The Delta Chain (26 page)

‘He never showed any interest having custody
of me. We’re supposed to spend every second weekend together but he
hardly ever does. He’s too busy.’

‘That doesn’t mean he hates you.’

‘He might as well.’

Costas was aware of the need to choose his
words carefully. ‘You know, adults are far from perfect. It’s not
uncommon for adults to get so busy with their work that they
overlook the truly important things. And sooner or later they
always regret it deeply.’

‘I don’t care whether he ever regrets it or
not. I don’t need a father. I’ve proved that.’

Costas didn’t reply. He didn’t want to upset
the boy further. He looked out on the river, focused on the fishing
line, and hoped the boy’s mood would soon change back again.

The coach came to a stop and Daniel, backpack
slung over his shoulder, stepped down onto the pavement and looked
around. Northern Rocks was a picturesque town. An appealing spread
of shops and homes and plazas with several taller buildings looming
over the northern sector. A bridge spanned the river to the east.
Trees lined the streets. Daniel couldn’t see the beachfront from
this point but he could smell the salt of the sea on the air and he
could hear the occasional break of a wave in the distance.

Why had the girl with the face he’d
recognised been here? Why had she drowned? Was he right in thinking
his journey here would lead him to Elizabeth?

He didn’t notice the white van with the
tinted windows that stood motionless on the other side of the
street. He couldn’t have suspected it had been there since the
previous night, its occupants awaiting the arrival of the Greyhound
bus.

They were watching him.

Daniel was watching a young boy skipping
along with his father, the two of them playfully jostling each
other as they went. The boy loved every minute of it, laughing with
joy. This boy was a similar age to Daniel when he’d jumped into the
well and when, later on, he’d been locked for a week in the
Darkness.

Daniel felt a pang of grief for something
he’d never known. What was it like to have a real family, a real
father?

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.’