Dark Country (41 page)

Desperate not to waste valuable time, she had one of the constables drive her back to Dungirri, using the forty minutes in
the car to go over notes and maps and make phone calls, including one to Adam.

‘Get together as many people as you can at the hall, Adam. Tell them I’m giving an update. After the meeting, we’re going
to have to find and interview Sean, and the Dawson boys, and Luke Sauer. Don’t say anything to alert them. I don’t want them
disappearing.’

Her phone bleeped during the call, and when she retrieved her messages, Alec’s deep voice greeted her.

‘Kris, I’ve been in touch with some colleagues in the Federal Police, specialists in drug importation cartels, and they’re
on their way to Dungirri. They’re already investigating Sergio Russo, so give them whatever you’ve got on him. You can trust
them, Kris. Oh, and I’ve notified your Commander about the Feds, so the protocol’s dealt with.’

Bless Alec for his thorough professionalism. She hoped the Feds had more information than she did, and were willing to share
it. She’d give them a copy of Vince’s notes, see what they could make of them.

Wind gusted leaves and small branches across the road ahead of the car, and large drops of rain plopped onto the windscreen.

‘Storm’s catching up to us,’ the constable observed, glancing into the rear-view mirror. ‘I hope the rescue chopper got away
okay.’

Another thing to worry about. Kris lifted her phone to call and check, but Ghost Hill was coming up on their left, and there
was no signal.

Then the rain fell in torrents, and even above it and the engine noise they could hear the thunder rolling. Water sheeted
across the road, and the constable slowed the car, driving with
care. She was young, this constable, only a few months out of probation, showing promise but inclined to under-confidence
in her abilities.

Kris suppressed an impatient sigh and focused on the maps again. The storm would pass, they’d get to Dungirri, and then she’d
confront the town’s residents at the meeting, see what she could get from them. And if Sean Barrett and mates didn’t show,
she’d go hunt for them.

She compared the list of Flanagan properties with the survey maps again, but this time, using a pencil, she shaded in the
rough locations.

By the time they reached the edge of Dungirri, the rain had eased – Dungirri usually missed the best rain – and she’d identified
a possible pattern in the locations of the properties. The Flanagan landholdings predominantly fell into two loose clusters
– one, southwest of Birraga, with considerable frontage to the Birraga River, and the second group, expanded to a large area
in recent years, northwest of Dungirri, edging the scrub in places, with parcels of land incorporating Dungirri Creek, Friday
Creek and up to the eastern, upstream end of the Birraga River.

She tapped her pencil against the map, thinking. Last night, the helicopter’s path had headed to the southwest. This morning,
Gil had met with Russo in the same general area. It suggested that they’d holed up somewhere in that vicinity overnight. Deb
had been blindfolded the whole time, but she’d mentioned hearing hordes of cockatoos squawking this morning, and they tended
to congregate in the open plains, more so than the scrub area.

If they’d gone southwest last night, Kris doubted they’d stay long in the same area. So, if they were using one of their own
places, they might –
might –
be closer now, somewhere within a forty-kilometre radius of Dungirri. That still made a damned huge search area, and no clues,
yet, to pin them down.

And she could be wrong. They could be anywhere – heading for the Queensland border, going back to Sydney, over to the coast,
or any other direction. There were too few police resources in this vast, sparsely populated region for effective road blocks,
even if they’d been able to put them in place straight after Gil’s abduction.

She gnawed on her lip, trying to keep a lid on her panic. Gil was out there, somewhere, and Tony wouldn’t let him live for
long.

Adam and the local community networks brought together a good proportion of the town’s population in the hall, despite the
short notice. Kris strode through them to the front of the room. In stark contrast to Saturday night, tight expressions and
subdued talk reflected the apprehensive mood. The talk died when Kris reached the front and faced them.

Someone had set out some chairs for the older people, and Beth sat in the front row, between Esther Russell and Eleni and
George Pappas, holding Esther’s hand. In the second row, at the end, Delphi O’Connell sat beside Frank Wilson. Sauers, Dawsons,
Barretts – a few from each family were there but not, as far as she could see, Sean, Luke or the Dawson brothers.

Desperate not to let the air of fear and distress undermine her own shaky composure, she launched straight in to what she
had to say.

‘You will all be aware that there have been a number of serious incidents in the area this week. Several locals have been
seriously
injured, as well as two visitors. I can report to you that Mark Strelitz is likely to be released from hospital later today.
Liam Le, one of our visitors, was also injured while trying to stop an abduction, and remains in a serious condition in Tamworth
hospital. Megan, the Russells’ granddaughter, and Deborah Taylor, another visitor, were both released by the abductors this
morning, but were shot as they left the scene. Deborah’s injuries are minor, but Megan is currently being airlifted to Tamworth,
in a critical condition.’

Esther Russell cried quietly into her handkerchief, and Kris added, on a softer note, ‘I am sure Megan, and Doctor and Mrs
Russell, would appreciate everyone’s prayers and positive thoughts.’

She gave them a moment. A couple of heads bowed, others whispered to each other. George’s worry beads rattled softly as he
moved them through his fingers.

‘Folks, I’m not going to beat around the bush. Highly organised criminal elements from Sydney are working with local people,
and they are armed and dangerous, and not averse to murder. This morning, knowing the risks, Morgan Gillespie exchanged himself
for Megan and Deborah. We have grave fears for his safety. We need to find him quickly, and I need your help for that.’

‘Why should we help Gillespie?’ Johnno Dawson said, from the back of the room. ‘Isn’t it his fault all this shit’s happened?’

She saw red before her eyes. Blazing red fury raged in her head and burned, for long seconds, her capacity for coherent words.

‘No, Johnno,’ she said finally, not caring if her words towards him were scathing, ‘it is
not
his fault. If you want to condemn a man, then have the guts to do it on hard, factual evidence, not blind prejudice and lazy
gossip. Gil Gillespie is no criminal.’

Johnno had wilted under her gaze, and a couple of his mates had subtly moved away. Good.

She turned her attention to the rest of the room. ‘However, speaking of criminals, I’m aware that some of you may have been
forced to turn a blind eye to illegal activity, to not ask questions. Some of your sons, and maybe your daughters, have been
drawn in to criminal activity. Maybe they got out of it. Maybe they haven’t.’

She took a deep breath, scanned the room again. ‘We’ve been through dark times these past few years. But on Saturday night,
we gathered in this hall to celebrate the good things in the community, to build hope for our future. We don’t have much choice
about drought and economic downturn and climate change, but we can do something about crime. There’s a cancer in this district,
and it needs to be cut out, now. This town deserves better than that.
We
deserve better than that. Some of you have information that may help save the life of a man – a good man. I’m asking you
for that information. Talk to me, give me a slip of paper, email me, text me – I don’t care. Just tell me or Adam what you
know.’

She left them on that plea. Walked back to her office, giving them time to think and talk and decide to take the risk of telling
the truth.

And she hoped to hell they would.

They no longer grew cannabis in the shipping container. They took his hood off just before they thrust him into a small, barred
cell in a far corner of the space, and he took the chance to study his surroundings. The size surprised him, until he realised
it was double width, maybe five metres wide, two containers with adjacent walls removed, of the longer type – ten maybe twelve
metres in length. Storage shelves lined one wall, half-filled with boxes and crates and a pile of old pipes, and a metre-high
stack of boxes sat on a pallet towards the other wall.

His captors left, clanging the main door locked, and a second later they cut the lights, so that he was plunged into total,
black darkness. With his hands cuffed behind him, feeling around the cell was awkward, but he took it slowly, counting bars,
learning the shape of the bolt-lock, using his hands, shoulder, face to feel over as much of the two ridged walls as best
he could. His nose told him there was a bucket in the corner, emptied but not cleaned. Gil purposely avoided contemplating
the fate of the previous occupant.

Other than the bucket, there were only walls, bars and floor. He slid down to sit on the floor against the wall, making himself
as comfortable as the circumstances allowed, stretching his legs out in front of him.

There was no light at all, not even faint sounds from above. The metal door of the container was heavy and noisy, and would
give him plenty of warning when they came back. And they would come back, when Tony arrived.

Gil closed his eyes, rested his head back against the wall. Sleep would be the best thing. Sleep would give him strength,
sharpen his senses, increase his chances. He didn’t let his mind drift to things he couldn’t do a thing about. Instead, he
thought of Kris, remembered the gift of lying with her, wrapped around her, peaceful and calm. He didn’t even think of sex,
just that stillness, the complete trust and closeness of being with her.

He kept the calmness when he woke to bright light, some time later. He pushed himself to his feet, was standing upright when
the door at the end scraped open.

They strolled in – Tony, Sergio, Sean, and another man – the second truck driver from the café, before the fire. Clinton.
First name or last name, it didn’t matter – he was muscular, and had the face of a thug.

He calculated his chances of taking them all on, making it to the open door beyond, but with cuffed hands the equation came
out negative, in the suicidal range, and he decided he’d prefer to endure and wait for other options. As Sean and the truckie
sauntered towards him, and Tony dragged a heavy metal chair into the centre of the space, Gil sent a quick thought towards
the open door.

Now would be a good time, Blue. Any time about now
.

Paul and Jim Barrett arrived at the station within minutes of Kris getting there. In the interview room, she sat opposite
them and asked straight out, ‘Is Sean involved in illegal activity with the Flanagans?’

Jim stared at his clasped hands on the table, but Paul shifted uneasily on his chair. She had an answer. She let the silence
grow, waiting for them to fill it. Paul cast a glance at his father, didn’t get any response.