Wild Dogs, page 5
‘Two graves.’
‘What?’
‘Two graves. These two’ – Amin kicked at one of the smugglers – ‘can burn in Hell for all I care. Allah will deal with them. But I will not insult Khalid like that. He was the same as me, simply trying to save his family.’
Gabe muttered a curse under his breath. His sense of unease was growing with each new bit of information Amin supplied. He didn’t know much about people smuggling or refugees save for snippets he heard on the radio news, but he could already gather that what he’d stumbled upon was no small operation. Amin mentioned work gangs in a coastal town, and a large, modern vessel, plus they had cops working for them, or so Amin claimed. And the fact they were willing to shoot two men who threatened to expose them meant they had enough to lose to justify it. Of all the bloody places to be, why’d they have to choose here?
Something clicked.
‘Amin,’ he said. ‘Why’d they shoot Khalid right next to the ute?’
‘He tried to grab the gun when they told us our families were not here, and that we were to die for daring to threaten them. Why do you ask?’
‘What do you reckon they planned to do with the two of you once you were dead?’
Amin scratched his beard, casting his eyes around the area. ‘I don’t know. I had no time to think of such things. Until we arrived here, we did not suspect they were going to kill us.’
‘They’ve got no digging gear,’ Gabe pointed out. ‘Plus, this ground here is all rock. Pretty shit digging. And I’m fairly sure they wouldn’t just leave two bodies lying around. So why come here?’
Amin shrugged. ‘But this is where they wanted to be. They said so. “We have arrived,” they said. I thought they meant to where our families were being held. But when our hoods were taken off we were not in any camp, and they were not here.’
‘If they were going to kill you, why’d they bother with hoods?’
Amin thought for a moment. ‘They always said the camp where our families are kept was a secret. Perhaps they feared we would be suspicious of something if they didn’t. That would also explain why they did not bind our hands.’
‘Makes sense, I suppose.’ Gabe looked around. ‘So, if they planned to get rid of you here but not to bury you, there has to be something nearby. Like I said, they wouldn’t have just left you in the dirt.’ He eyed the ridgeline behind them. The breakaway rose sharply, tufts of dried wanderrie grass sprouted between rocks, and a lone mulga had somehow rooted itself halfway up the side, barely clinging to life in the harsh surrounds. Further up, another tree had lost the battle for survival, and it was now nothing more than a wooden skeleton in between the boulders with an eagle’s nest resting in the fork of the dead branches. Gabe suspected it had been long abandoned, like most of the countryside. Near the peak he could see a small opening in the rock – the perfect dog den. Were he here under different circumstances, he would probably attempt the climb for a closer look, perhaps throw in a few baits just to be sure. But he had more pressing concerns than wild dogs right now.
Further along the breakaway’s base a dead curara tree lay between two jutting ironstones. The way it was wedged in seemed out of place. The trunk had been snapped off, yet there was no sign of any stump in the ground to suggest it had grown there and simply fallen into the gap.
He walked over, grasped the trunk and pulled. It wasn’t exactly light but he managed to drag it out of the way, exposing a deep opening in the ground. Being very careful where he placed his feet, Gabe peered down into the darkness, but couldn’t make out anything. The smell of death rose up to greet him. Normally he would assume an unfortunate kangaroo or billy goat had fallen in, but today he suspected it was not animals at the bottom of the hole.
Amin’s voice startled him. ‘Our intended resting place,’ he said solemnly.
‘Christ, don’t do that to me. Jumpy enough as it is.’ Gabe’s heart had only just returned to a steady pace but was now thudding against his chest again as Amin joined him at the edge of the hole.
‘It looks deep,’ he said. ‘Do you think there are others down there?’
‘Well it’s not fuckin’ roses at the bottom, that’s for sure.’ Gabe picked up a stone and tossed it in the hole. It fell for a good three or four seconds, echoing up to them from the blackness before finally coming to rest with a clatter.
‘Perhaps we could use this?’ Amin asked.
Gabe rubbed his chin as he weighed up their options. What they did from here could have a massive effect on any chance they had of getting out of this shitstorm intact. In his mind he went over what Amin had told him. An illegal organisation was involved, one willing to kill if they felt threatened; they appeared to have done so before. Two of their members were now dead by Gabe’s own hand, and sooner or later someone would come looking. The question was, would they know where, or was this a secret location known only by those whose task it was to get rid of ‘problems’? The obvious solution was to dump the bodies down the hole and leg it out of here, pronto. But it didn’t feel right.
During the course of Gabe’s work, there were times when he relied on his gut instinct rather than skill. On more than one occasion, he had abandoned what at first glance appeared to be the perfect trap site because something felt off. He could never quite say what it was. Maybe the wind blew in at the wrong angle, perhaps the area nearby was too open, too exposed for a wily old dingo to venture out and inspect the lure. Gabe only knew that the few times he’d ignored the nagging doubt in the base of his belly, he never bagged a dog.
Amin was studying him. ‘You are thinking something; I can see it on your face.’
‘The only way any others would come here is if they knew about this spot,’ Gabe said.
‘True enough.’
‘And if they know how to get here, I reckon they’d know about the dumping hole.’
‘Why is that of concern?’
‘Look, these pricks seem like they’re happy to kill anyone in the way, right? So, if they get out here and realise you’ve somehow escaped, they might just find a way to have a good look down this hole. If they see their two dead guys sitting at the bottom and not you and your mate, your wife and kid might not be so safe anymore.’
Amin paled at this suggestion. Gabe could see him wrestling with his thoughts, and the look of resigned guilt on his face told him that the man was blaming himself.
You know all about self-blame, don’t you, Gabe? Gabe ignored the little voice in his own head. Now was not the time for self-pity.
Finally, Amin spoke. ‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘Give us a hand to cover this hole back up first.’
Amin did as asked, helping where he could but restricted by his wound. The two men covered the crevice again and made their way back to the Rodeo. Gabe surveyed the area. The track the smugglers had driven down to arrive at the clearing could be seen heading into the bushland to the north. Their vehicle had not left much in the way of tyre marks on the flat stone that surrounded the ironstone, and the ground beyond where the smooth granite disappeared beneath the earth was a hard-baked clay, with only a faint impression of the Rodeo’s wheels. He looked in the opposite direction and spotted the opening where the barely discernible path continued on, and Gabe thought he knew where it would end up. A plan began to form in his head.
‘Can you drive?’ To Gabe’s relief, Amin nodded. ‘Good. Because I think I know what to do with these two pricks.’
NINE
Gabe lowered the Rodeo’s tailgate. ‘There’s a well about forty kilometres back that way,’ he explained. ‘They decommissioned it a few years ago when the state government bought out the station owners. Deep fucker too, but the windmill’s knackered and the tank’s collapsed, and because the property got decommissioned no one’s bothered to fix it. I called in there a while back, see if there were any dogs sniffing about. Didn’t look like anyone had been out that way since they shut the water off. Bit of a billy goat track to get there, probably worse now. But it’d be a good spot to dump the bodies. Reckon there’s probably a few dead goats already down there.’
‘You were looking for a dog?’ Amin asked. ‘You lost your pet?’
‘What?’ After a moment of incomprehension, Gabe realised this man from Afghanistan would know very little about the outback. ‘No, wild dogs. Dingoes, or ferals – I hunt them. That’s what I do.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Amin glanced at Gabe’s rifle, now leaning against the ute. ‘That would explain your “camera”.’
Gabe walked around to the side where the first smuggler lay, the one who’d nearly put a bullet in him. ‘Are you able to give us a hand?’
‘I think so.’
Gabe grabbed the body under the arms and dragged it behind the ute. He tried not to get any blood on him, but it was impossible. His first bullet had completely blown the shoulder blade apart. How the man had gathered enough strength to have another crack at them was beyond Gabe. The second shot had torn through his abdomen, and Amin’s had riddled his chest with holes. As they moved the body, the stench of stomach contents filled the air, thick and heavy in Gabe’s nostrils and seeping through his clenched jaw into his mouth. Even Gabe’s cast-iron stomach rolled a little, and he hawked and spat in an attempt to rid himself of the taste of death. Dead dogs were one thing, but a dead man’s bile was another.
Amin, who had at first seemed unfazed by the corpses that surrounded him, had gone a shade of grey and a cough escaped him as he raised an arm to cover his nose and mouth.
‘Sooner we get him in the back the better,’ Gabe said through tight lips. The flies were covering him now, trying to make their way into his own mouth and nose. He shook his head, blew a burst of air at the determined creatures and looked at Amin, who bent down to assist.
‘On three, right?’
‘Yes. On three.’ Amin grasped the ankles and Gabe gripped the body under the armpits as best he could. At Gabe’s count they swung the body into the tray with a thud. Amin gave a sharp grunt as they did so, and his hand went to his arm.
‘You okay?’ Gabe asked.
‘I will be fine. We need to hurry.’
Gabe spun the body around, dragging it to the back of the tray’s well. It slid against the rear of the cab, leaving a red slick on the smooth metal floor. The tray was too short for the dead man and his feet hung out over the lowered tailgate. Gabe would fix that once they had the other two in.
The second smuggler followed. Gabe had shot this one square in the chest, so they were spared the nauseating smell of his breakfast as they positioned him next to his partner in crime. By now Gabe was panting hard. His shirt clung to his back as sweat dripped from his brow. While the men weren’t overly large, with Amin hampered by his injury, Gabe had been forced to do most of the lifting, and his hip had begun to ache, which up until moments ago he had forgotten about.
‘What about Khalid?’ Amin asked.
Gabe took a deep breath and went to the final body. ‘We’ll have to put him in with them.’ Amin started to protest, but Gabe cut him off. ‘Nothing else for it. Can’t put him in the back seat – too much blood. Might have to dump this ute at some point. And by the time we get to where we’re going, he’ll be stiff as a board and we won’t get him out.’
With reluctance, Amin agreed. They hoisted the corpse into the tray, laying him as gently as they could on the first two bodies. Gabe itched to get moving. He could feel the eyes of everything watching them – the crows sitting hunched over in the mulga tree, the bungarra that had emerged from the scrub, tasting the air with its forked tongue. And he knew there would be a dog out there somewhere, lurking just out of sight, watching, waiting to see if these men left anything worthwhile when they moved on.
It was a struggle to close the tailgate with three sets of feet hanging over the edge, but the two men persevered and, after a bit of repositioning, managed to slam it shut. The Rodeo had no canopy or tonneau cover to hide the bodies under, and even after ensuring the corpses lay as flat as possible, Khalid’s knees stuck above the well-body sides. Gabe supposed the chances of running into someone out here was pretty remote, which was probably exactly what the smugglers had figured. Just in case, Gabe opened the back door of the cab and retrieved another two water bottles. He threw one to Amin, took a mouthful from the other, then used the remainder to wash down the side of the ute. It wasn’t the best job, but he managed to remove most of the blood, which had by now baked onto the white paintwork. If they did run into anyone, at first glance the red smear might look like dust.
Amin drank half of his water and offered the rest to Gabe, who shook his head. He had much colder things waiting for him in his Engel, but first they had to get there. Although his LandCruiser was only five hundred metres or so from where they stood, to take the smugglers’ ute to his, they needed to follow an almost non-existent track. Gabe was certain it would cross the creek bed he had been working in before all hell broke loose and loop onto the track he’d driven along this morning. From there they would head to his ute and cover the bodies with the tarpaulin he used as a ground sheet at camp sites when he planned to stay in one place for more than a couple of days. Then he would get Amin to follow him to the well, and they could ditch the bodies. After that, fuck knows. He had to get himself out of this mess somehow, but was unable to think that far ahead just yet.
He emptied another bottle onto the bloodstained ground, and then another. Amin looked at him with some concern. ‘Should you not save some?’
‘Jesus, mate, do you think I’d be pouring water on the fucking ground if I didn’t have any more? Got a shitload in my ute. I just need to make it look like I was never here.’
Amin’s face flashed with anger for a moment. ‘Just you? You are not going to hide my presence?’
Fuck’s sake, this bloke asks some stupid fucking questions, Gabe thought, but replied with a sigh, ‘I’m hiding the both of us. Now shut up and let me concentrate.’
Gabe inspected his work. The blood had diluted and fanned out further over the ironstone, the red blending in with the ochre and purple hues of the rock. Once it dried, it would be hard to spot.
‘Stay here,’ he instructed, and began scanning the ground. How many times had he fired? Once, then once again after that. The two spent M1 cartridges were easy enough to spot, but he could only find six casings from the two guns Amin carried. He wasn’t sure how many were lying around; he’d been too busy dodging them to bother counting shots. It would have to do. He might spend all day searching and still turn up nothing. Hopefully anyone else looking would do the same.
He turned his attention to the tree they had sat under. His eyes, accustomed to scanning the ground for the faintest trace of a dog print, picked up their marks easily enough. A couple of hand prints, a scuff where Amin’s backside had rested at the mulga’s base, and the packaging from the wipes used to clean his wound. Gabe gathered the rubbish, and with a handful of dried wanderrie grass brushed away at the dirt. For added effect, he scattered some fine curara needles over his efforts. Not too many, just enough to blend in with the rest of the ground. He stood back and assessed his work. To him it stood out like a neon sign, but then he knew where to look. Maybe others wouldn’t. Leave no sign. Leave no trace. It would have to do.
He made his way back to the smugglers’ ute. Amin had seated himself side-saddle on the front passenger seat, watching with interest.
‘You seem to know what you are doing,’ he commented, observing Gabe wipe away their shoe prints and the drip marks from Amin’s arm. Gabe’s sneakers didn’t leave much of a mark, but Amin wore heavy work boots, with deep ridges in the soles. Gabe was grateful the dirt here was hard.
‘Dogs are cunning sods,’ Gabe said, not bothering to look at Amin as he worked, bent over. ‘Some of the older ones, the ones others miss, they get wary. You leave the slightest sign, the smallest mark or touch or scent, and they’ll bolt.’
‘And do many bolt from you?’
As Amin asked his question, Gabe reached the point where the flat stone rose from the dirt. He stepped onto it, straightened his back with a slight groan, and turned to his new companion.
‘No, not often.’
TEN
Gabe drove, easing the smugglers’ Rodeo away from the ridge and into the scrub, following the track as best he could. It disappeared once or twice on the hard clay pan, and for a moment he thought they’d lost it, until it appeared again, leading up a sharp bank, then down into the shallow creek line he had been working in earlier. He dropped the vehicle over the edge and stopped in the middle of the dry watercourse.
Amin looked around the landscape in concern. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Gabe pointed along the gully. ‘Just got some stuff to grab from up there. Stay here.’
He opened the door and climbed out, leaving the engine running as Amin sat back and closed his eyes.
‘Do not be long.’
Despite the air conditioning blowing in his face, beads of sweat had formed across the man’s brow, and Gabe suspected he was in more discomfort than he let on, but closed the door without replying. There wasn’t anything he could do in the short term. He just hoped Amin would be able to drive. Where they were heading was not exactly the smoothest of trips. He trudged around the front of the ute and set off up the creek, not looking at their morbid cargo. One of the smugglers’ eyes had remained open and Gabe did not care for their dull gaze.
The creek bed comprised hard clay and washed river sand, deep and coarse, which Gabe avoided where he could. Where he couldn’t, the loose sand did not show the tread of his footprint, just divots as he walked. An observant person might notice these marks, but with luck nobody would.
At the trap site he gathered his equipment, considered whether he should remove his trap or not, and finally decided against it. They were running out of day and he didn’t have time to cover his workings again. If somebody did happen to pick up his trail down the dry waterway Gabe very much doubted they would find his set, unless of course it contained a dead dog.
