Fire Eye (19 page)

Joe stands in front of Decker, waiting for the explosion. Time drags on but it doesn’t come. Joe has told Decker about the tracks he found, the direction they are heading and how long it will take them to catch up. He doesn’t let Decker know he guessed where they are headed. He tries to give enough information to keep the man happy without revealing all. He doesn’t think the mad whitey will be happy about the distance to be covered. Standing there impassively, Joe waits.

They’re making a dash for that fuck’n plane
, Decker decides.
The bitch knows what’s in it apart from her grandfather. She was always a bloody capitalist,
making good money on real estate.
He always suspected she was thinking about more than granddaddy, so it is only a matter of waiting. Even if nothing is there, he will still get satisfaction, out here in the sticks where the chances of any come back are as low as can be. It is much better than trying to get satisfaction back in Tassie. With a rock solid alibi he can do what he likes.

“That’s very good Joe. I’m impressed and very happy with you. Sorry about your brother.” Decker turns and reaches into the back of the Patrol. “Here’s some soup,” tossing Joe a can. “He should be able to manage that.”
Best to keep their hopes up,
Decker thinks.
With hope they’ll do their best. If I have to do them I’ll at least make it quick. Loyalty should have some reward! But I can’t really afford any loose ends, even out here.
He isn’t a bad man, he tells himself again. He only does what he is forced to, even in the case of the lying bitch. Justice has to be served. “You take care of Brad and rest up Joe,” Decker says, his tone conciliatory. “We’ll head out soon enough.”

Joe accepts the offer but knows damn well this whitey isn’t to be trusted. All he has done is buy more time for Brad and himself. He takes the can without comment and goes to take care of Little Britches, satisfied he has bought at least a couple of days of life. He knows what to do with the can, unlike the packets of dry grit they were offered before.

Decker walks over to Jesse, slouching in a camp chair with a beer in his hand and the rifle leaning against his leg. Decker pulls another chair over, grabs a beer and sits down next to him. Jesse is worried by the turn of events but has total faith his dad will stay on top of things.

“There’s a hand pump stashed away so you can take your time to fix the tyres. Bit of work’ll be good for you boy!” Decker says as he cracks the top of the can and takes a sip. “We’ll head out and track the bastards. Might be away a night, two at the most. You remember the plan?”

“Yes Pa, you can rely on me! Ain’t nothing or nobody getting the best of us!” Jesse touches his can against his father’s with a metallic click. “We’ll get them pricks, just like that bastard back in Tassie. That was fun. Hope these bastards crawl and beg like he did. He got what he deserved after what he done to you.” Jesse grins, remembering how they gut-shot the fella and let him crawl around while they laughed at his efforts, then tossed him in the hole, still alive, slowly filling it in with the backhoe.

Decker grunts in agreement. His only regret is that he didn’t drag it out longer. He’ll do it better this time. Nothing like practise!

Joe looks over at both of them. A shudder runs through him. The shadow of death is hanging over his brother and him, and the two strangers out there in the bush.

Charcoal leans down from the saddle to inspect the grass still struggling upright after being crushed under the wheels of the vehicles. Here the country is made up of exposed, flat sandstone with the occasional patch of tussock. Like Joe, he can pick the line across the surface of the rock if he gets the sun at the right angle. It is a skill passed down from his ancestors, honed daily on the cattle station.

Thor waits patiently under Charcoal’s weight in the saddle, lowering his head to reach a tussock, rip out a mouthful of grass and chew it with relaxed contentment. His black coat sparkles with a healthy lustre under a cloudless sky of blue. The only sounds are the gentle thump of hooves on the ground and the creak of saddle leather as the riders inspect the tracks.

Off to the side, Davey waits patiently as his horse also reaches down for a stolen nibble at the grass. Davey volunteered to come along and, like Charcoal, knows the country well. He is shrewd, small, wiry and quick, carrying a well-knit bundle of muscle and sinew across his chest and down his arms honed by years of station work. He reaches around behind him to check his gear and saddle bags. From habit, Davey runs his eye over his partner’s gear as Charcoal contemplates the tracks.

It has been a long ride, but not difficult in the early stages. As they leave the station property, the country is becoming rocky and broken, with patches of low-lying flood plain. Riding alongside the tracks, the horses’ hooves squelch into black mud in the little green bogs that appear suddenly in the low spots. Steel shoes ring on stones as the riders pace their eager horses. They are strong, valuable animals with a relationship to their riders tested by the pressures of cattle work and regular roundups. It has forged a bond of trust on which man and horse depend for survival in their unforgiving environment.

Charcoal turns his horse around to face Davey, reining him in with a soothing voice and pressure from his knees. “They came through day or two ago, but not together. I reckon the last two trucks are following the one in front. The last two stop sometimes, maybe to check the tracks like we are. Sump’n funny goin’ on ere!” He looks up at the sun, deciding there is still some good tracking time left in the day. He wonders whether he should send Davey back to report, but they have no news except that the vehicles have left the property. His gut instinct tells him something unusual is going on and it is better to have company than go on alone. “Let’s go, Davey,” he calls as he spurs Thor into a trot, not doubting Davey will be right behind him like a fighter pilot’s wingman.

Jed and Alex lean against the rock wall, staring into the flames of the camp fire. They crossed the plateau in quick time and picked their way down to the beach where they found a good place to camp. Jed uses vines and resin to attach Alex’s knife to a long, thin branch to make a spear. While he sets up camp and gets a fire going, he watches Alex stand perfectly balanced on a rock on shoeless feet, overlooking a shallow next to the channel. The spear is held ready over her shoulder, waiting for a fish to appear within range.

When one swims warily closer, her body tenses. Lifting the spear, Alex arcs in a sensual curve balancing on her back foot. Her arm slowly reaches back ready to hurl the stone-age weapon then relaxes as the fish curves away. She watches and waits for another to edge closer. Finally, the poised arc of her body propels the spear into the water. Splashing through the shallows to retrieve it, Alex holds the spear and the struggling fish high in the air in triumph. Her patience and primeval instincts impress him as she stands in the water, legs apart, silhouetted in the early evening light.

She makes a hit on a good size Barramundi and, to Jed’s surprise, guts and scales it herself. They sprinkle pepper from one of the sachets in her bag and wrap the fish in leaves to cook over the coals of a low fire. Jed adds mussels and oysters and they look forward to filling their stomachs. Missing their usual good wine, they have to be content with fresh water collected from the remains of the wet season creek running down the face of the bluff behind them. They boil it with plums taken from a little gooseberry tree to produce an agreeably acidic drink.

In late evening, the tropical dry season sun throws its light across the blue-green sea and dazzling white sand. The still warm, scented breeze gently rustles the leaves of the pandanus palms and slips through the drooping casuarinas with a barely audible whisper. Darkness settles around them as the fish comes out of the fire. It is laid on a bark platter next to the seafood, roasted beans and plums. The fish is steamed to perfection, supplemented by mussels, oysters and salt and pepper from Alex’s travel bag. The tang of the plums and beans adds a pleasant complexity.

“This is bloody wonderful!” Alex sighs, leaning against the rock wall with a piece of fish and a mussel cradled in one hand and a plum held between the fingers of the other.

Behind the flickering flames of the fire only a thin line of light marks where the sun disappeared below the horizon a few minutes earlier. She could be talking about the scene in front of them or the food or both. It doesn’t matter. The whole experience is captivating. It isn’t hard to almost forget the sociopath hunting them.

“The only thing missing is a good wine,” Jed says, enjoying the tang of pepper and the feeling of a full stomach at the end of a long day. He contemplates the scene spread before them in silence for a while longer. “It’s good we left the plane until a new day. We’ll start early tomorrow, so eat up. There’ll be no breakfast and it’ll be a long day.” There is a nagging concern eating away inside him. He can sense Alex is a lot more concerned than she appears and silently salutes her courage. A lot has happened since the previous evening and not many people would have coped. She has his total respect.

Alex is mellowing with the taste of good food and the tranquillity of their camp. She is surprised that such a meal can be scraped up out of the wilderness and be so enjoyable. “This is pretty good,” she offers as she picks up another piece of fish and an oyster to cup in her hand, topping them with another plum.

Jed is resting against the rock face with his backside nestled comfortably into the sand. “It’d be nothing without the pepper.”

“Prepared for all occasions, that’s me!” she says, knowing he is having a dig about the haphazard contents of her travel bag. “Be thankful for unexpected surprises!”

“That bastard means to kill you and me as well,” Jed says, knowing his bluntness could shatter the atmosphere.

“I know,” Alex replies, equally blunt. “I always suspected there would be a showdown sometime, I just didn’t expect it to be now. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.” Her eyes sweep over the sunset and ocean in front of them.

“No need to apologise Alex. I’ve always had a tendency to end up in dicey situations.” That’s understating the case. He’s been shot at a few times but this is the first time a woman has been involved, on his side. He has too much experience to allow himself to become over-confident. Fear is good. It concentrates the mind. Only the stupid or the pretenders claim not to be scared. “We’ll get through this, and have some great memories.”

Alex looks sideways at him. “I have no doubt we’ll get through this. It’s only the bit in between that’s uncertain.”

Jed has to smile inwardly at that. “We’re surrounded by darkness and the sounds of the night, lit only by the comforting glow of the fire. Imagine the fear of our ancestors as they huddled together as the day died away and they settled down to sleep, looking forward to the dawn.”

“It must have been scary to lose the ability to see, and sit under a black sky lit by thousands of stars,” Alex replies, looking up into the darkness, relieved by the sparkle of innumerable twinkling lights and the flames of the dying fire. “They would have had only themselves for security, at the mercy of anything out there in the darkness. It’s good to have security. Being safe is an underrated feeling, only truly valued when you’ve been at the other extreme.”

Jed looks at her thoughtfully and tries to imagine what the other extreme must have been like for her. She is leaning back against the rock face and her T-shirt has ridden up to expose her stomach above the belt of her jeans. Light from the dancing flames plays across her body. It highlights the fine texture of her skin, marred only by two circular scars. He can see another on her neck where her blonde hair parts at shoulder level.
Burn marks,
he deduces,
cigarette burns.
He has an image of her being held face down as something repulsive is done to her and the cigarette is held to her neck. A shudder of anger washes through him as he visualises the brutality of the man who derived pleasure from such acts. He begins to understand the reasons for her apparently contradictory behaviours that must reflect an internal battle between the urge for control and spontaneity and emotional security versus a desire for intimacy.

Their eyes meet. Alex sees him glance down to her waist and back up to her eyes. She knows what has caught his attention. She holds his gaze. “Physical pain I can take, no matter how bad,” she says. “Emotional pain is something else. It can make me disappear into a place within myself where I can be safe. The danger is I may not come back out. I can lash out with the urge to hurt the person who caused the pain—not physically, but verbally and emotionally. I don’t really want to but it’s the only way I know to keep myself, the ‘me’ inside, safe.”

Jed listens carefully. “I think I understand,” he replies carefully. “For someone I was close to, I could live with that, because I can understand the context and know the lashing out isn’t necessarily personal.”

She catches his eyes again with a look that holds more than a hint of challenge. “I appreciate the intention of the words, but time may test the reality,” she replies, equally carefully.

Trying to defuse the intensity of the moment, they talk about the scene in front of them and their past experiences as the darkness wraps itself around them. Even in this blackness, lit only by the dancing glow of flames, sounds of life surround them—the clicking of insects, the call of the occasional bird and other sounds they cannot place. Jed is glad he has enclosed the camp with a network of dead branches dragged from the surrounding scrub. The sound of snapping timber will alert him to anything that tries to pass through the barrier. He is comfortable in the bush but they are in crocodile country, not far from the water, and he is wary. The barrier provides a little extra security.

Alex has gone quiet, slumping into the hollow scraped into the sand. It has been a long and exhausting day and they have covered a lot of country. Jed feels ripples of tiredness beginning to lap at his soul and slides down into the hollow alongside her. His back touches Alex’s as he drifts on the verge of sleep. He doesn’t like sleeping on his left side. His heartbeat distracts him from drifting off to sleep, so he rolls over. He needs somewhere to rest his arm, so he drapes it over Alex, who is already on the verge of sleep. Now he is comfortable. He lets his mind wander through the events of the day and the experiences that have brought them to this point. Tiredness overcomes them both as Alex snuggles into him. Jed’s last action is to put his hand onto the hilt of the knife thrust into the sand next to him. With that located, he drifts into sleep.

During the night, his mind catches various sounds too insignificant to wake him fully—the slow thump of a kangaroo, the hoot of what must have been an owl, the splash of something in the water and the grunting of wild pigs scavenging in the bush nearby. He analyses the noises, half asleep, recognises they pose no threat and drifts off again. There are no sounds that will take his arm from around Alex and spur him into action.