The Flyer (2 page)

Still, she’d looked forward to a new start. San Francisco had become a prison, no matter how modern, and how she’d hoped she could prove herself here. She so desperately needed a new beginning. More than anyone knew. A chance to reinvent herself.

Foolish girl
.

Based on her reception thus far, she would be disappointed. Unable to withstand the scathing, or far too appreciative looks coming not only from the two men who’d thankfully passed, but all of the citizens of Port Hedland, she studied her clasped fingers as though they held the secrets of the world.

If she kept her head down, and her mind elsewhere, perhaps she wouldn’t notice or care that she stuck out here as much as she had back home. Of course, back home, there were others like her. Others who went to parties and drove cars and smoked cigarettes. And there had been Reginald…

But those weren’t the kind of people she was supposed to surround herself with.

“You look sad. Why are you sad?”

The voice came from her right with a soft, breezy lilt that took away any brusque quality the deep tenor might have caused. The owner of the voice was a black gentleman whose age was impossible to ascertain. He had grooves in the dark flesh beside his eyes, and a few lines around his full mouth, but he bore the fit, toned body of a young man. Brownish-black hair hung to his shoulders in dirt-shrouded strands while his eyes danced merrily, as though he had a secret he couldn’t wait to share.

“I beg your pardon,” she answered. “Are you talking to me?”

The man nodded before stealing his gaze away and looking directly into the sun. “It’s a beautiful day, right? Anything is possible on a day like today.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”
Anything could happen? Like what?

“You could find what you’ve been looking for.” The stranger moved to stand between Helen and the sun, rescuing her from the blinding glare. Standing there, he seemed much larger than his average height. Yellow and red paint, dried and flaking, decorated his bare chest, which was solid and sinewy with muscles used to hard work.

Just as Helen prepared to ask the man what he was talking about, the shopkeeper appeared in the doorway. “Blue, you crazy old bastard. Leave the sheila be and mind your business, for once.”

The stranger ignored the comment, choosing instead to level a steady, mesmerizing gaze directly into Helen’s eyes. A shiver of tense discomfort slid up her spine. Never before had she experienced the odd sensation of someone looking directly into her soul, but that’s what it felt like. This old man
commanded
her attention even though there wasn’t anything overwhelming about him. Still, it seemed as though he knew each and every one of her innermost thoughts. All of her secrets.

She couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried, but she didn’t have to. After what seemed like an eternity, the stranger sauntered away.

Helen stared after him, unable to break whatever connection he’d shared with her. What an odd fellow … She wasn’t certain she liked having her soul examined by a complete stranger.

“Dr. Stanwood?”

The cheerful voice came from the street. Instantly more relieved than she’d ever been, she found Dr. Richard Mallory, her father’s old friend and colleague and the reason she’d found a home here, seated in a buggy drawn by a single horse.

“Doc!” She leapt from the bench and hurried off the boardwalk.

When she reached the side of the buggy, she almost threw herself into the empty seat. The sooner Doc took her away from the accusing glares, the better. Unfortunately, Doc applied the brake and lumbered off the bench.

He was a large man, thick in his chest and waist, with white hair cropped short over his ears. For a man of his age—he had to be as old as her father, who had turned fifty-nine on his last birthday—he seemed fit and hearty. She supposed living in such a harsh landscape must contribute to most of the men keeping trim, even as they aged. If one didn’t work hard, one didn’t survive.

Doc’s brown eyes danced beneath bushy eyebrows that had once been black, but had long ago turned a salt-and-pepper gray. Like the mysterious black man, deep lines were etched into the sides of his eyes and crinkled even more so when he smiled.

Circling the buggy, he opened his arms in a familiar greeting, as if he welcomed a member of the family instead of a child he hadn’t seen in decades. “Helen. My, how you’ve grown.”

“It has been more than twenty years.”

“You look stunning, my dear,” he whispered, gathering her in his thick arms for a paternal hug.

Finally he released her, holding her at arm’s length and examining her from head to toe. “You look like your mother.”

“Thank you,” she managed.

He nodded as though satisfied, then dropped his gnarled hands. “Let’s gather your things and get you settled into your flat, shall we?”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

A few moments later, she sat on the bench beside Doc, her baggage neatly tied to the back of the vehicle. Doc clicked to the horse, and the animal struggled for a moment before pulling them away from the storefront.

“I trust you had a fine journey. It’s a long way from America, even with the new ships.”

“The trip only took six weeks.”

“And you fared well?”

“Yes.” She nodded. The ends of her hair tickled her beneath her left eye, and she tucked the strands behind her ear. “Several of the crew were infected with food poisoning during the voyage, and I was able to be of use.” It was a lie. She had, in fact, met the ship’s doctor, but for an altogether different reason. She hadn’t been able to help him. She’d been a burden.

“A physician’s work is never done, as I’m sure you’ve discovered on your own, my dear.”

Helen shifted on the bench, turning to face her father’s old friend. “I want to thank you, Doc. You can’t possibly know how much this means to me.”

“No need for thanks, child. Besides, I reckon I need the help. I’m not as young as I was.”

“None of us are. Though I’m sure you have as much gumption now as I remember. I can see it in that little gleam in your eyes.”

He winked at her and clicked to the horse again. “By the way, your hairstyle is lovely.”

Moonlight sliced the banks of the De Grey River into a patchwork of silver and black. Nothing moved along the shore. Even the twisted mangrove trees seemed to hold their collective breaths. The night was heavy; the air, wet and suffocating. Paul Campbell removed his slouch hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and handed the remnant of his days in the Lighthorse Regiment to Tim O’Leary, one of his best mates since before the Great War.

Somewhere in the darkness, Bessie Monro was waiting for him. A shiver of pure adrenaline rocked him to his bones. Well, it wasn’t exactly pure. More than a few pints of Swan’s beer fed the exhilaration that made his heart race.

Tim took the hat, shaking his head. “You’re sure about this?”

Paul smiled. “Somebody has to do it, right? Might as well be me.”

“She’s a big one, you know. There isn’t another lass like her in these parts, or anywhere, for that matter. She’ll likely rip your heart out if you get too close.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Paul replied with a hint of sarcasm.

Did Tim think he was an idiot? Or too drunk to pull it off? He supposed he couldn’t blame him, really. Of all the things he’d thought he might be doing tonight, jumping into the river to kill a giant croc hadn’t been one of them. Making love to a beautiful woman was more what he’d had in mind. Even spending the night bellied up to the bar drinking himself into a nice, warm piss sounded better than having it out with twelve hundred pounds of angry reptile.

Unfortunately for his plans, there was no helping it. Bessie Monro had been terrorizing the settlers along the De Grey for coming up on two years. She’d slaughtered livestock and threatened the lives of the sheepherders’ children. How she’d grown so large was a mystery, and she couldn’t be allowed to roam free any longer.

When Grady Smith had dashed into Grogg’s Pub shouting that the huge crocodile had been spotted only a few moments earlier in the wide billabong beside which Paul now stood, Paul had had little choice in the matter.

Perhaps his decision to take on the croc had been aided by the copious amounts of beer he’d consumed over the course of several hours. But that didn’t matter. He’d developed a reputation of sorts since he’d come home from the war. Not that he cared much what others thought of him. The fact remained that folks around the Pilbara looked to him to help watch out for things.

Nobody else was going to draw Bessie out of the shadows. Nobody else was willing to risk his neck. Not Tim, who had a sheila and five little ones to provide for. Not Dale, whose wife was expecting their seventh. Paul didn’t have any anklebiters to leave behind. No woman to mourn his passing if Bessie happened to win.

He wiped a hand over his mouth before removing his shirt. He dropped it onto the sand next to his boots. “Are they making bets yet?”

“You stand to take five quid. If you live.”

Paul laughed. “Try not to worry so much, Tim. She’s only a big lizard.”

“Too right,” his barrel-chested friend scoffed. “You’re not the one who has to tell your mum there’s nothing left to bury, are you?”

Glancing behind him at the small crowd gathered to watch the spectacle, he tossed them a wave. A cheer sounded as the men clapped and whistled their encouragement.

Paul retrieved his knife from its leather sheath. The wicked-looking blade curved slightly and reflected the moonlight. “If I don’t come back, just tell me mum I ran away with a sassy sheila from Sydney.” He smiled and winked. “Red hair and eyes like a wild sea. That’ll get her where it hurts.”

“You’re a bloody lunatic, mate.”

Tim was probably right. Even with the alcohol-based liquid courage pumping through his veins, he should know better than to take on a croc at night, especially in the water.

In the water, a croc was a god. Their strong tails propelled them through the river with amazing speed. They could stalk their land-based prey for hours, sitting as still as a statue with nothing but their eyes and nostrils above the surface. Waiting. Then lunge in the blink of an eye. Their victims were dead in mere seconds, drowned and mauled. Then eaten. That is, if they were lucky. The unlucky ones might survive the initial attack and suffer longer, pulled beneath the water and stuffed under a log or a rock, bleeding to death if they didn’t drown first.

Unfortunately, she could easily disappear by morning. Hell, he didn’t even know where she was now. She could be anywhere in the deepest shadows, blending into the myriad of knotted roots of the mangrove trees that lined the far side of the pool, their roots looking more like gnarled fingers than anything else.

Before the water reached his chest, he scanned the surface for any sign of the great beast. On his third visual pass, he caught a glowing reflection. Just inside the line of roots, roughly ten feet from the opposite shore, he spotted Bessie.

Cold, hard eyes, glowing red in the dim moonlight, glared at him. Crocs saw everything. They studied, and planned, and calculated exactly when to strike. They could strike with absolutely no warning—so quickly their victims rarely had time to think of their own deaths. Again, if they were lucky. There was always the spinning death roll. He’d forgotten about that one. Dread stiffened his resolve. Think of the children.

Paul placed his blade between his teeth and pushed into the deeper waters in the center of the pool. He should have put a guard on the old girl and come back in the morning with his rifle. Too late now for rational thought. Besides, where was the fun in that? Anybody could shoot a croc. Few could fight them and win, and five quid was five quid.

The current pulled him in a slow circle where the water followed the curve in the river. He allowed it to take him closer to the root structures. Not too close. He had no desire to become entangled. He might be human bait, but he planned to fight back when the old girl finally decided he might make a decent meal. And she would. There was no bloody doubt about that.

Lightning quick, and with as much force as a bolt of the fiery stuff, Bessie shot from the mangrove roots. She cut a straight, wakeless path across the billabong, her massive, powerful tail pushing her along like a steamer ship. At the last second, Paul kicked out of her way. With both hands, he caught her scaly, armored shoulders, wincing around the blade of his knife when he cut his hand on the hard flesh. Bessie’s undulating muscles pulled them both through the water before she turned sharply to the right. For a big girl, she was more than limber.

She opened her mouth to reveal dozens of teeth, as sharp and deadly as a great white’s. Death lived inside those incredibly powerful jaws. If she got a good grip on him, he was done for. He’d have to make bloody certain that didn’t happen. He slid farther down her wide, heaving frame and held firm.

Unable to reach him, Bessie thrashed the opposite direction. She writhed and splashed for a few seconds in an obvious attempt to toss him off her back, before she tensed her entire frame and dove. There was no time to catch his breath before Paul was dragged beneath the black surface. Water filled his nostrils. The muscles in his arms screamed their disagreement with the situation. He could let go, but if he did, Bessie would turn on him. At the moment, her deadly jaws were pointed the other way, and that’s exactly where he reckoned they should stay. Like a top in a tempest, she rolled under the water. Paul’s chest burned, his lungs aching for air. He had no earthly reckoning in which direction the surface lay. Struggling against Bessie’s imposing power, he climbed farther onto her back one rough inch at a time. The instant air touched his face he stole a breath. Then just as quickly, Bessie threw him under the water again.