Bones of Contention (24 page)

Chapter Forty-three

The noise woke her. Squawking, screeching, grunting. Her eyes slotted open. She was lying on her side on the gritty floor of a van or truck. One of the rear doors had been left open and she could see blinding-white sand and, in the distance, blue water with whitecaps. She was parked beside the ocean. Or a sea, or a wavy lake. She ruled out the possibility it was a mirage only because she didn’t think optical illusions made noise, and those waves were definitely whooshing. The sound could be heard above the squawking and screeching.

Her hands and feet were tied and her throat burned from the residual effects of the gas that had been used to knock her out. How many hours and miles ago was that? She rolled onto her back, raised her head off the floor, and scoped out the front of the van. It had only a driver’s seat, currently unoccupied. The rest of the space was stacked with wire crates and camping gear. She pushed herself into a sitting position and tried to recall the face she’d glimpsed in that fraction of a second before the gassy rag blinded her. She was pretty sure it belonged to Bill. She wondered if he’d killed her bodyguard. She wondered what fate he, or his higher-ups, had in mind for her.

Not death. At least, not right away. The inside of the van was too hot for comfort, but somebody had left a door open so she wouldn’t be baked alive. Her hands were tied in front, the bindings snug, but not tight enough to cut off circulation or restrict movement. Did they think that anyone dumb enough to be taken in by Bill’s jive would be too dumb to untie a simple overhand knot? Did they think a girl would be too dainty or sissified to gnaw rope? Or did her kidnappers intend her to escape and run off down the beach?

She scooched her bottom along the floor of the van until her back was against the wall, drew her knees up to her chest, and began to work loose the rope around her ankles with her fingers. It wasn’t much of a trussing. The knots pulled apart with minimal effort. In just a few minutes, her feet were free and she used her teeth to loosen the rope around her wrists. She wriggled her hands free and looked herself over for signs of wear and tear. Other than a few minor abrasions, everything seemed to be in working order.

The cacophony outside sounded like a zoo at feeding time and she got up on her knees to look out the side window above her head. What she saw both astonished and appalled her. Rows of wire crates like the ones in the van sat under a long canvas canopy and each crate held some eye-popping bird or reptile. Nearest to her, she saw parrots with blue heads, orange breasts, and green bodies; black cockatoos with resplendent red tails; a vibrant green snake with pale blue spots and a confetti of white speckles down its back; and some kind of a wading bird with long orange legs and a ruff of iridescent black feathers. This was no private menagerie. These creatures had been poached from the surrounding forest by the owner of this van and his cohort. There were no doubt collectors who would pay dearly for some of these beauties.

Crouching low, she moved to the opposite side of the van and looked out the window. A green cabin-style tent had been erected at the edge of a clearing skirted by tall, scraggly trees. There was no one in sight. Either her captors were taking a siesta in the tent or off in the bush trapping more birds. Poachers. Bill might have nothing whatsoever to do with Wendell or drugs.

The heat inside the van was enervating and the stench from the dirty crates and animal droppings was making her nauseous. Sweat trickled out of her hair and dripped into her eyes and her throat felt parched. She took stock of the van’s contents. Gas cans, shovel, plastic tarp, boxes of canned goods, a large searchlight probably used for signaling incoming boats, and thank you, Jesus, a six-pack of bottled water. She unscrewed the cap on a bottle, took a long, luxurious drink and splashed the rest over her face and hands. She opened a second bottle and drank half of that.

Her thirst assuaged, she turned her mind to the business of escape. If her kidnappers worked for Wendell, then she was probably in the vicinity of Black Point and the water she was looking at was the Arafura Sea. If they were independent poachers with a sideline in kidnapping, she could be anywhere, but most likely somewhere in Kakadu. She could take off down the beach and hope to find a house or a settlement. But which direction and how far? Or she could follow the truck’s tracks and ditto the hope part.

Was it too much to hope that somebody had left the key in the ignition? Keeping low, she went to the front. Incredibly, the key was there. What was wrong with this? She didn’t like to look a gift horse in the mouth, but relying on a piece of luck too good to be true was what had landed her in this unholy mess.

She considered the situation in front of her—a sandy dead-end littered with a few logs of driftwood. The poachers had apparently pitched their tent where the dirt track they rode in on met the sea. She searched the glove box and the side pockets in hopes of finding a map marked “You are here.” No luck. Evidently, Fate wasn’t going to overdo the serendipity. She’d have to wing it.

How deftly could she turn this buggy around? It would be a tight squeeze. Assuming she didn’t get mired in deep sand or collide with a log or a tree, she’d still have to dodge the tent and accelerate fast enough down the track to keep someone from jumping onto the hood or grabbing a door handle and holding on. At the sound of the engine, whoever was in that tent would come running.

The back door of the van was hanging open. The birds were still making a ruckus, but the sound of a slamming door would be heard. Moving back to the rear, she grabbed the ropes she’d cast off and quickly lashed the door to its mate. She returned to the front, slipped into the driver’s seat, belted herself in, and hit the electronic door lock button. She thought, this must be what the astronauts feel like before blastoff.

She took a deep breath, let off the brake, and turned the key. The engine thrummed to life. She stomped on the gas and the van lurched forward. She wrenched the wheel hard to the right, but the turning radius was too wide. She sideswiped a tree, backed up, and kept turning. As she straightened and jounced toward the track, the shaven-headed man ran out of the tent in front of her with a gun in his hand. Panicked, she veered into the tent, which collapsed like a soufflé across the windshield.

She jumped out, ready to run for her life, but her assailant was flat on his back under the crumpled canvas and the gun lay loose at her feet. Instinctively, she grabbed it and drew a two-handed bead on his head, like one of those C.S.I. chicks.

Holding his left arm and grimacing, he struggled out from under the canvas and got to his feet. “You crazy bitch, how’d you get loose?” His voice was sharp and searing, like acid. He looked older than she’d thought when she first saw him in Pine Creek. Lines fanned out from around his eyes and his mouth puckered as if he tasted acid.

“Don’t move,” she said, backing away.

A black man limped out of the tent, clutching his leg. He said, “You broke my leg.”

“I’m glad,” she said, noting that his forehead was adorned with the same bead-like scars as Bill’s.

Acid took a step forward. “Put down the gun. I’ll drive you back to Jabiru and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

She backed up against the truck. The engine was still running. Her whole body seemed to vibrate with it. At least, the hand that held the gun was vibrating. “One more step and I’ll shoot. I swear I will.”

“You’d better put down that gun before you hurt someone seriously.”

Who? She spun in the direction of the new voice. It belonged to a big strawberry blond with a freckled face and a rifle as long as California.

“Shoot the bitch,” said Acid.

Dinah’s attention triangulated. She shifted her aim from man to man to man. It looked like a zero sum game. If she put down the gun, she was a goner. And if she didn’t, same difference. Her head throbbed and her hand shook.

She aimed the gun at the newcomer. “I don’t know if I have the nerve to pull this trigger. But you’re not giving me much choice here and my fingers are starting to spasm.”

He laid down his rifle.

“What the fuck are you doing, Burdett?” Acid looked at him in disbelief.

So did Dinah.

“Thank you,” she said. Her heart was whanging away so loudly they all must hear it and she had no idea what to do next.

Burdett said, “Why don’t you just get back in the truck and drive away. Nobody’s going to stop you.”

It sounded so obvious. So simple. “Where are we?”

“A couple of miles from the Black Point wharf. You’ll be there in no time. Without the truck, we can’t follow you.”

For a kidnapper, he was a remarkably accommodating guy. Too accommodating. The rest of the gang would no doubt be lying in wait for her in Black Point. She willed her thoughts to slow down. Gradually, her heart quieted and her fear subsided enough to keep her voice from quavering. “Mr. Burdett, I want you to tie up your two friends. Use the tent’s guy rope.”

“Lady, you’re holding a gun. Why don’t you declare victory and leave?”

“Do as I say.”

“Buggeration.” He walked over to the tent and began to disjoin the rope from the tent and stakes.

Dinah pointed the gun at Acid. “What’s your name?”

“Sykes.”

“And you?” she asked the black man.

“Tommy.”

“Well, sit down on the ground, both of you. Tie their arms behind their backs and their ankles tight together.”

“But my leg’s fractured,” said Tommy.

“Then you’ll have to keep very still and not let Mr. Sykes toss about and make it worse.”

Burdett grabbed Tommy under the arms and forced him onto the ground.

Acid said, “Are you insane, Burdett? What gives? Did you let her out?”

“Of course, not. Get down and don’t be a jackass.”

Dinah eagle-eyed the operation to make sure there was no funny business.

When Sykes and Tommy were incapacitated, Burdett threw a covering of canvas over them. He said, “It’ll keep the flies off.” He put his finger to his lips, jerked his head toward the water, and mimed a walk down the beach.

What fresh treachery was this? Dinah picked up a bent tent pole for a staff and with the gun, gestured him ahead of her. They walked about twenty yards, past row upon row of cages, more than she’d been able to see from inside the truck. The squawking had abated somewhat, but there were a few rowdy diehards, especially the parrots.

When they were out of earshot of Sykes and Tommy, Burdett turned around and said, “You’re making a big mistake here. I’m a federal drug enforcement officer, undercover, investigating a major cartel.”

“And I’m an undercover Martian. Investigating the disappearance of humanity in humans. Cops don’t shoot at innocent women or gas them and truck them off to the boondocks.”

“You were never in any real danger. If you were, I’d have stepped in.”

“My hero.” She cast a leery look over her shoulder. “Where’s the other Nigerian? The one who calls himself Bill?”

“He’s going to meet us later tonight. Look, I’m telling you the truth. My name’s Josh Burdett, AFP, Australian Federal Police. Don’t you speak English?”

“Well enough to know it’s used almost exclusively for the telling of lies.”

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

“Show me your ID.”

“I’m undercover. I can’t carry ID.”

“And I can’t wear green hair. Everybody would know I’m an extraterrestrial.”

“Look, this is a major operation. There’s a boat due in tonight from Papua, New Guinea with four thousand kilos of heroin on board. I have to be ready to play my part.”

“You see what I mean about the lying?”

“Undercovers have to lie or we’d never get any evidence.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Who do Sykes and the Nigerians work for? Who wanted me shanghaied and why?”

“The big kahuna, the money man who calls the shots. He thinks you have a portable hard drive with some data that jeopardizes his operation. I’d like that, too. You can trust me to get it to the right people.”

“Uh huh. And did the kahuna order me killed back in Jabiru?”

“He just wanted you out of the way for a day or two. Sykes got gun-happy.”

“Did he get spear-happy, too? Is he the one who killed the journalist?”

“Probably. I wasn’t there. The crew took its orders from a man named Fisher, but he’s dead now. With him gone, there’s a lot of suspicion. Tonight’s shipment could be the last one for a long time. That’s why we have to make the bust.”

“The man who ordered Sykes to get me out of the way, have you ever seen him?”

“No, but his name is Wendell Dobbs.”

“How do you know?”

“We’ve got cell phone taps on most of the crew. Hard to believe an old duffer like that’s the brains of the outfit. Talks like a hayseed. Y’all bettah taste the product to make sure it ain’t mixed with sugah, you heah?”

Dinah dashed away a tear. The truth ain’t for sissies.

A scaly lizard with a gaudy orange neck frill gaped and hissed at them like an espresso machine and the birds amped up their screeching. She raised her voice. “What does animal poaching have to do with drugs? Do you hide the stuff inside the cages to deter custom officials from any hands-on inspection?”

“The poaching’s a natural offshoot of the drug operation. Boat comes in with the drugs, goes out with the birds and snakes and what have you. Same as with truck drivers, they don’t like to deadhead. This way, they’ve got cargo to sell at their next port of entry.”

“Not this time, they don’t.”

“What?”

She was seized by an epiphany, maybe the spirit of some indigenous deity, or maybe just her sense of outrage and fair play. These creatures were quintessentially Australian. They belonged here, in the wild, not plucked or skinned or caged for some foreigner’s amusement. “Open the cages.”

“You’d blow a whole year’s worth of undercover work? Just when we’re about to spring the trap?” Burdett was incredulous. “Empty cages will tip the people on the boat that something’s wrong.”

“Something is wrong, especially from the animals’ point of view. Let them go.”

He shot her a corrosive look. “The goanna back there is mean. You want me to get my face chewed off?”