Red Centre (3 page)

“
Don’t just file it! Get
it out to your men!”

MacKenzie leaned forward, resting his hands
on his desk. “I realize this is a tough time for you and your
family.” He tapped the desk with his thick fingers. “I assure you,
the Missing Persons Unit will do all they can to track down your
son.”

“
Where’s the search
party?” Chris looked around the small, ugly office and at one cop
who didn’t seem to do anything, judging by the amount of paperwork
on his desk. “Where’s the search helicopter?”

MacKenzie calmly opened his top drawer,
retrieving a folded map of the Northern Territory. He unfolded it
across his desk and grabbed a pen to use as a pointer. “You Yankees
just don’t get it. The Territory is twice as big as Texas. Germany
could fit in it four times, and it’s made up of desert and rocks.”
MacKenzie held out the pen to Chris. “Show me where we should start
looking.”

Chris scooted forward on his chair, taking
the pen. He looked over the map for a moment, then proceeded to
draw a large circle around Hermannsburg and a nearby national park,
Finke Gorge National Park. He tapped the pen on the park. “This was
his last known location.”

MacKenzie was gruff. Deadpan. “We looked
there already. So did the rangers.” He got to his feet to show
Chris out. “Do you get along with your son, Mr. Marshall?”

Chris swallowed. “Sure, but he’s still a
teenager—so we don’t always see eye to eye.”

“
How did ya feel about him
coming out to a foreign country, so far away, at such a young
age?”

“
I wasn’t happy about it …
but he’s an adult now. He makes his own choices. We’re close to our
son. He’s just not going to stop talking to us for no reason. Did
you listen to the voice message he left me?”

“
Phone
reception isn’t too good out here. Signals drop out all the time.
We don’t have
Internet
hotshots
... or whatever you call them.
You just can’t get on the googler when you want to send an email.”
MacKenzie readjusted his large belt and placed his hands on his
hips. “He’s a backpacker in the middle of a desert. It’s only been
a few days. He could have caught a ride with a truckie and be in
Western Australia for all we know.”

Chris sat firm, staring into space. “Do you
have children, sir?”

MacKenzie cleared his throat. “Two girls.
One grandson.”

“
As a father, you know
that one of the biggest fears you have is having your child taken
from you and you’re helpless to do anything about it. I realize
Shawn is just another face to you. Just another statistic
...”

MacKenzie swallowed and scratched the side
of his head.

“
I told my wife I wouldn’t
come home unless I had Shawn with me. And if that means bringing
him home in a … box …” Chris’ voice trembled. “Please, from one
father to another, help me find him.”

“
I can understand your
plea, Mr. Marshall, but there isn’t any more we can do. This is a
small community. Resources are stretched. As I said, the Missing
Persons Unit, in Darwin, is now working on the case.”

“
His photo on a website,
from their office a thousand miles away, isn’t working the case …”
Chris ran his hands through his hair, leaned forward in the chair,
elbows on knees, chin resting in the palms of his hands. Devastated
and hopeless.

MacKenzie grabbed a notebook and pen from
his desk and moved around toward Chris. He held it out in front of
Chris’ face. “Give me your details, where you’re staying while
you’re here, and if anything comes up I’ll let you know.”

Chris reluctantly took the pad and pen and
jotted down his cell number. Handing the pen and pad back, he stood
up. The two men briefly shared a cold handshake. Chris turned to
leave. “Can you at least tell me where I can find Frank
Corbin?”

MacKenzie turned his head silently sideways.
Interesting request. “How do you know old Frank?”

“
Only what I’ve read in
the media.”

The penny dropped for MacKenzie. He let out
a chuckle. “Oh, the UFO thing? Blimey me! You think everyone that
disappears in the outback must have been taken by little green men.
Holy shit!”

MacKenzie chuckled a little more. He
couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Suddenly realizing his place,
he turned serious. “I assure you, Mr. Marshall, Shawn was not taken
by aliens; and neither was Emma Corbin, mind you.”

Dust trailed behind the Cherokee as it sped
down a small dirt track. It bounced over small mounds and potholes,
Chris pushing it hard. Good thing it was a rental. In his rush, he
shot past the turn-off for the Corbin property. The four-by-four
skidded to a stop. A blanket of red dust covered it.

Chris ripped it in reverse, stopping within
inches of a barbed-wire fence line. An old, rusted gate, wrapped
with an old chain (no lock), blocked his path to the house.

The driver’s door swung open. A wall of heat
hit Chris in the face as if he had just stepped into a burning
building. He planted his foot firmly in the fine, soft, red dirt
and made his way to the gate. A beat-up, old metal sign loosely
hung from it, decorated with what looked like a couple of bullet
holes. The printed writing was faded but still readable: “NO
TRESPASSING.” At the bottom a few more words were hand painted in:
“OFFENDERS WILL BE SHOT.” The bullet holes a clear warning the sign
was serious.

Chris placed his hands on top of the rusted
gate, peering into the expansive property. There was no mail box,
but there was a large, weather-beaten, wooden sign above the gate
with “Corbin” carved in it. This was the right place.

His eyes followed the small, dirt trail.
Tire tracks, made by years and years of driving over that piece of
earth. At the end of the trail he could barely see the Corbin house
afar off, hidden amongst small, dirt hills.

Chris glanced over his shoulder as he
carefully unwrapped the chunky chain and swung the gate open. No
bullets flying yet. No one around; so far so good.

***

The Cherokee pealed up a cloud of dust.
Frank closed his eyes as the fine dust blew over him, the front
veranda, and the truck cylinder head he was cleaning on his lap.
His cheek and eye twitched, visibly annoyed at the unwelcome dust
and the uninvited visitor. He was perched on the edge of his wooden
chair by the front door. His trusted shotgun leaned against the
wall where there was enough room for another wooden chair.

Chris rammed the shifter into park and moved
his hand to click the start/stop button to shut off the engine. He
stopped. His eyes quickly surveyed the area: an old man, a
double-barrel shotgun.

Glancing around the inside of the Cherokee,
he saw no real weapons—nothing that would go head to head with a
shotgun anyway. Working quickly, he rehearsed possible scenarios.
Get the hell out of there as quickly as possible at the first sign
of aggression, was his first thought. Keep the car running. If no
escape, car door for cover—most likely a tire wrench in the
back—not a long range weapon, but better than nothing.

His eyes quickly moved back to Frank,
carefully watching his movements. Chris lowered his window to about
halfway down. The hot summer air rushed in, almost instantly
heating the cool cabin. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He
yelled over to Frank, “Good day, sir”—trying to mimic the popular
Aussie greeting of “g’day”—“I’m looking for Frank Corbin.”

Frank dropped his cleaning rag and, without
looking, reached back and grabbed hold of his double barrel. He
looked up under his eyebrows. Even at this distance his blue eyes
were piercing, like a crazy person, as he stared at Chris. “Did ya
read me sign?”

Chris swallowed. His eyes darted around as
he tried to think of something to disarm any possible conflict.
“I’m Chris Marshall.”

“
Yank. Figures.” Frank got
to his feet, bringing the gun up to rest on his shoulder. “Ya
understand it?” Stepping the two steps off the veranda, he moved
towards the Cherokee.

“
Shit! Shit!” Chris
muttered to himself, not sure what to do. Should he run? Should he
stay? His hand moved to the shifter, pulling it down three clicks
into drive, keeping his eyes on the approaching Frank. “I don’t
want any trouble. I just need to talk to you.”

Frank stopped about five feet from the SUV.
He circled slightly to get a better look, admiring the ride. He
stopped again close to the hood. “Fancy truck. You a reporter?”

“
No. But I’m starting to
think I must look like one.” He gave a small chuckle to make light
of the situation.

“
What’s so funny?” Frank
gave a death stare.

Chris stared back, trying not to be
intimidated by the old Aussie hillbilly.

Frank moved around the
front of the hood, keeping eye contact. Chris followed his
movement. He knew he couldn’t do much from there. He would be an
easy target if this got out of hand. Frank made it to the passenger
window, peering in to see what Chris had. He continued to stroll
around towards the rear, Chris watching from his side and rearview
mirrors.
Not good Chris, not good.
Get the frig out of here,
he thought.

Frank continued around the back of the
vehicle and then made his way back towards the veranda.

Chris scratched the top of his head. Was it
safe to proceed? He hesitated, then placed the SUV back in park,
killing the engine. He slipped a clean, simple, white business card
from his wallet.

He cautiously opened his door, ever watchful
of the old Aussie. He called after Frank, “My son was up here about
a week ago.” Frank stopped halfway between the house and the
Cherokee to listen, not turning back. Chris continued, “We haven’t
heard from him in four days … He’s missing.”

“
A lot of people go
missin’ in the Red Centre.” Frank continued on, making his way back
to the veranda. He leaned his gun against the wall and took his
seat. He grabbed his cleaning rag and continued working on the
cylinder head.

Chris followed him to the
edge of the veranda roof to get out of the sun. A few dozen flies
buzzed his face and eyes. He swatted at them to clear his view. He
had never seen so many. Sweat poured from all his pores, running
down his back and face.
Why would anyone
ever want to live here?

Chris stretched out his arm with card in
hand. “I thought you could help me.”

Frank reluctantly took the card, reading
over it for a moment, his greasy fingers leaving black fingerprints
all over it. “Chris Marshall, Business Strategist.” He crumpled up
the card, tossing it to the side. “As you can see”—he motioned with
an open hand to his dry, desert farm—“I ain’t lookin’ for a
business strategist right now.”

Chris looked around, seeing if there was
something he could make reference to, to break the ice, build on
common ground. There wasn’t anything around. Just the hot, dry
desert, with buzzing flies. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He tried to
smile and relax. Maybe he was going too head on. He needed to be
calm and try to figure this guy out. “Are the flies and the heat
always this bad?”

“
Cut the bullshit! What do
ya want?”

Calm and relaxed wasn’t going to work with
this guy. “I believe my son’s disappearance could be connected to
your wife’s.”

Frank paused. His eyes grew wide. He dropped
the rag once more, wrapping his fingers around his gun but leaving
it in its spot. He didn’t look up. “Why ya really here?” he said in
a stern, low voice.

Chris’ eyes moved to the double barrel. He
ran his hand through his sweaty hair and looked at the roof. “I’ve
read your story. I was hoping you could help me out.”

Frank drew his gun close to him, getting to
his feet. He walked briskly toward Chris. In his face. “Get off me
land!”

“
Please, hear me out.”
Chris raised both hands in a submissive gesture.

Frank cracked his gun open. Two shells
loaded. He snapped it closed. “I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

***

The Cherokee shot out of the gate, leaving
it wide open. Chris wasn’t going to wait around to see if Frank was
serious with his threat. A safe distance away he pulled over to the
side of the dirt road. He let the cool air from the aircon rush
over his body. He closed his eyes to relax, yawned and rubbed his
face.

He peered out the window
at the expansive surrounds. Dry, lifeless desert as far as the eye
could see.
Maybe MacKenzie was right.
Maybe he did catch a ride somewhere and he doesn’t have a way of
contacting us.

But that didn’t sit right. He had a gut
feeling that things weren’t right. He had to be out here somewhere.
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, deep in thought.

Chris reached down into a backpack on the
passenger-side floor. After a moment of rummaging, he found what he
was looking for—a postcard. It had Shawn’s handwriting scribbled
all over it:

“
Hey, guys, just wanted to
let you know how beautiful it is Down Under. Having lots of fun.
Mom, you got to convince Dad to come down here one day. Thanks for
letting me come. Once in a lifetime experience. Love
you.”

Chris smiled, but that quickly turned to
sorrow as he sucked in a deep breath. He fought back tears. His son
knew him too well. He would have never come down here, not of his
own will. Now he didn’t have a choice.

Good memories of Shawn filled his mind. His
son had always been adventurous, full of life, wanting to explore
the world, experience new things: bungee jumping, skydiving—the
outback of Australia. All of it seemed so long ago. He had to make
it right.