The Delta Chain (17 page)

‘Because people don’t always do what we
expect them to do.’ Hank thanked Jensen a second time and they
shook hands firmly.

Hank had phoned and introduced himself to Bob
Sheckley, editor of the Everglades City Herald-Tribune, and
Sheckley agreed to loan him a desk and a PC for a day. Sheckley was
a workaholic who spent fourteen hours a day at the office, six days
a week, smoked three packets of cigarettes a day and had a voice
like gravel to prove it. ‘Just don’t go telling any other retired
newsies about this,’ he’d said to Hank over the phone, ‘don’t want
this place turning into a blasted nursing home for old codgers with
ink in their veins.’

Another man might have been offended but Hank
laughed. With his gravely tones, Sheckley hadn’t sounded all that
much younger than Hank – and now, as Hank entered the newspaper
offices and met the editor, he saw that Sheckley was late fifties
and looked every day of it. 'Oh yeah,’ Sheckley said, ‘Mendelsohn –
like the classical muso, right?’

Hank smiled. ‘Yes, but still alive.’

Sheckley roared with laughter, then got
straight down to business. ‘Good. A sense of humour. My secretary
will show you the spare desk, that is if she can find it amongst
all that shit out there.’

Once he’d settled and switched on the
computer, Hank entered the access number for AT&T and then the
code for entering GNNS, the Global News Network Service. GNNS was a
database created by a consortium of the international news
agencies. It was subscribed to by news organisations all over the
world. It contained hundreds of thousands of articles from
newspapers and magazines and industry journals, all grouped under
specific headings. Most importantly, the database had its own
search engine, operating on the use of key words or terms.

Hank entered the terms ALLIGATOR HUNTING and
ILLEGAL REPTILE HUNTING and set a time frame parameter of the past
five years. To his surprise, a list of hundreds of article
headings, their source and the date of their publication, appeared
on the screen. At a glance he could see a large number were from
South Africa and India. It was quite possible his search would need
to include those countries, but for the purpose of getting started
he wanted to simplify the parameters further. He typed in the
instruction LIST ALL WITH THE EXCEPTION OF SOUTH AFRICA AND INDIA.
Within seconds the list on the screen altered accordingly.

He thought of Chuck Jensen’s words ‘…I figure
if they’re still in business they moved somewhere more remote.’
Hank clicked on to one of the articles, two years earlier, from the
Everglades City Herald-Tribune. He read through this and several
follow up pieces, acquainting himself with aspects of the
sightings: ‘…a sleek river cruiser with an on-deck alligator
holding pen, a boat that seemed able to appear and disappear with
ease…’

Next, he read through selected articles from
Baja and South America, the nearest and most logical places, in his
opinion, to attract a gang of alligator hunters. There were reports
of isolated incidents but nothing suggesting any link with the
Everglades gang. He decided the best approach was to start at the
head of the list, countries starting with A. He noted there were
several entries from Australia, from the State of Queensland and
the region called the Northern Territory, all from between six to
eighteen months previous.

Hank clicked on to the first of these, an
article in the Northern Territory News. He felt a flicker of
excitement that began building steadily as he read. The article
told of two unconfirmed sightings, one by an Aboriginal tribesman,
the other sighting by a local ranger, of a sleek craft hoisting a
crocodile on board with the use of a mechanised winch. Subsequent
investigation teams despatched to the area could find no sign of
the boat.

Australian crocodiles. They were a different
species to the North American alligator, but part of the same
reptilian family. They were of similar value to a professional
hunter, dealing skins on the international black market.

He scrolled through the article again,
re-reading key passages, then clicked on the next article, and the
next. He had no doubt he’d discovered the place to which the
phantom hunters had moved. He picked up the phone and dialled
Jean’s number. She answered on the third ring.

‘Jean, it’s Hank. You’re not going to believe
this.’

‘What? What is it?’

‘I believe I may have found where those
hunters went,’ he said.

Hank’s next call was to the international
telephone exchange, for information on phone numbers in Australia.
He wanted to talk to the relevant authorities in the Northern
Territory. It was the middle of the night in Australia so he’d have
to wait until much later to place his calls. For the moment, he’d
track down and make sure he had the right numbers.

Once he had those, Hank turned his attention
to the issue of Kevin Farrow’s missing photograph. Flipping through
the local directory, he saw there were only a few specialist
photographic services firms. It was a dying trade. Carroll and
McMasters, the company Jensen had mentioned, had a large ad in the
directory.

He decided it was as good a place as any to
start and placed the call.

‘I’m trying to track down a photo that may
have been left for enlargement two years ago.’

The female voice on the other end of the line
was crisp, professional and, Hank detected, a tad disinterested.
‘Your name?’ she asked.

‘I wasn’t the one who left the photo. The
person’s name was Farrow. Kevin Farrow.’

‘Could you spell that, please?’

Hank held back his sigh of frustration.
‘F-A-R-R-O-W.’

‘Let me check on the computer for undelivered
jobs.’

Hank tapped his fingers on the desk as he
waited. It seemed a long wait- and then: ‘I don’t have anything
listed under the name Farrow, sir. And for anything that far back
we would’ve tracked down the customer anyway. Would you like me to
check our archives?’

‘Archives?’

‘Photos for which we don’t appear to have a
name or a forwarding address. I could have someone check the period
you stated.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘What is this a photograph of?’

‘An aerial shot of a boat.’

‘Okay, I’ve made a note of that. I could give
you a call back in an hour or two, as soon as a lab assistant is
free to make a search.’

Hank thanked her and then phoned the other
photo service firms in the directory. In each case he left his name
and number, asking the firms to check for an unclaimed enlargement
of a boat on a river.

Hank knew it was a hell of a long shot. But
there was logic at the core of his search: if Kevin had left the
picture with a firm before heading off to the Everglades, then the
enlargement could still be sitting somewhere, in a file. Even if it
had been discarded after being unclaimed, the negative could have
been stored. What didn’t make sense was that Kevin hadn’t, perhaps,
left his name and contact details.

When the answer came it was perhaps so
incredibly simple as to be obvious.

After making the calls, Hank took a break and
poured himself a coffee in the newsroom kitchen. The return call
from a guy named Gary at Carroll and McMasters came through as he
seated himself back at his desk. ‘Have a photo enlargement here,
sir, that you enquired about. Aerial shot of a very nice river
cruiser.’

‘Any idea who it belongs to?’ Hank asked.

‘No, sir. There does appear to have been one
of our usual labels attached to the file, that would’ve had that
information, but it must’ve been faulty and slipped off. And
clearly the customer hasn’t been back to collect.’

It has to be the one, Hank thought. ‘I’d like
to come across and take a look.’

‘Sir, there is an outstanding bill associated
with this order.’

‘I’ll fix that up. ‘

‘Very well, sir. I’ll have it waiting for you
at the front desk.’

Hank hurried out of the newsroom. A moment
later, cursing his own stupidity, he returned to the desk, jotted
down Carroll and McMasters address on a post-it note, then hurried
from the newsroom once more.

Kate found her mother in the room that once
belonged to Greg and which was now a guest room. Roslyn Kovacs
stood at the built-in alcove bench that served as part desk, part
mantelpiece. Family photos of Greg adorned a portion of the bench.
In her hands Roslyn held an illustrated plate that had long been a
fixture in the small room, a picture of Jesus assisting the weak
and oppressed.

Kate’s hand came to rest on her mother’s
shoulder and her mother’s fingers reached back and interlocked with
those of her daughter. ‘I believe that in the end, the Lord was
with Greg’s spirit to help him through those final moments,’ Roslyn
said. With her other hand she brushed away a tear. She turned and
looked into Kate’s eyes. ‘You’ve drifted from the church, haven’t
you?’

‘It’s just that I‘ve been so busy, Mum.’

‘That seems to be the modern man and woman’s
answer to everything in life nowadays. Everyone is so busy all the
time.’ She took both of Kate’s hands in hers. ‘Your father and I
tried to instil a sense of faith and what is right in all of you
children.’

‘I know that, Mum.’

‘Don’t drift too far, Kate. In the end our
souls travel to a good place or a bad place and we need guidance.
Deep down you know that, don’t you?’

‘Deep down I know it, Mum.’

Adam felt a lump in his throat and a deep,
restless sorrow for what he knew Kate was now feeling. He knew,
because he’d experienced exactly this with Alana’s death. He
recalled words he’d encountered recently: ‘Sometimes coincidence
plays cruel tricks on our lives.’ Where had he read that? Probably
one of those pop psychology articles in the Sunday papers. And yet
there was an uncanny, bitter truth to those words. Long ago his
sister had drowned and now the most baffling case he’d encountered
as a detective involved three drownings – reminding him every
minute he worked on it of Alana’s death. And having lost his sister
he could empathise with Kate’s loss of her brother. Coincidence
playing cruel tricks?

Adam was staying in one of the guest rooms at
Kate’s parents’ home in the beachside suburb of Cronulla, south of
Sydney. He wanted to stay on, remaining close to Kate through this
difficult time, but she insisted he return to his work in Northern
Rocks after the funeral. The funeral was scheduled for the day
after tomorrow.

On the flight to Sydney he’d sat with Kate
and she’d avoided the subject of her brother’s murder. She’d told
him more about her readings of Rhonda Lagan’s diary, and the
council plans she’d obtained. She explained about the discrepancy,
with the council approved plans including a rear docking area and a
private road leading to the dock. There was an unused, dirt road
running through the forest from a point further along on the main
road. But the rear dock was unused and there was no lower level.
And yet Rhonda’s suspicions seemed to infer secretive, after hours
activity in that area.

Adam listed attentively, his own curiosity in
this matter aroused, but then Kate’s focus on the subject wound
down suddenly. She became sullen and listless. Later, at her
parents’ home, she‘d broken down and cried in Adam’s arms.

Dead of night. Adam wondered whether he would
sleep at all. His mind kept digging up random images: the body of
the girl on the beach; the expression on Kate’s face as she
received the dreadful news; Greg Kovacs’ body in the swamp; and a
ghostly vision of the night his sister had vanished.

He tossed and turned and the night seemed to
last forever.

Some memories dim with time, but Adam’s
mental images of that tragic day in his childhood were painfully
clear.

Thick, dark clouds rolled across the sky with
animal speed, blanketing the wooded landscape. The wind a harsh,
cold breath that stung his skin. His mother called from the kitchen
at the back of the large, ranch-style house. ‘You’ll have to come
in now, kids. The storm’s almost here.’

‘Five more minutes, Mummy. Five more
minutes.’ Had it been Adam’s own plaintive request? Or Alana’s?
That was the one thing Adam couldn’t recall for certain. Perhaps he
didn’t want to remember.

‘No longer, then. And stay near the
house.’

But they hadn’t.

The property backed onto a wooded strip that
sloped down to the sandy shores of the Pacific. Alana went charging
into the forest. ‘Hide ‘an seek, Adam. Hide ‘an seek!’

‘Okay, you hide. But don’t go far.’ He
covered his eyes, counted out loud to twenty, then shouted:
‘Coming, coming, ready or not, coming to get you with all that I’ve
got!’ It was a rhyme the brother and sister always used. Adam, a
bright, mischievous boy, had made it up. The rhyme had haunted his
dreams for a long time after.

He went searching, looking behind tree trunks
and bushes. As he pressed deeper in to the forest he began to
worry. Alana shouldn’t have gone this far.

‘Okay, Ally, I give up. Come on out.’

And then the deafening crack of thunder that
signalled the change in his life, the point from which there was no
turning back. The thunderous boom followed by his mother’s cry:
‘Adam, Alana! Where are you?’

Adam looked back. He’d moved far enough away
from the house that it was out of sight, blocked by the lush, green
undergrowth. ‘Alana,’ he called hoarsely, ‘stop playing. We have to
get back now.’

Still no reply. The rain came suddenly, heavy
sheets that fanned the woods in diagonal strokes. Adam felt sick to
his stomach, and afraid. ‘Alana! Come out. Now!’

By the time his mother reached him he was
hysterical, eyes filling with tears.