Bob’s mind drifted into a hazy memory. He didn’t know Troy Anderson very well, but a much younger Jackson Reynolds and the staunch human face of Queensland law in Birdsville had locked horns on frequent occasions, ending with Bob incarcerating Reynolds in the cooler after an alcohol-fuelled night at the Birdsville races. The unimpressed police sergeant eventually came to blows with the animated and wild youngster, giving Reynolds a hiding he hadn’t ever forgotten and gaining the younger man’s respect from then on. But it was Bob’s initiative to place Reynolds with Don Clarkson, a tough and disciplined individual who took wild youth and redirected the passionate energy for trouble, shaping it into a useful and fervent love for station life. Jackson Reynolds had found his niche and had been with Don Clarkson ever since, adopting the Clarksons as Mum and Dad, and becoming a valuable and respected member of the Diamantina region.
Alone with a mixture of traumatic thoughts and hazy memories, Bob walked around the police station counter and stood with his hands behind his back, anxiously gazing through the station's front window past the cloud of busy swarming insects and across the desert street to the edge of town. Studying the small town’s felonious midnight activity, Bob followed the antics of a hungry dingo pup attacking the caravan park’s rubbish bin and searching for any morsel of food to satisfy a ravenous young wild dog, working the nightshift in anticipation of a much needed feed. Momentarily distracted, Bob glanced up at the clock again, nervously waiting for the prearranged phone call, but Mishy Slater still hadn’t responded. The worried police sergeant refocused on the stretching dingo pup pulling morsels from the open bin, making a mess of the free meal and spreading garbage across the red dirt pavement. Under normal circumstances he would have chased the native canine away, discouraging any dangerous interaction between wild dogs and human beings, especially when adult dingoes have been known to attack and kill small children.
Pulling in an anxious breath and glancing at the clock once more, he decided it was time to act. Mishy Slater was fifteen minutes overdue and now he was expecting the worst. Someone should have heard from the rescue party by now, too, but if the communication silence extended to sunrise, Birdsville’s only senior policeman may be involved in a gruesome and unwanted task. Striding for the phone and steering around the station counter, Bob grabbed up the electronic device with a swipe and began to dial, hoping Mishy would answer and allay his fears with good news. But as the device connected, the seconds extended into a minute before the line dropped out, signalling no one could offer a reply. Feeling a growing sense of foreboding, Bob tried again, waiting and hoping for the desired response.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 37
Out across the still desert night, a lone dingo howled at the crescent moon, hoping to encourage the waning celestial light into a bright hunter's glow and making the task of searching the red sand dunes for food a more convivial chore. But the divine searchlight took no heed of the soulful bay, losing all strength of will and descending below the horizon before its slender beam faded altogether, leaving the chilly shadowy plains devoid of a friendly minder. In the absence of the beaming night watchman, all desert life fended for itself and took its chances in the encompassing gloom, as survival for man and desert creature alike depended on seeing and not being seen.
An incessant haunting chime echoed into the indifferent dark stone halls and carried across the eerie night, beckoning the deathly homestead for human attention, but without a hint of its prize the tone fell silent, only to fill the halls again with another persistent attempt.
Just twenty minutes prior, the homestead lights had flickered violently and then without a hint of remorse, plunged the family bastion into complete and fearful dread. The power supply on the remote homestead—generated by a diesel engine some distance from the house and contained in a remote shed—for years had been as reliable as the sunrise; but tonight for some inexplicable reason, the trusty machine had suspiciously failed, adding to the night time horror. Laboured, almost silent, breaths were laced with terrible fear, tense in the confines of the small fortified room while straining ears listened to the noises of the night through the solid bathroom door, stricken by terror and wondering who was lurking in the night, intent on unleashing their manic homicidal entertainment in a petrifying and deadly game of cat and mouse.
Mishy drew in another guarded and tired breath, adding to the discomfort from her pounding head, listening to the phone chiming in the creeping deadness of the homestead halls where once the family flourished accompanied by joyous laughter and love abounded.
But now only fear, tears and uncertainty prowled.
She decided to stay put in the protection of the strengthened bathroom and let the phone go unanswered, alerting Bob Maxwell to their dire situation and lessening the chance of a loitering fiend taking her off guard while she responded and raised the alarm with the policeman during the enquiring phone call. Feeling the cold metal of Butch’s shotgun in Mishy’s hands brought her some comfort. Her loving man had handled the gun and she felt his strength encompass her, enticing her heart into an excited leap, only to crash and burn when she contemplated his most likely fate.
A sudden distant screech reverberated across the midnight air and drifted into their protected space, followed by the unmistakable clatter of tyres slowing to a crawling pace, trying to disguise the vehicle's arrival as it negotiated the access road grid. Holding her breath in sheer panic, Mishy’s attention diverted to the air space under the door and watched it burst into light and flicker as the headlight beam bounced up and down the gravel access track and reflected weird shadows into the darkened homestead halls. Pulling her whimpering children around her and grasping the barrel of Butch’s gun, Mishy’s heart hammered like a prisoner on death row just before her execution.
Then with the unfamiliar tone of an unknown vehicle drawing to a stop some distance from the homestead door and with its headlight beam steady now, its stable light leaked unmoving under the bathroom door, casting an eerie shadow over the four terrified occupants. A cold shiver ran up and down Mishy’s back and her heart stopped, watching a moving silhouette interrupt the light glow entering under the bathroom door, indicating someone had walked in front of the vehicle's headlights and was cautiously approaching the house.
Feeling her hands sweating on the barrel of the gun, she aimed the weapon at the door and waited for the inevitable, unsure if she had the nerve to pull the trigger or whether the shotgun would react as it was supposed to.
*~*~*~*
Bob Maxwell’s blood ran cold trying to make sense of the new development as his repeated attempts to contact Michelle Slater by phone at their station homestead failed, leaving the worried copper’s gut knotted and tense like a drum. He had no way of confirming the safety of the traumatised women sheltering within the homestead's protective walls, but he was sure something had gone severely wrong and now the wily policeman was out of options, knowing the closest help was over an hour and a half away. Pacing the police station floor and berating himself to come up with a plan, Bob tried to figure out the quickest response, but every idea led to the same conclusion.
It would take too long.
The stakes were high and the longer he procrastinated, the less chance Mishy and the girls had to come out of this new threat alive. He had to do something, but it may already be too late. Abruptly pivoting on his heels as if the dark night held the answer, Bob perused the police station window, mindlessly searching the darkness for a clue and then a flash of genius struck him with the subtlety of a thunderclap. Reaching for the desk phone, he dialled a local number and waited for the stinging rebuff he was sure would come. It took a while for the sleepy voice to answer and when he did, he was less than happy.
“H-e-l-l-o, Jim Strack,” the unimpressed voice threatened.
“Stracky, it’s Bob Maxwell. I need an urgent favour!”
“Fair go, Bob, it’s nearly one in the morning! Can’t it wait till later?”
“I think Mishy Slater and her girls either have been—or are in the process of being—murdered and I need to get out there quickly. I need you to fly me there in your plane now!”
The phone receiver dropped into stunned silence as Jim Strack digested the latest information.
“Stracky, you there?”
“Struth! I’ll meet you at the plane in ten minutes, Bob, but you’d better get in good with the big man upstairs. He’s the only one able to get us down safely onto Pearl Spring’s airstrip in the pitch dark. If it wasn’t Butch and Mishy in trouble, I’d say forget it!”
Bob threw down the receiver and quickly gathered his belongings then reached into the locked gun cupboard and withdrew his police-issue shotgun and ammunition. If he was walking into what he thought, then he’d have to be ready for a gunfight and possibly being shot down out of the sky as well, but he forgot to mention this tiny detail to Stracky. With a quick glance around the station and satisfied he hadn’t forgotten anything important, he grabbed his gear and reached for the light switch and threw it off, blacking out the police station into pitch darkness. Within minutes, the police Land Cruiser pulled into an aerodrome parking space, at the same time sandblasted by the prop wash from Stracky’s Beechcraft Bonanza already prepped and ready to fly while Stracky—in the aircraft’s cab light—animatedly beckoned the policeman to get a move on. Before Bob could haul his oversize frame into the tiny passenger seat and close the door, Stracky had begun to taxi onto the dark Birdsville airstrip.
Close by, the lights from the Birdsville Hotel blinked on, leaving disturbed patrons to wonder who the idiot was trying to take off from the desert runway in the pitch darkness and waking disgruntled paying hotel guests, no longer fast asleep in the comfortable hotel accommodation only a few metres from the isolated tarmac. As the Beechcraft’s engine roared to maximum power and the flaps set to full, Stracky released the brakes and barrelled along the straight tarmac at high speed, waiting for enough lift to develop under the wings and boost the small aircraft into the dark desert sky.
With the aircraft’s powerful landing light burning down the paved runway, several large shadowy figures ambled across the airstrip halfway along, unseen by the semi-alert pilot.
Watching the groundspeed indicator until they were travelling fast enough to take off, Stracky glanced up just in time to see a herd of wild camels dawdling unconcerned in front of the tiny plane and directly on course for a collision of massive scale.
*~*~*~*
Chapter 38
Bob Maxwell’s fingers grasped the passenger seat frame with an ironclad death grip, staring with horror at the tragic scene unfolding in slow motion and watching his own morose mortality stream past right before his very eyes. Rarely had he considered dying before, or how the seldom contemplated event would occur; but little did he imagine the end would come in an explosion of aviation fuel, camel hair and bone. Using great mental self-control, Bob did everything he could to restrain the ingrained reflex action—taking command when things went bad—urging himself not to wrestle the flight controls from the pilot and possibly crush any chance of survival, no matter how slim. Stracky was one of the best bush pilots in the Diamantina region and if there was an unconventional way to exploit an aircraft’s potential or escape a bad situation, he would know it.
Glancing at the groundspeed monitor and going too fast to abort takeoff before colliding with the desert ships, Jim Strack reacted immediately, forcing the throttle levers as far open as possible and pulling back on the stick as hard as he dared, willing the tiny plane to lift into the air and avert the painful destruction of his near new Beechcraft Bonanza. Losing valuable airspeed and lift after pulling the nose up before designed takeoff speed, Stracky could only hope and pray the camels would see the threat and take to the surrounding scrub while everything was still going their way.
But, defiant to the last, the camels stood their ground with an unmoving, arrogant stance, hypnotised by the approaching light and casually chewing their cud, challenging the steadily increasing buzz to go around them.
As the small plane shuddered to climb and helpless to avoid a collision, all Stracky could do he’d done, and now the situation had to take its course, leaving a mess of burnt twisted metal at the end of the dark runway; or if God was on their side, power to clear the impertinent runway obstacles and fly into the eerie desert night.
In time with Stracky’s measured heartbeat, the seconds seemed to slow down while he prepared for the inevitable explosion; but with inches to spare, the small aircraft skimmed the ignorant beasts, giving the tallest camel an undignified crew-cut as the labouring propeller struggled to clear the runway obstacles.
Many silent and strained moments went by in the cockpit as the small plane climbed and slowly the emergency ironed out, leaving both men speechless and knowing all too well they had just challenged death and somehow won. Stracky pulled back on the stretched throttles, giving the overworked engine a much needed break.
“Struth, that was a bit too close for comfort, Stracky,” Bob’s unsteady voice quavered in the dark as the plane bumped and bounced on the unstable night air, finally settling into a normal flight.
Stracky grasped the stick tightly, trying to settle his shaking hands and cleared his dry throat with an unexpected cough before speaking. “Nah, you just need to have a bit of nerve to do this kinda thing, Bob. I can see you don’t have what it takes to be a pilot, holding onto that chair like a squealing sheila!”
“What d’ya mean, squealing sheila?! Try being a copper for a few weeks, mate, and then see who’s the squealing sheila!”
Stracky turned away from Bob’s indignant stare and silently blew out a huge relieved breath toward a dark window and hoping the cavalier passenger hadn’t seen the trembling expression.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Bob Maxwell complained.
“You pay for the fuel and I’ll have you on the ground at Pearl Springs in forty minutes,” Stracky pushed open the throttles again and now that their own emergency had passed, concentrated on the grim reason for their dangerous late night dash.
*~*~*~*
Although the moonless desert night surrounding the dark and quiet homestead had descended into an icy theatre, the small bathroom air grew steadily tense, humid with terror and clammy with the heat of approaching fey. The only protection between hunter and the hunted was the darkened homestead and a locked fifty millimetre solid wooden door, keeping the prey safe for the moment; but like a fox trapped in its den, once the beast knew where to find its quarry, the hunt was over.
Mishy’s forehead glistened with sweat, her face tense with fear and her hands locked onto the barrel of Butch’s shotgun. Knowing the options for rescue had been exhausted, the tussle with ideology over using the gun had been settled in her mind, while the rules were simple: the life of a cold blooded killer or the lives of her children.
Michelle Slater supposed the killer would search the house and every room, and once he found the bathroom door locked, that would be an indication something or someone of value was hiding behind its defences. Deliberately thinking through her options, she suddenly realised the felon would be armed and most probably use his weapon to neutralise the locked door and gain access to the frightened women cowering in the tiny room behind.
Mishy’s abrupt whisper panicked her daughters and she had to quickly quieten their whimpers. “Ssshhh! Crawl into the shower recess and huddle against the shower wall.”
“What about you, Mumma?” Danica’s anxious voice whispered into the quiet.
“I’m going to shelter in the bathtub. I should get a good shot from there and the tub sides will protect me from anything this person can throw at us,” Mishy’s voice unexpectedly became steady and determined to survive the life-or-death mission she’d been forced into.
Watching a shadow flicker under the door backlit by the vehicle headlights, Mishy repeated her whispered order and the girls obeyed their mother without question. The unm
istakable s-q-u-e-a-k from the flyscreen door and then the muted shiver of booted feet on wooden floorboards entering their homestead domain alerted Mishy to the presence of the beast, sending her heart pounding in response and an uncontrolled tremor through her hands. Crawling as quietly and nimbly as she could and careful not to alert the fiend to their presence, Mishy slid over the tall inbuilt bathtub sides and settled into a flat, comfortable position; then with a groping hand, she felt for the shotgun barrel on the floor beside the tub and lifted it carefully and then rested the barrel against the porcelain side. Using the light beam under the door as a guide, she aimed the gun at the centre of the door, knowing she would only get one shot at immobilising the situation and surviving their ordeal.
Carefully measured footsteps creaked slowly past the bathroom door while the fiend's weight disturbed the silent floorboards, groaning under his persistent and calculated steps and giving the hidden prey a narrated and accurate account of his search. While adrenaline surged through her body, heightening the desire for her and her girls to survive, Mishy held her breath and restrained the emotion leaking from every part of her traumatised mind.
As the footsteps began to retrace their careful path from the bedrooms and back toward the kitchen, it was obvious by the guarded sounds the hunter was expecting to find someone and every step brought him closer to discovering the traumatised women. Mishy tensed every muscle in her body, grasping the shotgun with a vicelike grip; and then as the shadow flickered under the door’s air space again, she held her finger to the trigger, sighting the barrel and ready to defend herself and her daughters, but also knowing the shot would alter her life forever.
As the shadow loitered and came to an abrupt halt outside the bathroom, the obvious outline of booted feet facing the door became surreal and the situation more unbelievable. With fear bordering on hysteria, everything in Mishy wanted to scream and abdicate the unwanted role as protector, but also knowing if she did, all four would perish.