questions asked,' the older man read aloud. ‘Sounds too good to be true.' He put his finger on a cross at the tip of the ‘you are here' arrow, and traced his finger two blocks over to where ‘x' marked the spot.

‘Too easy,' Burkett said suspiciously, and Parry nodded.

Down the subway and onto Roma Street, they passed two taxi ranks, a bus stop, a travel agency and three ATM machines. If their hunch turned from long shot to dud, they both realised they had hours of boring work ahead of them tracking down and spooling through railway surveillance tapes, only to verify which way she went. But less than half an hour later, they were doing exactly that. The old woman at the employment agency didn't recognise Nikki's name or face from the ID photo Burkett showed her, but she promised to get back to them if she did.

Locklin raked his fingers through his hair and sighed heavily. He locked up the boathouse, again and clicked his tongue twice to call his horse out of the scrub. Jack trotted up dragging his rein. Locklin picked it up and adjusted the girth firmly.

‘You're not planning on doing anything you'll regret, I hope?' Connolly asked, worried by Locklin's silence.

‘No,' Locklin said. ‘I might even enjoy it. It'll take me about an hour to get back to Amberley from here. Plus I want to put Jack out in the hill paddock with some mares before I leave. But I figure that still gives me about two hours to beat a decent confession out of the mongrel before I go.'

‘Do that and you'll end up behind bars, son,' the priest said, not knowing that Locklin was headed there anyway ‘Or worse. You know what he did to your father.'

‘I'm a little more to deal with than my father,' Locklin said. ‘The army saw to that.'

‘You sound like you have regrets.'

I do, he nearly said. But that wasn't exactly true. ‘You realise that I'm AWOL?'

‘I suspected it,' Connolly said. ‘Medical supply flights don't often need an escort, not in Australia anyway. So go back,' he said, suggesting a solution. ‘Apply for leave through the proper channels and come back later with the army's blessing. Nothing much will change here in the meantime. Eric Maitland's like a tick on a cow. He's burrowed in for a while.'

‘You're right,' Locklin said finally. ‘It's just that I should have been here … for Dad. If I was … If he hadn't made me join the army, he wouldn't be dead now.'

‘You can't say that,' Connolly said. ‘You could just as easily be dead too.'

‘No,' Locklin said, shaking his head. ‘I should have been here, Instead I was …' His voice trailed off and he buried his head in his hands.

‘Following orders,' Connolly said, rubbing Locklin's shoulder. ‘You were doing what was right in a …'

‘
No!
' Locklin said, cutting him off. ‘No,' he repeated less harshly. ‘That's the problem. That's exactly the problem.'

‘Tell me then,' Connolly said, but Locklin only leaned his head on his saddle and stared at the ground. It wasn't the sort of thing you could just discuss just like that, not even with a man who'd been an army padre for twenty years.

‘Bad?'

‘You could say that,' Locklin said quietly.

‘Have you been counselled?'

‘There wasn't time.'

‘Debriefed?'

‘They don't even know it was me.'

It was Connolly's turn to stare at the ground. There was no shortage of black missions in the defence forces, but there were always at least two officers who knew what missions the men underneath them were assigned to.

‘Okay,' he said, realising that Locklin probably had more than one reason now to be court-martialled. ‘Was it something you had to do?'

Locklin snapped. ‘Yes!' he swore, with all the rage that he'd buried. ‘They left me no choice!' He looked at his hands and saw they were shaking, but they didn't feel like his hands. They'd done things he could never have done before the army and images of it all flashed behind his eyes. He tried to block the images out, to squeeze them down into his gut where he could cope with them, but his entire body started shaking.

He fell to his knees and threw up.

Connolly stood behind him and rubbed Locklin's shoulder. ‘There's more than one reason why the army debriefs every man after every mission, son. Aside from the obvious technical necessity, it's also a cleansing process. It helps you get things straight in your head so you can analyse what you did and why, and it helps you identify mistakes so you don't make them again — so you just keep getting better and better.'

‘I've been through everything in my head a hundred times,' Locklin said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘There isn't anything I could have done any different.'

‘Have you ever heard of a soldier debriefing himself?'

Locklin shook his head, knowing exactly what Connolly wanted him to do, what he'd have to do through official channels anyway when he turned himself in. And he closed his eyes, hoping that would make it easier, but it didn't. He had to be debriefed.

He stared at the ground to dictate the initial facts as if they had happened to someone else. But as he did, the dark soil between his boots turned to mud from a mountain village far away.

The short one in the middle had to be their leader. The others were circled around him, listening. He pointed towards the low rock wall that surrounded the village and three taller men ran to take up sentry positions at the three gates. Then Shorty pointed again and three pairs jogged outside the gates to search and cover the narrow clearing around the village to a depth of about twenty metres beyond the treeline.

At all times, at least one man from each pair remained visible to both his partner and the guard on the nearest gate to ensure they had backup if required.

Locklin withdrew downslope towards the creek, leapfrogging over boulders to the other side to allow the eastern team to pass, watching them without binoculars in case the dusky sun made one last attempt to pierce the heavy clouds. In the darkening forest, he realised that one reflective flash would be as noticeable to them as a flare.

He watched the pair through a thorny thicket as a light rain began to fall.

The man on cover was a dark-skinned giant who stood at the edge of the trees alert to general movement from any direction, while under his watchful eye his skinny partner probed deeper into the forest.

Skinny followed the village trail almost to the water. Locklin saw the ripple in the rock pool at the same time that Skinny did, and the jaws of a hungry crocodile snapped at empty air. Skinny fell backwards safely out of reach but he landed heavily on his rifle and bent the barrel.

Giant laughed and Skinny cursed him, then brushed dirt off his gangly legs as he picked up his weapon. He headed back to the village grumbling. Locklin assumed he went to get a replacement, because if he fired his damaged weapon now it could blow up in his face.

Locklin crossed the creek upstream from the territorial predator where a narrow trail led to a mossy tree that locals had been using as a bridge. He followed the trails back towards the village, keeping his boots just off the tracks so he left little or no sign of his passing on either earth or grass, but noticed from the footprints in front of him that the militia hadn't taken as much care.

Trained, but not well trained, he thought with hope. It should have been a habit.

He stopped below a vegetable patch downhill from the village as the other search patrols returned. They reported immediately to Shorty, who didn't notice Skinny swap his weapon for an undamaged one from another militiaman who had two. Then he set the six men to the task of ransacking the village, and Locklin soon recognised the pattern in their looting.

They gathered up anything of value and loaded it onto the backs of the two village ponies. Anything that didn't fit or that could be used as a weapon, like short lengths of pipe and tools for gardening, were buried among the sweet potato vines and Locklin wondered if that meant they planned on coming back.

Outside the door to the largest hut at the north end of the circle — what he now thought of as the twelve o'clock hut — he watched Shorty place a guard with an AK47. It seemed an odd thing to do, guarding a rock and thatch hut with such a modern weapon, until Locklin realised that fear would turn those thinly-thatched walls into prison cells of bricks and bars and mortar.

The hut had a window, which was quickly filled with thick thorny branches and as Locklin progressed another hundred metres to his left he could see the same process had been completed at a smaller hut positioned at nine o'clock.