AT 29 (36 page)

The seizures returned. At first, they were mild, occurring only once or twice a week with short intervals of trembling that abated as soon as Aaron stood and walked. He didn't lose consciousness as he frequently did before Melissa came to live with him, but as the months passed they grew stronger and more difficult to control. The frequency also increased until, by the fifth month following her death, they occurred everyday. When he blacked out in front of his son, coming back to consciousness to find the child cowering in the corner, he knew life on the farm was no longer tenable. He gathered the crying little boy to his chest and decided to end their pain forever.

Within weeks the farm was sold. Apollo Bay was transitioning from a staid farming community to a seaside retreat for vacationers from Geelong and Melbourne. Aaron's decision to sell caught the wave of money coming into the region along the Great Ocean Road. He negotiated for a few weeks to get his affairs in order, using the time to sell most of his personal possessions and all of the farming equipment he had collected over the years. When all had been put in order he packed the truck with Melba's old trunk, placed his son securely on the front seat and drove to Melbourne, never to return to Apollo Bay, the home that represented too much sorrow. His stay in Melbourne was short.

For a few long days he debated the merits of two options for the welfare of his son. Both the Melbourne Orphan Asylum and Saint Malachy's Boys Orphanage offered the care he desired, but he struggled between secular and religious upbringing. Apart from his forgotten youth when he sang in church at Melba's behest, he rarely thought of spiritual matters and had long ago determined that if there was a God, his benevolence was suspect. On the other hand, secular views might not afford his child the chance to
decide for himself. Whatever his own feelings might be, he respected Melba's devotion to spirituality and he believed that Melissa, too, would have wished her child to be exposed to its declarations on right and wrong. Holding the little boy's hand, he alternately strolled the sidewalks in front of the two institutions, trying to penetrate the walls for a view of what might be transpiring among the children within. Eventually, he sided with religion. Hiding his sorrow from his son, he collected the boy's most cherished toys from the truck and climbed the stairs to the entrance to Saint Malachy's.

Sister Marie Bonaventuri, the stern, but warm-hearted chief administrator, met with father and son in her office. She listened as the big man explained why he wished to admit his child to the orphanage. The boy's mother was dead and he, being old and suffering from debilitating seizures, could not provide the care needed. Aaron explained that there were no relatives or friends trustworthy or willing to take him in.

“His best chance is here at Saint Malachy's where he will be with other children and safe. I also have money that I can provide to ensure that he is well cared for.”

Sister Marie raised her eyes. Few children came to the orphanage with money. “Will you be staying nearby to visit your son?” she asked, skeptically.

Aaron paused. He had not contemplated returning. Then he gave a careful response. “I have business in Adelaide. Depending upon its outcome and my health, I may return here to Melbourne.”

Sister Marie nodded, pushing a paper across the desk for Aaron to sign. The little boy stirred in his chair as if knowing what was about to happen as his father quickly penned his name. When she retrieved the signed paper, Aaron stood and pulled two thick envelopes from the pocket of his coat.

“One envelope contains money for my son's care. Use it as you see fit. The other envelope is for him. Please give it to him when he is grown and it is time for him to make his own way.” Aaron watched as the nun took the envelopes and placed them in the bottom drawer of her desk. He had no choice, but to trust her and the God she served.

He turned his attention to his son, fighting back tears. He held the child to his chest, kissing him on the cheek as he turned to exit the office. The child wrapped his arms around his father's neck, squeezing his tiny hands to his head, refusing to let go in a knowing embrace. But how could he know? He was a mere infant, too young to understand the momentous events of his short life. Tears streaked down Aaron's cheeks as he reached the front door of the orphanage. He looked out at the street, unable to contemplate life without the boy. Sister Marie followed behind, careful not to interfere. She would not breach this delicate moment. The child would need her soon enough.

After several minutes of quiet remorse, Aaron gently placed the last love of his life on the floor at his feet, kissed him on the forehead and placed his massive hand on his head as if blessing his future. He turned and looked to Sister Marie who stepped forward to take the child's hand. She showed no alarm at his tears, but gave a soft smile of understanding as he turned to leave.

“Please tell Nigel he was loved. Be good to my son.” Then he hurried out into the sunlight, broken in spirit, with only two purposes left to the remaining days of his life.

Finding and killing Rolf proved far easier than he expected. Aaron plotted his revenge on the long drive to Adelaide, determined to watch and wait for as long as it took until the man who had driven all the love from his life showed himself. The wait was brief.

Rolf did not leave Australia, though he must have hidden somewhere and taken his time before resurfacing in Adelaide. To Aaron's thinking, this seemed so since the police did not find him in the months following Melissa's murder. But he was there now as Aaron watched him shuffle with a noticeable limp toward Mickey's, just as he had done the first time he saw him three years earlier. This time Aaron did not enter the pub. Instead, he waited outside for hours until darkness came and the killer wandered back onto the street, staggering slightly in the way that drunkards do when they have had their fill. He followed his prey closely, not caring if he was seen. When he finished with him he fully intended to accept whatever fate unfolded. His interest in living had ended at the steps of the orphanage.

As Rolf walked toward the alley off Currie Street Aaron came closer, trying to recall if there was an isolated spot along the way where he could finish him. Then, a block ahead, the alley appeared and he remembered the iron stairs at its far end. His heart quickened as he decided to do it there.

Once they reached the entrance, Rolf in the lead and unaware of the big man who stalked him from behind, all notice of other activity disappeared from Aaron's concentration. Rolf stopped, momentarily fumbling in his pockets, seeking something. Aaron stopped, too, watching intently. Then he saw the drunken man pull a pistol from his pocket. Rolf expected him to come one day. He had prepared himself. Gun in hand, he continued into the alley, never looking back where he might have plainly seen Aaron as he came up from behind. When he was so close that he could reach out and touch him, Aaron spoke.

“A gun cannot help you.”

Rolf whirled around, raising the pistol. “YOU!!” he shouted, in terror.

Aaron did not wait for him to fire. In a trance of all-consuming hatred he brought his arm down on the gun while simultaneously lifting the full force of his knee into Rolf's groin. The gun fell harmlessly to the cobblestones as Rolf staggered backwards, groaning in pain. Aaron advanced on him with fury, driving his fist into his face again and again until Rolf dropped to his knees, blood spewing from his nose and mouth. He fully intended to finish him off when the helpless man raised his hands whimpering in fear.

“Don't kill me!” he pleaded.

Aaron refused to listen. The very sound of the coward's voice enraged him more as he took him by the throat and squeezed, but in a desperate fight for his life, Rolf found the strength to tear away and sprint to the stairway. Together, one behind the other, they mounted the stairs, Rolf kicking at his pursuer, trying to knock him back. When he reached the landing he turned to confront Aaron who dove across the last step and tackled him. Sprawled across Rolf's fallen body, Aaron ignored the crushing pain of his frightened foe's fists as they slammed down on his back and spine. With a burst of adrenaline, he forced his legs to a stooping position and, once again, gripped Rolf by the throat. Then, with all the strength he possessed, he rose up, bringing the choking man to his feet. Rolf's face went crimson as his brain struggled with the loss of oxygen. Aaron brought him close so he could look the dying man in the eyes.

“How did you find her?” he demanded, with venom in his voice.

Eyes bulging, Rolf grabbed for Aaron's hand, moving his lips to speak, but with no sound. Aaron loosened his grip ever so slightly.

“Her mother!” The killer exclaimed, as he wrung himself from Aaron's grasp and fell to his knees, panting for air. “Then I killed the old woman!”

With the rage of a lifetime, Aaron took hold of Rolf's woolen shirt and flung him over the railing, watching with satisfaction as he plunged screaming to the hard surface below. When the final vestiges of life flickered from Rolf's face, Aaron looked down, wishing there was more that he could do to relieve the crazed fury that still burned in his heart. But the man was dead. He knew there was nothing left, but to steal away in the night. His final purpose remained.

He stopped only for petrol on the two day drive back toward Melbourne and beyond to the Great Ocean Road. He stayed in the backcountry, knowing that once Rolf's body was found, the police would make the connection and begin their search for him. In the bed of the truck he had placed a few supplies together with a small tent that bore a marked resemblance to the ones he had lived in during his years of work building the road along the Southern Ocean. His mother's old trunk was there, too, absently heaved among these other things.

He ended his journey when he came to the point where the Twelve Apostles rose up from the angry sea. He hid the truck deep in the bush, far off the path to the cliffs above. After retrieving the rolled up tent, he covered the vehicle with brush, further obscuring its presence from even the most curious hiker who might venture from the path. Then he trekked up the hillside until he reached the cliffs that ranged above the ocean. The breathtaking rock formations did not interest him as he trudged along the precipice, searching for the right spot. It was not long before he found it, overlooking the greatest Apostle, London Arch, a promontory rising from the rock strewn waters far below. He pitched his tent perilously close to the edge. When night fell he built a small fire and waited.

Gazing into the burning embers, visions of his life crossed through his mind. Melissa danced in the firelight, working the soil of her flowerbeds. Laura drifted by, dressed in her wedding gown and laughing as she danced with her new husband. Melba was there at the organ in the church, concentrating on her husband's music as worshippers sang his songs to the heavens. At last, little Nigel appeared, giggling with pleasure as his father nuzzled and tickled him. Then the precious child slipped off to sleep in his father's arm as he sang soft melodies from Nathan's songbook.

Late in the cold darkness, the trembling began. Aaron gathered himself, hoping for the first time since their emergence at Gallipoli, that the tremors would grow in intensity, perhaps even bring on a violent seizure like the one in the Melbourne hotel that drove Melissa away. To be sure of his chances, he willed his legs to rise and carry him to the very edge of the cliff. There, he stood as the shaking took hold, forcing his limbs every which way in uncontrolled spasms. Soon, his mind began to falter. He sighed in surrender as the last sight he would ever see flashed into view, London Bridge, that enormous island of limestone carved into a peculiar arch over the raging waters. Then he allowed himself to plummet into the frothy waves below.

In the days that followed his body was carried by the currents far out into the ocean. Several weeks later, weakened from wind and rain, the tent blew into the ocean as well. Eventually, the blackened ash of the small fire also disappeared, its last remnants driven into the air as dust on the wind. The truck remained hidden deep in the heavy bush
where he had left it. Years of falling leaves and branches joined with the growth all around to obscure its presence.

All semblance of Aaron Whitehurst's existence faded, including the memory of him, since all who once loved him had also perished. Even Nigel would see the memory of his father fade, buried too deep for recollection by the trials of his new life. The farmstand on Main Street in Apollo Bay eventually disintegrated and vanished from the landscape replaced later by a storefront.

None of the Whitehurst's ever knew the stories of one another. Jonathan and Aaron shared ironically similar fates. Each sired a son late in life by a younger woman. Each gave the child up to others, and each found his end in the towering lands above the Southern Ocean. Only the memory of Nathan differed in its destiny, his legacy preserved by Melba in the songs that continued to be sung in the tiny church at Apollo Bay.

It was dawn when Jimmy rolled the Centurion from his room. The air was thick and he worried that the hot sun and humidity would suck valuable moisture from his body. Cramps were likely. He grabbed a light breakfast down the street then headed for Malletts Bay. As he rounded the point, bringing the bay into view, the sun was bright with only a few puffy clouds to shield its rays. Despite the early hour, fully ninety minutes before the start time, scores of cars clogged the road. Anticipation began to take over his nerves.

It was fifteen minutes before eight when he made his way onto the small beach where the swimmers prepared to launch into the water. He carried the orange cap in his hand, spying others with the same color milling about. He stooped down at the water's edge, testing it with his hand. It felt colder than Walden Pond a month earlier.

More contestants began to gather on the beach until it was hard to find an isolated spot. He watched the groups as they mingled together by color. He was surprised to see so many women. There were older people, too, some looking well into their fifties, but with lean bodies that challenged the lines on their faces. Most of the contestants appeared to be among friends, chatting comfortably. Jimmy, as always, was alone.