The Delta Chain (25 page)

The van pulled out from the curb and turned in an arc so it was on the same side of the road as Daniel. As it cruised into place beside him, the side panel door slid open and two men stepped briskly from the vehicle, taking hold of Daniel from behind. Before he could react they’d bundled him into the van and the door slid shut with a thud as the vehicle sped off.

Robert Hamilton considered himself a fit and healthy fifty-year old. He and his business partner had built a successful removal and odd job business, servicing Northern Rocks and the surrounding towns. At 8.35 that morning Hamilton and partner Paul Garrick lifted a large sheet of glass from the back of their truck and were about to shift it just a few metres to a shop front.

Some heart attacks come with a built-in warning of associated lead up pain, but not this one. It struck like a bolt from the blue.

As Hamilton collapsed, the bottom edge of the glass hit the ground. Garrick reacted quicker than he would’ve expected of himself. Releasing his own grip he darted forward, grabbing hold of his partner and manoeuvring him as far as possible from the toppling sheet of glass as it went over on its side.

The white van rounded the corner, its passage bringing it directly into the path of the glass panel as it hit the ground, shattering. The impact was deafening, as thousands of razor sharp shards of glass were propelled into the air.

Scanlon was driving the van. He spun the wheel but lost control. The van flipped onto its side as it skidded across the road and into a bus shelter on the other side of the street. The crash sent a violent rush of air through the vehicle’s interior and the rear door flung open. The men holding Daniel were thrown against the walls and Daniel reacted in the blink of an eye, leaping from the vehicle.

He hit the ground knees and elbows first and then, bruised and bleeding, he was on his feet. Running.

Kate’s struggle to squirm free was in vain. She watched helplessly, every nerve, muscle and thought resonating with sheer terror. The crocodile made its grotesque rush toward her, up the muddy slope, its jaws opening and poised to clamp down with savage indifference.

The first spear struck the reptile in the eye but the act barely registered through Kate’s terror. A guttural shriek came from the creature as it writhed in agony. As it turned to flee a second, third and fourth set of spears pierced its torso until it slumped on the bank and lay dying.

The other crocs watched from the water but did not advance.

Kate breathed rapidly, watching the reptile’s death with disbelief. Wooden, carved spears. Where on earth had they come from? It was as though she’d been transported back in time.

Kate looked out on the river. The hunters’ boat had vanished in the distance. Then she twisted her head as far as possible to look back in the direction from which the spears had come. Two Aboriginal men, in tribal gear and with just a single painted symbol on their faces, emerged from the undergrowth.

Kate gulped in air as the men came forward and cut her loose. She sank to her knees, trembling, and then, finding her voice… ‘Thank you. Dear God, thank you…’

One of the men took a container of water from the satchel that swung from his belt. He brought the water to Kate’s lips and held it to her as she drank. ‘Not too much too quickly. Drink slowly, Kate.’

Between mouthfuls of the cool liquid she said, puzzled: ‘You…know me?’

‘I am Thomas, and this is Simon. We need to get you away from here, now. The crocs will not stay away for long.’

They draped her arms over their shoulders, standing on either side of her, and led her away from the river and across the mangrove swamps.

Kate asked them who they were but Thomas hushed her, saying: ‘Talk later. For now, save energy and concentrate on walking.’

It was a difficult thirty minutes, struggling through rough terrain. It led them to a clearing amongst the mangroves and a makeshift camp where Kate found an injured and distraught Walter.

Kate learned that Walter, having lost his bearings, had fallen and gashed his leg. That was when destiny had stepped in and played its ace. Thomas and Simon had come across Walter and helped him to their camp nearby.

‘I’m so ashamed, Kate,’ Walter rasped, his throat dry, ‘not like me…lost, and then, to fall.’ He rubbed his temples vigorously, either in pain or despair or both, Kate couldn’t tell. ‘So…bloody irresponsible…’

‘Don’t be so damn proud and stupid,’ Kate chided him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and they held one another tightly. ‘You weren’t as far from the river as you thought. You sent Thomas and Simon to find me and they saved me, Walter. So you’re just as responsible for saving my life.’

‘No…’

‘The three of you saved my life and I’ll never forget it.’

While Kate and Walter rested, Thomas and Simon Mullawoona, brothers, prepared food and drink and then served it on plates fashioned from stringybark and leaves. Hot water was boiled in an ancient tin kettle, reminding Kate of the childhood stories she’d heard about the Aussie bushman’s billy tea in a mostly vanished Australia. Kate was intrigued by this curious blend of an ancient, tribal lifestyle with modern utensils.

It brought a grin to Kate’s lips to see, on Simon’s left wrist, a digital watch.

The meal the brothers served was delicious and Kate’s delight made this obvious. ‘Buffalo,’ said Thomas. ‘My favourite, too.’

After satisfying herself with the meal, Kate turned her focus on the Mullawoona brothers. ‘What are you doing out here?’

‘They’re from the Four Creeks Outstation,’ Walter offered.

‘What’s an outstation? A loo?’

The three men roared with laughter at this. ‘Outhouses is the term for loos,’ Thomas explained. ‘We have loos, of course, but outstation’s are not loos.’ Thomas told her there were many groups who had returned to a more traditional way of life in remote areas, living on outstations.

They didn’t, however, spend all their time in paint and tribal gear, hunting in the most desolate spots. This was something Thomas and Simon liked to do on rare occasions, maybe two or three times a year. They would venture into the wilderness and literally “go native.”

The rest of the time they lived with their families and friends on the Four Creeks outstation in one of the quietest areas of the Adelaide River region.

Attempts to reach Walter the previous afternoon had been unsuccessful. That morning, ranger Trish Watts had taken it upon herself to drive out to the Coolawirra cottage.

Now, Trish was with Harold Letterfield in the Wildlife Preservation Chief’s office. Trish ignored her boss’ repeated suggestion that she sit. She remained on her feet, arms folded, agitated.

‘Walter’s wife told me he’s taken off for a few weeks…’

‘Gone walkabout?’

‘No. He told his wife he was visiting relatives. And Kate Kovacs had visited just prior to this.’

‘Kate? But she’s back in Sydney…’

Trish repeated what Ethel Coolawirra had told her.

‘Doesn’t make sense. Why would she come back here…now?’

‘I think that Kate is still with him,’ Trish said. ‘Look, I can understand they were finding it hard to settle back into their lives, that they had a shared grief, but-’

‘I suppose Kate might’ve wanted to see more of the countryside that Greg loved,’ Letterfield reasoned, though his tone was still one of bewilderment.

‘It just doesn’t wash,’ Trish said.

Letterfield fixed her with a worried gaze. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I think they’ve gone off up the river to search for those murderers.’

‘Surely not.’

‘Think about it, Harold.’

‘What could they possibly hope to achieve? Alone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Trish, you know Walter as well as anyone. It isn’t his style to do something…foolish.’

‘Not under normal circumstances. But we can’t even begin to imagine the trauma he’s been through. And then Greg’s sister comes back. She could have persuaded him to join her on some personal vendetta. I think they’re out there, chief, and that means they’re in danger.’

‘If you feel that strongly about it, then there’s one way to find out,’ Letterfield said. ‘We’ll get the chopper up to scout the river, see if there’s any vehicles out there.’

‘Let me go up with Ron,’ Trish said.

‘You got it.’ Letterfield began to leaf the pages of his personal notepad. ‘In the meantime, that detective boyfriend of Kate’s gave me his number. Wanted me to keep in touch. I’ll see if he can shed any light on this.’

Walter, Thomas and Simon were in agreement that although the hunters had left the area, it was best to move on as quickly as possible.

Kate was adamant she wouldn’t leave without at least trying to find her discarded backpack with the Landscan III. Walter gave the brothers a description of where he thought the backpack might be found.

Kate’s shoulders slumped. ‘It’ll be like trying the find the proverbial needle in the haystack.’

Thomas grinned. ‘Perhaps not. Leave it to Simon and me. We’ll scout the area. But if we detect any signs of the hunters returning, we’re all out of here. Understood?’

‘Of course, but let me come with you, I might recognise the spot-’

‘No, you rest. Leave it to me and Simon.’

After they’d moved off, Walter gave Kate a reassuring touch to the shoulder. ‘These fellas been hunting in these parts for years, Kate. They have skills that put mine in the shade. If anyone can find the pack, they can.’

‘It’s the one sure chance we have of tracking those killers.’

‘Thomas and Simon understand that. They want these poachers as much as any of us.’

‘I had no idea there were people actually living out here,’ Kate said. ‘Like stepping back in time.’

‘Yes, I guess for some it represents a better time.’

Kate knew Walter was referring to the social, cultural and financial plight of the indigenous people in modern Australia. She nodded her head in understanding.

She owed these people her life…

Walter told Kate in greater detail about the outstations. They were sometimes small camps, sometimes much larger settlements, set up on Aboriginal land away from the more established towns and missions.

‘The trend started in 1970 near Elcho Island, off the coast of Arnhem Land,’ Walter said. ‘Many of my people yearned for a traditional lifestyle, away from the prejudices of the white fella. I believe the first outstation was set up by a group that left the government settlement of Maningrida. By 1977, half of our people in the Territory were living on eleven outstations.’

‘You know your historical facts,’ Kate observed.

‘Yeah. Anyway, by the early 80’s the Department of Aboriginal Affairs told us there were over one hundred and fifty outstations in remote areas.’

‘How do they live?’

‘For a period of time governments contributed buildings and various resources, such as power and water, to the larger outstations. Other, smaller communities, like Four Creeks, are mostly self-sufficient. Buffalo hunting, fishing and subsistence farming. The people trade amongst themselves. Some of the settlements have cars, boats, even small aircraft.’

‘And Thomas and Simon were out camping, getting even closer to nature.’

‘Yeah. And just as well, eh, for our sakes,’ Walter said.

The brothers returned two and a half hours later. Kate jumped up and down when she saw Simon was carrying her backpack.

She grappled with the straps, like an excited child opening a birthday present and she slipped the compact unit from the canvas. Thomas and Simon watched with fascination as Kate opened the lid and booted up. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. On screen, an icon pinpointed the location of the hunters’ boat on a digital map.

‘It works,’ Kate screeched as the three men began to talk excitedly over her.

Despite their ordeal, Kate and Walter felt a sense of elation and achievement. Walter knew, however, there would be a delayed reaction to the trauma. It would be essential to force Kate to seek counselling.

For the moment, though, there was a positive spirit to share. With Thomas and Simon leading the way, they set off for the Four Creeks outstation. The way forward was across grassy plains potted with mudflats and marshes. At one stage they saw a pack of wild pigs scampering over a rocky outcrop. Flocks of birds swept by at low altitude.

Kate watched it all with sheer wonder, as though through the eyes of a new born child. There had only been a few seconds, that morning, between living and dying. If fate had played a different hand then she wouldn’t have been here now, breathing this air, feeling this sun on her skin, or enjoying this wilderness. She was here, she realised, by the grace of God. The enormity of that fact was too much to fathom. She felt it both lifting her with wonder and weighing her with responsibility at the same time.

It was late in the day when they reached the outstation. It was a collection of rustic buildings – cottages and workhouses constructed of mud and timber as well as glass and sheets of old metal. There were corralled horses. Farmyard animals strutted about the dusty main street. Kate might have imagined this as some establishment from a mediaeval time, if it hadn’t been for the old pick-up trucks and motorcycles scattered about. The settlement was busy with men, women and children going about their routines in the final hour before the sinking sun had disappeared. They stopped now. They watched in silence as Thomas and Simon led Walter and Kate into the township.

Kate was too tired to eat or to talk with the locals. A room and a bed were made available and Kate fell quickly into a deep sleep.

High-pitched screams woke Thomas’ household in the middle of the night and they rushed into the room. Kate had never had a nightmare so vivid: this time, the crocodile’s jaws clamped tight around her leg and she’d felt herself spinning and drowning as the reptile dived and began its death roll.