Warrior in the Shadows (20 page)

3.4

Jay Burrell listened to the edge of fear that had come into his caller's voice; that was something he hadn't heard in this man's voice before.

"We don't know where he is," the caller said. "He's a material witness for the police and he's dropped off the face of the earth, nobody can find him anywhere. He might be off looking for you, unless you decided to disappear him and not tell me, like you didn't tell me a damn thing about this whole mess."

"He's not going to come here," Jay said.

"He was that cop's best friend," the caller said. "He's a forensic photographer for the police but he's not a cop. He was some kind of intelligence officer for the Army, so maybe he has some way of sussing you out."

"What makes you think that?"

"Don't ask me to do another thing… I'm done with all this," the caller said.

"You're done when I tell you you're done," Jay said. "Things got out of hand," he conceded.

"You don't know how much," the caller said, his voice breathy. "All this wasn't necessary— you should know better that I would never do anything against you. I had no part in anything those two had going. But the FBI is here now, looking into things…"

"There's nothing more for them to find. There's no track, no trail. It all ends there," Jay said. "You just need to stay cool, keep your mouth shut, and monitor the situation. I've arranged for additional payment to cover your difficulties. And then you can just go back to your life because, like you said, things got out of hand. I won't be doing any more business in Minneapolis."

"I want to be through with this."

"Pretty soon," Jay said with certainty. "Pretty soon."

He hung up the phone and stared out at the ocean through the big glass-sliding door, his hands locked behind his back. After a long while, he picked up the phone and entered the long-distance number for the Quinkin Bar in Laura.

"Hullo, Quinkin Bar and Hotel," a male voice answered.

"Yes," Jay said. "I'd like to leave a message for Alfie Woodard."

"He won't be in for a few days, is it urgent?"

"Not particularly. Would you have him call Jay when he comes round?"

"No worries, mate. Call Jay. That's easy enough."

"Right then, ta."

"Ta."

Jay studied the surf and the cut of the waves and thought of getting his board out again. He surfed every morning. That was his favorite way to start the day, rolling out of bed and getting his board into the water first thing. It was a heaven he'd made for himself, starting first in Humboldt County in California growing marijuana, then moving down the coast to Huntington Beach outside of Los Angeles till the law enforcement heat got to be too much. His dope-financed surfing vacations provided him with plenty of good places to go. Australia was perfect for his operational headquarters because he moved no drugs in or out of the country; all he moved was money and information. His aircraft were headquartered in Mexico; his major finances in Caracas, Venezuela, and Oranjestad, Aruba; his trucking operation in Arizona, and his domestic money laundering operations in Minneapolis and Dayton, Ohio. Now he'd have to divest himself of the properties he managed in Minneapolis, carefully but quickly, and expand his operations in Dayton. He didn't want to pump that up too much, but it would have to do until he found a new opportunity in the Midwest.

So much to do.

Jay Burrell knew he sat at the top of the food chain when it came to narcotics trafficking. And no one had gotten close to him, not one of the government organizations like DEA or CIA. He knew he was watched with sharklike keenness by those organizations, but he was smart, cunning, and careful, and able to afford the very best legal and accounting help. To anyone who cared to look closely at him, he would appear to be a very successful real estate trader who'd made good investments and gotten good return, enough to finance his love of surfing and his modest expatriate lifestyle in Cairns. He traveled a lot, but there was nothing illegal about that.

He had some odd acquaintances, but there was nothing illegal about that, either.

He decided to surf, then go into town for a late lunch. A little diversion and socializing would do him good. He didn't want to think through, at least not yet, what he might have to do if someone had connected him to Alfie, and Alfie to the Minneapolis killings. He didn't believe any of his people were up to the task and he surely didn't want to take Alfie on his own. So he made himself a mental note to go to one of his many paid contacts in the Australian government and have a search run on Charley Payne of Minneapolis, Minnesota, and see just what kind of man
might
be tracking him.

3.5

Alfie Woodard lay in that dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep, the place where the body can be sound asleep and the mind awake and alive with visions. In the cave he called home, he often spent hours in that state, dreaming, feeling the images come up from within him as well as from the very stone around him. When the dreaming took him, he would lie there for days, coming out only to relieve himself, drink some water and take a light meal, and then lie back down to follow the dreamline wherever it led him.

This was the world of his real self: to walk in his mind among the spirits of his ancestors and to confer with the other members of the ancient and malevolent Imjin tribe. There was a particular voice that spoke to him, a haunting voice that directed him, the voice of Anurra:

Timara is coming… Timara is coming with the woman and there is danger for you. Prepare, prepare, for the hunter is coming for you…

He had been chosen for a task. Chosen for what, he wasn't sure yet, at least not consciously, but that was unimportant. But the path he'd been on continued to unfold in front of him. It had seemed so easy, those years past, when Jay Burrell had first sought him out and asked him to do a job. Jay had said, in his disarmingly frank manner, "Would you kill a man for me?"

Alfie had barely paused to answer. It was as though he'd known the question was coming before it was uttered. He said, "Sure, mate. I can use the money. But it won't be cheap."

The killing began exactly when he needed to take his study of puri-puri to the next level. Each killing was a ritual and each time the ritual became more focused and his dreaming more intense as he took the very substance of his victims into himself. Each time the mask he wore in the outer world became easier to discard, and each time the return to his cave became more important, till he was increasingly reluctant to leave. Here was where his real work was to be done.

A swirling montage of images began to form in his mind: a woman, her face hidden, lit from behind with brilliant light outlining her in a bright nimbus but leaving her features in shadow; the tall thin blond man who'd fought so well in the policeman's house; Alfie limping toward the aircraft that waited for him.

There was meaning and connection to all of this, but he wasn't fully aware of all of it yet. He was confident that understanding would rise up in him when it was the right time. He only knew that, for now, he needed to prepare and for that he needed to tend to the needs of his body: exercise, eating, sleeping.

He woke himself slowly and opened his eyes. Daylight slanted into the cave, the razor edge of it stopping at the shadow cast in the back of the cave where Alfie lay. He got up and retrieved the small roll of paints he'd assembled to replace the one lost in Minneapolis. He stretched himself out on his back in the shadowed rear of the cave and turned his attention to a bare space on the wall, close to where it sloped into the floor.

He began to draw.

A woman's figure first, small breasts poking straight out in the vigor and firmness of youth, with a smooth and rounded belly, her legs splayed wide and one arm crooked invitingly across her belly. He sketched quickly and confidently, the image growing larger in his mind. He sang as he sketched, a soft hum like that of the didgeridoo, singing love magic to the image and reaching with his mind to the woman in the Dreamtime, a woman he felt he'd met somewhere, a woman he felt coming to him soon.

She would be with the hunter the Timara favored.

Alfie let the dark spirit move through him and his hands went to another blank spot on the wall, near the woman's love magic image, and he began to sketch quick harsh lines, an image of a man upside down, a tall thin figure etched in black with a white line down the middle, each hand clutching a weapon, dangling limp and useless. Alfie outlined the image in red and a dark song whose words he could not utter rang loud in his head.

Death magic to this man.

3.6

Kativa tossed and turned in her sleep as something dark reached out to enter her dreams…

…
She was walking toward dun-colored hills covered with thin trees with branches that looked like arms reaching to the sky, the fallen slabs of sandstone that covered the hill hiding caves and crevices between. She was naked, enjoying the sense of sun on her breasts, the cool breeze across her thighs, a loincloth concealing her womanhood but her breasts proudly on display. She felt a warmth between her legs, a delicious teasing, perhaps from the heat and moisture that built there as she walked, the exercise warming her like a lover stroking her breasts and back. She was in the moment and the moment was delightful.

She wasn't alone.

Behind her came a tall thin man, his stride the length of a tree trunk, slipping from tree to tree to come up behind her, hiding for a moment, and peering out between the branches, his slim limbs hidden by the limbs of the trees. She felt him looking at her with lust and she enjoyed that, enjoyed the thought that he was looking at her bare buttocks and back gleaming with sweat in the midday sun.

Ahead of her, someone faintly called out her name. She couldn't make out the voice, so low it was almost below the threshold of her hearing, but she felt it like a pressure in her head. It drove her forward, urging her toward the caves she saw ahead of her. She couldn't see who was calling; he was hiding in the rocks ahead of her, calling to her, just ahead of her. It was singing she heard, in the space before hearing, sweet on the surface but somehow rough and discordant just beneath, calling her forward now as she stood in the shadow of a great hill, looking for a way up. There was a path, a narrow path so old that it looked worn into the stone, and beside the path was a human skull, and its jaws clattered together and said, "Welcome, woman. Bring us your flesh so we may walk again."

Kativa sat bolt upright in the bed, tangled in the sheets. She was streaming sweat. Her sudden waking roused Charley, who sat up groggily and said, "What is it?"

"… I was dreaming."

That brought Charley into full wakefulness. "Are you all right?" he said.

"It was a horrid dream."

Kativa got out of bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. "I need a shower," she said through the door.

"Right," Charley said.

Kativa stood in the shower stall and let the steaming water roll over her, heating her throughout and relaxing the tension she felt in her neck, back, and pelvis. The dream images lingered and the memories of her nakedness in the sun bothered her. She scrubbed at herself fiercely, as though she could wash the memory of that voice out of her self. Then she dried herself with the big rough terry-cloth towels and wrapped one around herself and came out into the room.

"Would you like to shower?" she said to Charley. "There's plenty of hot water."

Charley was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, clad only in boxer shorts. "Yeah," he said. "I would."

He stood up and paused before her, one hand resting tentatively on her shoulder. "Your dream?" he said.

Kativa shook her head no. "I don't want to talk about it," she said. "It's just more of the same. Take a shower and we can eat."

Charley nodded, then went into the bathroom and showered while Kativa changed into khaki trousers, a light linen short-sleeved shirt, and sturdy walking shoes. Charley came out of the bathroom and changed in silence. Then the two of them went downstairs to the lavish breakfast buffet. After eating and many cups of coffee, Kativa said, "Now what are we to do?"

Charley nodded, sensing a change in her. He sipped from his coffee, then said, "There's a man, a local, I have to take a look at. The man we're looking for, he's been seen with this guy. How well do you know this town?"

Kativa shrugged and shivered as though she had a sudden chill. "Fairly well."

Charley handed her a slip of paper with Jay Burrell's address on it. "Can you get us here? Do you know where this is?"

She studied the address for a moment. "Yes," she said. "It's a street that parallels the main beach, right outside of town. It's a long walk, or we could drive by there."

Charley nodded. "We'll want to drive by first, get a feel for the area."

"Do you know who you're looking for?"

"I'll know him when I see him."

They left the restaurant and went through the lobby to the adjacent parking garage where they'd left the pickup truck. Charley walked completely around the truck, then knelt and looked quickly into each wheel well and under the carriage of the truck.

"What are you looking for?" Kativa said.

"Nasty surprises."

"You've done this sort of thing before."

"What's that?"

"This sort of thing… looking for people."

"Yep."

"Are you going to tell me about it?" Kativa said, heat in her voice. "Or am I to guess, like I have with so much of what you do?"

Charley got in and started the truck, and swung the passenger door open.

"Get in," he said.

Kativa got in and slammed the door with more violence than was necessary.

"I'm not a child," she said. "And I'm already in this with you. I have a right to know if you know what you're doing. I still don't even know why I'm here."

Charley thought for a moment, then turned the truck off.

"Fair enough," he said. "I know what I'm doing. Before I was a photographer, I worked for our CIA. I was a street operator."

"What's a street operator?"

Charley laughed and said, "It's somebody who operates on the street. I've done this sort of thing all over the world. Some other time I could give you a long précis on what I've done and how I've been trained, but we don't have time for that now. I think you've seen enough to understand that I know what I'm doing. It's no longer my first choice for a profession, but it's how I made my living for a long time. Why are you here? There's not a logical answer to that question, but then there's nothing logical about this whole Quinkin angle. That's why you're here. The truth is, Kativa, everything important about this guy came from you. I need you here to help me sort out what I may find and to help me get what I need to take this guy."

"To take him?"

"That's right."

"You mean to the law?"

"Don't be naïve."

"There's more than one kind of law here, Charley. That's something you should know."

"We're operating on my law right now."

"The Aborigines have their own law and it would certainly pertain to this."

"What do you mean?"

"In each tribe, there's a council of older men, the elders. Within that council is a group called the Law Men. Their job is to enforce the taboos and the tribal laws— and that includes the practice of magic. If we found what tribe this Quinkin belongs to, we'd have allies in the Law Men. They would want to put a stop to him."

"So what, they'd try him in some kind of court?"

"Not exactly. They'd decide among themselves what needed to be done— and then they'd do it. It might be something like a beating for a small transgression, or a ceremonial wounding of the leg with a spear for a young man who got drunk and caused trouble. It can go all the way to the killing of a dark sorcerer if it calls for it."

"We don't have time for that," Charley said. "I don't know if this guy is going to stick around or not. We need to find him and fix him right now."

Charley started the engine and backed the truck out of the parking spot.

Kativa turned away and looked out the side window.

"Is that what the gun is for?" she said.

"It could be."

Kativa wrapped her arms across her chest, hugging herself.

"Kativa?" Charley said. "I need directions."

She steered him through the town with brief, succinct phrases. They found the street, a winding narrow two-lane that passed in front of many large houses that backed onto the beach.

"It's that house on the crest of the hill," she said.

Charley shifted into low gear and slowed as the truck sputtered to the crest of the hill. The front of the house and the yard was set off by a low wall and a wrought-iron barrier gate that led to the sidewalk. The house was L-shaped, with the short base of the L pointing down a short slope directly to the sea.

"Nice," Charley said.

He paid close attention to the layout of the house, noting how the wall and the iron gate blocked off the front but that the driveway and rear of the house were open to the beach, with nothing to interfere with the view from the big windows at the rear of the house. It would be best to approach from the sea and he saw how it could be done: he could walk in from a vantage point down the road and right up into the back of the house. There were lights on the back deck facing the ocean, but they all seemed to point in rather than out. That augured well for a night approach. There was no one outside, but he caught a glimpse of someone moving inside the house, past a front window and then disappearing into the depths of the house.

Charley put the truck back into gear, drove to the end of the road and turned around, then drove slowly past the house once again. As they passed the house for a second time, there was a big man, heavily muscled and dressed in a singlet and shorts, standing on the porch. The big man raised his hand to wave as they passed. Kativa and Charley both waved and continued on without stopping.

"So what now?" Kativa said.

"We go back to the hotel and wait awhile. Then maybe we'll take a walk on the beach."

"And then?"

"We're going to find some maps of the Laura country and we'll talk about our trip up there."

* * *

"Who was it, Tim?" Jay Burrell said.

"Some bloke and his girlfriend. Probably looking for a way down to the beach."

"Are they gone?"

"Just turned round and went."

"Fine then. I want you to go into town and wait for the bus with our friend Alfie on it."

"I hate that bloody bastard."

"Put it away and save it for another day, Timmy. You'll get your chance. I may end up putting you with Alfie on this next thing anyway."

The big man lurched off, leaving Jay studying his fingertips steepled in front of his face.