Fire Eye (23 page)

Jed and Alex are consumed by their tasks. She is determined to give the souls in the plane a better resting place. Working hard to retrieve the bones of each person, she deposits them in shallow graves dug in the sandy soil, careful not to mix the remains by burying one at a time and keeping intact any clues to their identity. It is tiring work as they have to be bundled together and manoeuvred out of the cockpit window using an oil skin she found in the aircraft.

Jed has found a wrench and small tin to bleed oil from one of the engines that still flows sluggishly after so many years. He has dumped the Colt into the oil, letting it seep into the pistol so he can strip it. While he waits for the oil to do its thing, he helps Alex retrieve the remains. He isn’t quite sure about it, but understands it fulfils a need for her. At some point in the future a military recovery team will take care of it, but he can see she is doing the job well.

They use their hands to scoop soil back into the graves and mark each one with rocks from the cliff face and a marker pole. They don’t have the materials or time to make decent crosses so the poles have to do. They stand silently in front of the graves, immersed in their own thoughts. It is a new experience for Jed. After twenty-six crash sites, he now stands in front of a full planeload of souls he has no connection with, alongside a descendant of the pilot.

“There’s something I want to say,” Alex says thoughtfully.

“What’s that?” Jed asks.

Alex puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out the leg of the doll she found in the plane. “There is no doll in that plane. There is no child either among the bodies,” she states firmly.

“No doll, no child and no Fire Eye!” Jed responds. “That’s something we may never find the answer to. I’m satisfied we found Karl, but I’m curious about the rest of the story.”

“I’m happy we found Karl too. I really didn’t expect it, but now I’m here I’m curious too.”

After a time, Jed broaches a subject he feels is very dangerous. “This Decker wants you bad. Real bad! He wants to kill you! My guess is he wants to take a bit of time over it, enough time so you know what’s about to happen.” He cringes internally, wondering if he has overstepped the boundaries and waits for the backlash. Nothing happens, the silence continues. He has no idea how long it drags on for. He is lost in regret of going too far.

Eventually she responds, not looking at him. “Unfortunately you’re right. He wants payback for that jail time. I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary. I can’t say my past has been perfect and I’ve never had to deal with what you went through. You did what you had to do to survive.” He feels an urge to share a couple of mistakes he made in his life, both unfortunately involving women, but holds back. Not only is he embarrassed but the time isn’t right, if the time is ever right to share things like that. He fingers the cartridge in his pocket, wondering whether he should follow through with the vague plan he is formulating to protect Alex. It involves thinking like a soulless sociopath seeking revenge, and Jed feels guilty that he can do it. For his idea to work, Alex can never be told the truth. If it fails, his future is uncertain.

They stand quietly in front of the graves until Alex breaks the silence. “We should say something!”

“Perhaps we should,” Jed agrees with no idea what should be said. “It might be appropriate for you to do that.”

Alex is fighting back tears and has no idea what to say either. “You are the crash site finder! This should be right up your alley!”

Jed is empathetic to the situation but also embarrassed. He has never stood in front of graves like this and has no idea how to handle it, nor any idea how to handle Alex’s obvious distress. He reaches far back into his distant memory of childhood German and the books he read on the early pioneers of aviation.

“Opfer mussen gebracht werden,” he offers hesitatingly as he stumbles to recall the phrase, glancing sideways at Alex.

When she doesn’t respond to his imaginative effort he’s disappointed. He waits a while longer with his head bowed, about to offer a translation.

“That’s not bad. Not bad at all,” she finally responds thoughtfully. “Sacrifices must be made!”

“You understand German?”

“The words were spoken by Otto Lilienthal, one of the main sources of inspiration for the Wright brothers. It was a favourite phrase of his. He died in 1896 from injuries after the crash of one of his gliders. It is a statement of reality. War and progress means sacrifice, even of those we love, otherwise ideas like democracy and free speech are crushed.”

Jed is really surprised this time. He doesn’t expect an understanding of German and certainly not an appreciation of aviation history. “I’m impressed!” he says with genuine admiration, noting she doesn’t give away how much of the language she knows.

“Thank you,” Alex replies with a smile. “I read about him as a kid
.” Just don’t underestimate me ever,
she wants to say, but hides her feelings. She is impressed with his choice of words but can’t resist the temptation to keep him in his place. “Let’s get on with things,” she suggests, bringing the moment to a close on her terms. “How’s the Colt going?”

“It’s soaking in oil,” he responds, eager to move away from her unspoken challenge. “Time to take a look.”

Jed picks up the Colt and rubs it down with a rag he found in the aircraft. As the oil soaks into the rag, it loosens the stiffness of decades and becomes more flexible, allowing him to wipe the outside surfaces clean.

Alex watches as he checks the safety is in the ‘safe’ position and turns the pistol so he can put two fingers onto the barrel bushing while holding the grip against his knee. He pushes the recoil spring plug below the end of the barrel then turns the bushing to the right while holding it securely under tension. He turns the barrel retaining bushing to the left and removes it from the slide.

Alex watches his fingers manipulate the pistol with confidence. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“Used to own one,” he says, concentrating on dismantling the pistol.

“You have some unusual skills.”

“Yep! Haven’t just been a principal.”

Pushing the safety down to disengage the mechanism, he pulls the slide back until the small notch in the bottom aligns with the slide lock mechanism on the side of the gun. Then he pushes the slide lock mechanism out from the opposite side and removes it. Turning the gun upside down, he removes the slide, spring, barrel bushing and barrel and places each part carefully on the oil cloth spread on the ground. He draws his knife and carefully undoes the two screws on each side holding the wooden grips on to expose the coil spring inside the grip and adds the frame and grips to the neat pile of parts. “There it is! Ready to be cleaned, oiled and reassembled,” he says with a respect she cannot evaluate.

“It looks like you almost revere that pistol!” she challenges.

Jed can sense where she is going. Many people despise guns and hunters, carefully ensconced in an urban existence that isolates them from the realities of the bush and the world. “Bad men use guns to gain power and domination. Good men use guns to protect their family and the ideas that are the basis of our civilisation. As you said Alex, democracy and freedom of speech have to be worked for and protected.”

“There are people who would not agree with you,” Alex challenges again.

“They are welcome to disagree. That’s the essence of democracy. Perhaps those who disagree have never had to defend family or the concept of freedom,” he replies with feeling, waiting for her to bite back.

She can see a strong emotion stirring inside him and understands something beyond her experience is driving his response. She actually agrees. With her past experience of abuse and the fight to gain freedom, she accepts there are times when a stand has to be made in the defence of the individual, a country or an ideal. “It still looks like you almost worship that gun,” she needles a bit more in another direction.

Jed almost reacts with a verbal broadside but has learned a thing or two recently. He senses she is toying with him so he considers his response. “The Colt Model 1911 is an icon in combat pistols. It was designed by the legendary John Browning, one hundred years ago and still among the best. It has a unique combination of reliability, user-friendliness, stopping power and a near limitless capacity for modification and adaption. For us it’s a gift, not from heaven but from Karl.”

He meets her eyes, waiting for a response that doesn’t come. “Decker’s a bully. If someone could stand up to him, it’d be a different story. With that Colt, we have options. If we pumped a couple of rounds over his head, I bet he’d piss himself!” he says with feeling.

If only he realised how the whole sequence of events they are now dealing with was precipitated by Decker assuming the rifle Jed had used to shoot the pigs a couple of nights ago was his own.

Alex cannot disagree, although she knows from experience that Decker is not a pushover. She likes the thought of empowerment the Colt can deliver, even if it can’t guarantee safety. “Better get it fixed then,” she encourages. She knows they need all the help they can get.

Charcoal and Davey ride at a steady canter, balancing speed with endurance. They have covered a lot of ground and sense the horses are getting tired. They have a bond with them, forged over years of handling cattle in the red landscape. The horses are tough but have their limits. Maybe they should have brought the old Landcruiser, but Charcoal prefers his horse, the rhythm of the long-distance ride and the stealth the animals provide.

They ride on further, conserving the strength of the horses until they crest a slight rise and Charcoal finally reins in to stop Thor in his tracks. Thor’s head rears up with a snort and he gives a sideways kick with his back legs. Davey responds instinctively, halting beside Charcoal. “What’s up?” he asks, scanning the bush ahead.

“Don’t look good,” Charcoal offers, as his sharp eyes contemplate the scene.

Looking down into the depression they can see three vehicles, one blackened by fire. To one side a billabong glistens in the setting sun while a red ridge of rock rises up on the other side to dominate the scene in front of them.

“Sump’n’s happened here.” Charcoal works the reins to hold Thor in place. “Don’t look good at all!”

The blackened body of one of the vehicles and the lingering smell of burnt rubber on the gentle breeze is evidence enough.

“We done covered a lotta ground. We need to find a place to camp. Back a bit looks good. There’s grass for the horses and water in the creek. Let’s get set up.” Charcoal turns Thor’s head against a sun heading toward the horizon. “We can check this out later,” indicating the scene below them with a wave of his hand.

Davey doesn‘t argue and they back track a short distance to set up a camp for the night in a sheltered hollow. They tend the horses first, unsaddle them and give them a good rub down before laying their bedding on the ground and setting a small cooking fire between them.

Charcoal keeps the fire small, picking the best timber to avoid a telltale plume of smoke rising into the evening sky. It is enough to cook a meal of smoked meat and beans and heat a coffee. He kills the fire by kicking dirt over it. They talk quietly about the day’s ride and what may have happened. The night sky that slowly envelopes them is only partly cloudy and the early rising half moon gives enough light, once their eyes adapt to the dark.

“I’m go’n for a look,” Charcoal announces as he slips off his boots, trousers and shirt. He keeps his underpants, although he doesn’t really know why. He is comfortable naked, but the black underpants offer just a little protection. Maybe he is getting too civilised. At least they will stop his manhood flopping around. For a man in his forties, his black body still shows toned muscle and little fat, a legacy of hard work and a lean existence. He straps a belt around his waist, carrying his folding knife in its leather pouch.

Davey watches Charcoal get himself ready. “You sure ’bout this?”

“I’m sure. Best to check things out in the dark first! I need you here to back me up.” He picks up the Winchester, tossing it across to Davey who catches it with the easy familiarity of the bushman. “If anything happens to me Davey, you get yourself out o’ here and go for help,” he commands in a tone leaving no room for discussion.

“Don’t like that,” Davey replies with doubt in his voice. “Don’t like leaving you!”

“If sump’n happens, I can get myself out of it. If I can’t, then it’s too late and too bad!” Charcoal says, with the acceptance of a man who has lived his life on wits and experience.

Davey nods in reluctant acceptance. Almost before he has finished nodding, Charcoal steps back into the darkness and disappears. He goes out to the track the vehicles made but follows along the edge of the wheel marks, stepping lightly from tussock to tussock or dancing off logs or rocks to hide his tracks. He covers ground fast, a shadow flitting through the night. It isn’t long before he catches the smell of burnt rubber. He moves slowly in a crouch, stepping carefully against the backdrop of scrub, stopping regularly to listen for anything unusual. He moves stealthily and disturbs none of the creatures or spirits inhabiting the night.

He swings around to approach the vehicles from the side, into the faint breeze, using his nose and night eyes to guide him. He doesn’t look directly at the vehicles but uses his peripheral vision to make better use of the available light, creeping in close without a sound from shadow to shadow. Where there are no shadows, he crosses the space fast. He allows his bare skin to sense the touch of each blade of grass or leaf while his fingers search the ground in front of his feet, moving aside any twigs whose snap will sound an alarm in the stillness of the night. He feels the ground with his toes before gently lowering a heel, always sensing the environment around him. Every part of his body moves in practised unison, using the skills of a warrior, honed to perfection by indigenous peoples over generations of experience, at home in their own environment.

He is close now and even in the semi-darkness can see the damage done to the burnt-out vehicle, the one used by the people who stayed the night with the boss. He sees a Troopie with the trademarks of a stockman’s ute, a black fella’s ute by the look of some of the repairs. The other is plainly a white man’s truck, with lots of stuff bolted on and big tyres.

He glimpses a flash of light to his left. Someone is coming. He hears the crunch of careless footsteps. Stepping back, Charcoal sinks into the shadows of a dense bush, lowering himself to the ground and slowing his breathing. He keeps his eyes averted and uses his other senses.

The footsteps come closer. To him they crash through the night. To the men coming closer through the trees, they are probably their best effort at stealth. Charcoal becomes just another shadow of the night as the men emerge into the clearing where the vehicles rest like helpless victims of the hunt.

“While the black fella’s off walkabout, we’ll get the wheels fixed on the Nissan,” a deep voice grates with a tone Charcoal recognises as spoken by a boss man.

“Where’d you hide it?” asks the other voice, a younger man with less experience, but he still makes Charcoal wary.

A bad spirit that one
, he judges from within his silent world of dark shadow.

“Just back here,” the deep voice says and the footsteps come closer. Charcoal stops breathing, his body merging with the land and the shadows. The man forces his way under the bush. His skin feels the tickle of disturbed air from his movements and the prick of displaced twigs. The man brushes away the branches and hauls some heavy things out into the open. In his peripheral vision Charcoal can see him lift a wheel and jack and take them across to one of the vehicles.

“Get the jack under the bastard Jess. Get it lifted,” the deep voice commands. The man drops the wheel to the ground, spins it around in front of the hub and waits for the studs to be lifted up close to the holes in the rim. When the truck is raised, the man lifts the wheel easily onto the studs and fits the nuts, spinning them with the wrench and grunting as he tightens each one.
The man is strong,
Charcoal decides as he watches from the shadows.

“Drop it boy!” the man commands again. Jesse lowers the jack and Decker checks each nut again. He stands up and wipes his hands together. “Now we got wheels for when we need them and no fuck’n stuffing around!”

“I’ll pack the tools,” the other voice says, moving off. They both mess around in the back of the vehicle rearranging things for a while. Charcoal hears grunting and some talk he can’t quite pick up.

“When we finish our business,” the deep voice says, “we’ll have some options. We finish it all here and go home or have a go at finding that thing on the plane I told you about.”

Charcoal, a shadow among the other shadows of the night, listens to the conversation, barely breathing, with all senses alert. He hears the younger voice reply.

“We can do her here and take our time about it, then get home. It’d be great to find the diamond as well!”

A fuck’n diamond isn’t red like the flames of a fire,
Decker sighs in silent frustration. He sometimes wonders how his son will survive alone but forgives him. He’s still young with time to grow. He’ll grow up fast after they do their work with the bitch, ever so slowly.
He’ll learn a lot about judgement,
Decker consoles himself. “We better get back and settled for the night. I’m looking forward to a good night’s kip. We need to be fresh ‘cause things’ll be happening soon.”

Both men pick up their guns and head away from the vehicles. Charcoal follows them easily as they use a torch to light their way, moving from shadow to shadow to maintain his invisibility. The men approach the ridge to the west overlooking the vehicles and stop under the leafy shadows where a man slouches with his back against a tree.

Charcoal waits in the darkness as he watches the older man kneel down in front of the humped shape.

“How’s young Brad doing?” he asks with concern in his voice that has Charcoal wondering.

Then he watches him slap the man across the face and hears the muffled scream of pain as Brad turns his face away and fights against the rope pinning him to the tree.

“You just stay put tonight and soon it’s going to be over,” the older man adds as he stands up with a chuckle. “I’m going to be easy on you boy. At least it’ll be quick when the time comes. I’ve got more important things to worry about. You just have to play your part and then it’s over,” he encourages, giving the shape a kick in the ribs. “Let’s go Jess!” The older man says as they head off to climb the ridge.

Charcoal feels a wave of anger surge through him as he watches in silence, fighting the urge to intervene. He hides in the shadows as the minutes turn into an hour. No sounds disturb the night apart from the occasional groan from the man tied to the tree. He moves forward in a crouch, drawing his knife, and creeps toward the man in a curving approach that brings him up from behind. Charcoal edges in slowly, not making a sound and not wanting to surprise the man who could make a noise to alert his captors. He thinks the man’s jaw is broken but still reaches around the tree and clamps his left hand gently but firmly over his mouth so no sound can emerge. “Stay still!” he commands in a whisper. “I’m go’n to get you outta here.”

Brad jerks up from his drowsy state, a combination of hunger, exhaustion, pain and fitful sleep. Pain shoots through his jaw as he hears a voice speak to him gently. Not the voice of the man who slapped him for enjoyment. It is a kinder voice that still has intensity to it.

“I’m going to cut the ropes,” Brad hears the voice say. “Stay quiet and make no sound if you want to get outta here!” He feels the lips move against his ear. Even whispering, the words penetrate his brain. He feels the slice of a sharp knife as the ropes binding his hands to the tree and hobbling his feet are cut. He feels strong hands under his armpits lifting him to his feet while hearing a, “Shhhh…” in his ear, calming him into silence. Brad is confused because the voice isn’t Joe’s, but he has enough sense to stay quiet. Then he feels a hand take hold of his wrist in a firm clasp and hears words of command, “Follow me! Stay quiet, no noise, follow me!”

He follows in silence as the shadow in front guides him silently through the darkness.