 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Part 2

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part 3

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Justice is Closure
JUSTICE IS PERSONAL

Book 1 in the Jamie Wells saga

R.J. BOYD

This is an IndieMosh book

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Copyright 2018 © R.J. Boyd

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**Disclaimer**

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination, and resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Part 1

# Chapter 1

Fog drifted from the valley below, climbing the vertical rock face with a gracious ease. It brought with it an updraught of coolness to encapsulate the body, which, like the mist itself, had a calming effect upon his emotions.

It had been an agonising downhill journey to get to this point. Stumbling blindly through the bush in the darkness he had fallen many times, but the fear of pain had kept him moving. Fear pumped adrenalin into his body. Adrenalin gave him the strength to keep going. To crawl on his knees when he fell down, to struggle back up again, to regain his balance so he could travel a few more metres. At the time it seemed as if the suffering would never end. But now, tired and defeated at his final destination, his entire life's journey was as good as over, and strangely with the acceptance of that fact, came an immense relief.

His physical appearance, with blood stained clothes in tatters, portrayed the features of a sad and dishevelled individual. Contusions, lacerations and large welts disfigured his face, limbs and upper torso. It was excruciatingly painful and laborious to breath, and his whole body ached from the physical punishment. He suspected a couple of ribs were broken, as no doubt was his jaw, and probably the right eye socket which was so swollen he couldn't see out of it. But these punishing physical afflictions were the least of his problems. He had confessed his sins over the last supper. Spiritually he was an empty shell of a man who needed to atone for those past sins. But there would be no forgiveness forthcoming, only retribution of an eye for an eye. Any form of further resistance was futile.

Standing precariously on the edge of a sheer drop, Bill Hunter braced himself for what was about to happen. He took comfort in the vast ocean of whiteness before him, a shadowy landscape of mountain mist illuminated by a mystical waning moon and a billion stars. His mind strangely reliving much happier times, when as a child he would spend endless hours on the beach, digging in the sand and frolicking about in the frothing sea. He closed his eyes, allowing his mind to conjure up an image to perceive this alternate reality. He could clearly see the beach and feel the onshore breeze with the dampness of the sea spray. There was a cool crispness in the air that tickled goose flesh over his body and stimulated hairs to stand on end.

Suppressing the rasping pain in his chest, he breathed in deeply through his swollen and bloodied nose. It was invigorating. It made him feel refreshed and alive. He strained his ears to listen, directing his focus away from the idealistic white noise of the ocean, with its distant roar and rhythmic crashing waves, to tune into the cry of seagulls. Their tortured calls pleased him immensely. It projected feminine pain and heightened his primal sexual instinct. Their sounds acted as an urgent catalyst. They dug deeply into the gutters of his subconscious, resurfacing distant sadistic memories, transforming the previously perceived salty ocean spray upon his lips, into the saltiness of hysterical red hot blood.

'One slice Bill' they used to call him, way back then, in another lifetime when it had been his full time job on the boning line of the local abattoirs to strip meat off carcases. But his nickname had nothing to do with that process. It had come about because of his surgical technique, using his well-honed boning knife, to deliver a quick and deliberate two inches long slice to the skin on the forearm of fellow employees. That's all it would take to get a trip to the medical centre, for five or six stiches and a workers comp holiday on full pay for a week or so. His fellow workers would thank him with a carton of beer or a bottle of whisky for his surgical craftsmanship, and it didn't take long before he became a legend in the work place. Fellow workers not only feared him but also treated him with respect, and along with a select few others from the abattoir, he had soon been initiated into a gang to become a blood brother. From that point on, he had a reputation to uphold.

Bill Hunter chuckled to himself, struggling to retain his balance while twisting and contorting his upper body to cough up coagulated blood. The one slice technique had become his Modus Operandi for pleasuring women. As a means of foreplay, to heighten sexual tension, it was the ultimate starting point, and in his mind's eye he could see and feel it all so clearly. The hysterical semi-naked girl thrashing about on the ground, the knife in his hand, the sensual slicing of her breast skin to make it bleed, the rivulets of blood trickling from the open wound, the white eyed panic of his victim and the hopeless sobbing. The sounds and smell of their fear sexually excited him, and as the victim's tears and panic built, so did his arousal and the urgency of his participation in the rough foreplay.

Nudging the breast, gouging his tongue into the soft tissue, lapping up the blood to gargle, drizzle and smear it back over her trembling body. Then with the mouthing of vile obscenities, and the ritualistic howling of a demonic werewolf drowning out the muted screams and futile resistance of his victim, the foreplay would be over and he would punish the female beneath him. Forcing her thighs apart, he'd ram into her with an animalistic vengeance, all to the goading revelry of his associates bantering for their turn. What a turn on. The sluts deserved everything they got. That feeling of domination and power, to do whatever he wanted to them while they begged for their miserable lives, was all so conquering and supreme.

The feather in his cap though, was the fact that he left his victims with a legacy they could never forget, his signature, his calling card scarred on their breast for life. It also acted as a reminder to them, that if they reported him, then he would be back with his knife to finish the job. They had all been too scared, too intimidated to do anything about it, or perhaps they didn't go to the cops because they'd simply been grateful for a bloody good root. Bill Hunter smiled with an all knowing satisfaction. He felt those blood lust cravings now. They began to boil deep within the arteries of his groin. He felt his genitals tighten and his cock stir as the engorgement began. How he'd love to have been able to experience that real life scenario one more time, but that was not meant to be. An electric shock, from a savage jab of a two pronged instrument to the middle of his back, prompted him his time was up.

Bill Hunter cried out in bewildered agony, his eyes flung open with reactive shock. His body quivered, held briefly in suspended animation by muscular contractions. At that particular moment though, the bodily mechanics he was most aware of was the relaxation of the sphincter muscle of his urinary bladder, followed by the sensation of warm urine flowing down his inner thighs. His life force was slipping away. Scenes from various movies flashed before his eyes. He was the condemned man strapped in the electric chair and unable to move. The switch had been thrown and the huge current of electricity had been delivered. His body was slumped and unmoving. He was dead and pissing his pants.

This was the end, he could take no more. But he wouldn't beg for his life, not like that young veterinary student had. What had happened to her shouldn't have happened. It was none of his doing, but he had been there on that fateful night, pleasuring her before she'd been killed, and in the eyes of the law he was as guilty as the rest of the gang. They had all gotten away with it for all these years. Who would ever have thought that events would turn full circle?

Accepting his fate Bill Hunter wriggled closer to the edge, positioning his feet carefully, rocking on his toes and only just keeping his balance. He likened himself to an Olympic diver on the springboard, mentally preparing himself for the exact right moment to propel himself off the board and into the water below. He closed his eyes and took a nervous short breath, but in that instant he knew that he was toppling. His eyes sprung alive, lit up with terror and his jaw dropped open to scream but no noise came out, his throat parallelised by fear. He was freefalling, plummeted head first to his pending death with an awkward swan dive into the abyss.

# Chapter 2

The sight was metamorphic, hypnotic and therapeutic. Hot water pounding down onto a cold tile surface, turning liquid to steam that then rose mystically with the convectional currents. It soon filled the shower cubical, becoming more cloud-like as it rolled over the top of the glass, spilling out into the body of the bathroom with warmth and humidity, to fog up the mirrors and dampen tissues and towels alike. It wasn't anywhere near as intense, grandiose or as beautiful as the mountainous valley fog, but nonetheless, it reminded him of where he had just been and of what he had just done. Now he just needed the mist to swallow him up and allow him to become anonymous.

Jamie Wells stripped down, carefully discarding his clothing and placing them into a garbage bag. They were torn, bush bashed and impregnated with blood stained DNA evidence. He then stepped into the shower recess, closing the glass door quickly behind him to become encapsulated within its opaque matrix. Straight away he felt protected and insulated from the world. He welcomed the heat relieving and massaging properties of hot water on his weary body, physically relaxing his muscles to feel his physique go putty and weak with complicity, before then going about the process of consciously calming his mind. He needed to emotionally detach himself from the events of the night, before then being able to view those events logically to justify his actions. He needed to have a clear conscience, devoid of any doubt or guilt, and was prepared to stay in the shower for as long as it took to get his head right. He needed to nourish his soul, and to do that he needed to metamorphose into a new being.

Tilting his head back, he willingly accepted the impact of full hot water pressure belting on his face. Opening his mouth he flushed the oral cavity with a river of water, attempting to wash away the sour taste of what he'd done, whilst he thought about the night. Technically, he hadn't murdered the man, the man had committed suicide. Yes he was guilty of drugging, abducting, torturing, inflicting grievous bodily harm, holding the man against his will, coercing a confession out the man and in supplying a location for him to commit suicide. But in the end he hadn't executed Bill Hunter by physically pushing or throwing him over the cliff, Bill Hunter had done that to himself. And in all fairness, he had been compassionate with his involvement in the whole process of Bill Hunter's death.

He had supplied the condemned man a predawn breakfast, with his choice of either a date or pumpkin scone from a well know franchised bakery, along with a strong cup of milk coffee to wash it down with. Admittedly, this humane consideration was also to help detoxify or neutralise the effects of the sedative drug in his victim's body, as had been the forced one hour march through the rugged terrain in the black of night to reach the location a few hours before dawn. As the end approached, he needed the man to be consciously aware of what was going on, and to know why these events were taking place. He needed Hunter to feel all the fearful emotions, which his sister would have also no doubt experienced, prior to confronting her own horrendous death. Bill Hunter could get angry, cry, grovel for his life, beg for forgiveness, repent or plead for some sort of divine intervention from the Lord, but in the end there was never going to be any mercy shown. In the court of public opinion, this man was a serial rapist and murderer. He had needed this man to confess, and in return for his honest confession, he had granted Bill Hunter one last reasonable dying wish, which was to be carried out after his death.

The final Coronal Inquest, into the murder of his sister a few years ago, had presented witnesses and evidence overwhelmingly suggesting that Bill Hunter had been involved. Unfortunately time had worn away at the truth and its edges had been eroded and blurred. There had not been enough hard evidence to commit him, or other members of his gang to trial, even though they were all prime suspects in the ongoing investigation into her murder forty years earlier. Quite simply, these grubs had gotten away with murder. Once again, the legal and judicial system had failed and society was outraged. After the findings of the Inquest were released to the public, the media had gone into meltdown, prophesising, that if a much tougher stance wasn't taken against the rising violence and leniency in the sentences given to criminals, someone would take the law into their own hands. Now it was too late to argue the semantics of that point. It was no longer an academic argument.

With the passage of time, he had answered that call. However the drastic action he had taken tonight to set things right, hadn't been so much about revenge any more, as all that raw anger and troubled emotion had softened over the years. This course of action was about societal justice, and as such, a very important moral question plagued him. In dispensing justice his way, had he set himself above the law? Had he become the judge, jury and executioner? Logically, there was always going to be an executioner who had to do the dirty work. Someone had to give the lethal injection, release the gallows trapdoor, throw the electrocution switch or fire the bullet from a rifle. As far as a jury was concerned, he felt as if he didn't need one. In a court of law there was only twelve jurors to make a finding, but in the court of public opinion there were tens of thousands of individual jurors on his side, all screaming for blood. And as for being the judge, it could be argued, that along with the overwhelming brief of evidence and witness statements implicating the gang members involvement, he also had an intimate knowledge of the psychological and emotional effects that murder had upon a family, which was absolutely necessary to find the guy guilty.

In his eyes, it wasn't enough that an illusion of justice seemed to be done. Holding a Coronial Inquest, and documenting eight gang members names on the public records as being prime suspects in the murder of his sister, wasn't justice. Justice was tangible, it wasn't words on a piece of paper. Until tonight, justice hadn't been done. And only time would tell how he would be judged for his actions, and that's assuming if he ever got caught. But by the same token, there was also no sense denying that his name would never come up as a person of interest. Due to his sister's historic case, there was an indirect link to Bill Hunter and the other gang members, and there was always the possibility that he may have slipped up somewhere during the nights activity to have implicated himself. But that was the future and it was pointless worrying needlessly about something that may or may not happen, until that moment arrived.

By the time Jamie stepped out of the shower, he had justified his actions and emerged with a renewed determination to finish what he had just started. Nothing had changed and he would continue to explore his options of how to execute the last two surviving gang members. As of yet though, he didn't know how he would go about it, but he would be opportunistic and wait for a golden moment to present itself before striking again, just as he had with Bill Hunter. But first thing was first, the body had to be found and an investigation had to be launched. Then there needed to be time for the dust to settle, time for Hunter's comrades to drop their guard and time for the media and the public to lose interest and curiosity in the case, before he could strike again.

At this stage, there was no need to be paranoid about anything. He was not under any current investigation, he was not a known associate of the Bill Hunter, or involved in any criminal activities. There was no direct connection to the victim, or his associates, and no one had witnessed or challenged him throughout the entire ordeal last night, from abduction to the death of his victim. Quite simply, the Homicide Detectives may ask him a few general questions, but they weren't about to come knocking on the door with search warrants and forensic equipment looking for evidence.

He would have a guilt free breakfast and go about his normal house cleaning and maintenance duties, which today would require extra attention to the bathroom and back seat of his vehicle, where forensic evidence, if searched for, could be found. Tonight was also garbage collecting night, so he would also be disposing of all items which may have come in contact with his victim during the abduction, including clothing, boots, backpack, car seat covers, a few other assorted nick knacks and cleaning items. Then he would head off to the shops to renew these items, and tomorrow he would go to work as usual, as if nothing had happened.

# Chapter 3

They had travelled for hours to get to this tourist location, and it was everything the brochure said it would be. Autumn in the Blue Mountains, in a world heritage listed national park. The changing of the colours they called it. Varieties of deciduous trees and shrubs sliding into winter hibernation with all their breathtaking magnificence. It was an event not to be missed. Liquid Ambers, Tallowwoods, Chinese Pistachio's, Ornamental Pears and the unbelievably stunning beauty of the Maples, most noticeable of all the Japanese Maples with their rich claret hues, were sure to take your breath away and lift the most depressed of spirits.

Up each side of the road, on council strips and front yards of residential properties, these trees and many others displayed a guard of honour, presenting a huge welcome to tourists and an imagery which would surely burn into their memory forever. Colin and Cheryl Cruikshank were no exception. They were here, not just for the sight-seeing, but also here to share one another's company with an inspirational bushwalk on their first wedding anniversary. They had planned this trip for ages and took it all in. Surely nothing could spoil this special day.

And what a spectacular picture perfect day it was. An ocean of rich blue skies as far as the eye could see, majestic green peaks, a splattering of feathery white clouds and the slightest of breeze that carried a hint of winter on its wing. Branches gently swayed and leaves delicately vibrated with the fresh breeze, some falling to dance acrobatically in front of the windshield, while others swirled with a perpetual motion around the tyres of the moving vehicles. It was natures' waltz and today they were part of the performance.

Eventually the pair reached their destination, a small car park at the end of a dead-end road. With spirits high, they stepped out from their vehicle, snatched up their backpacks and headed off along a narrow, undulating bush track clearly identified with markers as being of a moderate grade. Thirty odd minutes later, at the bottom of a section of steep earth eroded steps, they reached an intersection where they could either go left, right or straight ahead. They chose to go straight ahead, and after following a winding narrow gutted track for a hundred or so metre, came to a scenic outlook that left them both temporarily speechless.

The view was absolutely breathtakingly beautiful. The outlook was located on a rocky outcrop protruding over a shear sandstone cliff dropping hundreds of metres to the valley floor below. Constructed in the shape of a horseshoe, a metre wide and waist high sandstone rock wall secured the perimeter of the lookout and acted as a physical safety barrier to prevent anyone from falling. The structure looked very secure. The individual rocks had been screened for size and shape and were strategically placed and bound together by concrete. Its creation was a credit to the craftsmen or craftswomen who had put it all together in such a precarious location.

The temptation for Colin and Cheryl to sit on the wall, and then lean out to peer over the ledge to look straight down, was overwhelming. Throwing caution to the wind, they both decided to take a risk to do exactly that, and with her husband going first, they took turns to share the jaw dropping and heart racing experience. As an added safety precaution, they held onto each other's legs as they took turns, just in case something went horribly wrong and the ledge began to crumble and fall away with one of them on top of it.

"Oh dear Lord," exclaimed Cheryl wriggling back from the ledge to drop securely into her husband's arms. "How scary was that? My insides are still shaking. It's so far down!"

"Yer it is, particularly without a parachute. It does makes you wonder how anyone could possibly find the courage to take their own life by throwing themselves off a cliff..."

"Ohhh," she shuddered holding him tightly to cut him off mid-sentence. "It's too nice a day, let's not think about such horrible things."

Returning to the intersection, they decided it really did not matter which way they hiked. The map indicated that both tracks would take them on a journey along the cliff face and down into the valley two hundred metres below, to then return in a loop to this very starting point. Their bush walk would take approximately four hours to complete. They had timed this well. It was now ten in the morning, which meant that they would be back by about two in the afternoon. They would stop for their prepared anniversary snack somewhere down on the valley floor, maybe beside the creek near the bottom of the waterfall, where the hiking guide said there was a little sandy beach. That way they could rest up before they were forced to do the return journey, with its hard yards, back up the mountain wall.

They took the left track, and soon after crossed a watercourse with stepping stones at the top of the waterfall. From here on it was a steep decline, hugging the shear sandstone wall with its rough steps gouged out of the escarpment and with the safety of their decent being aided by holding onto a continuous stainless steel cable. The gradient didn't begin to ease until they neared the valley floor and had descended into the dark, very cool southern side of the mountain with its moist lush canopy above. A soft mist was ever present, giving an eerie feel to the bush surrounds. It had the effect of drawing the couple closer together, heightening the experience of their anniversary adventure. Down here in the valley, mobile phones didn't work, and as of yet they hadn't seen any other bush walker. They were completely alone, in high spirits and without any distractions. This was turning out to be a truly wonderful day.

They continued hiking along the valley floor for a good hour or so. They chatted, laughed, held hands and stopped constantly to embrace, all the while marvelling at the majestic beauty of the mountains and its unique eco system. Eventually they crossed a watercourse via a very narrow rickety bridge, identified on the map as the half way mark. This led onto a gorgeous setting of rock shelves, propped up against, and protected by a perimeter of huge eucalyptus trees and tangled climbers, with a mountainous sandstone cliff to the rear that reached to the heavens above.

With breathtaking scenic views out into the valley, this was an ideal place to recuperate and have their lunch. It was not their fore planned destination, there was no sandy beach or cascading waterfall, but that didn't matter, love was in the air, time was irrelevant and this spot was so beautiful. Within minutes they were sitting on a rug, on a rock ledge, under a large tree with the contents of their picnic lunch spread out before them, a small thermos of hearty vegetable soup, buttered bread rolls, blueberry muffins, bananas, oranges, an assortment of nuts and a chocolate bar.

"Ready for your soup honey?" Colin asked as he poured the steaming contents of the thermos into an enamel mug.

"This has been the best day ever," she responded leaning sideways to kiss him on the cheek.

With the mug cradled in the palm of her hand, Cheryl took a sip then smiled with satisfaction, simply being content to soak up the moment of serenity where no other words were necessary. It was only a moment later, as she was reaching for the bread roll, that she became aware of the movement of a couple of small white grubs, or insect larvae of some kind around the food. It was not apparent to either of them where these creatures were coming from, other than to comment that they had probably been lured out of the rocks or the bush by the scent of a free lunch, but now, mysteriously, there was also one squirming around in her soup.

"Ohh, how'd that get there?" she grimaced.

"Won't eat much," her husband laughed.

He was right of course, farmers in the bush were constantly removing flies and other insects out of their cuppas. Besides, it was too nice a day to complain. She'd simply flick the insect out, just like the farmers would, there was no sense wasting good soup.

But only moments later she was distracted once more. This time she was to witness a large droplet of dirty fluid splatter over her fingers as she took a bite from her blueberry muffin. This was immediately followed by the sensation of something landing in her hair, and it was moving. She reacted quickly, dropping the muffin, jumping to her feet and slapping at her head with both hands, demanding her husband get it out, whatever it was, right now.

"It's a maggot! You've got a maggot in your hair," he exclaimed. "How the hell did that get there?"

They looked dubiously at each other. The moment of romance was gone.

"Look out!" he gasped, stepping back holding onto her. "They're dropping out of the tree. Look, there's another one."

Stunned, they watched in silence, looking up, looking down, processing what was going on, confirming the fact that maggots were actually falling from the tree above.

"There's got to be a dead animal or a bird or something caught in the branches and rotting away up there," stated Colin.

His wife felt physically sick. That creature in her soup had been a maggot from a dead animal and she had drank it. The fluid on her fingers and blueberry muffin which had fallen from the sky had to be the decaying juices of a rotting corpse. Instinctively she brought her fingers to her nose. The stench was stomach churning. She dry reached, resisting the overwhelming compulsion to throw up.

"Can't see anything from here," he said. "We'll have to move further under the tree canopy so we can look up."

They only had to move a couple of steps from their previously idealistic picnic spot to discover the source. Five metres up, hanging upside down by one leg snared in the fork of a tree, with fluid and maggots oozing from the mouth and nostrils, was the grotesque form of a human corpse.

Cheryl's screams were heart wrenching. They echoed from cliff face to cliff face along the length of the valley. Then she fell to her knees and sobbed. Her anniversaries would never be the same, ever again.

# Chapter 4

The Inspector and the Sergeant met at the lookout on top of the sandstone escarpment, directly above where the body had been found in the valley three days earlier, the spot where forensics told them the deceased had either fallen or been shoved from.

Using Mr Cruikshank, the male bushwalker as a guide, the police rescue squad had previously trekked to the site at the bottom of the valley to view and confirm that there was an actual body hanging upside down in a tree. Mr Cruikshank's distressed wife had not participated in the return journey with her husband. She had been lightly sedated for emotional trauma, by a paramedic in the car park where the Cruikshank's eventually had mobile reception to be able to ring triple zero, and she had remained there under supervisory care until her husband returned.

Without knowing the circumstances of the victim's death, and after combing the scene for any obvious forensic evidence but finding none, the local coppers had secured the area and decided to call in a medical examiner. It would be his job to ascertain if this was suicide or murder and to decide when the body could be moved. Due to the hazardous trail, and therefore dangerous conditions in reaching the location with nightfall looming upon them, the body and site had been guarded for the night, and the medical examiner had turned up mid-morning the next day to make an initial determination of death.

The body still hung in the tree, but by using a variety of ropes, levers, pulleys and harness, along with rock climbing and abseiling techniques, the rescue squad had soon secured the necessary tackle to manoeuvre the medical examiner above, and all around the body to take photos and get a good look at the impact site. It had only taken a couple of minutes for him to make up his mind. The deceased had met with foul play, and according to the amount of decomposition, based on local climatic conditions, the corpse had been hanging where it had been found for approximately two weeks. The body was then allowed to be removed and transported via helicopter to the morgue for an immediate post mortem examination, and the location had then been treated as a murder site.

As a result of that autopsy, Inspector Brian Cooke was now meeting with Sergeant Rifkin, the local Police rescue squad team leader. Sergeant Rifkin, who had assisted with the body's recovery two mornings earlier, knew the local area and its terrain very well, and was assisting the investigation by sharing his knowledge of such with the Homicide Inspector from Sydney CIB. The deceased man had been flagged on the national computer systems data base, as a person of interest in a number of serious crimes. Thus when a search of the dead man's name was conducted by the Sergeant, to find out if the guy had a history of any prior or current criminal convictions, alarm bells had rung and the Inspector had been immediately alerted.

"Your department had the deceased flagged as a person of interest in a number of serious crimes?" stated the local cop.

"Yes, Bill Hunter. He's a prime suspect in a nasty homicide going back a lot of years. Got a rap sheet as long as your arm. Done time in the past for rape and grievous bodily harm, two stretches for driving under the influence and one extended stay for supplying drugs and aggravated assault. Previous D's couldn't get him on the murder charge though, or any of his accomplices for that matter. Insufficient evidence to send any of them to trial. Well, that was the Coroner's finding at an Inquest a few years ago."

"Anything new on him?"

"There's a current apprehended violence order against him. It was taken out by an ex-female partner who hadn't had any contact with him for thirty or so year. This guy comes back into her life six months ago and begins harassing her. Apparently he used to knock her about pretty badly and she felt threatened all over again. Don't think she'll lose any sleep knowing that he's gone."

"What goes around comes around, eh."

"Well, someone definitely payed out on him. We obviously don't have all the information in yet, but you handled the body and attended the autopsy and made some local inquiries. What do you make of it all?"

The Sergeant moved closer to the edge of the vertical drop, shaking his head with the visual imagery of what he was recalling. He stabilised his weight against the retaining wall whilst feigning a gesture to look over.

"Yer, gross trauma," he said. "A two hundred metre fall from this lookout, bouncing off rock ledges, ripping through branches of trees and then being snagged by the leg with the impact of a sudden jolt. The fall literally ripped muscles, pulverised organs and practically broke every bone in his body. The victim went over the cliff with both hands tied together behind his back and with his legs hobbled. Someone wanted to make a statement, that's for sure."

"Prior to the fall and its sudden impact, what did the post mortem examination reveal about the body?"

"That was also pretty conclusive. Tissue trauma and its subsequent bruising indicated that the deceased had been physically knocked about within hours prior to his death. Broken ribs, busted eye socket, dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle, that sort of thing. But with a couple of week decomposition of the body, it was challenging for the medical examiner to be exact."

The Inspector flipped his way through an array of photographs from a manila folder. They showed the cleaned up and naked corpse of Bill Hunter laid out on a stainless steel table for observation, prior to being opened up for the autopsy.

"Ok, let's go over what we know for sure. The victim had deep ligature marks on his wrists, as well as around his ankles as a result of the cable ties," he said pointing to the wounds. "So he'd been tied up for a considerable amount of time."

"Yer, and that photograph in your left hand shows that he also had extensive rope burns around his torso. And, according to forensics, he'd also been gagged at some point during the ordeal, with duct tape wrapped around the head to cover his mouth."

"And what do you make of these?"

The Inspector pointed to photographs showing close up shots of numerous well defined tissue damage spots, occurring in pairs, primarily on the back and buttocks region of the body.

"Off the record at the moment, but the medical examiner reckoned the damage was caused by an instrument of torture, probably a two pronged electrical device such as a cattle prod, but he's sent a tissue sample off to the lab for verification of that fact. He also said that the dead man's liver was irreversibly damaged. Other than cirrhosis caused by the chronic usage of illicit drugs and alcohol, he was in the mid to late stages of liver cancer. His condition was terminal. The deceased already had a death sentence, maybe only six months or less to live."

"That's interesting. I wonder if his killer knew that. Was any vehicle found abandoned in the car park in the last week or so?"

"No, we checked that. There was nothing out of the ordinary."

"So it's reasonable to assume the deceased didn't drive here to meet someone. It seems obvious that he was abducted. But abducted from where? And as a restraint, to keep him from escaping for the duration of the journey from where he was captured, to end up in the car park at the top of this hill, he had his hands tied behind his back and his legs hobbled."

"Yer, and he was probably also gagged at this point to stop him from calling out and creating a commotion."

"That would make perfect sense. It's a fair journey from the car park to here, particularly with someone hobbled and actively resisting."

The sergeant turned to look up the bush track with a visual imagery of its topography clear in his head. As a member of the rescue squad in the mountains, he knew these bushwalking tracks like the back of his hand.

"Well over five hundred metres," he explained. "The terrain is undulating and steep in parts with lots of rocky or earthen steps, and the track, as you've experienced getting here, is very narrow and bushy in parts."

"Ok, so let's try and view this logically, step by step," said the Inspector holding up his hands to move them in such a fashion to emphasis his facts. "So the abductor, or maybe two or more abductors, somehow overpower their victim to get him into a vehicle, where they then transport him to the carpark at the top of this hill and then force him to get out. They have his mouth gagged and his feet hobbled with his hands tied behind his back, and then force him to walk a considerable distance, downhill through very difficult terrain, to reach this spot."

"Yes. There is also a rope tied around his body to stop him from charging off, and he was obviously tortured by the two pronged electrical instrument, such as a cattle prod, to keep him moving."

"That makes perfect sense."

"Toxicology also showed he had traces of a sedative drugs in his system," stated the Sergeant. "So that would explain how he was initially overpowered and abducted. Which also means that he'd be disorientated, but somewhat controllable and complicit to instructions once he woke up with the effects of the drug starting to wear off."

The Inspector role played the scene for his own benefit. Placing his hands behind his back he took small steps as if he'd been hobbled. His muscle memory of those steps triggered and enforced the childhood memories of sack racing, where the competitor gets into an empty chaff bag, places a foot in each corner of the bag and then runs, hops or jumps as fast as they can to the finish line. It was an almost impossible task to preform without falling over.

"You're absolutely right," he said with that visual imagery in his head. "If he's drugged he's already unsteady on his feet, and with his feet hobbled, he'd be stumbling and tripping up and not being able to keep his balance. With hands tied behind his back he couldn't reach out and steady himself, or hang onto anything to maintain his balance. He'd be slamming into trees, falling onto boulders and doing a lot of physical damage to himself. That would make sense and could explain those pre-death injuries. And this journey was in the dark, so it would have been quite an ordeal."

"Yer, deceased was wearing a watch at the time of his death. It was one of those non-digital version with hands on the face. It stopped at 5.20am on 7th April. Sun came up fifty five minutes later, at around 6.15am, so it had to be well and truly dark when they started the trek from the carpark to come down here."

"The journey would have to have been done with torches," speculated the Inspector. "Did anyone report seeing torch lights, or hear any cries of distress, or report anything unusual or suspicious around that period of time a couple of weeks ago?"

"No, nothing reported to the station and we canvassed the area yesterday asking questions. Problem is, there are no residential properties within five hundred metres of the car park, only bushland, and that makes for a huge sound and sight buffer."

"What about campers?"

"Off limit, supposed to be no camping allowed, there are signs everywhere. Besides, parks and wildlife officers routinely check the area. We also had a chat to them. There have been no incidents, or violations, or evidence of any campers for a long time."

The Inspector stroked his stubbled chin, puzzled by the mystery. It was obvious the operation had been well planned and orchestrated. The abductor or abductors had come and left under the cover of darkness. But what happened at the end of the journey, when they reached this very point where he and the Sergeant were now standing? Did the victim accidentally fall in an attempt to get away, or did he jump, or was he thrown over the cliff?

"Do we know if the deceased was alive when he went over the retaining wall?"

"The medical examiner believes so. He couldn't find any physical evidence to identify that the victim was dead immediately before the fall. No bullet holes, stab wounds, bludgeoning or asphyxiation or any other significant trauma to indicate that he was executed by any means whatsoever. After all the trouble his tormenters went to, to get him to this point, it's probably reasonable to assume that the victim knew how he was going to die, and was alive when he went over the edge."

"Yer, I agree with you. According to this report, his wallet with identification and $1500 in cash, along with a variety of drugs were untouched and still on the body. The killer didn't care that the deceased would be identified straight away. This wasn't a simple robbery, or some sort of attempt at extortion, and it wasn't an execution by organised crime figures either. The motive here sounds very personal, but the macabre nature of the crime far exceeds anything capable from that of a disgruntled lover. The killer has gone to a lot of trouble to arrange these proceedings."

"If that was the case, then the victim and his killer probable had a good chat before parting ways. They could have been here for hours," speculated the Sergeant. "And that would explain why the medical examiner found undigested food in the victim's stomach. He'd eaten a date scones and drank a cup of milk coffee not long before he died."

The Inspector nodded his head with the all-knowing gesture of pieces falling into place. "Pre-meditated and well planned right to the end. The killer went to the trouble to take along an early morning breakfast to share with his victim. Why would he do that?"

"For information I'm assuming."

"Yes, for information. And as a trade-off for that information, the condemned man was granted his last supper. This whole scenario is hard to imagine. It's an arduous journey to get to this point. Maybe there were a couple of suspects who aided and abetted in the abduction to physically get the deceased here to this lookout, but I'm now inclined to think that this was very personal, and there were only two people here face to face at the end, the killer and the victim. He or she was acting alone at this final point, but there is still a lot of investigation to be carried out and a lot of questions to be asked. Did we find any physical or forensic evidence around this area that would relate to this case?"

"Physically it's surprisingly clean, even allowing for the traffic of other bushwalkers over the past two weeks, and forensically there is nothing of any significance, and that probably has a lot to do with the heavy rain we experience a week or so ago. As you can see this exposed area would be scoured clean of blood or body fluids. We've collected a few samples of bits and pieces from the area, and from the track for analysis, but are very doubtful of any results."

"It's amazing you know," commented the Inspector in summing up. "The victim was a big man and a nasty bastard. It's impossible to imagine him being overpowered. He was so cock sure of himself. Yet, he was captured, abducted, tortured and dehumanised, just like all of his female rape victims and the murdered Vet student had been in the past. He'd escaped justice then, but in the end, he died a lonely violent death, just like that unfortunate veterinary student had."

# Chapter 5

Jamie Wells was at work, when he first heard the news circulating about the murdered body of a prior customer being found up in the Blue Mountains. Jess, one of the girls on the front counter, only too well remembered the name and was recounting the confrontation she'd previously had with the guy. The team members on the floor of Budwells, a very large D.I.Y. home improvement warehouse, were congregated, abuzz with excitement and quizzing her for answers.

"Yer, he was an aggressive nasty prick," stated Jess. According to news reports, he'd previously done time for rape and assault, and was a prime suspect in a particularly nasty homicide of a young woman going back many years."

"How do you know it was the same guy?" asked one of the crew.

"They showed a picture of him on the early morning news. Bill Hunter. I'm telling you, it was the same guy who Debbie and I had words with. I can never forget him. He bought one of those expensive barbeques, you know the ones that come in a three box set. It was the last one we had in stock, and right or wrong, he wanted to screw me down on the price. When I told him we don't give discounts, he started in on me about how dusty and shitty the boxes were..."

"Truth of the matter is," interjected someone close by who had been in retail all her life, "you'll never please a difficult customer, no matter what you do or say."

"Should have pointed out to him that this is a warehouse," said another.

"Fat lot of good that would have done," responded Jess. "He very vocally and colourfully pointed out that one of the boxes had a slight gouge in it. Said he'd be back to shove it up my arse if it was damaged when he got home. Alvie and Damo loaded it onto his ute, then he left, but two hours later he's back, frothing at the mouth like a dog with rabies."

The group were bonding together. There was nothing like a good stoush with a customer or management to unite the team members. With unity came strength and everything else that flowed with it, like moral, empathy and respect.

"I was on meet-and-greet at the front door when he came back in," spoke up Debbie to add validity to Jess's story. "I remember him well. He was a mountain of a man and dark as thunder. I'd only just begun my shift, so I was unaware at that time about the barbeque purchase and of what had previously happened with Jess, so I said, _'G'day how's your day been so far?'_ as I normally would, and before I knew it, he was literally in my face snarling, _'get out of my way ya fuckin' whore or I'll take a knife to ya throat and bleed ya real slow,'_ and he emphasised real slow by drawing his finger across his neck."

The group were mesmerised, fixed with their stares, some with mouths dropped open, others with hands covering their mouths, all feeling the moment as Debbie continued her dramatic account of what had transpired.

"I was shocked, I couldn't move," she said. "I couldn't say anything and all I could feel was the blood draining out of my body and I thought I was going to faint. Then his lip curled up with a sadistic smile and all I could feel was fear. It's the fear that stays with me."

"Yer," said Jess, "it was truly frightening. Then he came screeching at me, _'told yar I'd be back yar dumb fuckin' bitch. Can't yar fuckin' company get anything right? You dumb arses couldn't organise a fuck in a brothel. Get me one of yar fuckin' boss."_

"Oh my God! What'd you do?" asked one of the group.

"I called one of the fuckin' boss," said Jess.

"And I called security," added Debbie.

"He made a right scene," continued Jess. "At least he redirected his anger off me and Debbie, but he refused to move and he didn't settle down until security warned they'd have to ring the cops."

"Management should have offered to give his money back if he returned the goods, just to get rid of him," suggested a voice in the group.

"Nope, that wasn't good enough. Reckoned he was having a barbeque that night and he wasn't loading everything back onto the ute again. He dug his heals in and was being real foul mouthed about it. He wanted box number two, the damaged box with its ice tub and food warmer cabinet, replaced on the spot. He claimed the stainless steel surface had a scuff and he wasn't happy."

"Why didn't we just give him another one, or source another from a nearby warehouse?" asked another.

"Problem was, there wasn't another box one, two, or three in our warehouse or any other warehouse within the metropolitan area. He'd bought the last barbeque and he knew it. He was simply being a sanctimonious prick."

"How was it resolved?"

"Management told him to use the barbeque that night and any other night for that matter, and we'd call him when a replacement came in so he could return the damaged one and pick up the replacement as a swap. But even that wasn't good enough. He wanted someone to go around to his house and replace the damaged item when it finally arrived."

"And ohhhh, what a scary prospect that would have been," commented Debbie.

"Anyhow," said Jess, "he left his address and mobile phone number and that's the last I'd heard of him, until today."

"Did anyone ever go around to his house with the replacement?"

"No. As it turned out, we didn't get a delivery from our supplier and wouldn't be getting one for some time. The duty manager rang the customer the next day to explain the situation, and apparently he was as nice as apple pie."

"Jeckle and Hyde," said Debbie who still suffered from the fallout of her close encounter with the man. "Bet the bastard was on drugs when he abused us."

"Yer," piped up someone. "A drug induced psychosis. You see it on those current affair programs all the time."

"So true," commented someone else. "The users are aggressive, paranoid and as strong as a bull elephant. You've got to feel for the doctors and nurses in hospital emergency departments, and for the ambulance paramedics on the street."

"Yes, something's got to be done..."

Jamie smiled to himself from the outer circle of the group. Keeping his mouth shut he observed how the group interacted and bonded together, in what could only be described as a post traumatic therapy session of an event which took place around two week ago. He listened intently to his fellow workers individual points of view, and of how they now felt about this deceased guy who had threatened the lives and emotionally scarred two of their co-workers, and in that instant Jamie felt vindicated for his actions. Without Debbie or Jess knowing, on their behalf, he had personally delivered a little punishment to Bill Hunter, in what had turned out to be, a long, long night.

He also listened to any reference to himself in the conversation, and was relieved that his name had not cropped up. He stayed in the background, just as he had on the day when Bill Hunter had first come into the warehouse and he'd initially recognised who he was. Fate had delivered him a monster. That reality had to be digested, and as to what he would eventually do about the situation, had taken some time to figure out. After more than forty years of emotional torment to himself and his family, he couldn't have let that opportunity slip by. How many times over the years had he asked the universe for help? How many times had he said that affirmation over and over again, _"the universe is guiding me to be at the right place, at the right time, for the right sequence of events to occur, so that justice can be delivered?"_ Well, a couple of weeks ago, the universe had delivered on his request, and ever since then the ball had been in play.

He thought back to the morning when he had literally come face to face with the monster everyone was now talking about. A call had come over the loud speaker, for a team member from the lifestyle department, to assist a customer in the leisure area with a barbeque enquiry. He had attended the call, and approaching the man from behind, had asked if he could assist. When the customer turned, he spoke gruffly without any acknowledgment or eye contact with his hand thumping on the BBQ in front of him. "Want one of these fuckers," he had said.

At that moment, Jamie had felt as if he had been punched in the gut. It was instant recognition as the memories came flooding back. The guys face and feature from the Coronial Inquest were burnt into his memory. Standing before him was a murder suspect. He was one, out of a gang of eight prime suspects, in the murder of his sister who he'd vowed would meet with justice one day. Five had already met their maker through violent or lingering deaths prior to the Inquest, but there were still three left alive and this guy had been one of them. At a fleeting glance, the guy standing in front of him would have had no idea who Jamie was. He was not the type to have a conscience, or the type to look over his shoulder and worry that someone from a family, who he'd wronged in the past, may be hunting for him. The customer would no-doubt have seen Jamie as just a faceless employee wearing a yellow shirt and orange apron, and someone who was of no value or threat to him whatsoever.

With shock, Jamie had quickly backtracked, muttering to the customer that he would get a trolley and find another team member to assist with a lift. Instead, he had hurried around the corner to get away from the situation. His body had been reacting to the 'flight or fight' syndrome as adrenalin poured into his system. He had been physically shaking with nervous energy and breathing erratically with his heart pounding in his ears. He'd needed time to settle down, needed time to digest what was going on with the situation he'd found himself in. He had pasted the buck. Using the pretence that he was run off his feet, he had used his in-house phone to call another team member from the same department to help the customer. He had then positioned himself close by in the next aisle, pretending to rearrange stock, as he peered through the shelves to observe.

Jamie had followed and scrutinised every mannerism of the customer as he interacted with the staff, taking mental notes on what he said, how he responded to idle chit chat, what provoked a verbal reaction, his body language, how fast he moved and so on. The more intelligence he could gather on the guy the better off he would be, and he only had a small window of opportunity to do that in, so it was important not to squander that valuable time. To be forewarned was to be forearmed, and just one little idiosyncrasy could affect the dynamics of how to go about trapping the man. After paying with cash at the register, and listening to the abuse Hunter had thrown at Jess, Jamie had followed him and the two team members out into the car park, to collect trolleys nearby and to take down Hunter's vehicle registration number as they loaded the barbeque onto his ute.

The fact that the customer had paid by cash, meant that the company didn't have any contact details of who purchased the goods, and that little obstacle had presented a challenge. However, he had a good mate who worked in an insurance office specialising in house and car insurance, and surely with no questions asked, his mate could get him an address of where Bill Hunter garaged his car, which logically would also be where Hunter lived. Jamie knew he was clutching at straws, but it was the only desperate course of action he could think of before the murder suspect drove away, possibly never to be seen again.

Jamie could hardly believe his good fortune, when two hours later the customer had returned. With all the chaos and confrontation that followed, firstly with Debbie at meet-and-greet, then with Jess at the front desk, followed by management and security, Bill Hunter, through his own actions had practically handed his home address and phone number to Jamie. Jamie had been immensely relieved. His actions to devise a plan for retribution and the deliverance of justice could now be anonymous, without having to involve or implicate any third party to get confidential information.

# Chapter 6

That night, after seeing Bill Hunter at the warehouse, his brain wouldn't shut down and he didn't get much sleep. He'd been restless, pacing the floor, not being able to sit down and stay in the one spot for any length of time. Finally though, in the small hours of the morning, after a lot of soul searching and consuming far too much coffee, he'd formulated a plan of attack of how to capture, abduct and execute the guy whose existence was tormenting him. It was only after seeing the size of Bill Hunter up close and personal, and witnessing the guy's aggression and the contempt he had for his fellow man, that it became abundantly clear how Jamie was to control him. Growing up on the land with cattle had taught him a valuable lesson - you don't pussyfoot around with a dangerous animal. And this murder suspect was exactly that, a dangerous animal.

He had learnt through experience, that there were three ways to force cattle to move from a holding yard, up a race and into the cattle crush at the other end, where certain husbandry practices, like dehorning, worming, injecting etc were performed. A crack of a whip or the lash from a whip would stir cattle up and get them moving, just as a bark or a nip on the heals from a cattle dog would, but there was only one sure way to take control of a large beast in confined quarters and get it moving in the direction you want, and that was with an electric cattle prod.

A cattle dog or a stock whip were not going to be of any benefit in this situation, but a cattle prod was, and he had one of those. Psychologically, the instrument was also an excellent motivator, as anyone who'd ever had the misfortune to be zapped by one could testify. A prod from that instrument would sure as hell make anyone sit up and pay attention. Bill Hunter would know that. He would have seen them used, would have used them himself back in the days when he had worked in the abattoirs. He would have had a healthy respect for the electric cattle prod and would have had a real fear of it being used on him... that was for sure.

The idea of Bill Hunter taking a swan dive over a cliff, and as to which cliff, had a lot to do with Jamie's familiarity with bushwalking. The Blue Mountains were literally his backyard. He had been bushwalking up there for many years and knew all the trails in the area, and there usage by locals and tourists, like they were the back of his hand. He also knew that to be undetected, he had to be in and out of the area before the sun came up, so that would mean abducting his victim during the night. The trick would be to somehow get the victim into the car of his own free will, and then drive him up the mountains a good hour away, to the non-descript little car park at the end of a dirt bush road, without him knowing what was going on, or where he was going to. The only way to do that was to drug him with a fast acting sedative.

He had previously heard a lot of stories about young women falling victim to rape, within minutes of their drink being spiked with a well-known but controversial date rape drug. They would then wake up dazzled and confused a couple of hours later in a strange place not knowing what was going on, or exactly what had happened to them. The word on the street was that this drug was easily obtainable through a multitude of dealers and unsavoury characters. Jamie had decided to have a loose ended conversation with Damo at work about the drug culture in society. Damo was in his early twenties and currently going nowhere fast, working full time as a fellow team member at the DIY warehouse. He was punishing himself for his academic failures, suffering direction and an identity crisis after dropping out of university. He was right into the party/drug scene and had shady connections. One of those contacts was his best mate Smithy who was at university in his final year to become a pharmacist. Like all students, Smithy was always broke and had a huge government hex fee to repay, but unlike all students, he had access to illegal drugs and sold prescription only medication on the black market to fund his lifestyle. Smithy would no doubt be able to acquire the drug, providing Damo was prepared to set up a meeting between the two of them, with no questions asked.

Once he had the drug in his hand, all he had to do then to start the ball rolling, was to spike his victim's drink. That would have to involve deception and sleight-of-hand. It would only be when Bill Hunter was in the vehicle and unconscious, that Jamie could then hog tied and gag him. Likewise, once they had completed their journey to the mountains and were at the car park at the end of the lane, he would then have to coax his victim to gain consciousness, before being able to begin the trek through the bush to the lookout. The trouble was, without knowing how long it took for the effects of the drug to wear off in the body, that recovery may take some time. So logically, to cover that contingency, the abduction would have to take place early in the night.

And to increase his chances of success, he would also be asking Smithy to acquire a bottle of smelling salts from his pharmaceutical cache. Jamie knew that smelling salts had been used in the past in such sports as boxing, particularly when a boxer was disoriented or knocked unconscious and needed to be quickly aroused so he could continue fighting. The strong smell of ammonia gas in the smelling salts stimulated consciousness by triggering an inhalation reflex, which in turn elevated the heart rate, blood pressure and brain activity. One thing was for sure, he wouldn't be going into battle without a bottle of it in his possession.

Jamie also knew that the real drama would only start once his victim woke up, to then realise what was going on. He would be groggy, disorientated and in a state of panic. As soon as the kicking and bellowing began, the only way to pacify him and take control would be with the electric cattle prod, and he intended to use it unmercifully to get Bill Hunter out of the vehicle. And it would be used frequently, as many times as necessary to coax his prisoner to walk, or craw on his hands and knees, the five hundred odd metres along the darkened track to his final destination. Jamie would be taking no chances. His victim's hands would remain tied behind his back, and his feet would remain hobbled with cable ties, allowing enough movement for half steps only. He would be unable to kick out as a means of defence, or run away, and a rope would be secured around his waist to throw him off balance should he attempt something stupid.

Once they had reached their final destination, the prisoner would then have a choice as to the timing of his death, but first he had to realise the fact that this was the end of his journey. He had to comprehend that his abductor hadn't gone to all this trouble just to let him go. He was going to die, and he was to meet his fate by going over a cliff. He could go over on his own accord, or a cattle prod would send him on his way. Jamie was prepared to be civil and humane about the predicament. He wanted a confession, and in return, the condemned man could have a final meal and be granted a dying wish, with that wish being honoured shortly after his death.

Looking back now it seemed to be all planned, but he still needed to know Bill Hunter's routine, so he could work out when the guy was vulnerable. To do that he had to do a recognisance, and that began the afternoon following the staff's confrontations with Hunter over the barbeque. The big thing to his advantage, was the fact that he had acquired Bill Hunter's address without anyone being the wiser for his motive. At the time, with emotions running high, he had briefly consoled Jess over the abuse she had just received from Hunter, and had simply asked the question as to where the prick had lived. Still unnerved, she had dragged out the piece of paper which Hunter had written down his phone number and address on for the delivery of the replacement barbeque, and Jamie had memorised where he lived.

It was basically just around the corner, no more than a kilometre away. So to start with, he had done a drive-by of the property on the outskirts of Penrith, to find the ute parked in the front yard. Pulling over down the street a little, he had sat, watched and waited. No more than an hour later, he had observed Hunter coming out of the house, to get into the ute and drive off. He had followed at a safe distance, and ten or fifteen blocks later, Hunter had pulled his ute into a very full hotel car park. To get the lay of the land, Jamie had done a lap of the car park, before then finding a parking spot with an unobstructed view of the ute. Twenty minutes later he had nervously entered the pub.

As it turned out, he had no need to have been worry about drawing attention to himself, the bar had been overflowing and bustling with tradesmen and blue collar workers having a drink or two before heading home. He had made his way to the bar, bought himself a beer and then retreated to a standing only spot to become invisible, swallowed up by the raucous patrons around him, while he scanned for his target. Bill Hunter had not been hard to find, he was a tall man and built like a brick shit house. He stood with his back protected against a wall, with a small waist high rectangular table in front of him, its surface cluttered with empty stubbies and schooner glasses. Other than swilling beer, it had been obvious from his mannerisms what he was doing in the pub. This was his day job. Bill Hunter was dealing in drugs.

Right then and there, Jamie knew he didn't have to do any more surveillance. Bill Hunter would be at the pub every afternoon of the week around 4pm when the workers turned up, and would not leave until the bars practically emptied out. And judging by the way he was sociably drinking, he would also be a little intoxicated when he left the pub to go home, and that would definitely work to Jamie's advantage. To satisfy his own curiosity of knowing when his target would leave the hotel, he had hung around for another light beer, soaking up the atmosphere of male bonding, before then leaving to sit in his vehicle and observe the patrons coming out. The majority were no doubt going home, to have dinner with their wives and girlfriends, after having wound down from the pressures of the day's work. He remembered thinking at the time, how idealistic and comforting that concept of a secure relationship sounded. But in reality, that notion was a mirage and nothing more than an elusive dream which everyone in society aspired to.

It had been around 8pm when Hunter had emerged from the pub, with stubby of beer in hand, to swagger to his ute. He wasn't drunk, but he was well primed. Logically, as a drug dealer, he not only had to appear sociable and approachable, but he also had to be hard-nosed with the users he was doing deals with. And, with a supply of drugs and drug money in his pocket, and the real possibility of being bashed and robbed, he still needed to have his wits about him.

Upon reaching his ute, Hunter had sat his stubby of beer of the bonnet, lit up a cigarette, coughed his lungs out, hacked up a greenie and then undoing the fly of his trousers, had urinated over the wheel of the car beside him, grunting with amusement as he did. It had been obvious to Jamie that this guy had no respect for anyone or anything. Bill Hunter was a dangerous, shit-house cunning, low-life grub. He was someone not to be bargained with, or to turn your back on, as he would no doubt also carry some kind of weapon. The guy was a loner and a survivor, and it was advisable to not underestimate his capabilities.

As he sat in his vehicle that evening doing his reconnaissance, Jamie had realised that all the pieces of the puzzle, of how to capture his victim, were out on the table and staring him in the face. All that remained was the opportunistic moment for those pieces to fall into place. He had decided right then and there, as he watched Bill Hunter's antisocial and disrespectable behaviour of urinating all over someone else's property for his own personal amusement, that he would begin to source the equipment he needed the very next day, and when his work rostered weekend began in a couple of days, he would be ready to strike.

# Chapter 7

Jamie thought about the events of the night when he'd abducted Hunter, and he shuddered with the reality of how those events had unfolded. They still played like a video recording in his head. That night in question had come around very quickly. He'd had mixed reservations of taking the law into his own hands and didn't want to stuff it up by not being fully committed. It was important to not seem anxious and only act if the situation appeared opportunistic. For that reason, he hadn't tailed his victim from his home, or waited in the pub for him to turn up, but instead had arrived at the car park around 6.30pm when the patrons were first beginning to leave. He had pulled into a car spot, one out and one back on the passenger side of his victim's ute.

He had a plan for the night. It was a one-off and not to be repeated. If it didn't work, then he was convinced that another opportunity would present itself sooner or later down the track. To that end, he'd found himself saying the same affirmation over and over again, convincing himself that his pending actions were just and right. _"The universe is guiding me to be at the right place, at the right time, for the right sequence of events to occur so that justice can be delivered."_ In reality, he had all the physical tools he needed to do the job. He had collected them all over the course of the past couple of days, and they would remain close by concealed in a backpack on the front seat of his vehicle, with the exception for the two date rape drug tablets which remained accessible in his top pocket. The only commodities which would need to be refresh each day, if things didn't fall into place, were the intended breakfast items, the thermos of milk coffee and freshly baked scones from the franchised bakery.

He had found himself doing a check list over and over in his head of the tools and accessories he was taking, just to make sure he had all the bases covered. Cable ties, one tightly around each wrist and one to loop through each tie to connect the two arms and allow a little movement of the hands behind the back. The same for the legs, but supplying a longer cable tie to connect the two, to allow small steps but prevent the victim from running away. A short length of rope to use as a restraint and a leash. Duct tape to gag. Electric cattle prod with new batteries and in good working order to pacify and control. Sedative date rape drug to render him unconscious. Smelling salts to arouse him back to a conscious state. He would also be taking along his mobile phone. It was a handy communication instrument to have, just in case something went horribly wrong, or there was the need to record a conversation, or to take a picture, or a video for some particular reason.

And then suddenly it seemed, the time for procrastination was over, the time had come to act. Hesitantly he had slipped out of his car, with one of the newly acquired tool from work, a valve remover, and in a manner so as not to draw attention to himself, had casually walked the few metres to his victims ute. Stopping by the front tyre on the driver's side, he had bent down, took off the valve cap, inserted the valve remover and undid the valve just enough to break the seal. With air slowly escaping he had loosely replaced the cap to muffle the sound, then had calmly got up and walked towards the pub. He was confident, that within an hour or so, the tyre would be flat as a maggot.

The second part of the nights plan was to have a pub meal and to walk out with a six pack of beers under his arm, and then observe what happened when his victim came out to discover he had a flat tyre and wouldn't be able to drive home. He wouldn't be able to fix it himself. The dumb arse didn't have a spare. And if he was stupid enough to not carry a spare tyre, then he was probably also stupid enough to not carry any membership for vehicular road service and wouldn't be able to call for their help. So what would he do? Ring for a taxi, leave his ute and walk home, go back inside and scrounge up a lift, or would he see a very vulnerable and emotionally distressed fellow patron leaning on the bonnet of his vehicle having a beer by himself, and would he take advantage of the situation?

Jamie had felt more confident about what he was doing, once he had passed through the front door. It was as if the hunt had begun and now the trap, with himself as the bait, was about to be set. He had headed in the direction of the eatery. Its access was via the main bar and directly past Bill Hunter. His victim had secured the same location where Jamie had last seen him. With his back to the wall as protection, and a small table in front of him facing the front door, he was able to scrutinise everyone who walked into the place. He had positioned himself strategically, not only allowing for the ease in dealings with drug clients, but the vantage point also served as an early warning lookout for any drug enforcement coppers, undercover or uniformed, who may enter via the front door. For that reason, Jamie had known he was being observed with suspicion from the moment he stepped into the pub. It was what he had intended. He had tried to be nonchalant with his behaviour, and for maximum exposure had casually bought a beer from the main bar first, before then heading into the eatery. He could feel the guy's eyes boring into him, following him as he passed by, and he could almost hear the thoughts in his victim's head as he tried to work out where he may have seen Jamie before.

Feeling somewhat empowered and in control of the situation, he had ordered a well done T-bone steak with chips and eggs. Back in his married life, in what now seemed like one hundred years ago, this used to be one of his all-time favourite tuckers, but now it was not the sort of meal he would eat at all. This meal entailed too much preparation, too many utensils, too much washing up and would leave the rooms, furniture and clothing within the house stinking of burnt fat. Besides the inconvenience, health wise it was a huge cholesterol meal requiring additional salt, copious quantities of tomato sauce and other condiments to get the taste just right. The combined effect of the meal and the condiments were guaranteed to assist in the clogging and hardening of arteries, and exacerbate any underlying cardiovascular problems that may exist. On top of all that, it was also a very high energy meal with kilojoules galore just begging to be converted into fat, which would then be stored around the internal organs to cause all sorts of other health related complications.

Heavy meals and fast foods were no longer a part of his lifestyle choices. Living alone, he liked to kept things real simple. He cooked everything in a microwave and practically lived on frozen packet meals, steamed vegies and an assortments of cereal products. His lady friend of the last fifteen odd years, said he was just too lazy to prepare a good meal, maybe she was right, but he did try to keep a close eye on the dietary requirements. Thankfully as of yet he wasn't on any medication, he very rarely got sick and genuinely felt physically healthy. Surely that's all that mattered, and he certainly wasn't going to a doctor to be jabbed with needles to find out otherwise.

Now in hindsight though, as he thought about that meal he'd ordered at the pub on that night a couple of weeks ago, it had been weird that he'd been concerned about any health issues relating to excessive cholesterol and high blood pressure, particularly when he was going to drug and kill somebody within a few hours. The fear of dying a painful death due to a heart attack, or suffering the lingering effects of a debilitating stroke as a result of poor dietary choices, palled into insignificance as compared to the reality of a sudden drop from a two hundred metre high cliff. But that night had been a very unique night where justice had been dispensed the hard way, and a solid meal of steak, chips and eggs had made all the difference in seeing it through.

According to the clock on the wall, it had been 7.30pm when he had walked out of the eatery, to pass by his victim and go through the glass door into the attached bottle shop, to purchase a six pack of stubbies. The bar had emptied out considerably, and although Jamie had given the illusion of paying no attention to anyone, his peripheral vision made him aware that his victim was now on his own and was observing Jamie in the bottle shop. The timing had been right, business for the drug dealer was over. In full view after paying, Jamie had opened the six pack, extracted a stubby, unscrewed the lid and taken a swig. With the open beer in one hand and the now five pack tucked under the arm of the other, he had then retraced his steps into the foyer area of the main bar, before walking out the front door.

It had been around fifteen or twenty minutes later that his victim had come out of the pub. Also with stubby in hand, Bill Hunter had stood on the steps, taking his time to light up a cigarette before descending. It had obviously been a security manoeuvre which he performed every night. This gave him time to survey and scrutinise the parking area, for groups of men, or any signs of a possible attack which may be coming his way. Convinced he was in the clear, he had hitched up his pants and ambled on down the hill towards his ute.

Hunter would have been acutely aware of Jamie leaning against the bonnet of his vehicle, displaying signs of agitation, with beer in hand and arm waving wildly while he argued with some female on the mobile phone. Bill Hunter was an observer of human behaviour. He had to be to stay alive. He dealt in drugs and human misery and no doubt saw this sort of thing all the time. It would have been obvious to him that the guy on the phone was having a relationship break-up. Hunter would also have recognised Jamie from the pub and dismissed him as being any sort of a threat.

"Just like that!" Jamie had screeched, "You can't get your own bloody way, so you walk out on me?"

There had been no one on the end of his phone, but thinking about it now in reflective hindsight, Jamie could still feel the rising panic that threatened to expose him on that night. Bill Hunter had closed the distance between the two of them, and had slowed down his advance even more to hear what was going on. Jamie had been under pressure to give a Stella performance. He knew that Hunter was a rapist with no regard for women at all, and he suspected that Hunter would be getting excited and stimulated by the abuse that Jamie was directing to the fictitious female on the other end of the phone. It would have the effect of uniting Hunter in comradeship with him, like they were both brothers in arms. He had ignored Hunter's close presence and pushed on.

"Oh yer!" he shouted. "What about the last time. You screwed around on me and I took you back. What sort of a stupid prick does that make me?"

Bill Hunter was nearly there, just coming around the driver's side of his ute and it had been time for Jamie to wind up his phone call.

"You're an ungrateful bitch," he emphasised. "Don't contact me again. You can piss off, and stay out of my life."

For effect, he had slumped himself over the bonnet of his car and then through gritted teeth had growled, "Ungrateful fuckin' bitch."

"Fuck!!!"

And there it was. Bill Hunter had discovered the flat tyre.

"Mother fuckin' bitch!" he had roared.

Almost instantly came the sound of shattering glass, as a thrown stubby had smashed to smithereens against the cement curb of the car park.

Jamie had instantly snapped to attention, acting surprised. It was game on. Somewhere deep inside his brain he heard a little voice say, _'welcome to my web, said the spider to the fly.'_

"You alright mate?"

"Got a fuckin' flat tyre, and lost me beer," he had barked back.

"Can't help yar with the flat, but got a spare beer if yar want one," offered Jamie holding up his own stubby to show the guy what he was drinking.

"Same piss I drink. Beauty! I'll take one of those."

It was no coincidence Jamie had chosen this brand of beer, he'd previously seen his victim drinking it. Reaching into his vehicle, he had extracted the open six pack, checking his top pocket as he did for verification that the tablets were still there. Resting the beers on the bonnet of his car, he had then closed the gap between them, extending his hand.

"I'm Jamie."

"Bill," he had snarled back, holding the grip and scrutinising Jamie's reaction. "Yar got sheila problems?"

"Not any more I don't."

"Moles probably not worth a squirt of cold piss anyhow," challenged Bill Hunter looking for a reaction. When he didn't get one other than a shrug of the shoulders off Jamie, he had said. "Eh, how about ya knock the top off one of them brewski's while I take a leak."

With that, Bill Hunter had turned his back, undid his fly and when about the business of relieving himself over the tyre of some other patrons nearby vehicle.

Jamie couldn't believe his incredible luck. It was now or never, but he had to stay calm.

"Yer, sure thing," he had said, creating small talk. "What are you going to do about your flat tyre?"

Before Jamie could think, he had reacted, and it was then too late to reverse anything. The cap was off one of the stubby and the drug was in the beer dissolving quickly, its effervescence disguised by the colour of the bottle, the darkness of the night and the rising carbonated beer bubbles. It was an odourless, tasteless and colourless drug. His victim would be none the wiser.

"Fuck the tyre," Bill Hunter had said, snatching the beer off Jamie to take a swallow, "I'll sort it out tomorrow."

Jamie remembered feeling the cold sweat breaking out on his brow, with his heart thumping so hard it felt as if his eardrums were about to burst. How long would this take, he'd thought? What if the drug wasn't strong enough? Would he have to spike the victim's drink again? How would he do it the next time around? What if his victim suspected he was being drugged? Be calm, he had told himself, he had to have faith in Smithy. Smithy was the aspiring pharmacist and pharmacists were really smart people. Smithy had had no trouble in sourcing the drug and, although doing something highly illegal and unethical, he'd been concerned enough to point out that this drug was quick acting on the body's physiology, with signs like excessive tiredness, drunkenness, muscular weakness and unconsciousness, and was far more potent than the effects of Valium. He'd warned Jamie to be very careful with its use.

"How are yar getting home then?" Jamie had asked.

Bill Hunter slugged down half of his beer, belched, then shook his head.

"Dun know. What way you headin'? Maybe yar can give me a ride?"

It was happening, Hunter's guard was coming down. He was yarning and rubbing his eyelids.

"Yer, I suppose I could, but I can't drink and drive at the same time," Jamie had said stalling for time. "I should finish me beer first."

Hunter chuckled. It was disjointed and uncoordinated. Then he guzzled down the remainder of his stubby.

"We'd betta get goin'," he commanded slurring his words whilst grabbing for another beer from the six pack on the bonnet, "and we'd betta have one for the road."

Jamie had suddenly felt a surge of panic. He knew the web was closing and the last thing he wanted to happen was for his victim to get in the front passenger seat and pass out, or worst still, pass out before he even got into the vehicle.

"Alright, but you'll have to get in the back seat. Ungrateful bitch has left shit everywhere in the front. I should've known better than to take her back the first time."

"Fuck em all," Bill Hunter had babbled incoherently. "None of em's worth a squirt of cold piss."

Two weeks ago, they were the last words Bill Hunter had said as he fell onto the back seat of Jamie's SUV and passed out. It was done and with his wits acutely about him, Jamie had driven out of the car park and headed for the mountains. He had stopped half an hour up the highway, pulling into an isolated bushy roadside rest area when he was absolutely sure that his victim was totally out to it, and wasn't going to wake up. With a huge degree of difficulty in lifting and rolling the victim back and forward, he had cable tied the guy's hands behind his back, cable tied his legs around the ankles, secured a leash rope around his waist, gagged his mouth and checked his pockets, relieving him of keys, a flick knife and mobile phone before continuing his journey. His prisoner had been secured and the abduction of Bill Hunter was complete.

# Chapter 8

Jamie was anxious to get home from work that afternoon. The news of Bill Hunter's deceased body being found hanging in a tree, two hundred metres below a sheer drop from a lookout in the Blue Mountains, had indeed made the 6pm evening news on all television channels. He had been murdered and had been dead for about two weeks prior to being found by two bushwalkers. The newscast went on to say that the deceased had been well known to the police. He had a violent past and had done time in jail for various offences, including not only the more serious crimes of rape and grievous bodily harm, but also for dealing in drugs, driving under the influence and theft. He was also a prime suspect, along with other gang members, in the unsolved homicide of a young woman going back forty years. Because of the violent and macabre nature of the death, and of the time elapsed since the man had been murdered, the authorities were asking for help from the public in solving the case. Anyone with information should ring crime stoppers.

Over the next couple of nights further information had come out about the gruesome death. The body had since been recovered from the valley floor and an autopsy had been conducted. Statistics on the number of deaths from accidental falls and suicides from lookouts had been highlighted, and a number of interviews to generate public awareness in the case had been aired. There was an emotional interview with the bushwalkers who had discovered the body whilst celebrating their first wedding anniversary, an interview with Parks and Wildlife officials about safety concerns at tourist outlook spots in the Blue Mountains, and interviews with locals concerned about someone being murdered in their backyard. There was also a short professional interview with Inspector Brian Cooke from Sydney CID who was handling the current investigation.

The Inspector would have had time to collect vital information, and it was logical to assume that he should already have come to the conclusion that this was a very personal murder. The deceased was a low-life dealing in drugs and anyone with a gripe could have murdered him. There were a lot of questions that Jamie would like answered, but as this was an investigation in its very early stages, the Inspector wasn't going to reveal to the media that the deceased had been drugged, or tortured, or that he'd had a breakfast of date scones and milk coffee before taking a swan dive over the cliff. Forensic evidence was confidential information, only to be released in dribs-and-drabs to the public as the need necessitated. For the moment, the Inspector intended to keep the cards close to his chest, and definitely would not be sharing any information which could compromise his investigation.

Jamie's curiosity to know what was going on had only been partially satisfied by the media coverage, but most importantly, he now knew who the lead investigator was with the case. He knew what he looked like and how he presented himself professionally. This was the man who he would now be pitted against. He was the adversary, the opponent in a cat and mouse game of a murder investigation with whom Jamie would now be psychologically and emotionally sparing with. For some reason or other, knowing who his opponent was somehow set up the rules of the game, and this one sided familiarity was a huge advantage.

For the moment though there was no need to be concerned or to fuel his paranoid. There was no suspicion in his direction. The Inspector would be looking elsewhere. Bill Hunter was a drug dealers, rapist and murderer with a long criminal history of violence. He would have made a lot of enemies over the years. It would be logical to speculate that one of those enemies killed him, and that's where Inspector Cooke would be making his initial inquiries. However things may be quiet different when the next member of the old gang turned up dead. Questions could then be logically asked if the motive for these killings were vigilante driven, or were maybe even the result of retribution from a historic or unsolved cold case crime. He would have to be very careful in the future to fabricate alibis and whereabouts to protect himself, because when his next victim was executed, he may be viewed in another light and could be asked a few heavy duty questions by this Inspector.

But it was pointless thinking about victim number two and the projected ramifications, when victim number one was still in the morgue awaiting final processing. Everybody is their own worst enemy, and Jamie had to admit to himself that his thought processes at the moment was a little erratic. One part of him was controlling and cautious, wanting to wait until the dust settled, the other part impulsive and dangerous, wanting to seize an opportunistic moment. There was an old proverb that ticked away in his brain, _"a rolling stone gathers no moss,"_ and the question remained, should he keep the momentum going? He'd had one successful execution and so far had gotten away with it.

Perhaps by acting in the immediate future he'd catch everyone off guard. Another drug related, execution type murder would create an element of confusion, but would the distraction be enough to misdirect attention away from where the current investigation would eventually be heading, in his direction. Maybe another murder would keep the suspicion, or throw renewed suspicion back onto the underworld drug criminals and their fraternity, with the insinuation that victim number two had been a retaliatory execution for victim number one. Surely this would murky the waters and bog down both individual investigations. The investigative net would then have to widen to include every gang member, drug dealer, mule and user known to both the deceased victims. The ensuing investigation and publicity would create a life of its own, particularly once the public got spooked by the media hype of a possibility all-out drug war on the streets.

Perhaps he was being delusional and wishful in his thinking, but surely the authorities would want to contain the situation as quickly as possible. There would have to be pressure applied to informants, arrests conducted and court appearances for those found breaking the law, from minor misdemeanours through to more serious crimes of blackmail, intimidation and violence. For those being charged, some would squeal, others would point fingers and deals would be done. As a consequence, drug connections and supply chains would be broken, criminal alliances would be betrayed and there would be the strong likelihood of reprisals and revenge attacks.

Jamie hoped there would be a feeding frenzy, hoped that the underbelly of the drug world would be turned upside down. With a bit of luck, his actions would act as a catalyst, to set the wheels in motion and give law enforcement and the judicial system a reason to purge society of the evils of drugs, along with the ones who profiteered from its misery. Surely his actions were noble and just. Blinded by blinkers or not, he would continue along the same track, throwing caution to the wind and looking for an opportunistic moment to snare victim number two. But first, before doing that, he had to fulfil Hunter's dying wish.

He had given his word to the man, and his word was his honour. It was a binding verbal contract. Now that the body had been identified, he would begin that promise by scouring the obituaries in the major newspaper every day, looking for a community service notification of Bill Hunter's funeral arrangements.

# Chapter 9

It had been two and a half weeks since Bill Hunter had met his death, and now that his body had been discovered and the media were following the investigation with interest, Jamie also found the need to want to talk about it. Or more to the point, he needed to express his feelings verbally to a third party, in an obscure manner about the whole event, without implicating himself. The investigative reporters of major newspapers were for their own reasons, sensationalising the murder. The local papers were doing the same, but were also after feedback from their readers who lived in the area where the murder took place, to create an ongoing article for the next issue. Some journos were now speculating about the motive behind this macabre execution style murder, which now according to recent forensic evidence being released, involved considerable restraint and torture. Reading between the lines the crime journalists were already attempting to profile him. They were speculating that the killer of this cold and calculated crime, was more than likely a sadistic drug induced individual who grew up in a dysfunctional family of domestic violence. Their speculation couldn't be further from the truth. It shouldn't have worried him what they were saying, but it did.

"Come on in Jamie," she said, holding the door open with a hand gesture towards where they'd be sitting. "It's been a while since I saw you last, make yourself comfortable."

Jamie entered the familiar room. A quick glance told him that nothing had changed. It still felt safe and secure. He liked that. And he liked his counsellor. She was a good therapist who had always made provisions to see him at short notice. It had probably been six months since his last visit, however before the Inquest, it had been much more frequent with their sessions together going back ten odd years. When he'd first walked into her office all those years ago, carrying anxieties and frustrations brought on by the authorities' continual inaction with his sister's case, he'd been wallowing in the bottomless pit of his emotional despair. The darkness had consumed him and he was unable to see a way out. This therapist had been his guiding light from the murky depths. She had stuck by him, carrying him through years of clinical depression, and she'd probably been the reason why he'd not had a complete mental breakdown and ended up in an institution.

Her name was Jayne Austen. It was an easy name to remember. Her name was the same as the famed English novelist who wrote romantic fiction in the early eighteen hundreds. There was however a difference in the spelling of the first name. His therapist was spelt Jayne instead of Jane as was the case with the renowned novelist. The spelling didn't matter one iota, there was still a lingering romantic connotation attached to the name that would live forever. In film adaptations of her books, the era somehow portrayed the male/female courtship as being far more compelling and beautiful than that of any relationship of our current times. It was a colourful era, seemingly defined by honour and integrity, stupendous formal balls and gorgeous dresses. In his mind's eye, Jamie could see his counsellor stepping right into that world.

He quickly dislodged the imagery from his mind, reminding himself as to the reality of why he was here. Redirecting his attention back towards the therapist, he did a quick appraisal of her attributes. His counsellor was in her early fifties. She was a stylish dresser, professional, articulate, slim, attractive and according to the ring on her finger and photos on her desk, also happily married with a family. They never spoke about her private life. There were boundaries not to be crossed and he had to respect that fact. It was a weird coincidence however, that his professional relationship with the therapist should mirror his personal relationship with his partner. It seemed to be all one sided. But for all he knew, the perfect picture which his therapist portrayed, could have been a smoke screen, a deception to protect herself against any sort of harassment from clients. Regardless, she was definitely out of bounds and that was a good thing.

Over the years they had established a rapport built on mutual trust, and his honesty to open up and reveal himself to her. There wasn't too much, emotionally or psychologically that his therapist didn't know about him. By law, client/therapist confidentiality was protected, and with what was currently happening in his life that was possibly a good thing. If push came to shove and she ended up in a witness box to be cross examined, then he needed her on his side. She knew why Jamie had made the appointment, so she didn't stand on ceremony, or beat about the bush as to what he wanted to talk about.

"I read in the paper about a murder up your way," she said. "One of the suspects in the murder of your sister, was found hooked up in a tree below a two hundred metre drop."

She hesitated, observing, waiting for him to respond.

"Yes. You knew I'd come to see you, didn't you?"

"I would have been surprised if you didn't. How do you feel about it?"

"About the fact that he was found virtually in my backyard, or the fact that he was supposedly murdered?"

"You don't believe he was murdered?"

"Maybe the authorities got it wrong, they have a habit of doing that. Maybe he committed suicide."

"Either way, when you found out about it, what did you think?"

"He escaped the legal process. He's still not held accountable, none of them are."

"He's dead."

"A little bit of justice."

"At someone else's hands. How does that affect you Jamie?"

"The question is, did he suffer enough?"

"Being thrown off a cliff is not a nice way to die," suggested the counsellor.

"Neither is being bludgeoned to death."

"That's true. It was a truly horrible way for your sister to die."

For a few long seconds there was a respectful silence between them both, as the therapist allowed adequate time for her client to focus on that imagery, and then allow it to fade away into his subconscious, before proceeding with the session.

"This morning's paper said he was also tortured excessively."

"They didn't say how he was tortured or for how long," replied Jamie, reinforcing the fact to himself that the detectives weren't about to release any information that only Bill Hunter's killer would know.

"Torture is pain and suffering and fear! How does that make you feel knowing that he was tortured?"

Jamie hesitated, grimacing with personal shame and disgust as he momentarily reflected upon the atrocities, which he had not so long ago committed. That first savage jab with the cattle prod, to get his victim out of the vehicle after being aroused back to consciousness by smelling salts, had been a beauty. It had come as a complete surprise. Bill Hunter had reactively urinated in his pants, and even though his mouth was taped and the noise muffled, a guttural sound so deep and disturbing in its origin had escaped his chest, that it was forever etched in Jamie's brain. That sensory recall of that sound flooded back to him now, as did the smell of urine.

"Seems like he got back what he gave out," snapped Jamie.

The cattle prod had been symbolic in his choice as a motivational tool. Bill Hunter had been employed at the local abattoirs forty years ago when his sister was murdered. Before he was transferred to the boning line as his permanent job, he had been a slaughterman. His tools of trade had been a stun gun to drop the beasts, and a long bladed knife to cut their throats so they would bleed-out. He would have been desensitised by the environment around him, the death throws, the gurgling of last breaths, the smell of blood, urine and faeces.

He would also have been very familiar with an electric cattle prod, and the white eyed fear and panic it caused when jabbed into the body of a beast. He would have used it tens of thousands of times on animals in the past, sometimes as a necessary evil to force animals to move to the slaughter crush at the end of the race, but there would also have been many times when he used it just for his own amusement. Bill Hunter was a sadist who thrived on fear and pain. And being the intimidating bully he was, he probably also cruelly used the cattle prod on his fellow work mates, just to get a laugh. Well he wasn't laughing when he got his own back. The terror on his face had been priceless. And right then and there, at that very moment as he lay hog tied and muffled in the back seat, just as his sister had been on that fateful night, he would have known that he was going to die.

"But you don't know your sister was tortured, you only assume," commented the counsellor.

"A gang of eight so called men, or maybe even more and that's something we'll never ever know, have a drunken orgy around a campfire in the middle of the bush, miles from anywhere, in a location where no one would hear her scream. According to witnesses, these animals were already drugged and boozed up from another all day party before abducting my sister. She was the entertainment for one of those low life grubs who'd turned twenty one that very day. What do you think happened? This wasn't a social tea party," challenged Jamie with arms spread wide.

He stared harshly at the counsellor before softening his position. She wasn't his enemy. In his mind he realised what he was doing, but he couldn't help himself. He was verbally reinforcing the investigative post mortem findings, and was blending them with his own hypotheses of what had happened to his sister, to irrefutably justify what he'd done.

"Her skeletal remains were only discovered three years after she was murdered," he added as a matter of fact. "They were found devoid of clothing with her arms still tied behind her back. She'd been raped and tortured by these grubs, make no mistake about it. Mentally, emotionally and physically she would have been a mess. Then before dawn broke, she was callously bludgeoned to death and her broken body was left to rot in the bush, discarded like garbage without any attempt to conceal the nature of the crime or to bury her body. Why? Why was she killed?"

The counsellor remained silent for a few long seconds. She'd triggered a response, opening up old wounds and was allowing time for surfaced emotions to quell. But in those few long seconds, Jamie was temporarily unaware of their interaction, or of the counsellor sitting opposite him barely a metre and a half away. His mind was twisting all over the place. He was visualising a faceless man with a lump of timber in hand, straddling his frightened hog-tied sister like a lumber jack with an axe, laughing at, and taunting his victim to beg for her life, before viciously clubbing her to death. That scene blended itself with the imagery of helpless snow white seal cubs, with their gorgeous huge eyes, being clubbed to death with similar lumps of wood. He could hear the sickening crunch of impact, feel the tremors of their death throws and see the bright red splatters and spurts of arterial blood on pristine white snow. And those two scenes blended themselves with Bill Hunter's bruised and battered body, standing precariously on a retaining wall ledge overlooking a two hundred metre spine tingling drop.

The guy had copped a lot of physical and emotional punishment to reach that point. Jamie had made sure his victim experienced a whole range of emotions that his sister would have also suffered on that night so long ago. Through the torturing pain he had bellowed with anger, cringed with fear and sobbed with the hopelessness of his situation, but in the end his spirit had been broken. He could take no more and had given up all resistance to accept his fate. But in reality, it hadn't been the threats of more torture that finally got Bill Hunter onto the retaining wall, it had been Jamie's personal promise of carry out Hunter's dying wish which had achieved that result. However once he was in the launch position, it had been the short sharp thrust from the electric cattle prod on maximum power, not spiritual words of comfort or last rites, which had prompted the victim that there would be no further delay of his execution. Dawn had been breaking, and it was time for both of them to go.

"Why couldn't the authorities just have done their jobs and caught these killers all those years ago. If they did, then none of this would be happening and I wouldn't be involved."

Jamie's confession had slipped out unintentionally, but it went unchallenged by the counsellor. They had on many occasions talked about his thoughts and feelings surrounding revenge and retribution, and of hypothetical situations of what he would do if he ever came face to face with any of his sister's killers. But that was role playing, and he doubted if she could ever contemplate the notion of him actually killing anyone. Furthermore, it wasn't her role to be an investigator. She was a facilitator, and he seriously doubted if she would ever ask that question, as an honest answer may present her with a very awkward psychological dilemma of what to do about it. He would simply have to be a little more careful with his words in the future.

"We don't live in a perfect world Jamie. It's been forty years, can't you let this go?"

"There's no justice. I can't let this go until they're all dead," he lamented. "I feel as if I have a duty and an obligation to my family to see this through. I constantly hear my mother's voice in my head saying _'you can't just sweep her murder under the carpet and pretend it never happened.'_ Who else is left to give her a voice, if I don't?"

# Chapter 10

And there it was. According to a community service announcement in the obituary section of the morning's paper, Bill Hunter was to be buried two days from now in a local cemetery at 11am. There would be no church service. Informality and simplicity were requested, and family and friends were encouraged to say a few words over the coffin at a burial site. The question was, how many so called family and friends would turn up, and what good things could they possibly say about such an evil man? It was not a good omen to speak ill of the dead, but Jamie knew for sure how Bill Hunters victims would be feeling. They'd be wishing him to hell, saying things like, 'rot in hell,' 'burn in hell' or 'may your soul be forever damned.' He tried his best to visualise the funeral. All he could see was a handful of mourners, being separated by a coffin and a freshly dug grave, who after the ceremony would never mingle again.

Perhaps a couple of those mourners could be relatives, the ones carrying the family name who were indirectly affected by the actions of the deceased. But in reality, family members of violent criminals were never really innocent. They know the rotten eggs in their blood lines, they've always known. They hear the whispers at family gatherings and know the truth, but because of the shame they feel, they are forced to close ranks and keep their mouths shut. So they lock away the family, or the extended family's dirty secrets, pretending it has nothing to do with them and live in denial. But by their knowledge of events and the concealment of the truth, no matter how circumstantial, they themselves are accessories after the fact, and in the eyes of the law that should also make them just as guilty. On the day of the funeral however, should any family member turn up, none of those evil acts committed by the deceased would be mentioned or talked about. But with the coffin in the ground, they would be relieved that the source of their embarrassment now ceased to exist, and would also no-doubt be counting their blessings and praying for the redemption of their own souls.

And that would leave the other mourners, the so called friends or acquaintances. There was a couple of old proverbs, _"if you lie down with dogs you get up with fleas",_ and, _"you judge people by the company they keep."_ Therefore it was only fair to insinuate that with such a long history of criminal activity, that anyone calling themselves friend or acquaintance of the deceased, would also be tarred by the same brush as the deceased. And it could be that perceived association, which was the key to Jamie gaining the trust of his second victim. That was providing one of them turned up to the funeral. Maybe neither of them would.

According to the now retired Detective, with whom Jamie had previously formed a close relationship with, the old gang of eight had split up a long time ago, and had supposedly led pretty solitary existences independent of each other ever since. With ongoing intense investigations and a Coronial Inquest over the past forty years, they'd had enough heat brought down upon them to make them cautious. It only made good sense not to be seen associating with one another, as that would draw more attention and suspicion upon whatever activities the gang was possibly involved with.

All the evidence had always pointed to these eight gang members, but, bound by a blood brother pact with death to anyone who squealed, they had all stuck to their fabricated stories, and in spite of a huge reward being offered to tempt a betrayal, no charges had ever been laid against any of them for the murder of his sister. It had been such a travesty of justice that it had taken three years for her skeletal remains to be discovered. A much more recent crime scene, unaffected by the ravages of time and the elements, would have made a huge difference to the investigation, and maybe would have resulted in a favourable outcome a long time ago, but that wasn't meant to be.

Six members of the old gang, named in the last Coronial Inquest as persons of interest, and who were now on the public records as being involved in some way, shape or form with the abduction, gang rape and murder of his sister, were now dead. Five had died over the years and towards the end of their individual lives had suffered terrible anguish and pain, either via lingering illnesses or violent means, and the sixth member of the old gang, Bill Hunter, had been executed only very recently. With their deaths they had taken their secrets with them, further helping to protect the last two surviving gang members.

However Bill Hunter's death had been nasty, and the added aspect of excessive torture should have rattled these two. Surely they would have kept in contact over the years. Surely they both would have seen the news and be wondering who had done this. Surely they would be asking themselves why was he being tortured, what information did he reveal and did it have anything to do with them, and if it did, would one of them be next? Jamie also found himself wondering if there was a code of honour amongst criminals, and if there was, would the two remaining survivors of the old gang come along to the funeral to pay their last respects. He sure hoped a least one of them would.

Jamie had been fortunate that he could draw upon privileged information about the suspects, information which had been shared with him over a ten year period by a former Detective during the course of the last investigation. He felt honoured to have known the former Detective and to be able to call him a friend. He'd been the only investigator to pull all the leads and information together, to compile a brief of evidence so compelling, that it would force the Attorney General to convene a Coronial Inquest after such a long period of time. That Detective had retired and left the force in disgust, a few months after the Coroner had handed down his findings that there was insufficient evidence to send anyone to trial. That was five odd years ago, and Jamie hadn't spoken with him since the day he'd rang to say goodbye. He said his investigative days were over and that he was dropping out of circulation, to go touring around the country as a grey nomad in a campervan. In light of the current situation, it was fortuitous that this former Detective was no longer in the force, or in contact, because he would strongly suspect Jamie's involvement and would no doubt be in a quandary as to what to do about it.

However, it was pointless to dwell on hypothetical situations or there outcomes. For the time being, he had to use every available resource and scrap of information at his disposal. And according to information previously shared with the retired Detective about the case, Bill Hunter had previously had an ex-partner called Mandy with whom he'd fathered a child. Mandy had deserted him thirty odd years ago, due to a vicious episode of domestic violence resulting in her hospitalisation and near miscarriage. The former Detective had commented many times, that all the partners or wives of the murder suspects had been treated with total contempt. Once in the fold they had been kept in the dark about all matters relating to the gangs activities, and if they asked too many questions, they were subjected to abuse, humiliation and bashings. One by one over the years, the women folk had left their dysfunctional relationships, taking their kids with them to flee the domestic violence.

Mandy had unwittingly been part of that gang. She had also been a victim. And she also played a pivotal role in honouring his promise to her ex-partner. It was important to fulfilment that promise before doing anything else. That verbal contract somehow made him feel more human, and removed the stigma of being labelled as just a cold blooded killer. The question was, would Mandy make it easy for him and show up at the funeral? In reality, she probably wouldn't. But it didn't matter, there was always a plan B. Bill Hunter had told him enough about her over his last supper of scones and coffee, where she lived, her job and the type of woman she was. He had rambled on about their dysfunctional violent relationship thirty odd years ago. How it had ended with the birth of a daughter who would never know him, about the current apprehension violence order against him to remain out of their lives, and about his regrets of what might have been if circumstances were different and he'd never been involved with the gang.

It had all come out as part of his confession, and if Jamie was going to honour his victims final wish of salvaging and handing over a personal letter, along with cash and his last will and testament to her, then he'd have to do something about it very soon before the state moved in to claim his entire assets. Bill Hunter had no siblings and his mother and father were dead. All he had as next of kin, which remotely meant anything to him at all, was a broken connection to a distant relationship with an ex-partner and a daughter he had never met. At the time, Hunter's frank admissions had troubled Jamie. He couldn't get his head around the concept of killers and rapists having families of their own. Even paedophiles it seemed, had children of their own who they cared about and protected. It really didn't make any sense. Disturbingly it seemed, no matter what the level of inhumanity, there was still a primal instinct amongst the most twisted and vilest of individuals in society, to reproduce, have a family and carry the genetic bloodline to another generation.

Bill Hunter had confessed, that with the benefit of hindsight, he couldn't blame Mandy for leaving him when she'd discovered the truth about his suspected involvement with a gang who had abducted, gang raped and murdered an innocent young woman. At the time the media were having a field day, reporting that eight or more men were suspected to be involved, not only in this murder, but also with other abduction and violent rapes perpetrated against young women in the local area. His name had come up in the investigation and the cops had come knocking on the door, demanding answers. It had got heated and they'd dragged him away for questioning at the station. When they'd dropped him back hours later, he was in no mood for her harping. He had turned to the grog and the situation had soon turned ugly with verbal abuse.

The more he drank, the more verbally abusive he had become, and that abuse soon turned physical. She tried to resist, lashing out at him as he hit her repeatedly, but it did no good. Bloodied and bruised, she'd eventually escaped to the bedroom, locking the door behind her as he continued to rant and rave with his verbal tirade. He'd left her alone then to continue drinking, but later that night in a drunken rage, and spurred on by television highlights of his involvement, he'd smashed his way through the bedroom door, to beat her badly, before raping her and leaving her body broken on the floor. By the time he had sobered up the next morning, she was gone. It was only via the grape vine months later that he had found out how severely he had beaten her. She had been hospitalised with internal injuries resulting in a near miscarriage, and her face was physically scarred for life. A year or so later he'd heard she'd had a baby girl who would never know her father. At the time he had damned them both to hell.

The trade off, to induce his victim to talk, had come with the offer of a final breakfast and a promise to grant a dying wish, but in the delivery of the offer, Jamie had shown a moment of weakness and compassion towards his prisoner. He apologised to his victim, for not cutting him free of the bondage that tightly bit into the wrists behind his back. It would have been foolhardy to do so. By this stage however, the victim was well aware of who Jamie was, and why he had been abducted. He was also well aware that the situation was non-negotiable and that he was on borrowed time, and with the cold grey light of dawn approaching, he also knew that his suffering would soon be over. Jamie had sat beside the broken man, looking into his eyes and feeling his pain as he took off the mouth gag for the very first time since the abduction. He allowed the man to talk uninterrupted, only raising the cup to his lips and placing food in his mouth as requested.

It was a freaky moment of truth and empathy between them both. Bill Hunter knew that his tormenter was thinking about his sister as she lay hog-tied and broken on the ground, knowing that he was wondering about her last moments and how she was treated. Hunter had spoken with an urgent brutal honesty, blurting out that although he had been there on the night, he was not the one responsible for making the decision for having her killed. His rush to get things off his chest took Jamie by surprise. The leader of the gang, and the leader's best mate who had been dead for a long time, were the ones responsible for bludgeoning her to death. Their actions had come as a complete shock to the rest of the gang who were present, but at the time nobody had done or said anything about it. The leader, John Skobles, had taken control. Cutting his thumb with a pocket knife, he had passed it around for all to do likewise, and in a bizarre ritual of mixing each other's blood by holding thumbs together, had proclaimed that they were now blood brothers.

Skobles had then demanded that everyone take a souvenir from the luggage of the dead girl. He said the gang was now bound by blood and the souvenir was a reminder of an act they had all participated in, which could not be undone. The souvenirs were also incriminating forensic evidence linking each of them to the crime. Should anyone develop a conscious and betray the gang for the reward, then that traitor was well aware of the consequences. Other than the threat of violence against family members or meeting an untimely death, the traitor could be set up by the others to take the fall for the murder, simply by planting a souvenir as evidence and tipping off the police. As a consequence of that pact, no reward had ever been paid, and the blood brother bond had never been broken.

It was an amazing revelation to discover that there existed a physical link to his sister's homicide. Five pieces of evidence from five dead guys over the years were now missing forever, but he was determined to retrieve Hunter's souvenir. It was not only proof of Hunter's involvement in the murder, it was also a tangible item to hold in his hands, to serve as justification as to why he was taken the law into his own hands. When asked what it was he had taken from his sister's belongings as a souvenir, Hunter didn't have to think, his response was automatic. It was a bank deposit book. Jamie's sister, Laura, was travelling with it in her luggage on the day she died. It was not recovered at the murder site and the bank account had not been touched since she'd last been seen alive. The absence of finding that bank deposit book amongst the scattered remains of Laura's luggage, had been one of those mysterious unanswered questions which had baffled the police.

Unfortunately, there was no way of separating that souvenir from Hunter's last will and testament, the cash, or the personal letter to Mandy, as they were all in the same hiding spot. It was up to Jamie to procure them. But of course, there was a catch. All the documents were in a fire resistant safe, buried in the cement slab with a combination lock, and no amount of torture was going to reveal the true combination. Part of the deal with Hunter involved his ex-partner, Mandy. She unwittingly knew the six figure combination, as it was her daughter's birth date. Jamie knew he'd been snookered. He couldn't open the safe on his own, he wasn't a safe cracker, and he couldn't walk into a dead man's house with a jack hammer and dig it up without drawing attention to himself.

If he was going to fulfil his promise to Hunter, and in the process get the evidence he so desperately needed, then he had no choice, he had to involve the ex-partner. But how was he going to do that? She wanted nothing to do with Bill Hunter, so much so, that she recently took out an AVO on him. How was he going to convince her to cooperate, either by verbally giving him the combination to the safe, or by coercing her to physically come along to where the safe was hidden to open it up, without implicating himself as the executioner? Only time and circumstances would tell. He would try the funeral route first as that showed a certain amount of commonality, and if she didn't show, then he would have no other option than to hunt her down and knock on the door of where she lived, and hope she opened the door to a complete stranger.

It would be comforting to be able to confide in someone as to what was going on, or to be able to bounce ideas off one another, but it was now far too late for that. He was on his own. He would just have to collect as much evidence as he could along the way, and then assess what to do with that information once the journey was over. He'd already started that process with Bill Hunter. Hunter's entire confession surrounding the murder had been recorded on Jamie's mobile phone. Once Hunter had accepted his fate and had Jamie's word of granting his dying wish, he had spilled his guts. Would that taped evidence be admissible and stand up in court? Probably not. Post mortem forensics would show that the guy was being held against his will, and had been coerced to say things under the physical sufferance of torture. But no amount of forensic evidence could show or explain the process of how Hunter had become the broken man, physically, psychologically and emotionally. Jamie shuddered as he recalled what he had put his victim through on that night.

Hunter had been drugged, abducted, gagged, hobbled and dragged by a rope with hands tied behind his back. In the dead of night he had stumbled, bashed into trees, tripped on roots, rocks and slippery steps to repeatedly fall heavily to the ground. He had ended up with bruises, contusions, dislocations and broken limbs, and on top of everything else, had been tortured mercilessly with an electric cattle prod to keep him moving until they had reached their destination, where he could finally take no more.

Jamie wondered how he could commit such atrocities upon another human being. How could he justify what he had done? His actions contradicted every moral, ethical and spiritual fibre of his being. He'd had a Christian upbringing, and grown up on a farm where the sanctity of plant and animal life was so fundamental for survival on the land. But so was justice. Without justice the human spirit withered and died. That night had been a very long night of constant grappling with his conscious, but somehow he had found the strength to see it through to the end. Quite simply, in the court of public opinion, the judicial system had failed. Through their inaction to commit anyone to trial for this murder, they had also neglected their broader communal duty of care in protecting all the other voiceless rape victims of this violent gang. These were rapists and killers who still had their freedom. He'd been forced to do the judicial systems' work. But he wasn't a killer, not like them, he was simply their executioner and he could live with that.

But right now, it was the process leading up to the next execution that had him thinking. He wondered if he was being too brazen, too cock sure of himself to simply show up at a funeral and introduce himself as an associate of the deceased. If one of the others turned up, how would he pull that off? And what about the authorities? Would Inspector Brian Cooke, or any other Investigator from his homicide department be at the funeral to observe who turned up? He very much doubted it. After dealing with his retired Detective friend for so long prior to the last Inquest, Jamie reckoned he knew what the department's stance would be. He could almost hear the retired Detective voice in his head, saying, _"The guy's a piece of shit with countless enemies. Bill Hunter is dead. His killer or killers watched him die, they're not about to turn up to his funeral to gloat, they've already done that. It would be a gross abuse of tax payer's money and a waste of the department's time to attend."_

But if that's what the retired Detective, or Inspector Cooke was thinking, then they'd be wrong. This executioner had unfinished business. He was going to be opportunistic and turn up to the funeral.

# Chapter 11

It would be fair to say that he felt perplexed. His investigation into the brutal murder of Bill Hunter seemed to have hit a brick wall. Admittedly most of the suspects for questioning, as to who may have a motive or want to see Bill Hunter dead, revolved around his criminal connections of dealing with illegal drugs, but if they knew anything they weren't saying.

Inspector Brian Cooke was reviewing the files, doing some background research into the activities of the deceased, as a person of interest in a historic case with its origin going back forty years. The Inspector had taken over the cold case file after the last Inquest, when the then senior Homicide Detective who had handled the case for the previous ten years, had retired and left the force. He had not known the retired Detective personally, but after reviewing the massive file and the brief of evidence which the Detective had compiled for legal counsel, the Inspector was in awe of his dedication in solving the case for the family. He was equally gobsmacked as to how the Coroner, in his findings of the Inquest, had come to the conclusion that there was insufficient evidence to commit anyone to trial. The Inspector had no doubt in his mind, that if in the future there were any new developments with the case which may require the retired Detective's personally expertise, then he hoped he would be able track down the civilian to ask for his valued opinion.

The historic cold case involved the homicide of Laura Wells, a first year student studying veterinary medicine at a Melbourne university. Her skeletal remains were found in isolated bushland at the foothills of the Great Dividing Range, a thirty minute journey in an easterly direction from the inland twin cities of Albury-Wodonga on the Victorian/ New South Wales border. She had left Melbourne with the intention of hitching a ride to Sydney to visit friends, and had last been seen getting into a vehicle heading north, not far from the army camp at Puckapunyal, roughly an hour and a half's drive out of Melbourne.

At the time, forty years ago when the first intensive investigation was conducted, the murder had been potentially linked to a number of other recent unsolved female hitchhiking homicides, with very similar MO's in the greater Melbourne area. All victims were in the eighteen to twenty year old bracket. All were hitchhiking and all had been raped before being bludgeoned to death. It was a logical focal point for the investigation and was publicised as such. Hysteria, created by the fear that a serial rapist/killer was on the loose, and pumped up by a media frenzy, created panic and public outrage in the community. A huge reward, for information leading to the conviction of persons responsible for the death of each girl, had been posted.

It would not be until a breakthrough occurred in the investigation a few years later, that evidence would suggest that Laura Wells's murder was unrelated to the other more suburban homicides in the Melbourne area. A clear picture had emerged by this stage, that a local gang of men from the twin city region were involved in this particular homicide. However, although there was a lot of circumstantial evidence to that effect, no forensic evidence existed to charge any of the eight prime suspects. Bill Hunter, along with his former gang members were the prime suspects. They had all been pulled-in for questioning over the Wells murder on a number of occasions over the years, but with no outcome. After the last major investigation resulting in this Inquest, the three surviving suspects had packed up and moved north, to relocate in the sprawling Sydney suburbs of NSW. It was a forced move which allowed them to be swallowed up by the working class to become anonymous, and in the process escape the stigma and personal harassment brought down upon them, by their public naming and shaming in Victoria.

Over the past couple of years, the deceased had kept a pretty low profile. With his prior history of violence crimes, including jail time for rape and grievous bodily harm, and with being a person of interest in the unsolved murder of a young woman, Bill Hunter had very little chance of scoring a legitimate job. Since moving, he'd been forced to stick to what he knew best. He had become well established, and well known to local police as a small time crook and drug peddler in his local neighbourhood. He did most of his business in a local pub, and according to all accounts, with the drug problem being so prevalent in today's society, he had been doing a good trade.

And that was where Bill Hunter's ute had also been found, in the car park of his local pub. It was still locked, but had a flat front tyre on the driver's side. The publican had discovered the abandoned vehicle the next morning whilst cleaning up the area. At the time he thought nothing of it, assuming that the owner would be back to repair the tyre and drive the vehicle away. After a week with it still being there, he had rang the police to report that the vehicle may have been dumped. The local coppers had been out to view the vehicle, and with a rego check had confirmed the owner as being Bill Hunter. According to the publican, Hunter was an everyday regular at the pub, but he hadn't seen him for a while. The police had been to Hunter's address, but were unable to make any contact with him, and a week later his murdered body had been discovered in the mountains. The previously documented information concerning the discovery of his ute, had confirmed the place, date and time that he had gone missing.

Other than the inner tubes valve being tampered with, resulting in a flat tyre, no other physical evidence of foul play had been discovered in the proximity of the ute, and it had been taken away to a secure lock up for the duration of the investigation. CCTV footage of the night was collected as evidence, and with the publican's cooperation for identification, regular patrons had been interviewed. There was only one camera at the pub and that was situated above the entrance door. It clearly showed everyone who entered and left the establishment during that twenty four hour period, and the deceased was recorded leaving the pub on his own. It clearly showed him standing on the steps with a stubby of beer in hand, casually lighting a cigarette and looking around as though surveying the car park, before then stepping down the stairs. There was no evidence to show that his abductor, or abductors had come from the pub, or had been in the pub that night, and there had been no reported ruckus or any incidence of verbal or physical abuse between any patrons in the pub, on that particular night.

The truth was, anyone could have known Bill Hunter's routine and simply blended in amongst the shadows, waited for him in the car park with its poor lighting and absence of surveillance cameras. Anyone with a grudge could have let the air out of his tyre and offered him a ride. But there was no physical evidence of any foul play, and no DNA evidence linking anyone, to any crime at all. Just like there had been no physical evidence discovered at the scene of the crime, along the bush track, or at the little off-road car park leading to the bush track, where it was suspected the abductor had parked his vehicle. And no one had no idea as to the possible make and model of the vehicle used in the abduction.

The abductor, or abductors, weren't stupid. Nothing had been left behind or overlooked, so that he, she, or they could be identified. This operation had been organised and pre-meditated, it certainly hadn't been spontaneous or careless. And the abductors also had luck on their side. There had been heavy rain in the local area in the weeks between when the deceased was murdered and his body found. This had ruined the integrity of, or totally washed away any soluble DNA evidence belonging to whoever was responsible.

The victim's clothing however were a different matter. They had been vacuumed and examined with the discovery of multiple hair fibres from sources other than those of the victims own hair or clothing. Considering the deceased had last been seen in a crowded pub, these fibres could have come from anyone, or any object that he had come in contact with. At best, marrying these fibres to an individual was purely circumstantial. The only way to cross reference this evidence and make it credible, was to find the vehicle he had been abducted in. That vehicle would hide and retain the smallest amount of the victim's hair fibres, blood, or body fluid as DNA evidence for a very long period of time. It would implicate anyone with a driving history, or ownership of that vehicle.

As baffling as it seemed though, the trail was still fresh, which was a far cry from the crime scene of the Wells murder, where it had taken three years to find her skeletal remains in the bush. Three years of her body being exposed to nature's elements, the harsh summer sun and drying heat, the bitter winter cold, the torrential rain, the driving winds and the ever present feral animals. Although DNA evidence was unheard of forty years ago, clothing and other items of the crime scene were kept as evidence for future examination. As science caught up, these articles were vacuumed and tested. Unfortunately, there turned out to be no retrievable DNA forensic evidence at all. The elements had corrupted or destroyed all samples.

Without a confession, or having one of the suspects point his finger at a fellow gang member, along with providing hard physical evidence of the crime, the eight suspects, of whom Bill Hunter was one, could only be linked circumstantially to the crime. None of them would ever be charged. The eight suspects knew it, and with so much time having elapsed prior to them coming under suspicion, all they had to do was to deny any knowledge or involvement in the murder. Whenever they were hauled in for questioning, even though the unsettling events of that murderous night would still be fresh in their brains and playing like a video recorder, they held their nerve, lied through their teeth and regurgitated their well versed fabricated lies so as to not implicate anyone in the gang.

So when it had come time to have a chat to John Skobles and Harry Wilton, the last two survivors of the gang, it came as no surprise to the Inspector that they had probably been in contact with each other and had rehearsed their responses. Both denied having anything to do with Bill Hunter. They claimed to know nothing about his business of dealing in drugs, or from whom his source of drugs would have come from. Both reinforced the notion, that the three of them no longer kept in touch with each other and wanted it left that way. Neither could remember the last time they saw each other, and both gave alibis as to where they were on the night of the murder. Neither knew who would have a motive to kill him.

Predictably these were both hard nuts, their responses conditioned by forty years of being harassed by homicide detectives over the Laura Wells cold case. However, although the gang had long ago been disbanded, there was still a perverted blood brother loyalty for survival that bound them together. It was clear there would be no new information or any co-operation at all from either of them. Both were pathological liars who would say anything to twist the truth. Skobles may have been telling a degree of truth about not having contact with Hunter, but Wilton certainly wasn't. Phone records from Bill Hunter's Telco supplier for the last six month showed they spoke on a regular basis. The Inspector made the assumption that their secretive connection had everything to do with the supply of drugs, as that was the only common denominator in both their lives. But what could he do? Their alibis on the night of the murder had checked out. Neither were prime suspects, and it was impossible to intimidate either of them with a trumped-up charge of obstructing justice, or any other misdemeanour for that matter, simply to get either of them to talk.

The Inspector found out, through reading the retired Detectives extensive files on the case, that the personalities of Wilton and Skobles were on opposite ends of the spectrum. John Skobles trusted no one. He was in his early sixties, lived alone and was on the welfare system. Physically he was of average height and weight and carried a noticeable limp with the right leg, along with numerous scars, resulting from a serious auto accident whilst trying to outrun a police pursuit many years ago. He wore copious cosmetic ear jewellery and had tattoos on both forearms and shoulders, the most noticeably one being a phantom like skull etched onto his right deltoid muscle. He was also a heavy smoker and drinker. He was paranoid about everyone and everything, and although a user of recreational drugs, he always seemed to have his wits about him. He had very few friends, was antisocial and spent most of his time by himself. His partner, like Hunter's, had also disappeared one night. Fearing for her life, and knowing there would be no custody dispute, she had fled with the kids to another state where she could not be found.

In his very early twenties when the murder took place, and for many years after while the gang thought they had gotten away with it, life had been sweet for Skobles. After the murder, in an attempt to become inconspicuous, he had left the area and his job at the abattoirs, to become a nomadic timber cutter on the north coast of NSW. Back then he was already an unpredictable and violent man with convictions of rape, assault with a deadly weapon, possession of illegal drugs and dealing in drugs. Back then, he had also been the leader of the gang and was feared by everyone around him. He had demanded respect, ruled with an iron fist and had done time in jail, just like the rest of his gang. But now that his youth was spent and he'd been hounded by the law for so long, his life was full of paranoia, anger and regret. The drug squad suspected he was supplementing his meagre government income by occasionally acting as a mule, to ship large quantities of drugs interstate for a notorious bikie gang with whom he'd had previous ties to in Victoria. As of yet though, they had not caught him.

To the Inspector reading the brief of evidence compiled against Skobles, this bikie connection made a lot of sense. Skobles would be incognito. He wasn't a bikie gang member, he wouldn't be wearing colours or riding a bike to draw attention to himself, so he wouldn't necessarily be under surveillance. According to the file notes, the last time John Skobles had been pulled into the station by the former Detective to be officially questioned about the Wells cold case, the situation had turned ugly. He had literally gone off the rails, having a panic attack and screaming the place down, refusing to answer any questions and demanding his lawyer.

It had come as a complete surprise, when a prominent bikie barrister had turned up to represent him. Legal representation of that calibre wasn't cheap to retain, and on the surface, Skobles presented a facade of poverty. The initial request from his legal counsel was predictable, _"charge my client with something or let him go."_ Skobles had to be let go, but it was the follow-up legal demand in writing which had the department seeing red. Loosely translated it said, _"You must not approach or talk to my client directly without his legal representative. You must give his legal representative twenty four hours' notice of your intent to interview him, and you must nominate specifically what it is that you wish to interview him about."_ It was the judicial system and bureaucracy gone mad, and frustratingly, it was also the same legal procedure which the Inspector had to follow this time around.

Harry Wilton on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. Unlike the others, he was not a violent man per say, but he was sadistic and cruel. He was in his early sixties, had never been married or had any children. Physically, he was a very thin weed of a man who took no pride in his appearance whatsoever. He was an unwashed, unshaven and grubby individual with a pasty complexion and a very nervous disposition. He had no career, no job and no prospects. He was an opportunist and a follower who was easily conscripted into any illegal activity or shady deal, just as long as a cash payment and a good time were assured. He was a petty thief who broke into houses, a con man, a drug mule and a drug dealer. He was also a drug user with an expensive habit for cocaine, and that made him somewhat controllable. Likewise in his youth he had also left his job at the abattoirs, to escape the area and the controversy of the murder, to follow Skobles to become a timber cutter. He too lived alone, but unlike Skobles, Harry Wilton craved companionship and spent most of his waking life spending his ill-gotten gains at pubs, brothels, race tracks or drug parties.

With no co-operation from Wilton or Skobles, and with the ex-partner of Bill Hunter giving a statement that she knew nothing of his life or his dealings for the past thirty years, other than the fact she had a current AVO out on him for stalking, the Inspector was left with no obvious leads at all. From here on end it would now be a hard slog. Even a search of Hunter's house for evidence gave no clues as to who may have had a grudge against him. The guy lived a very basic existence. There was no fancy furniture or any obvious sentimental knick-knacks cluttering up any of the rooms. The only possessions of any real value was a single recliner chair, an ultra-high definition wide screen TV and a new barbeque sitting out on the back veranda which looked like it had never been used. Even the wall safe with its simple combination lock, hiding behind the only picture on the lounge room wall, was neither hard to find or difficult to break into. It contained a small amount of cannabis packaged for sale in sealed plastic bags quantities, along with a couple of thousand dollars cash, suspected as being the proceeds from his local drug dealing operation. The amount of drugs and cash found were commensurate to that of a small time dealer, so no other detailed searching of the property had been necessary.

All things considering, there seemed to be nothing out of place to indicate any signs of tampering or any break in. However what was noticeably missing from Bill Hunter's personnel effects, which was not found in the house or his ute, were his house and car keys and his mobile phone. According to everyone who knew him at the pub, he wouldn't be found dead without his mobile phone. Well, he was found dead and his phone wasn't with him. Obviously these two items had been on his body when he had been abducted. They had either since been disposed of weeks ago, or were now current trophies of his killer.

The Inspector was pleased that the medical examiner had moved quickly to arrange burial of the corpse. As there was no next of kin willing to claim the body, the hotel publican had agreed to identify the deceased, and a pauper's funeral had been arranged by the State. Moneys retrieved from the wall safe at the house, and found in the wallet on the deceased, had been impounded for future probate consideration, but for now, the funeral cost would be coming from the State coffers. It didn't matter to the Inspector how the guy was buried, who buried him or who paid for the funeral, just so long as things continued to move. Stagnancy was non-productive. Movement created turbulence, and in the wake of that turbulence, the Inspector had a gut feeling that there would be more consequences as a result of Bill Hunter's untimely and most violent death.

# Chapter 12

The morning of the funeral came around very quickly. Practically before Jamie knew it, he was walking towards the few individuals standing around an above ground coffin, waiting for a simple ceremony to begin. He had nervously waited until the last possible moment before getting out of the security of his car, wanting to be sure that everyone who was coming to the funeral was already in attendance. But it wasn't until the pastor had glanced at his watch for the third time, and looked around the cemetery to stare in his direction, as if to say, _"are you joining us or not"_ , that he decided to act. He'd already been here for a considerable amount of time, arriving early, to sit in the vehicle and see who turned up and to observe their behaviour. He was also making sure that there was no visible police presence. If there had of been, or if for any other reason he had felt threatened, or overwhelmed by the whole situation that was presenting itself, then he intended to simply drive away and look for another option.

Harry Wilton was definitely present. That was a good thing. He was the most gullible and easiest target of the old gang. But as every minute ticked by since Wilton's arrival, right up until Jamie had stepped out of the vehicle, his anxieties had grown. He was concerned that Skobles would also turn up, and that would be disastrous for the operation. Skobles was no dummy, he was shit-house cunning and had a long memory. Skobles would not only recognise him, but would also see through his charade. Skobles would know that he had executed Hunter and would assume that he intended to kill both Wilton and himself. It was a huge relief, that thus so far, he hadn't showed up.

As for Harry Wilton though, he'd been easily recognised. He looked just like Jamie had remembered him from the Inquest a couple of years ago, when he had stepped into the witness box to spit out his lies. The guys weasel like features and stupid grin were burnt into his brain. Wilton had turned up in an old clapped-out V8 Holden station wagon which showed terrible signs of neglect. The body was rusted, the paint work faded, the chassis rattled and the motor blew a lot of smoke. Its condition reminded him of Bill Hunter's ute. He found himself wondering if Wilton had a spare tyre, and if it was possible that Wilton could fall for the same trap as his previous victim had.

It was a blessing that Wilton had turned up alone. The rules of the game were to be opportunistic, and he still had all the same tools of abduction in his vehicle as he had used on Bill Hunter. With the exception of the scones and hot coffee for an early morning breakfast, he was right to go. Maybe later on tonight, if he could befriend the guy and know of his whereabouts, or follow him from the funeral to his home, pub or some other venue, then maybe the right moment might present itself and it could be deja-vu all over again. And if no opportunity was forthcoming, then at least he had the back-up information of knowing the made, model and number plates of Wilton's vehicle, and could no doubt find out where he lived.

But it wasn't long after those thought had raced through his mind that the primary person he hoped to see at the funeral, turned up in a taxi. Without a doubt, it had to be Mandy, Bill Hunter's ex-partner. She had obviously flown down from Brisbane early this morning to attend the funeral. She was just like Hunter had described her a couple of weeks ago. A tallish, slim woman with shoulder length chestnut hair, and the tell tail sign of a facial scar that travelled from the left eye socket to the bottom lip. This deep scar had been the legacy from a broken beer bottle, in his last drunken domestic violence encounter with her all those years ago. She was dressed respectively, not only for the occasion but also for the bleak weather, wearing a three quarter length grey overcoat, concealing a darker grey dress and full length black leather boots underneath. Her attire and demeanour gave no indication as to her association with the deceased. As the taxi drove off, she stood for a few long seconds, composing herself, before then moving timidly in the direction of the others.

Not long after, spurred on by the Pastor's exasperating glances, Jamie had stepped out of his car and followed her to the grave site. As he approached he could feel their eyes upon him, wondering who the hell he was. He gestured apologetically to the Pastor for holding up the proceedings, thus giving him a cue to begin the service. There were only six funeral-goers in total, so there was plenty of room around the coffin. The space he deliberately stepped into though, was situated between the Pastor and a couple who he thought were a husband and wife. He assumed the couple were part of the Pastors congregation, as they had all arrived together in clearly what was a church vehicle, to pull up right aside him in the carpark. He had unmistakably overheard them talking for a few minutes, collecting their thoughts and wits about them, before then moving off through the cemetery gates. The couple were not only making up the numbers, but also learning how to present a pauper's funeral service.

Mandy and Harry Wilton stood on the opposite side, so he had a good view of them both, and straight away it was obvious that Wilton had worked out who she was. He had edged closer to her, being disrespectful to the proceedings, smirking, invading her space and making her feel really uncomfortable. She reciprocated with a scowl, edging away, stopping him in his tracks. Even with the passage of time, there was no friendship or love lost between the two of them. In that instant Jamie could emphasis with the woman. He could only imagine the physical and emotional pain she must have endured, not only in her relationship with the deceased, but also with the verbal abuse she had to contend with as far as the other gang members were concerned. And in that instant he also remembered what the retired Detective had said about Harry Wilton, _"He is an evil, sadistic and cruel piece of shit who would torture his own grandmother just to get a laugh."_ He wanted to jump the coffin, throttle the guy and throw him into freshly dug grave.

Jamie could only imagine what Wilton's role would have been in the gang, but he couldn't stop wondering what Wilton's role would have been at the blooding ceremony of when his sister was murdered. He tried to shut it out, tried to listen to the service, but he couldn't. Lying dead in the coffin in front of him was a murderer who'd been dispensed justice. Standing on the other side of the coffin was a murderer who had escaped justice and was still alive. Also in attendance were two victims, Mandy and himself. They were both collateral damage of a gang's violent and destructive activities, and had both been left with the legacy of a lifetime sentence.

As a focal point to bring them all together, six individuals with separate agendas, stood around the coffin of a dead man in a council cemetery. Blending with that reality, was the imagery of another very distant focal point from forty years ago, which was now distracting Jamie and gnawing away at his insides. Eight individuals, bound by an evil intent, had stood around an isolated campfire in the clearing of the bush, laughing and jeering at a broken girl lying naked and bound on the ground nearby. It was at this secret location in the scrub, where the gang had brought their victim for their night of drunken lust and debauchery. This is where his sister had ultimately been bludgeoned to death. Why? What had happened that night? What atrocities had been committed upon her, that were so terrible, or so long lasting and incriminating, to necessitate her pre-meditated murder?

Hitchhiking had started the horrible chain of events. From then on, it would be disgruntled witnesses and hearsay from the Inquest which would tell the story of a frenzied fight to escape the clutches of the abductors, the gagged and hogtied ride in the back seat of the car to the bush track, the flogging to get her out of the car, and then the forced march through the bush to reach the campfire. Had this nasty piece of shit been part of that? Had he poked, tortured and humiliated her as she lay broken on the ground begging for her life, just for the fun of it, just to get a laugh?

But after the booze and the drugs had worn off, and the gang raping and debauchery was over, then what? What part did this creep play with Laura being bludgeoned to death with a lump of timber? Jamie couldn't see him as the crazed killer, but he could see him as the gang clown, jeering the mob into a frenzy and goading individuals to do unspeakable acts. He could also see Wilton comically making light of the abduction and murder, by re-enacting the death scene as a source of entertainment at every drunken orgy the gang had after that event. Being part of this depraved gang would have been something Harry Wilton had been very proud of. It fed his ego. Both Jamie and Mandy knew that. She knew what Wilton had done, what they had all done, and Jamie could see that she was still afraid of him.

Then, abruptly it seemed, it was time. Within minutes of starting the service, it was as good as over, and the pastor was asking if anyone wanted to say anything. The husband of the couple, who obviously didn't know the deceased, took his cue from the Pastor to verbalise a few words of comfort on behalf of himself and his wife, before ended with the phrase "rest in peace." Then it was Harry Wilton's self-appointed turn. He smirked, showing off blackened and broken teeth, the result no doubt from excessive smoking, years of oral hygiene neglect and too many smacks in the mouth. He took a step forward to repeatedly slam his open right hand down on the coffin.

"Bill Hunter was a bloody good mate of mine. We had plenty of good times together," he stated, directing his words at Mandy. "We got away with a lota stuff in our lives, got lumbered fer some of it too by dar coppers. But yar know what, if Billy-boy had the chance to do it all agin, I'm sure he wouldn't change a thing and I'd be right there beside him. Hold a seat fer me down there will yar big fella."

The intimidation worked. Although Mandy held her ground and was unflinching, one hand gripped her stomach tightly and the other was raised as a fist to her mouth. Tears welled into her eyes as she gazed towards the pastor and shook her head. Then everybody looked at Jamie.

"I've only known Bill Hunter for a very short period of time," lied Jamie. "We came from totally different backgrounds and ordinarily our paths would not have crossed, but they did, and as it turned out we shared something very special in common, and to that end, I made a promise to Bill Hunter which I intend to keep."

The pastor nodded, turning again to face Mandy, searching for any signs that she needed to say something, but her eyes remained fixed, staring at the ground. Without any signal, he then said a few words to wind up the proceedings. It was something about dust to dust and resting in peace, but Jamie wasn't paying any attention. Through his peripheral vision he was observing the two antagonists unsettled body language, not only with each other's company, but also with his presence. He could almost hear the common thoughts of Mandy and Wilton in his own head, _"Who is this mystery man. What does he know about me, and what promise would a perfect stranger possibly bequeath to a killer"._

With the service over, he began to move away with the group in the direction of the entrance gate to the cemetery. He paced himself to keep just behind the group. He needed to see any interaction and hear any dialogue that may develop between Mandy and Wilton, while he waited for an opportunistic moment to be able to approach Mandy by herself. Within metres of leaving the grave site, a verbal conflict had already flared up between the two, with Wilton being the attacker. Not wanting to get involved, the Pastor veered off in another direction. He took the male and female couple with him, to stroll through the cemetery and were soon out of earshot, but Jamie couldn't help but see and hear what was going on.

"I remember when Billy-boy gave yar dat scar," taunted Wilton. "Beauty ain't it?"

"There's nothing 'beauty' about domestic violence," she snapped, stopping momentarily to confront him.

"You asked fer it. You asked fer every hidin' yar ever got"

"I don't have to stand here and cop your abuse."

"Shootin' yar mouth off. Yar always had to stick yar nose in where it wasn't wanted, didn't yar? Watcha doing 'ere today anyhow? Come crawlin' back to say yar sorry, make yar feel better does it?"

"You haven't changed. You're still the same snivelling, cruel, vindictive creep you always were," she said attempting to disengage from the confrontation.

She turned her back and stepped briskly away from him. Her actions brought herself almost in line with Jamie who had slowed considerably, but his immediate presence was of no comfort to her, or of any threat to Wilton for that matter. Wilton laughed out loud, following her, nipping at her heals like a blue cattle dog.

"We all said Billy-boy should ave beat yar to pulp dat night. No one believed dat bastard kid was his. You're a whore and yar always were."

His caustic words stabbed her as if they were a knife. Mandy was emotional vulnerable, under attack and attempting to retreat to get away from her abuser, but he was showing no signs of relenting. The situation was eroding quickly, and as an observer on the sideline, it was time for Jamie to intervene. Once outside the gates of the cemetery and in the car park, it would be too late, and those gates were only twenty odd metres away. He turned sideways and took a step in their direction, to let his presence be known.

"Give it a break mate!" he stated slowly and authoritatively. "I know who you are. I know all about your sordid past, and if you want a chance of taking over Billy-boy's territory, then I reckon now would be a good time for you to shut your filthy mouth."

Wilton stopped dead in his tracks, the supercilious grin and cruel humour evaporating from his demeanour. Jamie had his undivided attention.

"What territory? What are yar talkin' about?"

"Let's just say that I have a large list of phone contacts up for grabs. It comes at a cost. If you're interested, we'll do business. If not, then someone else will."

"Who dar fuck are you?" demanded Wilton. "How'd yar know Bill Hunter?

Jamie was relieved to know that Wilton had no idea as to who he was. He questioned himself as to how that could possibly be. Bill Hunter had been exactly the same. Surely if you were a person who had committed a murder, or was nominated as a person of interest in a particularly nasty homicide and was constantly being harassment by the authorities, then you would be continuously looking over your shoulder and be distrustful of everyone. Yet, there was no body language signs, or nervousness in the face and eyes from Wilton, to indicate any suspicion or connection of Jamie to his past. Obviously these dysfunctional sociopaths didn't have a conscience.

"Just call me Eddy," said Jamie not wanting to give any clue as to his identity. "I'm tidying up some of Bill Hunter's affairs."

"Never fuckin' heard of yar."

"Well he told me all about you," bluffed Jamie.

"Yer, like what?"

"Like, as a kid, you were the bastard child who no one wanted. You were moved from foster home to foster home because of your cruelty to pets."

"There could ave bin a few accidents," smirked Wilton.

"Didn't matter what kind of animal it was, dog, cat, fish or bird, you'd find a way to torture them to death. You plucked every feather out of harmless thirty year old talking rosella for God's sake."

Jamie was recalling one of the last conversations he'd had with Bill Hunter over breakfast, when he'd asked about Harry Wilton and John Skobles. It was a small window of opportunity to gather information about the gang, but there was to be little betrayal in the man's babbling, just snippets of information about personalities, which in Wilton's case, said a lot about his sadistic nature and what he was capable of.

"Dat fuckin' bird wouldn't shut up. Kept sayin' _'dance cocky'_ and _'look who's a pretty girl,'_ while I was breakin' intar some old buggers house. Well, let me tell yar, she wasn't pretty and she wasn't dancin' when I finished with her," boasted Harry, sticking out his chest and tucking his hands under his armpits to make them look like flapping wings.

"Listen shit for brains," said Jamie taking the hard line and talking the guy's language, "I'm not going to stand here in a cemetery and listen to your sick bullshit! You interested or not?"

"Only an 'andful of us knew about dat parrot," chuckled Harry. "It was in dar local news, reward offered and all. Cops never had a clue. I guess Bill must ave told yar."

"You interested or not," repeated Jamie?

"That territory's a sweet little earner."

"Apparently so. Bill said you only knew half of what was going on."

"Someone probable killed him fer it."

"You're probably right, but if you want in, you'll need goods up front to get his contacts. You in or out?"

"Maybe... I'll think about it."

"I'll chat to you soon then," said Jamie, turning away to take a cautious step in Mandy's direction.

"You got me number?"

There was a hint of panic in Wilton's voice. He'd been dismissed by this impertinent stranger, a total stranger who seemed to know all about him and his drug connection to Bill Hunter. To Wilton, that was no doubt unsettling and dangerous.

"Yer, yer, you're on the top of my list," responded Jamie, but then as an afterthought, threw over his shoulder, "Oh and just for the record, that bastard kid you were referring to earlier on, belonged to Bill Hunter. He confided in me on a number of occasions that he was the father of this woman's child."

Jamie had taken control and set the scene for their next encounter. He just hoped his bluff would pay off. He was assuming there was a list of drug user contacts on Bill Hunter's mobile phone, and he hoped that Wilton's contact number would also be there. He'd been reluctant to turn the mobile on, knowing that once a signal was transmitted, it could be picked up by satellite navigation technology and quickly traced to a physical location by the authorities, providing they were scanning for it in the first place.

Mandy had stood mesmerised and silent during the entire verbal exchange. She would have been appreciative of the intervention and relieved that the verbal attack was directed away from her, but she would also be wondering how this stranger knew who she was, and wondering what else he knew about her. She now focused her attention on Jamie, who was standing no more than two metres away from her with his back to Wilton. She likewise avoided eye contact with Wilton, and once Wilton realised he was being ignored by them both, he moved off towards his clapped out station wagon. However, he couldn't resist displaying his nastiness, by throwing a passing shot over his shoulder towards Mandy by saying, "you were an ungrateful fuckin' whore back then and I'll bet yar still an ungrateful fuckin' whore."

"Sure got a nasty tongue ain't he?" remarked Jamie holding out his hand. "I'm Ed by the way. I didn't really know your ex-partner, but I promised him in the event of his death, that I'd contact you with an offer from him. Can we talk?"

"There's nothing to discuss," she said beginning to move. "I don't want to get mixed up in his world ever again. I simply came to his funeral to face the ghosts of the past. They have haunted me for such a long time, and I needed to put their torment to rest."

"He can't hurt you ever again. He's dead. I simple made him a promise that I'd talk to you."

"If you know him, then you must be involved with drugs and the misery it causes. That was his world. It was the only world he knew."

"No I'm not, but he told me enough about his perverted world, so I don't blame you for being suspicious."

"If not illegal drugs, then what could you possibly have in common?"

"I met him at a cancer clinic. We were just two strangers chewing the fat, with an open honesty about their lives," lied Jamie. "I was recovering from treatment and he was being monitored for his deterioration. He had terminal liver cancer. It was untreatable and he didn't have long to live. I guess he just wanted to get things off his chest."

"Oh...! I didn't know," she said reflectively. "That's why he came to see me. I didn't give him a chance to explain, I didn't even let him in the door. I was petrified. All the violence and abuse, it all came back to me with a rush when I saw him standing on the other side of the screen. I was instantly afraid for my life, and that of my daughter's. I didn't want him back in my life again, not after thirty years, not ever. He left, and to make sure I protected myself, I took an AVO out on him, to stop him from coming anywhere near me again."

"Yer, he told me all that. Said he'd already given you and your daughter a life sentence of pain and heartache, but as you two were the only family connection he had to this world, he wanted you can take what was his. Said he didn't want your pity. He's left you a letter as an explanation, a wad of cash to get you started and his last will and testament which include the title deeds to his house, a house that now belong to you."

"I don't want anything of his," she said defiantly.

"Yer I know, he knew it too."

"Why are you doing this? What's in it for you?"

"Nothing. I simply gave my word to a dying man that I'd try to set things right with you. There is a catch to your involvement however, and if you decline right now, then I will wash my hands of all this and that that will be the end of the matter."

"A catch to my involvement. What did you mean by that?"

Mandy had asked the question softly, becoming emotional as she struggled to comprehend what was going go.

"You unwittingly have the combination to the safe," explained Jamie. "The safe contains the cash and documents that belong to you, providing the homicide Detective haven't already found it and cracked it open, which I suspect they haven't, because you'd be one of the first to know about it."

"How would I possibly have the combination?" she challenged.

"It's a six digit number. Your estranged ex-partner used your daughter's birthday as his combination. We've both got to go into his house, and you've got to open the safe."

"Ohh...!"

Mandy gasped, struggling for breath. The expression on her face showing what she was thinking. Was she breaking the law and doing something illegal? Was she tampering with evidence and perverting the course of justice. What was it that she was getting herself involved in?

"What was that conversation with Harry Winton all about?"

The question had been prompted by the sound of Winton's station wagon coughing and spluttering to life.

"I was just stirring him up to get him off your case. He can think what he likes, someone would already have taken over Bill Hunter's territory."

"Harry Winton was the cruellest man I ever knew," she said with deep conviction.

Jamie gave her a few long seconds to reflect on whatever it was that held her captive, as they both watched the station wagon thrust itself out of the cemetery carpark, up onto the main road with squealing tyres, a deafening roar of the engine and billowing blue smoke.

"Now what about that offer? Bill told me you were doing it hard, surely you could use the money and security?"

"I don't know if I could live with myself. It would be blood money. I'd be profiteering from someone else's pain and misery."

"Maybe, but you don't know that for sure. Besides, what about your pain and misery. What he did to you still affects you today. Maybe you should put your ethical and moral convictions to one side for a moment, and try to be logical. The property now legally belongs to you, so you are not technically breaking any laws by entering the premise. No one but you and I know of the existence and location of his last will and testament. If you do nothing at all, the State will benefit. The State will sell his house and we both know the money won't go into hospitals or schools. It'll go into some politician's slush fund."

"Ok!" she gasped after a long silence of soul searching, "I suppose I have to trust you. What have I got to do?"

"We have to act on this today, right now while the iron is red hot, before either of us can change our minds and before you get back on the plane to Brisbane."

An element of concern niggled in the back of Jamie's mind. Things were moving quickly, maybe too quickly. Had he exposed himself too much? People could now identify him and connect him to events and locations, and very soon he would be in the house of Bill Hunter and his finger prints would be everywhere. But what could he do? He had been opportunistic and this is the path that he'd been led down. One again in his mind he heard the ever so familiar affirmation. _"The universe is guiding me to be at the right place, at the right time, for the right sequence of events to occur so that justice can be delivered."_ He had no other choice. He simply had to trust and believe that everything would turn out as it should.

# Chapter 13

Within minutes of making the decision they were on their way to the house, which in reality was only a short twenty minute drive away. Mandy sat quietly, fidgeting nervously the whole journey. Her mood, the paleness of her skin and the expression of emotional turmoil on her face reflected how uncomfortable she felt. The notion of breaking any laws had paled to insignificance, as compared to the reality of what she was about to face. The thought of entering the very personal domain of her previous tormenter, where she may be forced to relive repressed memories of domestic violence, was troubling her deeply.

And only too soon it seemed, they had arrived to park in the street outside the house. Jamie knew this was the final chapter in the Bill Hunter scenario. Within the space of the next fifteen to twenty minutes, providing everything fell into place, his promise to fulfil Hunter's dying wish would be complete and he could then close the book. However sitting in the car thinking about the situation, and getting out of the car to do something about it, were two entirely different things, and like Mandy, his anxieties were also palpable. It felt really weird and threatening. Logically though, it had been roughly two weeks since the discovery of the body, and any preliminary searching of the house looking for evidence would have been well and truly completed by now. There was no barrier tape indicating an ongoing police investigation on the premises, and Hunter's ute wasn't in the drive way either. It had probably been taken directly from the hotel carpark, to be held in a secure police lock up as forensic evidence until the investigation had been finalised. The lay of the land indicated that no one was home, or living in the house.

They both sat in the car for a while, quelling their nerves and composing themselves. Few words were necessary, and although they both had different agendas, they were both aware of the reality of the situation they were about to face. And in spite of the fact that it was the middle of the day, with kids at school and mums and dads at work, there was still the occasional person moving about the neighbourhood observing what was going on, and Jamie couldn't shake the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable to attack. The whole street would know about the gruesome murder, and would be aware that the cops had been through the house looking for evidence. Therefore any activity on the property at all would be noticed and talked about by the residents. To avoid suspicion, it was imperative that they both looked genuine, like family members coming to the house to pick something up. And to that end they did look the part. It was the day of the funeral and they were both dressed appropriately for that occasion.

Jamie needed to roleplay his part in the deception for the benefit anyone who may have been watching. Hopping out of the vehicle, he went around to the passenger side to take Mandy's arm with a gesture of support. Without lingering, they stepped through the boundary gate to walk the short distance up a neglected cement pathway leading to the front door. He could sense her resisting, feel her body physically trembling with the anxiety of stepping inside the den of a man she both loathed and feared. With every step closer to the house that she took, the next seemed more daunting and panic seemed imminent. He had to gentle coax her all the way, reassuring her that she was doing the right thing by herself and her daughter and asking her to trust him, as he guided her to the protective alcove of the front door. Once there he released his grip, allowing her to lean back against the wall of the house for support, telling her to take a deep breath as he fumbled in his pocket for the key to open the front door.

"He gave you the front door key to his house! He must have trusted you."

It was the first time she had spoken since leaving the car.

"He knew he was dying. I don't think he cared," replied Jamie opening the door.

He stood to one side, replacing the key in his pocket and making a mental note to reattach the house key to the car key ring when he got back home. Guarding her possible hasty retreat, he waited for Mandy to step through the door entrance first. Hesitantly, she took a step forward, peering around the corner, her senses alert. It was understandable behaviour considering what she had been through in the past. The length of time didn't matter. And the fact that this was not the same house which she'd previously been abused in, didn't matter either. The horror of his abuse, of what he'd done to her thirty years ago when she'd ended up in hospital with a miscarriage imminent, probably seemed like yesterday, and right now her flight or fight mechanism were in play. Her mind was processing information. A smell, a sound, or the sight of something familiar from the past could trigger danger and an unfavourable physiological or emotional response.

Jamie followed, his eyes scanning the room, observing how basic his victim had lived. One of the first things he noticed, through the double glass doors at the end of the lounge room leading out onto the covered verandah, was the barbeque. The sight of it brought a thin smile to his lips. It had been the controversy over this barbeque, which had granted him the opportunity to be able to abduct and then slay his victim. Curiosity moved him over to the glass doors, to view out and see the extent of damage done to the barbeque component of box number two. The ice bucket was fine, but the food warmer cabinet was scuffed and rightly enough needed to be replaced, but now that would never be the case. And now was not the time to be analytical, or curious, or to reminisce. Time was of the essence. He had to focus. The floor plan of the three bedroom house was simple. Internal access to the garage was via a corridor positioned between the bathroom and laundry on one side, and the bedrooms on the other, and that is where the floor safe was located.

"It's this way," stated Jamie, his voice breaking Mandy's trance and bringing her back to reality. "This is where the safe is."

The garage came as no surprise either, it was as basic as the rest of the house. The room was devoid of any physical junk taking up floor space, and consisted of one long bench running the entire length of one wall with cupboards underneath. The initial reaction from anyone opening the door to look inside would be one of total disinterest. There would be no obvious surprises or unexpected treasure trove of memorabilia. Without the ute the room was barren. An assortment of hand and power tools, including screw drivers, spanners, hammer, saw and electric drill were strewn across the surface of the bench, along with a number of open cardboard boxes containing household knickknacks, but that was it. Nothing looked out of place or suspicious. If it had not been for the prior knowledge of a floor safe hidden below the bottom floating shelf of cupboard number three, as you enter the garage from the street, then it was easy to understand how it was overlooked, particularly as a wall safe containing drugs and money had already been found inside the house.

They went straight to cupboard number three, opening up its double doors to expose an internal top shelf laden with a variety of half empty paint tins, thinners and strippers, and a bottom shelf laden with drop sheets, paint trays, brushes and other assorted painting equipment. A strong smell of paint and turpentine rushed out to assault their nostrils. It was a great camouflage, maybe designed to confuse the senses of drug detection dogs if they ever turned up looking for drugs. It had obviously fooled the detectives who would have searched the house. That fact was apparent when Jamie removed the floating bottom shelf to find the floor safe unopened, unlike the wall safe in the lounge room with its door left ajar and its contents removed for future evidence. A huge relief spread over Jamie psyche in that instant. So far, Bill Hunter had been true to his word and everything was working out as planned. Now it all came down to Mandy. It was imperative that she played her role by physically participating in the opening of the safe.

"You've got to do this," he gestured, moving over to allow room for her to kneel down beside him directly in front of the safe. "It's a symbolic gesture of empowerment. You're taking back what he took from you."

"What am I supposed to do?"

Her voice quavered and her body noticeably trembled as she kneeled down beside him. He smiled at her, reaching out with encouragement to touch her deathly cold hand.

"You have the combination. It's time to crack her open. We need to put in the six numbers relating to the day, month and the year of your daughter's birthday."

The anxiety of the moment was palpable, but in reality it only took a minute or so to enter the six numbers, in their right sequence, by alternatively turning the dial clockwise then anticlockwise to lock them in. Then with fumbling fingers and a huge sense of relief, Mandy opened the floor safe by lifting the door away from herself. The safe was all but full, and sitting on the very top was a plastic bag full of one hundred dollar notes. She turned to look at Jamie, her mouth wide open and facial expression of complete surprise.

He gestured with his hands for her to pick it up.

"It's all yours," he said quite simply.

Mandy pulled out the first bag, which at a rough estimate contained ten thousand dollars, and then extracted four more similar bags. The next lucky dip into the safe brought out three envelopes attached together with a rubber band. This was the last will and testament, the deeds to his house and a personal letter to Mandy. While she nervously opened the letter, Jamie dipped his hand into the safe and extracted the last of its contents, a small calico bag containing a thin loose leaf book. A quick look inside, confirmed to him that this is what he had come for.

"Sorry," he said turning away from Mandy to suddenly become misty eyed, "the contents of this bag rightfully belong to someone else. He asked me to anonymously return them."

A couple of hours later, they were sitting in a coffee shop at the airport saying goodbye. In light of the fact that Mandy was carrying an incredible amount of cash in her luggage, all in one hundred dollar notes, it was extremely doubtful that she'd get through the x-ray machines, to hop onto a plane, without attracting the attention of security officers. There was a distinct possibility that she'd be pulled aside to explain to the cops how she'd come by the money, and to prove it wasn't illegally obtained. It would have been a foolish endeavour, so they had both decided that the best thing to do to prevent any questioning, was for her to hire a car at the airport and drive it back to Brisbane.

Although she was keen to return home to organise her new life, she had to admit that she was also excited and looking forward to a leisurely scenic drive up the Pacific highway. She had money in her pocket and she intended to take her time, to drop in at coastal towns, to have a cuppa or walk the beach as she felt like it, and maybe even stay a night or two in a motel along the way. It didn't matter what the journey cost or how long it took, it would do wonders for her emotional state, and it would give her thinking time to put everything in perspective. Although he didn't know Mandy that well, they had bonded in these last couple of hours, and it was rewarding to know her life had changed for the better. He was connected to her through circumstances, but in a strange way, he also felt very close to her. They had shared an adventure together. They were virtually partners in crime, and surely that also meant there was a criminal code, an alliance of trust that bound them together. By taking money that was suspected as being unlawfully obtained, and by withholding information from the authorities, she had practically guaranteed Jamie her silence.

As a sense of security and finality, he had waited with her until her hire car was delivered, and then wishing her well for the future, had hugged her goodbye, suspecting he would never see her again.
Part 2

# Chapter 14

It was late in the afternoon by the time Jamie arrived home after seeing Mandy off at the airport. He was in a sombre mood, sitting at the kitchen table with the empty calico bag and his sister's bank book spread out on the table in front of him. He had no intention of being melancholic, yet it was an odd sensation that he was feeling, as he reached out to connect with an historic piece of physical evidence from the unsolved cold case. He flipped the pages of the bank book open, to witness the hand written and dated entries of deposits and withdrawals. Alongside these entries were the signatures of bank tellers involved in the transactions, and smudged over the top of their signatures in red ink from a rubber stamp, was the logo of their own bank. It brought memories flooding back of more innocent times, but right now this is not what he wanted. Right now he needed to stay focused.

It was important for the time being to keep everything pertaining to Bill Hunter in the one place, and the simple way of doing that was to put everything into a shoe box. He questioned himself as to why he felt the need to hang onto personal items belonging to the deceased that would, if discovered, surely prove his guilt in the murder. _"If in doubt, toss it out."_ This had been one of the great proverbs which he had adhered to all his life. So why was he playing with fire? Was he keeping souvenirs for much the same reasons as his sister's killers had? Had he become just like them? Jamie shut his brain down, putting an end to chatter in his head.

Against his better judgement he replaced the bank book back into the calico bag, and along with Hunter's mobile phone, flick knife and keys, placed them all into a shoe box, slipped on the lid and hid it on the top shelf of his bedroom wardrobe. It was certainly not a good hiding place, and certainly nowhere near as deceptive or as secure as Bill Hunter's had been. Jamie knew that he would have to find a better location in the future, but for now while he wasn't a suspect, it would have to do. That situation might very well change though once Harry Wilton had been taken care of.

In the hope of finding out something extra about Wilton that may prove useful, he'd vaguely questioned Mandy about the guy whilst waiting with her at the airport. In reality though, she knew nothing at all of his current existence. The guy had been out of her life for thirty odd years, but his presence today had resurfaced all sorts of nasty emotions surrounding drugs and the gang. One little snippet of information that she did innocently let slip however, was the fact that he had always been the grower of marijuana for the gang. He was supposedly very good at it and always supplying good quality stuff. It was one of the main reason why they kept him around.

It was said that he always had five or six small crops, of twenty or thirty plants in each crop, growing at any one time. These crops were located in various idealistic forested sites on the eastern seaboard, and around the state where temperature, rainfall and isolation were the governing factors for a good harvest. He would initially plant the seeds amongst the undergrowth, spreading them out so it wasn't obvious or looked like they had been cultivated and cared for. Then he would let nature look after them until it was time to harvest, and if there was no demand at the time, or if he didn't get back to see the crop for whatever reason, it really didn't matter. The plants would mature on their own, run to head and drop their seeds to perpetuate the cycle and germinate the next year. To limit his exposure to any potential risk, he would only check on the crops a couple of times in their growth phase, just to make sure that the location hadn't been discovered and that all was well.

Since it was obvious that Wilton had had an association with Bill Hunter right up until his death, and by virtue of the fact he was interested in Hunter's drug dealing territory, it was logical to assume that he was still dealing in drugs. He had probably not only been supplying cannabis to Hunter, but was more than likely still growing cannabis all around the state, as he had thirty years ago when Mandy first knew him. This was exciting news. It presented an opportunity of where to strike. And if there was a crop ready to harvest right now somewhere in the state, then it also presented the opportunity of when to strike.

The challenge was to bait the trap with the right lure. It had to be a lure enticing enough to capture the guy, but not to kill him immediately. Not like a mouse or rat lured by cheese in a trap. That was instant and fatal. Nor like a fox which was lured to a lamb that had recently died and been laced with poison. That was a slow painful death without the capture. But more like a yabby, lured to the smell of meat tied on a string and being drawn slowly and cunningly to the surface through the murky waters. As soon as the feelers are seen breaking the surface, the trap is sprung. The yabby is scooped from the water and flung up onto the embankment, out of its environment to become the vulnerable prey. The possible scenarios for capture made Jamie wondered about the trap which his sister had fallen prey to. In hindsight it was easy to see.

It had been the cavalier attitude to hitchhiking which had first lured her into trouble. His sister Laura had just completed her first year exams in a veterinary medicine degree at university, and was on a short holiday break. She was heading to Sydney to catch up with a few friends, prior to commencing her required compulsory work experience with a local veterinary surgery. Even with a part time job, Laura was always broke, as all students were, and hitchhiking was a quick and cheap transport alternative to get where you were going, without the huge cost of flying, or relying on the slow and unreliable public transport system. She had hitched on a number of occasions in the past, always with friends, to get to the beach and other venues and saw nothing wrong with it. It seemed as if everyone had hitchhiked at some point of time or other in the seventies. It had been part of the youth culture, practically a rite of passage, and statistically the majority of rides were trouble free.

But as it turned out, this interstate journey, by herself, was to be quite different and have tragic consequences. She had been lulled into a false sense of security by her previous successes. The unwritten rules for females hitchhiking were based on common sense, the main one being, not to accept a ride in a vehicle with a male driver unless there was another female present, and never ever get into a vehicle with only men as that was inviting trouble. The only explanation which made any sense to Jamie as to why Laura would have accepted that particular ride, which would see her abducted against her will, was his belief that she was deceived by the presence of another female in the vehicle, and ultimately it would be this female Judas who would betray her.

It had been the airing of a documentary on prime time television about his sister's unsolved cold case murder, which had been the catalyst to initiate the last investigation, and the subsequent Coronial Inquest which was to follow years later. On the back of that documentary, the Homicide squad received an incredible amount of new information. Witnesses came forward in their droves, giving statements about the gang's activities in the local area and naming the nominated persons of interest. Speculation was rife, rumours abounded and the public called for blood. But disappointingly at the Inquest, it was apparent that too much time had gone by. Memories were short, witnesses had died, too many golden opportunities had been missed by the authorities, and no concrete physical or DNA evidence was available to charge anyone with anything.

In a timeline of speculated events, from where she'd been first dropped off on the highway near the army camp at Puckapunyal, it was conceivable that Laura willingly accepted a ride with her abductors, on the belief that she'd be dropped off at Albury-Wodonga on the NSW/Victorian border a couple of hours away. That only left a journey of around six hours to get to Sydney, and with plenty of daylight left and making good time, Laura would have been appreciative of the ride. As it turned out however, it was from around this area where all the gang members lived, and as the Inquest would reveal years later, this was also the area where the gang had a dark history in the abduction and rape of local young women. Obviously Laura never reached her destination, and it would always remain a mystery as to what transpired during those missing daylight hours, right up until she ended up at the isolated bush locating later that night.

It was suggested at the Inquest that Laura had been taken against her will, to be the objects of sexual and sadistic amusement for John Skobles, the leader of the dysfunctional gang who was celebrating his twenty first birthday that very day. Rumours also had it that there was a female present when his sister was killed, but that allegation had never been confirmed. Jamie wondered if that could really be true. How could a female stand by and watch another female be defiled, tortured, gang raped and murdered, and not say or do anything about it. As an accessory to murder, she was also guilty of murder, and would therefore attracted the same penalty. What if it was true? What if she was still alive and he found out who she was? Would he feel compelled to do something about it? Would he also put her on his victims list?

It was the phone ringing that broke his trance like state. It was Lisa, his lady friend, reminding him to stop by the bottle shop and pick up a bottle of red. He had forgotten all about their dinner date tonight. He looked at the wall clock. There was plenty of time to shower and freshen up. A little romantic company would serve as a good distraction from what was currently swirling around in his head.

# Chapter 15

"Hello stranger," she said opening the front door.

Lisa's smile lit up the foyer and her hug felt comforting and secure. He relished the closeness for a short moment, being swept away by the fragrance of her freshly shampooed hair, before she disengaged from the embrace to lead him by the arm through the bi-fold doors and into the lounge room. A natural gas fireplace provided a manifold of naked dancing flames, heating up coal-shaped ceramic tiles, to provide a warm and ambient atmosphere in the room with a hypnotic lure to draw any visitor into its heart. The aroma of a vegetarian pasta sauce wafted in the air, to dance and linger on the olfactory sensors. Dinner was already on, and it smelt fantastic.

"You warm yourself by the fire," she said, taking the bottle from his hand. "I'll check on dinner and pour us both a wine."

Lisa flittered off to bang and clatter in the kitchen, as Jamie made himself at home on the couch closest to the fire.

Taking off his boots he reclined backwards, nestling into the array of soft pillows adorning the couch. Gazing into the flames he consciously relax his body, letting his guard down and not resisting the feeling of being swept away. It triggered pleasant childhood memories of happier days on the farm, with the building of bonfires for cracker night and the clearing of virgin land. But the flames also triggered dark thoughts surrounding the campfire in the bush where his sister had been murdered.

It seemed as if there was no way of escaping anything from the past. The past had the power to hold onto the present with a vice like grip and not let go. Every thought, emotion or action was recorded. Every sensory organ had a memory of its own. Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste, it was all hard wired into the brain, and all experiences, whether good or bad, real or perceived, were mangled together and spat out as sensory recall. Jamie let the brain process whatever it was processing, allowing himself to view the splattered images as if they were a video recording.

He saw his parents, himself and his siblings sacrificing years of their lives to clear their property of trees, scrubs and noxious burrs. Land which was once only suitable for grazing sheep and noxious rabbits, were converted into productive paddocks suitable for cultivation and broad acre wheat farming. It was a labour of love. Trees and stumps were pushed over. Every square inch of land was scoured over by foot. Every branch and root was picked up by hand, to be put into heaps all over the paddock before being set alight. Day in, day out, this procedure repeated itself, and always began by walking around with a long handled shovel to stoke the smouldering fires from the previous day, before then building and lighting new bonfires.

Warmed by the lounge room fire, Jamie smiled. He could clearly see his family, black and filthy from smoke and charcoal, all sitting around one of those fires at lunch time, to eat their meal and bond together as a family unit. They were very pleasant memories. Hot water for a cuppa tea was boiled in a billy suspended over the flames, sausages were barbequed on the face of a shovel over hot coals, and the dropped tail gate of the family station wagon served as a table for all the goodies his mother had previously prepared. The big emotional reward, the feeling of overwhelming pride and satisfaction, came at the end of the day and all through the night when thousands of tee-pee fires could be seen flickering across the paddocks. It signified change and hope. For his family it was a new beginning.

In the flicker of flames, he could also see himself and his brother and sisters building the traditional bonfire for cracker night. Every year as they got older, the bonfire got bigger and bigger. In the dead of winter, on a crystal clear night with a frosty chill in the air and a billion stars in the night's sky, family and cousins would gather around the crackling warmth of the bonfire. With drinks, food, laughter and a backdrop of exploding fire crackers and soaring sky rockets, a festive environment was created and enjoyed. It was all good, clean, harmless fun, and so unlike the scenario of what had happened on that fateful night forty years ago, around another deliberately planned bonfire.

The fire would have been alive and vibrant that night. In the closed-in darkness of the surrounding bush, the flickering fire was the beating heart for the gang's satanic ritual of depravity and lust. Eight so called men, maybe even more including a female, were in attendance. According to witness statements, they were in a drug and alcohol induced stupor, pumped up by a cocktail of dope, LSD, beer and spirits. With a pack mentality they were gawking and taunting, spitting out their tirade on a defenceless broken girl lying hog tied and naked on the ground. They were hyped and primed on their victim's fear, the primal scent of blood and the prospect of a kill.

His sister was expendable, she held no value. She was from out of the area, out of the state, nobody would miss her. She had already been defiled and broken, she'd served their purpose. And as the night wore on and the fire lost its vigour and began to die, so too did his sister's chance of survival. She was no doubt beyond the point of sobbing and pleading for her life. She'd probably retreated within herself, to take the pain and misery away. Jamie wondered if his sister also gazed into the fire as he did now, to recall more innocent childhood memories, or was her soul tortured by the thoughts of what she knew her family would be visualising and going through, once they found out what had happened to her?

"Well, you look relaxed," she remarked, appearing from nowhere to pass him a glass of red wine and plonk down on the lounge beside him. "Dinner won't be long, just waiting for the pasta."

He looked up at her and smiled. The truth was, he did feel relaxed, but he was having considerable trouble shutting off his mind. And that was understandable. Although he had taken someone's life, and intended to take two others as well, he still had a conscious, and along with empathy, they were the two very important human traits which set him apart from the killers he was hunting. He was under no illusions that it was going to be easy to continually justify his actions, and he knew he wouldn't be able to switch his mind off until he had finished what he had started.

"What was the workshop like?" she asked.

To avoid any questioning and conflict over where he'd been for the day, Jamie had earlier lied to Lisa. He had told her that he would be spending his rostered day off from work, by attending a workshop with one of the company's suppliers. These workshops were conducted regularly and were a hands-on event. They were primarily held and catered for at the supplier's warehouse, where they demonstrated the features of their products. To Lisa this was a believable lie. In the world of selling, product knowledge was everything, and she knew how he loved attending these workshops, even on his days off. Today was one of those days, and as a paper trail, his name was on a list somewhere as a team member who would be attending.

"Yer, it was a good day."

"What was the workshop about?"

"Garden power tools. You know, whipper snippers, chain saws, lawn mowers, that sort of thing."

"You mean all those petrol driven mechanical gadgets that we females love to hate."

"Yer," chuckled Jamie, "but technology has improved, everything is being converted to battery power. Those two stroke petrol engines that were so frustrating and troublesome to start, are all but dead and buried."

"Oh! Talking about dead and buried. That guy who was tortured and killed up the mountain beyond where you live, the one who was a suspect in the murder of your sister, he was buried today."

"May he burn in the fires of hell," stated Jamie.

"Big hot nasty place down there, got to be filling up."

"Nar, plenty room for a couple more."

"Nothing ever changes with you Jamie. It's over, it's been over for such a long time. You have to let this go."

"It's not over."

"And for you it never will be, will it? It's eaten up your entire life. You'll have no life left if you don't let it go."

"Yes, I know that!"

Jamie could feel his blood pressure rising and he was beginning to become agitated. This was an all too familiar philosophical argument which they engaged in, that just went around and around without any end result.

"You've been seeing a counsellor for ten years on an off. I don't understand how you're not getting on top of this."

"And you never will. You've never had a member of your family murdered. You've never had to live with your parent's torment, or to watch them wither away feeling they were somehow responsible for their daughter's death."

"I can't walk a mile in your shoes. I acknowledge that, and I know if the same thing happened to a member of my family, that I'd also be heart broken and angry. I'd want revenge too, but at what expense?"

"There is always a cost. Every decision, every action, has consequences. That's the way life is. This now goes way beyond the emotions of grief, or anger, or revenge. Those emotions are all burnt out, they're buried in the past. This is about accountability and justice for my sister Laura who hasn't got a voice."

"I understand that, but this has consumed your life for forty years. I've known you for fifteen of those years and I've seen how it's affected you."

"I know and I'm sorry, but it's coming to an end."

"I've heard that before, lots of times."

"Yes I know."

"What makes it different this time?"

"I want it to end!" he snapped.

"And how would that happen?"

"Maybe they'll all die. Maybe they'll all be murdered and that will be the end of it. I don't know."

"I don't know either," she responded softly.

Lisa opened her mouth to speak again, but in that instant heard the pasta boiling over on the stove and jumped off the couch to dash to its rescue. Jamie breathed a sigh of relief. She was right of course with everything she said. She had been hammering away at him for years to somehow let it all go, to somehow find peace with himself and move on so they could have a normal relationship, but up until a couple of weeks ago, there hadn't been a way to do that. And she knew how to push his buttons to get a reaction, which over the years of the same baggage going around and around like a merry-go-round, had caused a considerable amount of friction and anguish between them both. He just had to be so careful of what he said in the heat of the moment when she wound him up. If she knew, or got wind of what he was doing to bring this all to an end, she would be devastated. The damage would be irreversible and unforgivable. She would hand him over to the homicide Inspector herself. Of that he had no doubt.

Jamie could hear her moving about in the kitchen. Cooking was an activity she really enjoyed, and he could tell by the sounds of what crockery and cutlery was being used, that dinner wasn't too far off being served. He settled back into the couch, sipping his cabernet sauvignon with its rich claret colour and gazed at the flames of the natural gas fire once again. Virtually straight away the torment began, and in that instance he formulated the structure of his rendezvous with victim number two. He would track Harry Wilton to one of his sacred cannabis sites in the bush, capture him, and then recreate an environment reminiscent of the murder site with a campfire and all. In that isolated location, and with all night in front of him, he would not only extract a confession out of Wilton and facilitate his execution, but he would also take great delight in destroying Wilton's crop by ripping it out of the ground and throwing it onto the fire. If nothing else, just like it had been on the farm, when as a family, they had cleared the land with a virtual scorched earth policy, burning the crop would be a symbolic gesture of purification, and represent a new beginning.

Jamie raised the wineglass, toasted himself and locked the decision firmly in his brain. Maybe his plans wouldn't work out exactly as he just visualised, but for the time being it didn't matter, and if the circumstances changed, there was always a plan B. The important thing was, he had a plan, and with that decision made, perhaps he could eat and try to enjoy Lisa's company without inflicting any more torment upon himself. Tomorrow after work, he would initiate stage two of his operation. He would activate Bill Hunter's mobile phone and retrieve Harry Wilton's number.

Much later that night after making love, he lay awake in bed, curled up and cuddling Lisa with his arm draped around her. He could tell she was fast asleep by the sound of her deep rhythmic breathing, and her lack of response to physical movement as he jiggled to get comfortable. Holding her hand he placed it between her breasts, feeling the rise and fall of her chest and the distant thump of her heart. For tonight at least, he needed to feel close and connected to another human being. Lisa was a fine woman, but like every other person on the planet she had short comings, the most obvious of all being her inability to display true emotional affection.

That human trait had been squashed out of her, by marrying a pig of a man who had dominated her life for twenty five odd years. It had shattered her self-esteem. But as hard as it must have been for her to break free from that dysfunctional relationship, she never psychological ever reached a point where she wanted to see the guy physically harmed. In her life, past or present, there had been no incident tragic enough, to torment her so deeply, to such a point where she would want to take revenge upon someone, or even contemplate killing them. It bothered Jamie, that if she couldn't perceive or contemplate anyone reaching that point of no-return, then how could she possibly show compassion or empathy towards him, let alone stand by him if she ever found out what he had done? It was not only an academic question, but also a moral dilemma which had him wondering if he could truly live without her.

How horrible would it be to go to prison with a hefty sentence, and have no one on the outside to care enough about you, to champion your cause, or to visit, or write, or to give you hope and wait for you to come home? Yes, he had kids of his own and they would be concerned, but they had young families of their own to look after and worry about. Besides, parents are supposed to be role models to their children, not an embarrassment or a blight upon their name. And as pillars of society, parents are supposed to uphold societies' laws and values, not arrogantly break the law to become judge, jury and executioner to justify their means of taking someone's life. He was the one who had broken society's rules. In reality, if caught, there would be no leniency shown by the courts. He would be viewed as a vigilante and charged with murder, or insanity, or both. Quite simply he had no choice. He had to endure, for there was now no going back.

Jamie held Lisa's forearms, wrapping his thumb and forefinger around her tiny wrist to squeeze tightly. It was a physical reference to prompt a memory recall of his sister's crime scene, to boost his justification as to why he'd been forced to take the law into his own hands. Even three years after her body had been found, the thin cord which had bound her hands behind her back, was still present around the skeletal remains. It was a bizarre sight, two forearm bones still physically linked together by a rope, even though the rest of the skeleton had been dismembered and spread around by feral animals, predatory birds and the ravages of time. How tight must that cord have been tied, to be still there three years later after the flesh had rotted away? With all the panic, resistance and fighting that must have existed, how deep did that cord cut into her wrists, and how much pain did it cause?

This picture of cruelty which had been inflicted his sister, was the reason why he couldn't bring himself to do the same to Bill Hunter. He had used three cable ties rather than one tight one. It restrained, but also allowed for a little movement without twisting or sawing into the flesh. The reason for leaving the cable ties attached to Bill Hunter, with his arms behind his back and his legs hobbled as he went over the cliff, was symbolic. Other than showing capture, torture and control, it showed the pay-back principle of an eye for an eye. To the discerning detective or crime reporter, it gave a hypothetical clue as to the possible personal motive behind the killing.

Jamie would be lying if he said he didn't want publicity and speculation over this case, just so long as he could remain anonymous. He wanted the media to draw attention to the ramifications of murder, and to the life sentences imposed upon the homicide victim's families when those murders took place. He also knew there would be little media interest to exploit those views until he had slain his next victim. Once a previous connection was established between victim number one and victim number two, there would be a lot of media speculation around the issues of drugs and gangs, and their damaging effects on society.

As a crusader for justice for so long, and with a Coronial Inquest publically naming these individual gang members as prime suspects, it wouldn't take very long for researchers to dig up his name, and as simple as that, he could be a person of interest. He had already made a few calculated slip ups. Now he would have to be especially careful to make sure that if any evidence emerged, pointing to his possible involvement in any of the murders, then that evidence would be purely coincidental or circumstantial, and would therefore not be admissible in a court of law.

# Chapter 16

He was having a great day at work. The theme for the week, which seemed to be capturing home owners' attention, was the control and extermination of mice. The weather had turned damp and cold in the last few days, and the disease carrying critters were finding their way into homes looking for food and warmth, and customers just wanted them gone.

"This is a catch and release device," explained Jamie with the trap in his hand and presenting the soft option first. "You don't use a poison bait as a lure. You just use food that mice like to eat, like cheese or peanut butter. The mouse enters in here, it triggers this device, the door closes and you've just trapped yourself a live mouse."

"What do you do with it then?" asked the confused customer.

"It's called catch and release. It's the environmentally friendly option. You take it next door and release it."

"Hell no! You can forget that idea, buggered if I want them coming back. There's already enough mouse shit on the benches and throughout the cupboards. What else have you got?"

"What's wrong with a traditional spring traps, we've got plenty of those?"

"Can't seem to catch them. Cunning little buggers, the food disappears but the damn traps don't go off."

"Yep, understand. When it comes to setting a trap, there's a fine line between catching your fingers and catching a mouse. Ok, not to worry, we've got this new trap, guaranteed to catch em every time."

Jamie chuckled out loud. He knew by previous reactions from the public, that the customer would be mortified by what Jamie was about to show him.

"People say it's barbaric, but it's just a different method of extermination," he said. "This one also uses a bait as the lure, but instead of a spring wire slamming down on the animal to kill it, this one has a stretched elastic lamb marking ring as its instrument of death. When the mouse enters this tunnel, it activates this pressure sensitive plate, which in turn releases the stretched rubber ring. The ring snares the mouse around the neck and upper body, to squash out its innards and choke it to death at the same time."

"Ohh... doesn't paint a pretty picture does it," grimaced the customer attempting to stretch the elastic ring, "You say these are used for lamb marking?"

"Yep, form of castration. Graziers use a pair of specially designed marking plies to stretch the ring open. You can see how incredibly difficult they are to expand. Then they place the ring over the scrotum, making sure the testicles are in the scrotum of course, before then releasing the ring. It physically chokes off the blood supply and isolates the testes and scrotum from the rest of the body. It causes an open wound as it bites into the flesh, which I might add can become infected and fly blown with maggots, but the ball bag eventually dries out and falls off."

"Mate," he said horrified, "I can almost feel the pain. This one is definitely out. What else have yar got?"

"You reckon that sounds nasty, how about this one," said Jamie handing over a plastic wrapped piece of thin cardboard. "Looks harmless doesn't it?"

The customer took the simple structure off him, waved it around, looking at it from all angles before reading the advertised claims on the packet.

"It says on the packet that this is a glue board designed to catch cockroaches, scorpions and any other large travelling insect."

"So true, but this surface will stop a mouse at full flight, literally stop it dead in its tracks. Try to imagine a mouse with its four feet and its entire undercarriage including the tail, belly and chin glued flat to the surface. Once it hits this, it's literally stuck and there's no escape. It dies a very slow death, so it's important to put the creature out of its misery."

"Yer as if my wife and kids would want to see that. Look, I just want them gone without family nightmares, are there any other options that aren't so gross?"

"Your final option is baiting with a poisoned wax block. The results are not immediate. It may take a week or so after you first introduce the bait, before you realise they've stopped coming around. However, you'll know if they've taken the bait. You'll see the block is chewed and the colour of their dropping will change to green. It's not a pleasant way to die either. The poison is an anti-clotting agent. It thins the blood to such an extent that it leaks out of the veins and arteries, and the creature dies a painful death as it haemorrhages internally."

"Good lord! Is that it?"

"That's it, no more options."

"I had no idea of the cruelty. I reckon I'd better just stick to the old wooden spring trap method. Thanks for the nightmares."

Then he was gone. The customer had obviously never thought about the process or pathways involved in the killing of an animal, be it the extermination of a rodent in plague proportions, or a fat lamb to eat for diner. It gave Jamie a twisted pleasure, seeing his customer's reactions as he enlighten them about the consequences and accountability of their choices.

He often wondered how many meat eaters would drastically change their eating habits, to become a vegetarian, if they were forced to take a guided tour through a working abattoir. How would they process and react to the disturbing imagery which would affront their senses. The turmoil of animal panic, wide eyed with fear, being physically forced to the front of the queue. The splattering and gushing arterial blood coagulating in gutters and blocking the drains. The cavalier attitude of workers, strolling around in their sullied white aprons and gumboots, desensitised to their everyday environment and armed with stun guns, knives and hooks. The moving carcasses and the rattle of overhead chains. The bellows of cattle, bleats of sheep and the squeals of pigs. The gurgles of last breath, death throws and the laughter of workers. The smell of blood, urine, faeces and fear. For the average individual in the street, it would be sensory overload. Those sights, sounds and smells would be enough to play havoc on the imagination, haunt the most pleasant of dreams and disturb the soundest of sleeps.

Jamie had always been of the opinion that no one should be privileged to dine on an animals flesh, unless they were prepared to hunt, kill and gut the animal. That is how he had grown up on the land, trapping rabbits, catching yabbies and grazing fat lambs for the dinner table. But the general public needed to remain distant, ignorant and sanitized from the whole practice. They didn't want to think about the processes of butchering, as that was too disturbing. Acknowledging the reality was condoning the practice, and that would make them an accessory to the killing, and just as guilty as the slaughterman with blood on their hands. They simply wanted the meat to come packaged out of the freezer, without any conditions and guilt free on their part.

In the bigger scheme of things, he wondered how the general public would react to the vigilante deaths of gang members Bill Hunter, Harry Wilton and John Skobles. They were vermin, just like rats and mice. They also scavenged and fed off society, to leave a trail of destruction in their wake. But would knowing the details, of what they went through before meeting their death, be too horrible and turn the tide of public opinion against him? Would an execution style bullet to the head, causing instant death, be more clinical and accepting? It probably would. However, death was a process leading to an end result, and that end result was justice, and come hell or high water he would have justice for the family, regardless of what the general public thought.

"You know what a woman just asked me?" said Michael stopping for a chat. "I was in the irrigation aisle and she wanted to know if the thirty metre hose she had in her hand, would reach the back of her property."

"Fair dinkum! What'd yar tell her?"

"I asked her if she had a tap at the back of her house. She said yes. Then I asked her how far it was from the back of her house to the back of the property. You know what she said?"

It was a rhetorical question. Jamie just smiled, customers never failed to amaze him.

"She said, I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

"Did she take the hose?"

"No! Somehow it was my fault. What do these people expect?"

"Yer, know what you mean. I just did myself out of a sale, spent fifteen minutes explaining to a customer the various methods of exterminating mice. Apparently I was too graphic and gave the guy too much information. He went home to use his old traps."

"You know what shits me," said Michael getting wound up. "It's not good enough to have an item on display as a demonstration, the bloody customer has to open another sealed box and pull everything out to check the contents. Then, surprise, surprise, they won't take the box they've just opened, they'll leave it there on the floor and take another unopened box off the shelf."

"Yer mate, pisses me off to. It happens all the time in the tarp aisle. The tarp size is clearly marked on the packaging. It's the criteria by which all tarps are sold, but still the morons have to rip the packaging open and throw it out to have a look."

"And they just leave it there," nodded Michael in agreement. "Never mind how you are supposed to sell it after that. Some customers simply don't give a rat's arse about anyone or anything."

"Here's another one for yar, Pete had a customer in this morning returning a two stroke whipper snipper. He only bought it yesterday. Said it worked for five minutes then died. Now it wouldn't start at all, and he wanted it exchanged or his money back. Problem was, he'd seized the motor and it wouldn't even turn over. Only one way you can seize a two stroke motor and that's by not putting any oil in with the petrol. Customer wouldn't accept that fact and he got real agitated and abusive."

"Yer, bet I can tell you the ending. The manager was called and to keep the peace he exchanged it for a new one. Am I right?"

"Yep!"

"Unbelievable. We let them get away with their bad behaviour. What sort of a message does that send to society?"

"Hello," came a voice from behind them, "caught you both together have we? Beth and I've been picking out a couple of plants for the front yard."

It was a regular customer, one of the nicer ones with a good sense of humour. He was in his eighties and he and his wife had been married for sixty odd years. He always had a story or joke to tell and he wasted no time.

"I said to my wife the other day," he said looking at her tenderly with a wink in Jamie's direction, "Beth, what would you do if I won lotto? She said, 'I'd take half your winnings and leave you.' Good I said, here's ten dollars, see you later."

He chuckled away, as she mumbled something about him not being able to fend for himself, then with a comment about the weather and having a nice day, they moved on.

"Now if all our customers were like that," commented Michael after they were out of ear shot, "this could be a rewarding place to work in."

"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt," interjected a polite female customer, "could one of you help me with the choice of a weed killer?"

"Yer sure, I'll give you a hand," said Jamie leading the way. "Most of our poisons are in the next aisle. Do you know what it is that you're looking for?"

She responded to his question, but Jamie's mind was elsewhere. There was a lot to do before he knocked off for the day. Shelves had to be stocked, labels needed to be printed and stock had to be ordered. Plus, there were the customers to serve and they always took priority, and right now, due to budgetary constraints and winter staff hours being reduced, he was in demand. Being busy though meant the time would go quickly, and before he knew it, it would be knock off time. Then he had two important things to do before he went home, retrieve a phone number and make a phone call to victim number two. Right now though, he had a customer to contend with and she had a different kind of killing on her mind.

"What was it you wanted to kill," asked Jamie still a little distracted by his own thoughts.

"I have a problem with my lawn."

"What sort of lawn do you have?"

"I don't know, it's my husband's baby. It's manicured and green," she said being somewhat vague and evasive whilst waving her hands in the air.

"Did you want to spray the whole lawn for weeds, or did you want to use a spot spray to target the weeds?"

"Let's just say I'd like to kill every weed in the lawn, and the god damn lawn itself."

"Like a border edge around trees and the perimeter to stop grass runners spreading?"

"Yer. Something like that."

Jamie took a deep breath. This questioning was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Whether she liked it or not, he had to extract certain information from her to be able to advise the most appropriate treatment, because if things went horribly wrong, which they sometimes did, there could be consequences to the company and himself. To emphasise that point he picked up the most lethal herbicide he had on the shelf.

"This product here is what is referred to as the chemotherapy of the plant world. If it's green, this will kill it," emphasised Jamie handing her the bottle. "So be careful not to spray it too close to your prize roses if there's a breeze blowing."

"I'm not worried about the damn roses. It'll kill lawn... right?"

"Yes and all the weeds in your lawn."

"How long will it take to die?"

"The leaves will absorb the poison and take it down to the roots. Subject to weather conditions you should see a result in a couple of days, but this time of year it will probably take up to two weeks to die off completely."

"Beautiful, a delayed reaction. Thanks so much, that's exactly what I wanted to hear," she said with genuine gratitude. "Bye the time he realises what is happening to his precious lawn, I'll be well and truly gone."

"Ohhh, that sounds kinda mischievous and malicious."

"He'll be livid when he sees his masterpiece turning brown. It's a little payback for cheating on me, and a symbolic gesture that the grass isn't always greener on the other side of the fence."

Jamie smirked at her analogy.

"A bit of revenge, a slice of justice and a moral to the story. I like it," he said. "We'd better make sure you have the right equipment to perform the task. Let me show you a good high flow sprayer that's also reasonably priced."

There was an old saying, _"hell has no fury like a woman scorned"_ , and her mind was made up. She would get the poison regardless of him helping or not, but in light of the fact that he was now an accessory to a crime that was about to be committed, he genuinely wanted to help her. She was simply mirroring his belief that every action or choice had consequences.

After she'd left, he quickly made his way to the lunch room to take a break and have a cuppa. It had been a hectic morning, but from that point on, the work day had gone very quickly. He had sailed along on auto pilot for the rest of the afternoon, and the next time he'd stopped for a reality check, of where he was and what he was doing, he found himself in the pub car park where he had previously abducted Bill Hunter. He had Bill Hunter's mobile phone in his hand, and was searching for Harry Wilton's number.

# Chapter 17

Jamie was somewhat surprised. There were only a few contact names in Hunter's mobile phone. He obviously kept a low profile as far as dealing in drugs was concerned, limiting his sales to whoever walked into the pub from off the street, with word of mouth as his only advertising. There was no list to speak of, but that didn't matter, Harry Wilton believed there was, and that was Jamie's bargaining chip to lure him into a trap. Wilton's number had been easy to find, and after writing it down, he turned off the power to the mobile.

The whole exercise to find the contact number had only taken about two minutes. That also meant that a signal had been transmitting from the mobile phone, from the location where he was, for that same length of time. If the signal was being automatically scanned, which he seriously doubted as this wasn't a high profile case, and if it was logical to assume that only the killer could have the phone, then it would lead investigators to the car park, to throw suspicion back onto Hunter's drug connections at the pub.

It was also his plan this afternoon to buy a new smart phone, with all the latest technology and applications already installed, including the feature he needed the most, a satellite navigation tracker app. He suspected it would be similar to, but obviously not as sophisticated as the GPS technology which could have just been used by the law enforcement authorities to track Hunter's phone back to the carpark. This was exactly the stealth technology he needed. If Harry Wilton moved out of the city, there was a good chance he would be heading towards one of his crop, and as long as he had his mobile phone turned on, Jamie would be able to track and follow him, simply by putting Wilton's mobile number into the app.

The concept of that thought was scary. It meant that as long as you had access to someone's mobile number, then you could stalk that someone to an address where they lived, without having to actually follow that person home. Wives could track cheating husbands to an address, jilted lovers could take revenge on one another and paedophiles could track children anywhere. But the ethics and moral dilemmas of that technology were not going to be an academic consideration, or a concern for Jamie. He intended to embrace and utilise it wholeheartedly to his own advantage.

Right now though, it was time to ring Harry Wilton, but to do that, he was going to drive back into Penrith to the post office, to use a public phone. He had seriously considered using his own mobile, but had dismissed the idea as being potentially risky. It was important to remain anonymous and untraceable, not only to Wilton but also to the authorities. To that end, Wilton wasn't the problem. Jamie's mobile had the caller identification blocking feature activated, which would show that he was calling from a private number, so when he called, Wilton wouldn't know his number and wouldn't be able to contact him back.

However, the authorities were a different matter. With their special powers and the help from Wilton's telecommunications company, the investigators might be able to trace the blocked call back to Jamie's number. Maybe that wasn't possible, but if they suspected him of Wilton's murder, then they'd also access his teleco records to see if he'd made any prior contact with Wilton. Then it was a simple matter of cross referencing Wilton's incoming calls, and his own outgoing calls, to marry up the times. Coincidental, maybe, but that was a risk he wasn't prepared to take. It was far simpler to make the call from a landline phone, which could only be traced back to a public phone box used by hundreds of callers, and that would be the end of it.

The whole thought process of technology was doing his head in. There was also the concern that once Wilton was deceased, his mobile could be forensically analysed, looking for incriminating data stored somewhere within its internal matrix. Who'd know what they'd find. The guy was cunning and unpredictable. What if he'd snapped a few pictures of Mandy, or himself, or of them both together at the funeral before he'd driven off. What if he'd sent those pictures on to Skobles for a laugh? Where would it end? There was only one way to nip this in the bud to prevent the authorities from getting their hands on Wilton's phone. When Harry Wilton was executed, he intended to take Wilton's mobile and hang on to it for safe keeping until he was ready to dispose of it, just like he was doing with Bill Hunter's mobile.

"Harry Wilton?" asked Jamie as the phone was answered.

"Who is it?"

"Harry. Hi, it's Eddy. I met you at Bill's funeral yesterday."

"Oh yer, when I left, you were talkin' to dat tramp. Did she give yar a blow job?"

Jamie laughed, building up a little rapport.

"C'mon man, I've got me own squeeze. I don't care to know what went on between you two, I'm not interested."

"Bitch as good as broke up our gang."

"Like I said, I'm not interested in her conflict with you, or your old gang. All I need to know is whether or not you want this list of Bill's contacts?"

"Who else are yar offerin' it to?"

"Two others, but Bill said to ring you first."

"Why?"

"He said you could always put your hand on a supply of mature plants at short notice."

Harry suddenly became suspicious, taking the defensive.

"What are yar talkin' about?"

"You don't know, do you? Bill's never told you, did he?"

"Told me what?"

Jamie had him hooked, now he just had to reel him in.

"He never told you he had terminal liver cancer. The guy only had a couple of months to live. That's where I met him, at a cancer clinic. The last time we were getting treatment, I gave him my word that I'd do this one last thing for him and the cancer group," lied Jamie.

"Well bugger me!" exclaimed Wilton. "He was a dead man walkin'. The bastard could 'ave offered me his territory before he got killed."

"I don't think getting killed was part of his plan."

"What's dis promise yar made with him, gotta do with me?" asked Wilton now taking an interest.

"Cannabis is often used by terminally ill cancer patients in a variety of forms for its pain and sedative relieving qualities."

"Yer man, I know, its bin dullin' me senses for yonks."

"There are thousands of patients in palliative care centres, and at home with carers that cope each day thanks to illegal drugs such as cannabis," emphasised Jamie, not knowing if it was strictly true, but laying it on thick anyhow. "Bill was with a cancer support group who offered cannabis to terminally ill patients for pain management. It's on the cusp of becoming legal, so authorities turn a blind eye to its use. The problem is getting a supply of good stuff. And that's where you come in."

"Yer, how so?"

"Bill told me you grow crops all around the state, and that you always have first class dope available all year round. It's the fresh green full head of the plant that is needed for its maximum potency, and they need a constant supply. You interested?"

The phone was quiet on Wilton's end. His secret life had been unmasked by his old mate, and he was obviously contemplating the pros and cons of what he may be getting himself into, and whether or not he could trust the guy who his mate had divulged the information to.

"Depends, who'd I be dealin' with?"

"Me initially to authenticate the stuff, then I'll introduce you to the guy at the cancer support group who organises the deals behind the scenes. He'll pay you, and then you'll deal with him from then on. In return for you doing the right thing by the group, Bill said to give you his client contacts, and then it's up to you to do what you want with his territory."

"Well, bugger me, who'd 'ave ever thought der big fella go soft."

"Yer well, he said you only knew half of what was going on."

"Who's payin' for all dis?"

"Well Harry, let's just say that a lot of money is raised and allocated for cancer sufferers, but not all of it goes towards legal medicinal drug, and as far as you're concerned, just so long as you stick to your agreement and don't rock the boat, you will be paid and no questions will be asked."

"How much they payin'?"

"I believe it's up to five hundred bucks per head, subject to quality inspection on the day of course. They require the full fresh green heads only, and a guaranteed delivery of fifty heads at a time, as that quantity has something to do with a processing formula. What you do with the rest of the plant is not their concern. That's all I can tell you."

"Heads are worth more than that."

"No questions asked, guaranteed cash and constant demand. Times up. You in or out?"

"No one carries around fresh green heads," said Harry, obviously deep in thought and considering his options on the other end of the phone. "They'd 'ave ta be picked on dar day."

Jamie could almost hear Wilton's thoughts in his own head. This was a quick snatch and grab operation. All he had to do was to drive to one of his many bush locations, twist fifty green heads off fifty plants, chuck em into a bag and be gone in no time flat. It was as simple as that. There was no big bulky plants to rip out, or to transport, hang, dry and chop up, or any security to worry about while he found his market. It was all too easy, twenty five grand for bugger all effort. His best mate had been involved from the inside, he knew the ropes. This was a sweet deal. Billy-boy was dead and it was a shame about that, but if someone hadn't killed him, liver cancer would've got him in the end anyhow, and this fortuitous gift was Bill's last wish. Billy-boy had never let him down, or betrayed him in the past. He could trust Bill's judgement.

"Bill wanted this done," emphasised Jamie. "He said you could do it! If not, he's given me two other contacts to try. You in or out?"

"What's der hurry?"

"I'm the hurry! I'm doing this as a promise made to a stranger. This is not my world. This is a one off for me and I want my normal life back. I need an answer. If the answer is no, that's fine, I'll ring the next guy and then the one after that. If you all jerk me around, then I walk away, conscious free with no skin off my nose."

"Okay! Okay! Settle down. When did yar need dar goods?"

"Day after tomorrow, after that I'm gone and there's no deal with anyone."

"I may know where there's a crop close tar harvest. I'll take a trip tomorrow and check it out."

"Good! The sooner my part in all of this is over, the better. Keep your phone on. I'll ring you tomorrow afternoon and you can let me know if we have a deal. If we do, I'll contact the buyer straight away so he can have your money ready. "

Jamie disconnected the call. Cupping his hands behind his head, he stretched the pent up tension out of his neck and shoulders as he took stock of the situation and critically evaluated his performance. What a rush that had been. He had even convinced himself that this charade was genuine. The lure had been taken, the trap was set and tomorrow would be a big day if he was to pull this off. He had no idea what time Harry would leave, what direction he would go, or how long the journey would take, but he had to be organised and ready. The first thing to do right now though, was to dawdle over to the shops nearby, to buy that new phone with the latest tracker app installed.

# Chapter 18

Later that night, Jamie sat in his shed out in the back yard. He was deep in thought about the events of tomorrow. In his hands he held a semi-automatic .22 rifle with telescopic sights. He had retrieved the rifle, along with two full packets of ammunition, from its protective timber carrying case at the bottom of a storage box brought from the farm all those years ago. It was the same storage box from where the cattle prod had been stored, the same box that also contained a myriad of other farm memorabilia of sentimental or practical value.

The rifle was not registered with the authorities. It never had been. Now it was illegal, and if discovered he would be liable for prosecution. However, way back in his youth when it had been purchased, it was not illegal to own a firearm, or to own a dozen if you wished, and buying ammunition over the counter, for any weapon, was as easy as buying an ice cream from a corner shop. It should have been handed in, with one of the many amnesties over the years to get unregistered firearms off the street, but that rifle was part of his history on the land and he intended to keep it.

He hadn't used that rifle to shoot and kill any living creature since being told his sister was murdered forty odd years ago, but maybe now things had changed, maybe the current circumstances necessitated the use of a firearm. Wilton would be alone in the bush, it would be quiet, he would have his senses about him and he would hear someone approaching, so he would either instinctively hide or run. How was Jamie going to physically catch Wilton, particularly if he had a head start, and what if Wilton had a gun of his own? This was an entirely different set-up as compared to Bill Hunter, and it required a totally different approach. A bullet travelled faster than a man on foot. He needed to take the rifle.

Jamie respectively handled the weapon, familiarising himself with an old friend as he ritualistically cleaned and lubricated the barrel's bore, breach and moving part, before then oiling the timber stock. He nestled the rifle into his shoulder, to view down the telescopic sights. In his youth, whilst living on the farm, he had shot many creature with this rifle, foxes, rabbits, kangaroos, rats, snakes and a hell of a lot of crows. The justification used to shoot these animals, not only by himself, but by everyone living on the land, was that they were protecting their livelihood by eradicating the noxious pests who threatening primary production.

However when it came time to point the rifle at Harry Wilton, how would he feel? Would he see him as vermin and want to shoot him dead? Probably, but in all good conscious he seriously doubted if he could put the rifle to the guy's head and pull the trigger. That would be cold blooded murder and too much like a gang-land killing, which wouldn't send the right message to society or the law makers. One thing was for sure though, armed with a rifle and the threat to shoot, he would be able to capture Wilton, tie him up and coerce some sort of confession out of him. But at this very moment, on the eve of Wilton's pending death, he didn't have a fixed plan as to how Wilton was going to die.

Jamie picked up the empty ten shot magazine which accompanied the rifle. He checked the spring action for tension, lightly lubricated its friction points, then opened up a new packet of .22 calibre bullets. The packets were insulated against moisture and humidity in their own compartment within the carrying case, and the bullets within them were as good as the day they were manufactured, and just as lethal. One by one he took them out, pressing them into the magazine chamber, and when full, locked the magazine into the rifle. The weapon in his hands brought back memories which he couldn't suppress, so he allowed his mind to wander through those days on the farm when he felt compelled to shoot those animals, to question why in fact he had.

The rats, well their eradication was a no-brainer. They were smelly, disgusting, filthy and destructive disease carrying rodents that chewed indiscriminately through bags of grain and bales of hay. They left a trail of faeces and an offensive odour rending all food unpalatable to livestock. He never had any time for them, and they always seemed to come in plague proportions, as did the mice. They were best hunted in sheds at night, at close range, using torches and a rat-shot charge which had a short range and many pellets that spread with a splatter pattern like a shotgun cartridge. It made hitting a moving target so much easier. It was many years later that the waxy rat block bait, containing an anti-coagulant as a poison, was manufactured to change the whole face of rodent control, to make shooting and the use of traps unnecessary. That thought brought a smile to Jamie's lips, as he recalled the customer he'd had in the warehouse that very afternoon, being mortified by the cruel concept of the animal haemorrhaging to death.

But the twisted pleasure of shooting a beady eyed rat, as it scampered along the rafters or over bags of produce in sheds during the night, paled to insignificance as compared to shooting crows. They were the arched enemy of lambing ewes. Sheep have a tendency, as most animals do, to give birth in the early hours of the morning while it is still dark. If a ewe is in lambing distress and having trouble giving birth as the sun comes up, then both she and her unborn lamb can become the victims of unmitigated cruelty. The crow is an opportunistic scavenger and unlike the saying, _"the early bird gets the worm,"_ with this feathered species, it is a case of the early bird getting the eye.

Many a times he had felt the despair of coming across a ewe who'd been at the mercy of crows, with both her eyes picked out. She would be floundering on the ground in lambing distress, exhausted and unable to get up, with a dead lamb wedged inside with just the front feet and head hanging out of the birth canal. The sight always filled him with rage and it was something he could never get used to. So he always carried the rifle, and with every opportunity he got, he would extract his revenge by shooting as many crows as he could. And as testament to his wrath and vengeance, he would hang the crows upside down off the top wire of a barbwire fence, so their shinny blue/black feathered bodies would rot in the hot midday sun. It was a symbol of justice for all humanity and the universe to see.

But it was the killing of the larger animals which affected him the most. The fox had a bounty on its head, but was also hunted for its pelt. Graziers reckoned the fox killed young healthy lambs and every lambing season they were hunted unmercifully. Although he'd been fox shooting many times during the night from the back of a moving ute, with an accomplice holding a powerful spotlight, he didn't necessarily agree with their argument. Maybe they only took the weak lambs who would not survive, or the ones who had just died due to lambing complications. There were no statistics or trials every conducted to verify the graziers' hypothesis, so he never got to make up his mind on that theory. It was only a matter of time before the wide spread use of a fox bait poison, hidden within the carcasses of freshly dead lambs, desiccated their numbers to a point where fox shooting as a method of eradication, or sport, became extinct.

The kangaroo was shot because of its social structure. It existed in mobs. A mob of kangaroos can eat and flattens a lot of crop with their movement, and when disturbed or threatened they take flight, charging through and destroying fences to escape. They were not an animal that he hunted, but occasionally he was forced to put one out of its misery, when found barely alive and tangled up in a fence, or off on its own away from the mob and too damaged to look after itself. Eventually with the use of quotas, the legal culling of kangaroos, by registered professional shooters with high powered rifles was allowed. These carcasses were destined for restaurant tables and the fresh pet food market. This ultimately saw the control of kangaroo numbers and stopped the indiscriminate slaughter caused by backyard shooters.

The rabbit had a history also. It was one of those animals that Jamie admired. They were good for trapping and shooting, and as their numbers bred up consistently, there was always a good supply. Problem was, if the season was favourable, they would reach plague proportions in no time flat. In large numbers they would become a pastoralist nightmare, eating crops and digging burrows indiscriminately where livestock would blindly step into them to break legs. In the early days, as a boy, he would make money from their skins and carcasses. But all that changed with the biological control of the rabbit, when a virulent virus of myxomatosis was first introduced. It was carried by the mosquito, and when transmitted to the rabbit, the infection created festering sores and blindness which caused the animal to slowly and cruelly waste away, to eventually die from internal complication resulting from starvation and thirst. In the process, the disease ruined the skin, made the carcass inedible and decimated the population to an extent that its numbers never recovered. A rabbit had been the last animal Jamie had shot with this rifle.

Nostalgically, he replaced the caps on both ends of the rifles telescopic sight. With the firearm in a state of readiness, he repositioned it back into the felt lined moulded protection of its timber carrying case, and then placed the case on the back seat of his vehicle. He knew that somewhere, hidden amongst all that killing and animal suffering from his past, there had to be an answer, or some sort of guidance as to how he was going to exterminate Harry Wilton. As barbaric as that sounded, in the end, success of any venture always came down to two things. Firstly, having the right tools for the job, and secondly and most importantly, having the wisdom to draw upon whatever knowledge had been accumulated from past experiences. He satisfied both of those requirements, and he intended to spend the rest of the night making sure he was prepared.

# Chapter 19

The Inspector reclined back in his office chair, his brow furrowed. With elbows apart, his fingers and thumbs lightly strummed each other in a circular motion. It was a behavioural trait which showed he was deep in thought, and right now he was pondering on the ramifications of what he had, only moments ago just discovered. He had just used the Police Department's facial recognition software against the CCTV digital recordings supplied by the hotel, relating to the night when Bill Hunter had been abducted. The footage showed everyone who had entered and left the pub during that particular twenty four hour period. The software had recognised and matched quite a few small time local criminals who had previously been convicted of various crimes, but it had also identified someone of interest who had previously never been in trouble with the law.

Via access to the linked service database, which connected all government departments, the software had scanned not only police, taxation and vehicular records, but also the newspaper archives of the public domain looking for photographs. It had come up with two hits, one from the Roads and Maritime Service, and the other from a newspaper source. The car licence photo from the RMS identified him as Jamie Wells. He was in his mid-sixties, and interestingly enough, lived in the mountains not far from the location where Bill Hunter's body was discovered. This fact by itself was nothing but coincidental, as thousands of people lived in the mountains, but more to the point, the personal details on the licence told no history of the man in the photo. However, the newspaper photo and article accompanying it had provided some of that hidden history.

The photo had identified him as the brother of Laura Wells. She had been brutally bludgeoned to death over forty years ago with no one ever being charged with her murder. Jamie Wells, as a representative of the family, had been interviewed on a number of occasions during the last Coronal Inquest. He'd been very liberal with his personal comments surrounding the witnesses and suspects who were giving verbal evidence, under oath, in a court of law. He had pushed the justice angle, encouraging the Coroner to find enough evidence to commit the case to trial, emphasising that time was no barrier in finding these gang members accountable for his sister's murder. He had also been quite scathing with his comments and criticism surrounding countless missed opportunities, and bungling by the police service over the years in solving the murder. And furthermore, he claimed there was an endemic failure by the legal and judicial system, with their duty of care towards victims' families and the community at large who were affected by violent crimes.

That Inquest, and those strong point of view were expressed five years ago when emotions were running high. Perhaps time hadn't softened his view. Maybe Jamie Wells was still as passionate now about seeing justice done, as he had been back then. Security footage showed that he had arrived at the pub after Bill Hunter, and had left only minutes before Hunter. Was being at the same pub, on the same night that Hunter was abducted, simply a coincidence? If not, had Jamie Wells been the one who had let the air out of the tyre by loosening the valve? Had he waited in the dimly lit carpark for Hunter to discover the flat, and then offered him a ride? He was seen on camera footage leaving the hotel with a six pack of beer tucked under his arm. Had he offered Hunter a beer with the drug already in it? Is that how he drugged Hunter and rendered him unconscious? Could it be possible that this was all true? Had Jamie Wells taken the law into his own hands? Could Hunter's brutal and very personal slaying be all about a forty year old cold case homicide?

With his curiosity aroused, the Inspector did a little digging. Connecting into the tax office database, he pulled up Jamie Wells's annual tax return with its group certificate to find out where he worked. It was interesting that his place of employment was with a DIY warehouse in Penrith, which was not more than maybe a ten minute drive in moderate traffic from where the deceased lived. Everybody was into DIY these days, the place was always packed, so maybe there had been a chance encounter with Hunter at his work place. There was something about this work place connection which seemed relevant to the Inspector, but for some reason or other right now, he couldn't put his finger on what that connection was.

Putting that thought process to one side for the moment, he then hooked into the RMS database to find out what sort of vehicle Mr Wells drove, and was not surprised to discover that he drove an early model white Subaru Forester. It was a four door, all-wheel drive SUV suitable for traversing most terrains. It seemed a practical choice of a vehicle, by a practical man, who the newspaper articles said was originally from the bush. The vehicle would no doubt suit the often very slippery road surfaces and the varying steep topography of the mountains where he lived, and of the area around where the victim was also killed. Taking out his little blue book from his top pocket, the Inspector jotted down the vehicles make, model, year of manufacture and number plates for his future reference.

In good conscience, the Inspector hoped he was barking up the wrong tree, but before pursuing those glaring assumptions or coincidences which were ringing alarm bells in his ears, he needed to take another look at all the others identified by the software as being involved in any drug related crime. Some of these persons had been dismissed earlier on in the primary investigation, due to the simple fact that they may have left the pub well after the victim, but now that the Inspector had reached the second tier level of investigation, it was time to dig deeper. Criminal were cunning, and just because someone with a dubious record remained in the pub after the victim had already left, didn't mean that they weren't in contact with an abductor, or abductors out in the carpark, and hadn't joined them later.

# Chapter 20

There was no need to set the alarm, Jamie had been awake on and off for most of the night, keeping his eye on the clock, waiting for the cold grey light of dawn to show through his eastern facing bedroom window. When it did, he was out of bed to check his mobile to see if there had been any movement from Harry Wilton. There was a signal, but there had been no movement. The GPS location was the same as it had been last night, which also indicated that the mobile had been switched on all night. Jamie just hoped it was being charged. How disheartening would it be to follow the guy from a good distance, and be within striking range of capturing him, only to have the signal die due to a battery failure and then not have any other means of finding him?

He put that thought from his mind. He was absolutely convinced that Wilton had swallowed the bait and would follow through today by heading bush to find his crop. Greed was a powerful motivator, but then again, so was the suspicion that accompanied paranoia. Maybe Wilton had smelt a rat and changed his mind, but it was more than likely he just a late riser and was waiting for the peak hour traffic to clear the roads before heading off. But what would happen if Wilton took along a sidekick, to be not only his watchdog, but also his physical security?

Jamie didn't have a back-up plan for that scenario, and he wouldn't know if that was the case until he'd arrived at the destination and did a reconnaissance of the site. If Wilton did have a sidekick, the tables would be turned and the hunter could then quite easily become the hunted. However, according to Mandy, Wilton was a snivelling little weasel who wouldn't share his spoils with anyone unless they were forcefully taken from him, so Jamie was convinced that he'd not only turn up, but that he'd also be travelling alone. He just had to be patient. It was still early. The sun hadn't even come up, and if there wasn't going to be a field trip today, then it wouldn't be the end of the world. He now knew where Harry Wilton lived and could redraft another plan if necessary.

Constantly checking his tracker app for movement, he went about his morning routine of showering, shaving and having breakfast, before then taking the sausages and scones from the freezer, and along with buttered bread and a small bottle of tomato sauce, packed them into his backpack. He was right to go. Tonight if things went his way, they would be having sausages for dinner that were cooked on his small field shovel over the coals, followed by a cup of tea brewed in a billy suspended over the campfire. And if Wilton somehow survived till the early hours of the morning, there was also a date scone packed for them both as a pre-dawn breakfast.

Convinced that he had the tucker angle covered, he then did a mental check of the equipment to be used in the capture and containment, just to make sure for the umpteenth time that he hadn't forgotten anything. A rifle for shooting and capture, an electric cattle prod for motivation, cable ties for hands and feet to prevent any escaping, duct tape for mouth, rope for dragging or securing, his mobile phone for a multitude of digital recording reasons, torch to find his way in the dark, and matches and fire starters to get the campfire alight.

The logistics of what he should take with him, and how to go about finding and capturing Wilton, had caused a considerable amount of mental anguish. He had to have a feasible plan, and initially he'd considered the idea of doing two trips into the bush. Manoeuvrability in stalking his prey was his greatest concern. He needed to be light and fast on his feet, and the only way to do that was by carrying the minimum amount of equipment. This meant taking only his rifle and a light backpack with the cattle prod, cable ties, rope and duct tape inside. Once he had captured and secured his victim, part two of the plan was to leave him on his own tied up in the bush, to then go back to the vehicle to pick up the food and other bulky and heavy items he would need for the night, such as the water bottles, the billy, the field shovel and maybe even a warm coat.

But the more he'd thought about it, the more he realised it had been an incredibly stupid plan which had been far too optimistic and short sighted. This wasn't a camping trip, it wasn't about convenience. This trip was about raw justice. He was intending to kill someone, and it was naive of him to overlook the fact of how dangerous and unpredictable a trapped creature could be. If the marijuana crop was well hidden in the bush, as it should be so as not to be detected, then it would be a good distance, maybe kilometres away from where his car would be parked. No matter how secure the bondage, there was always the possibility that his victim could have escaped and be long gone before he got back. Once captured, it would be an incredibly stupid move to let his victim out of his sight. Common sense had prevailed, and he had finally decided it would more prudent to take a larger backpack with everything in it, and once he had his quarry in his sight, he could then drop it on the ground for ease of movement to engage the enemy. For that reason, he'd spent a considerable amount of time last night packing and repacking his backpack, to get the balance and comfort just right, and to eliminate any rattles or squeaks which could herald his approach and give him away.

By eight o'clock in the morning, Jamie's patience had run out. He could take no more sitting around and waiting. He decided to get in his vehicle and drive down the mountain, to be closer to the inner city where Wilton's starting point originated from. In reality, a snatch and grab raid to secure the heads wouldn't take very long at all, and subject to how far Wilton had to travel by foot to get to the crop, he could possibly be in and out of the area within an hour. Jamie had to make sure that he wasn't geographically too far behind Wilton once he detected GPS movement, otherwise he may miss his opportunistic moment to snare the guy while he was harvesting his crop.

And to that end, it was logical to assume that Wilton would be heading north, back up to the familiar territory of his wood cutting days, where the weather was much warmer at this time of the year and ideal for maturing crops. But Wilton was a cunning survivor. He no doubt had crops growing in forested regions all over the state, and there could be a lot of plants at the end of their growing cycle, fully matured and prime for picking right now, even in the cooler southern regions. It was a sure fact though that he couldn't go east as that was into the ocean, but perhaps Wilton would surprise him and head west towards the Blue Mountains where Jamie was about to leave from. In all reality, it didn't matter which direction Wilton ended up going, Jamie was about to make sure that he was well placed strategically, with the flexibility to move in any direction.

An hour later, Jamie was sitting in a roadside service centre restaurant, which was conveniently located close to a major arterial road heading north/south. He was eating a toasted tomato and cheese sandwich, and against his better judgement was washing it down with yet another cup of tea, the third he'd had this morning. The smell and taste of the toasted sandwich took his mind back to more innocent times, of when, as a boy in his early teens, he'd help out as a roustabout in the shearing shed. It was his job to sweep the floor of locks once the fleeces had been picked up, to dap poison on flyblown areas of the shorn sheep, to remove and put aside any wet and daggy bits and pieces, to pick up the belly wool, to keep the pens full of sheep and to fill the wool press with fleeces. It was a dynamic and high energy environment, fuelled by the summer heat, but defined by the hum of motors, the clatter of combs and cutters, the bleating of sheep, the yapping of dogs and the cursing of shearers.

Shearing was an exciting time of the year, and as much as he'd loved the woolshed atmosphere, he'd loved morning tea smoko in the woolshed best of all. The toasted sandwich he held in his hand, which was bringing back such wonderful childhood memories, was almost identical to the toasted sandwich his mother used to make for him at smoko. The only point of difference being, that the one in his hand had been toasted in a new-fangled waffle machine, whereas his mother's had been toasted on the solid iron hot plate of a wood fuelled stove, and had been held flat by the use of a spatula. It was usually his younger sister Laura, who would bring the morning tea over to the shearing shed. She'd turn up five minutes early, allowing the aroma of the freshly toasted sandwiches and baked cakes to waft through the shed and tantalise the senses of all the workers, while she set up the plates of food and brushed away the flies. Then with smoko underway they'd both sit on wool bales with their father, eating what their mother had prepared and washing it down with a cuppa tea from an enamel mug, while listening in silence to the stranger-than-life tales of the shearers.

When Jamie returned back to reality, his toasted sandwich was only crumbs on a plate and his cuppa had turned cold. While he had been subconsciously locked in another dimension reminiscing about the past, physically he'd been sitting calmly, fidgeting with a napkin, shredding it into small pieces whilst staring at his mobile. It had been the GPS movement on his mobile which had broken the trance and had his heart pounding again. Instantly he was on his feet and hurrying outside to sit in his vehicle with his eyes glued to the screen. After ten odd minutes of anxiety, it became obvious which direction Harry Wilton was going. He was on the freeway and heading north.

Within seconds, Jamie was out of the service centre, heading towards the same freeway a couple of kilometres away. By the time he had cleared the restrictive urban speed zones, and was cruising on the freeway at one hundred and ten kilometres an hour, he estimated that Wilton couldn't have been any more than fifteen or twenty minutes in front of him. Over the next couple of hours, he stuck to the multitude of variable speed limit of the highway, not wanting to draw attention to himself, or to be pulled over by the highway patrol and delayed for any reason. He constantly scanned his mobile to confirm direction, and second glanced every vehicle pulled over on the side of the road or at rest stops, expecting to see Wilton's clapped out station wagon, broken down with its bonnet up. Most of all though, he cursed himself for drinking so much tea this morning and for not emptying his bladder before leaving the service centre. Very soon he knew he would have to pull up to relieve himself, and when he did, he'd also better take the time to fill up with petrol at well.

Sooner or later Wilton would have to do the same. His sad and sorry station wagon, with its clapped-out V8 motor, would be chewing through the juice and oil. It made Jamie wonder why a bloke with such a reoccurring criminal history, would want to draw attention to himself by driving such a heap of shit. Maybe it was the image he wanted to project to the undesirables who he hung out with, or maybe it was simply a reflection of his own personality, or maybe it was a combination of both. But for whatever the reason, the whole Harry Wilton phenomena screamed, _"I don't look after anything. Keep out of my way. I'm careless and reckless. I don't give a fuck about anyone or anything."_ According to the retired Detective who had confided in him, Wilton didn't believe in God or an afterlife, but instead had a fatalistic outlook and attitude to life.

In a moment of pent up frustrations, to uncover the truth about his sister's death, the retired Detective had discovered that fact with his last ditch attempt to extract information from Wilton. His brazen exploit to acquire that information was not only illegally and immoral, but also reprehensible. If internal affairs or the police integrity commission had got wind of what he had done, then he'd not only be on serious misconduct charges, but would also be dishonourably discharged from the force without entitlements. Jamie had admired the Detective for breaking the rules and having the balls to do what he did. Harry Wilton was the weakest link in the gang, and on one cold winter's night, the retired Detective had dragged him out of his house in hand cuffs and taken him for a little ride. Just like it was in those old gangster movies, the Detective had taken him to a seclude spot in the middle of nowhere, dragged him out of the car and while he was on his knees, put a loaded gun to the back of his head.

Through all the threats and promises to shoot him dead, Wilton had not squealed. He had initially cowered and sobbed at his predicament, but he'd not begged for is life. Instead he'd called the Detective's bluff, challenged the Detective over and over again and daring him to pull the trigger. "Do it! Just do it," he'd screeched, turning around to face the handgun and the Detective who held it. There was no way, at that time when a good number of his old gang were still alive, that Harry Wilton was confessing to any murder or betraying anyone of his mates. The retired Detective had commented many times in the past that the guy had a death wish. Wilton's lifestyle constantly tempted fate and it was only a matter of time before that wish came true. Jamie had to agree. It had been a long time coming, but with all going well tonight, that death wish and prophecy would soon be fulfilled.

A short while later, Jamie was pulling off the highway and into a service centre. At that particular point of time, as he swung in beside an empty petrol pump, he was more concerned about his bladder and the urgency to urinate than he was with the whereabouts of Wilton. With seatbelt off, door opening and one leg out of the vehicle, he got the surprise of his life. There was Wilton coming out of the service station and heading for his station wagon, located two pump stations over from where Jamie had pulled up. Jamie all but panicked. He retreated into the SUV, slowly pulling the door closed so as not to make a sound. Stretching himself to sit higher in the seat, he pulled down the sun visor to hide his face and tried not to make any suspicious movements to draw attention to himself. But all his evasive techniques to blend in and become invisible were unnecessary. Wilton was in a world of his own, oblivious to everyone and everything. Stepping into his vehicle, he gunned it to life, and while it roughly idled with blue smoke spewing from the exhaust to attract everyone's attention, he opened a can of bourbon, took a guzzle, and without putting on his seat belt, nonchalantly lit a cigarette as he was moving off.

Jamie shuddered involuntary. He visualised a scenario of having pulled up five minutes earlier, seeing himself rushing into the toilet and standing at the urinal to relieve himself, only to realise that Wilton was standing beside him. This whole situation had been far too close for comfort. He was literally on the bloke's tail. It was time to relax and back off a little, to allow Wilton to get where he was going without the possible of another close call. The chance encounter did confirm one important strategic fact though, Wilton was alone.

The next time Jamie pulled over to check what was going on, Wilton had left the highway and was heading inland. They had been travelling for a total of six hours in all, and were now on the mid north coast and surrounded by undulating topography and old growth forests. This was Wilton's old timber cutting region and he would know every ridge and valley in the area. Jamie followed the road, stopping at every intersection, fork and trail to check his GPS tracking app to see which way Wilton had gone. At the same time he was jotting down mental notes, forcing himself to look for distinguishable topographical features at the intersections to identify the way out, just in case he had to make a hasty retreat.

After ten odd kilometres of being thrown around on a severely eroded gravel road, he turned off onto an even rougher fire trail, and from that point on it was a gradual downhill decent into the valley, winding back and forth between huge gum trees to reach yet another fork in the trail. If it wasn't for the knowledge that Wilton's station wagon, with its low clearance and rear wheel drive, had just successfully traversed the track, then Jamie would have had second thoughts about coming down this far, even in his all-wheel drive SUV with its higher off-ground clearance. This was definitely an all-wheel drive, or a four wheel drive environment, which due to its isolation, should not be tackled alone. It would only have been due to the current dry conditions, and his familiarity of the terrain, which would have allowed Wilton the confidence to come down this far into the valley driving a station wagon.

Shutting down his motor, Jamie strained his ears for the sound of Wilton's vehicle. All was quiet and the signals location hadn't moved since he'd checked it at the last intersection. This was close enough, any closer and he may be heard. According to the GPS signals location, Jamie reckoned he was about five hundred metres from his target, and from here on, he would travel on foot and follow the fresh tyre tracks to the location where Wilton was parked. It was logical to assume that the trail went down to the bottom of the valley and it was probably the only way in and out, so before heading off he parked his SUV in the middle of the track to block any exit, just in case Wilton somehow escaped his clutches. It was also late in the day, and it could be quiet a distance to return in the dark, so it had been a prudent decision to deviate from his original plan of coming back for a second trip to pick up supplies, once Wilton had been captured. Not wanting to waste any more time procrastinating, Jamie snatched up his backpack, slung it over his shoulder and strapped it tightly to his torso, before then reaching for his rifle. Within a minute or so, he was on his way.

He moved swiftly, keeping to the side of the track, being careful how he walked and where he stepped, avoiding kindling and dry undergrowth so as to not make any noise to herald his approach. He stopped every so often to listen for his quarry, his eyes constantly surveying the area ahead for signs of any movement. On foot, with bulging backpack and rifle in hand, his intentions would not be misinterpreted. Wilton would know the very second he laid eyes on Jamie that his life was in danger, so the element of surprise was paramount. He glanced at his watch. It was three thirty. The shadows were long. The daylight hours were disappearing quickly and he was in a timbered maze of sensory deprivation.

With his altered perception, he had no idea how far he had travelled when he first came across the wagon. It was at the end of the fire trail, a hundred odd metres away and camouflaged so well amongst the backdrop of fallen timber and undergrowth, it looked like it could have grown there. Jamie didn't know what to expect. The GPS tracking signal had not moved for ages. If Wilton was carrying his mobile, then it was logical to assume that he was within close proximity of the car. Perhaps he'd heard Jamie's car coming down the trail and suspected he was being followed. Perhaps this was an ambush. Perhaps Wilton also had a rifle and was laying in the bush close by, waiting to spring the trap. With rifle cocked, finger on trigger and eyes fixed on the target, Jamie cautiously approached the vehicle.

He strained his ears to hear anything at all, above the distraction of his own heart thumping in his chest and the sound of blood squelching through the carotid artery in his neck. But, there was nothing. Silence reigned. Reaching the station wagon, he viewed through the passenger's side window. The vehicle was empty with no indication as to where Wilton had gone, but there was his mobile phone laying on the front passenger seat being charged by the cigarette lighter. Jamie uncocked his weapon and took a deep breath, allowing the adrenalin surging through his body to subside. It would have been too easy to have simply found Wilton having a snooze in the car from drinking too many bourbons. And the fact that he hadn't already been ambushed, also indicated that Wilton hadn't suspected anything and was out there in the bush somewhere harvesting his crop. Jamie now had a dilemma on his hands. Should he wait at the vehicle in hiding for Wilton to return, or should he continue on, heading off in the direction of where logic dictated Wilton should be, and catch him in the act of harvesting his crop?

With an agricultural background, it made sense to Jamie that a crop would be grown on the side of a hill with a northerly aspect to maximise daylight hours, and it would be at the bottom of the valley where moisture would drain to and be more freely available. He was now standing at the end of the fire trail, but the topography still slopped downward, and according to the sun, he was still on the wrong side of the hill. He would have to continue his journey down to the valley floor and follow it around until he found a location with a northerly facing aspect. Only then could he look for a crop hidden amongst the undergrowth, and somewhere at that location, or before, he would surely find Harry Wilton.

It was a combination of factors, the curiosity to see the crop, the impatience to capture Wilton, and the hype from the residual adrenalin surging through his body that dictated his next move. Before he could analyse what he was doing, he was letting the air out of the driver's side tyre of Wilton's station wagon and was then moving through the bush following his instincts. This time though, he travelled swiftly. Throwing caution to the wind, he scanned his advance for any anomaly of colour, shape or movement that would stand out from the forest environs and alert him to take care. He was determined to reach the bottom of the gully as quickly as possible. Only then would he assess the situation and decide whether to return to the vehicle, or continue the journey along the valley floor, looking for the northern facing hill side which was suitable to grow and disguise a crop of marijuana.

Within a space of a half an hour he had reached the gully. It spanned no wider than thirty metres with a small stream of water trickling through its sandy centre. And right there, on a little island of reeds, no bigger than a metre square surrounded by water, was Wilton's signature, a squashed can of bourbon. It was the same brand as he had seen in Wilton's hand at the service station hours earlier. Jamie stared at the can with disbelief. It was as if Wilton had left a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow. He was on the right track, no doubt about it, but which way did Wilton go from here? The water flowed away from him and like the gully veered to the left, heading around the hill in a northerly direction towards the sinking sun. His instinct's told him this was the right way to go. To head upstream in the other direction was towards the southern side of the hill and away from any sun. Wilton must have crossed here, or walked along the gully bed where it was easy going. There had to be tracks.

He quickly scanned the area. There were definite signs of disturbance to the sand surface heading in one direction only. They could be human footprints, or they could be hoof prints of a large animal, but he wasn't going to scrutinise the tracks any closer, for fear of exposing himself as a tracker and being caught out in the open. He checked his watch. It was four fifteen. The sun would be down in an hour or so. What should he do? This location, like the location of the station wagon was an excellent site to wait in ambush. Wilton had come this way, therefore he would be coming back this way. Logic, reasoning and common sense told him to wait, but against his better judgement, he listened to the little voice in his head urging him to go on. This time though, he travelled slowly.

Crossing the creek, he trekked twenty odd metres into the tree line to become less visible, and with the gully and opposite side of the hill in broken view, he headed downhill, picking his way carefully through the bush. Fifteen minutes later the sun was on the left side of his face and he realised he'd traversed around the gully and was standing on a northerly facing hillside. And only metres away, blending in amongst a grove of native forest ferns were the marijuana plants. He sunk down, disappearing from sight, squatting on his haunches. Holding his breath he remained perfectly still, listening for the slightest sound of movement and wondering where the hell Wilton could possibly be. The crop had been well camouflaged. He had come upon it so quickly, virtually walked right into it. Had Wilton seen him coming? Was he hiding somewhere, or was he already on his way back?

Jamie had no choice, he had to go on, and he had to pass through the crop to confirm that Wilton had escaped his net. He rose, standing upright, his senses super alert, his eyes scanning for the slightest of movement in the undergrowth. Like an infantry scout he moved forward ever so cautiously, expecting the unexpected, holding his rifle tightly with finger around the trigger. In that instance, he felt the pit of his stomach drop with the realisation that he'd not cocked the weapon. Now it was too late, he had to keep moving. He couldn't break his concentration, to take his eyes off the undergrowth to look down at his rifle. A surprise attack from Wilton could be imminent. A cold shudder of concern pasted over Jamie's body, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand to attention. A found himself silently cursing his own stupidity. A couple of minutes later, his anxieties of feeling vulnerable were relieved by the whiff of smoke. It set alarm bells ringing in his head. But it was the realisation of the picture which came into focus seconds later, that would stop him dead in his tracks with an expression of shock and surprise on his face. Barely seventy metres away, sitting on the sand in the creek bed and propped up against a fallen tree with his back towards Jamie, was Harry Wilton.

He sat facing the sun, soaking up its late evening rays and surrounded by a plume of cannabis smoke. With iPod ear phones plugged into his ears and devil music no doubt assaulting his eardrums, he was oblivious to the world. In one hand he held a can of bourbon, in the other a smouldering joint. Beside him sat a large back pack filled with cannabis heads. He had obviously weakened to the temptation of sampling his own produce, and judging by the stagnant smoke haze in the valley, was well and truly off his face. A whole army could have marched up behind Harry Wilton and he would never have heard them coming. Jamie relaxed a little. Maybe it was the narcotic effect of inhaling the cannabis smoke in the air which allowed him to do so, or maybe it was the thought of a crushing victory, but for whatever the reason, he dropped his stalking posture and level of alertness, to entertain the notion of how easy it was going to be to capture his prey.

# Chapter 21

Jamie had the element of surprise. It would be like playing peek-a-boo. He could creep up behind the guy, jump out in front of him with a blood curdling scream and scare the shit out of him. It would be the ultimate gotcher. But this was no laughing matter and it was not a childhood game that he was playing. The guy was cunning and dangerous and not to be underestimated. To his credit, he had already outlived six of the eight original gang members.

Keeping his backpack on and with his eyes firmly fixed on his target, he moved forward, stepping out from the camouflaged protection of the hillside tree line, and onto the no-man's land of the gully's sandy basin with no vegetative cover at all. Now that he was out in the open and feeling totally exposed, he had to move as quickly and carefully as possible to close the gap between himself and Wilton, just in case Wilton sensed danger and turned around to see him coming.

With the stock of the rifle tucked firmly against his body, he pulled back on the protruding knob of the slide bolt, until he heard the click of it locking into position behind the trigger mechanism. The action exposed the breach of the firing chambers with a naked bullet staring up at him. Restrained by the jaws of a magazine clip, the bullet was strategically positioned, waiting to be thrust forward by the slide bolt when the trigger was squeezed, whereupon it would then enter the barrel's bore to be discharged by the action of the firing pin contained within the slide bolt. The weapon was effectively cocked and loaded, and ready for use. And being a semi-automatic weapon, all he had to do was to keep pulling the trigger, and the bullets would keep firing until the magazine clip was empty.

With finger on trigger, heart thumping and all caution abandoned from too much adrenalin pouring into his system, he closed the distance between them both. As he moved, he could feel the heal of his boots sinking into the soft sand, and was acutely aware of the soft squeaking noise the movement made as the toe of the boot then propelled his body forward, to leave the deep imprint behind. He could hear the material of his jeans brushing together at the thighs, hear the sound of the backpack straps pulling against his body and could hear every knock, rattle and squeak of every item placed within the backpack. He was a moving beacon of sound, a clattering fire alarm alerting danger to anyone who could tune into his hyper-alertness. The panicked inner-voice spurred him to hurry. His final approach was reckless, devoid of self-control and common sense, and was being controlled by overriding endocrinal secretions. Before he knew what he was doing, he had crept up behind Harry Wilton and jabbed him in the shoulder with the muzzle of his rifle. It only took a split second to realise his mistake. He had seriously underestimated the psychotic actions of a man affected by a lifetime overindulgence of paranoia, alcohol and drugs.

Like a cornered brown snake that instinctively turns back on itself, flattening its head and rearing off the ground to strike, Wilton did the same. Dropping his bourbon and joint he reacted aggressively, spinning around, coming to his knees, facing Jamie, showing surprise, fear and hatred in his eyes. Ripping the ear phones out with one hand, he stretched out with the other for balance as he struggled to steady himself. Or was he reaching for something just out of his grasp? It was all happening too quickly, and in that instance of seeing Wilton's panic, he then experienced his own as he realised what was in Wilton's hand. Shit!!!! Wilton had a hand gun! He must have had it sitting beside him on the ground. Now it was coming up off the ground and being pointed in his direction like the flattened head of a brown snake about to strike.

Jamie felt as if he couldn't move, like he had no control, like he was watching a movie in slow motion. They were barely two metres apart, practically close enough to battle it out with fists, not with bullets, but here they both were, pointing guns at each another. He saw the initial flash from the muzzle of Wilton's handgun, and heard the discharge and the sound of a bullet wildly slicing through the air beside his right ear, before he instinctively pulled the trigger of his own rifle, firing back at point blank range.

He was still standing and screaming like a banshee in battle, when he felt the impact of a slug strike his back pack just above his left shoulder. The reflex action of that impact caused him to waver violently, and as he struggled to find his footing in the loose sand, another bullet struck him in the left thigh, buckling him at the knees and sending him to ground. It was with the realisation that he had been shot, that he also realised his magazine was empty. He had fired all ten bullets and was now defenceless and a sitting target. The entire rapid exchange of gunfire had taken no more than a few seconds, but with time distortion it had seemed a lot longer and so much more intense. Abruptly, the battle was over. All was strangely quiet. He looked up at Harry Wilton.

Wilton was slumped over the fallen tree with the gun slipping from his hand. He was as white as ash from shock, frozen and unable to move, and if he'd had any live ammunition left, he would not have had the strength to lift his arm to pull the trigger. He'd been badly wounded in the exchange of firepower with three direct hits. One bullet had superficially grazed the side of his head just above the left ear, one had busted the collar bone of his right shoulder, and another had punched into the chest and pierced his lungs. His shirt was saturated with blood. It trickled down his face from the head wound, bubbled out of a hole in his chest as he struggled to breath, and it spluttered from his mouth as he gasped to speak. He was bleeding internally and slowly drowning in his own blood. It would have been obvious to anyone that he didn't have long to live, and without immediate medical intervention and extraction to a hospital, which would not be forthcoming, he was going to die.

Suddenly, Jamie's heart was breaking as a rush of mixed emotions hit him all at once. A human being, no matter what he had done in the past, was dying right in front of his eyes. Yes, he wanted the guy dead, but not like this, not so sudden. This is not what he had planned. This wasn't the suffering he needed his victim to experience. Time was now limited, to have a chat, to get a confession, to grant a wish, or to allow the guy a chance to repent before meeting his maker. Jamie blamed himself. He'd had the guy cold, yet he had bungled the capture and virtually went straight to the execution. Now he had no leverage to find out the things he needed to know. The psychological threat of death, or of inflicting pain with the jab from an electric cattle prod would be of no value, the guy was already at death's door. The situation was now well beyond the realms of any motivational torture.

With no more apparent danger presenting itself, Jamie's self-preservation instincts kicked in. He was combatting a feeling of rising nausea, dizziness and muscular weakness. With a concern of shock setting in, he dropped his rifle and backpack, and then downed his jeans to examine his damaged leg. To his relief, he realised it wasn't anything more serious than a superficial flesh wound to the quadriceps muscle. The traumatised area clearly showing where the bullet had entered and exited, so surgery wouldn't be necessary. Right at the moment the wound wasn't creating a lot of pain, and this was probably due to the residual adrenalin surging through his system, but it was bleeding quiet freely, and he was well aware the pain would eventually come.

Fighting the shakes, he rooted through his backpack, to find the field kit with its meagre first aid supplies. Extracting a compression bandage and gauze wadding, he wrapped his thigh firmly. The tourniquet action stopped the bleeding and the contractual spasms of the affected muscle. It also had an immediate calming effect on his psyche, assuring him that everything was okay. After a few moments and feeling somewhat back in control again, he then hobbled over to Wilton to take the gun from beneath his hand. White eyed with shock, Wilton grimaced up at him.

"Why'd yar fuckin' shoot me man?" he gurgled.

"You shot at me first."

"What are yar doin' 'ere?"

"I followed you here to kill you," said Jamie point blank.

Harry started to laugh, but ended up coughing blood. The retired Detective had previously said that the guy had a death wish, and always seemed to put himself in situations that invited trouble and danger. Perhaps it was the fruition of that projection right now, that tickled Wilton's fancy.

"What do you find so amusing?" asked Jamie.

"Who'd I fuck over? Who'd yar belong to?"

"You and your gang murdered a veterinary student from a Melbourne university forty years ago. She was my sister."

"Fuck man! That was in another lifetime."

"Not to me it wasn't. I've dragged it along everywhere with me as I've gone through life. To me and my family, it's as if it only happened yesterday."

"Yar killed Bill?"

"It was a good death."

"Yar tricked me?"

"Yer I did."

"Skobie was right... he said to trust no one... he reckoned sum vigilante would git us in dar end."

"Good he'll know I'm coming. I'm gunna kill him next."

Wilton ignored the comment, chuckling to himself, momentarily being side-tracked and mesmerized by bubbles of blood forming through the hole in his chest. He watched with a childish fascination as they grew in size, to then stretch thinly before bursting. With an erratic slow motion movement, he raised his good hand to his damaged right shoulder, winching with pain as he touched the splintered ends of his collar bone, knowing it was broken and that there was a bullet still lodged somewhere deep within his scapula. He then moved his hand to the side of his head. It was bleeding freely and needed a compression bandage of some kind to stop the flow. It was probably at that very moment that Harry Wilton became fully aware he was going to die as a result of his injuries. He looked up with helplessness and bewilderment in his eyes at the man standing before him.

Jamie felt his heart sink. He could see the hurt and lost little boy in Wilton's eyes, and felt compelled to show empathy and compassion towards the dying man. Irrationally at that very moment, it didn't seem to matter that Wilton was the enemy, an overriding instinct was forcing him to be a medic. Perhaps it had something to do with his sister's choice of vocation, and although she'd been denied medical treatment, or any sort of compassion as she lay dying, he wouldn't be accused of the same.

Retrieving his first aid field kit again, he extracted another gauze wadding and compression bandage, and firmly wrapped it around Wilton's head to stem the flow of blood. There was nothing he could do for the shoulder wound, which strangely enough wasn't bleeding too badly, or for the busted collar bone, other than to immobilise his arm to restrict movement. And as a first aider, there wasn't a lot he could do about the chest wound with its collapsed lung either, other than to plug the hole with wadding and applying pressure over the entry wound. At least that action would relieve some of the discomfort to his victim, and maybe in the process, would also loosen his tongue.

"This is going to hurt a bit," he said, asking for Wilton's cooperation. "I'm going to have to move you."

Wilton's colour wasn't good and his breathing was extremely shallow. He was sliding deeper into shock. All the fight had left him, and his body was like a rag doll unable to resist any attempt to move him around. He moaned obscenities as Jamie manoeuvred him into a position where he could get access to the chest injury. Jamie then lifted Wilton's shirt and jumper, raising them high enough up his chest to expose the entry wound. It was ugly. The whole area was mangled, purple and red in colour, the tissue torn and lacerated with fragments of a shattered rib poking through the skin.

It had been his deliberate choice to select hollow-point bullets, instead of the solid nose type, from his personal ammunition cache brought from the farm. If he had to shoot someone, then he wanted to make sure that the bullet stopped the guy dead in his tracks. But seeing the result of their hollow-point damage now, made him grimace. He could only imagine the internal tissue trauma that occurred after the bullet flattened on impact with the rib cage, to then continue to gouge its way through the lungs, to lodge somewhere deep within the thoracic cavity. There was no exit wounds with these bullets either, once in, they weren't coming out without surgery. There would be blood clots forming, with various sized bits breaking off, to be carried by the venous system back to the heart, to be then pumped through the body until they lodged in vital organs like the heart itself or the brain. Death didn't have to linger as it was now, it could be sudden.

With the last of his gauzed wadding, he placed the pad directly over the punctured area to immediately stop the blood from bubbling. Repositioning the clothing over the pad for extra weight and pressure, he then snatched up Wilton's useless arm to cup the palm of his hand over the area. Then came the difficult part of strapping the hand to the chest with a bandage around the body. He did the best he could, and in the end, after a lot of bellowing, snorting and coughing of blood on Wilton's part, he'd immobilised the arm, applied a pressure bandage to Wilton's chest, and had him propped up relatively comfortably against a log in a semi inclined position. It was all he could do for the guy.

However, whilst applying first aid, he'd been exposed to Wilton's bodily fluid. Blood, sputum and saliva in varying degrees peppered and smeared his clothing and hands. A question clearly remained. In the process of being a humanitarian to ease his victim's dying, had his victim, due to his excessive life style of drug usage, also given him a death sentence by transferring some insidious disease, like HIV or hepatitis upon him? He desperately hoped not. He'd been consciously aware of the risks and had taken a few precautions whilst in close contact. He'd kept his mouth closed so as not to swallow any fluids, hadn't licked his lips, and had been careful to avoid breathing in any respiratory droplets. In addition, his arms were protected by clothing, his hands had no open cuts on them, and the wound on his leg had been bandaged and covered by jeans. But, by any stretch of the imagination, it was not a pleasant thought.

While Jamie washed his hands and face in the little stream which surrounded them, Wilton lit up a joint using a cigarette lighter with his one good hand. He had a ready rolled supply of them in a tobacco tin which was open and within reach of where he was sitting. He had obviously been rolling his joints for the long trip home when Jamie had surprised him. The coughing and the spluttering began straight away, but Wilton persisted, sucking in deeply on the sedative drug, holding his breath as long as possible before doing it all again. Soon a transformation took place. The bronchial spasms eased, his anxiety settled and he physically relaxed as the pain through his body obviously eased. He was still bleeding internally into his lungs and thoracic cavity, and his life force was slipping away, but Wilton seemed unconcerned and panic free with that fact. He obviously intended to enjoy his excesses right to the very end of his life. And a few moments later, after slugging down a full can of bourbon and coke from his abundant backpack supply, he also loosened his tongue and began to babble on his own accord.

"Me and Skobie used tar cut timber all through dis area," he remarked lighting up another joint. "They were der good old days."

"Yer, what was so good about them?" asked Jamie, whilst going about the process of collecting nearby dried kindling, branches and reeds which were abundantly snagged around the fallen tree, to then light a fire beside Wilton in the creek bed.

It was no good pressuring, threatening or torturing his victim, that would have been counterproductive as he didn't have long to live. Jamie had to coerce him into voluntarily spilling his guts, by listening to him and sharing his adventure. It was time to begin recording on his smart phone.

"We use tar 'ave an old shack up 'ere, back in dem days when we were cuttin' timber. Would camp in it most night. Use tar 'ave a fire burnin' all the time too, nights got pretty cold, 'ave a barbie every evenin' and wash in der stream. Life was simple then. Blokes were blokes. No shielas! That was the prob in the camps... no shielas and too many fights. Blokes were gettin' hurt. Use tar go home every couple weeks or so, break the tension, find a scrag to shag for the weekend. Had tar clean out the pipes, get the dirty water off the chest," he chuckled softly, almost incoherently. "But things git out of hand, they always did. Lotza dope and lotza grog and a bit of LSD. All that good shit fucks yar head and Skob's would go the rat. Was always lookin' for more fun. He just wasn't 'appy gettin' smashed and layed. Had tar be more, always had tar be more... and we all got dragged along with it."

Jamie was close to him now, feeding the fire with larger pieces of kindling, building it up so the flames danced higher and the heat radiated out to where the dying man would feel it. Keeping his mouth shut, he listened intently to Wilton's ramblings, allowing the campfire environment in the middle of the bush to be his voice in triggering the emotions of distant memories. It seemed to be working, and although the guy was struggled to remain coherent, he seemed determined to get things off his chest. His conversation was fragmented and hard to follow at times, but the characters he was talking about, the picture he was portraying and the era he was referring to, were all relevant and important. He was constantly being interrupted by his own laborious breathing and fits of coughing as he continued to dull his senses through bourbon and dope. The last thing Jamie wanted, was for Wilton to fall into unconsciousness. He needed him alive and spilling his guts, or dead, nothing in between.

By now the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon and the full darkness of the forest was closing in around them like a blanket. The evening was cooling off quickly. He had collected enough firewood from the surrounding area to keep them warm through the night if that was necessary, but now with time running out, he was anxious to grill some sausages over the coals on the side of the campfire, to enrich his victim's memories and make them seem more authentic. Unlacing his well-used field shovel from its backpack constraints, he positioned it strategically amongst the embers, and after allowing a few minutes for it to heat up, tossed on a couple of sausages. The smell of the snags beginning to cook in its own fat instantly made his mouth water. Jamie looked over to Wilton as the smoke drifted in his directing. It had an immediate impact upon his psyche as well. The incoherent muttering stopped as the aroma triggered off some other memories of those distant days.

"Feel up to eating a snag?" asked Jamie.

"Yer... had a lotta snags in me day.

"I like them burnt, how about you?"

"Yer... any sauce?"

"Only tomato."

"Beauty."

All was quiet for a minute or so while the associated senses of smell, sight and sounds of sausages cooking over an open fire, in the middle of the bush with blackness of a night all around, danced on the surface of the dying man's subconscious mind. When he spoke it was with quiet reflection and great clarity.

"I remember dat vet student" he said. "Had a barbie then too. Twas Skobie's twenty first birthdee. He'd bought imself anuda Holden. We all went to der bush to flog our cars. I was always a Holden freak. Loved ta bash it around. Still got one, heap of shit now though... fallin' apart... dyin' just like me," he chuckled tapping his good hand on his chest. "But dat V8, what a motor! Purrrr like a kitten."

The sausages were ready and Jamie had to keep the momentum going. He grabbed a buttered bun, slapped on a burnt snag and after smothering it with tomato sauce, set it down beside Wilton on a paper plate.

"Here yar go," he said, "get that into yar."

He allowed Wilton time out, without any conversation or distractions, to enjoy what would surely be his last supper. While Wilton chocked and spluttered through his sausage sandwich, washing it down with copious quantities of bourbon, Jamie sat quietly waiting for the billy to boil so he could make himself a cuppa. He wondered about that night Laura was killed. Did she get a last supper, or a last wish? He seriously doubted it. It would have been a horrible and lonely way to die, and unlike the situation right now, where Wilton was not alone and had been given medical attention, his sister was denied that human compassion and decency. He waited until Wilton had finished eating and had lit up another joint, before casually striking up the conversation.

"Harry, did my sister try to escape?"

"Yer. Tried ter escape a couple of times. It was Skobies birthday. She was his present. Couldn't let her git away, would 'ave been hell tar pay if she did. He liked ter be entertained, real sicko that guy."

"How the hell did she end up in the middle of the bush in the first place? How was that possible?"

"Couple of der gang picked her up hitchin' out of Melbourne. Give her a ride, drugged her up a bit to keep her calm. They were good at that, gainin' der hikers trust, bringin' em back for a good time. Was a few of em, before der shit hit der fan."

Wilton was strangely on for a chat, he was lucid and at that point appeared to be pain free. He was probably closer to death than they both realised. Maybe he was attempting to cleanse his conscious, or maybe he'd forgotten who he was talking to, or maybe he was so far off his face with dope and bourbon that he didn't care what he was saying, or who he was saying it to. Any which way, it didn't matter as long as he filled in some of the gaps, and it was all being recorded just in case Jamie missed something.

"You had a couple in the gang who picked up hitchhikers?"

"Yer! Bloke and a shiela! You know, a trap, all a game. They were good at it too. Ralph's dead now, hit a tree doin' der ton. Straight through der windscreen, cut ta pieces, all mangled up, took a week to die."

Wilton chuckled with some sort of fiendish or sadistic delight at the gruesome imagery of how his old mate had died.

"What me about the shiela?"

"That whore Jody. I 'atted da bitch, but she sure knew how to suck in der hikers. Loved to watch der boys playin' games with em."

Jamie was incredulous, his mouth dropping open with disbelief.

"There was a female present when my sister was killed?"

"Fuckin' mole! Couldn't keep er away. One of Skobie's scrags."

"Is she still alive?"

"Real piss head now, fucked in der head. Went mental after dat night, don't know why Skobie didn't do her in at der same time."

"My sister was beaten to death!"

"Yer, wasn't pretty. Skobs saw to that. Reckons he taught her a lesson. He's a wild animal when he's smashed off his face. Crazy! No one crosses Skobie, no one. If he knew I was talkin' to yar now, he'd come ere and beat me to death to."

"Did you participate in the killing of my sister Harry?"

"Not me... but I was there."

"I'll get him."

"You won't... he's too cunnin'."

"You're dying Harry, you won't see the night out. There must be something you can tell me?"

"Nothin', he goes nowhere and trusts no one, except..."

"What is it?"

"He betrayed me once. I took der wrap and did time in der slammer for der guy. No favours when I got out. Maybe I return der favour now. Maybe that makes us even. Last Sundee of every month he does a mule run from Sydney to Melbourne and back for a bikie gang. Bin doing it fer years. Drops off drugs and picks up money for return trip. That's the best I can do."

Wilton physically relaxed, his shoulders dropping as if a huge weight had been lifted from them. He'd expended all his energies into his death bed confession, but with his eyes growing distant and his body trembling with cold, his life force was drifting away. Jamie stoked the fire as much as he could without setting the nearby forest alight through flying embers. He then moved closer to the dying man who had his head drooped forward with chin practically on his chest.

"Harry," he asked in a gentle non-threatening voice, "did you keep any souvenirs from my sister, you know, like Bill did?"

There was a prolonged silence, where he thought that maybe Wilton had not heard his question and was about to ask again, when the answer came.

"Nooo."

And with that soft denial, Wilton's body stiffened. With eyes and mouth wide open, he arched his head and neck back against the log he was resting against, took a deep breath and died. Jamie felt an instant sadness, as he observed the broken body relaxing, to crumble back into the upright slumped position. He felt a need to dignify the body, to lay it to rest as you would with a corpse in a coffin, to at least close the eyes or bandage the mouth shut to keep the blowflies out, but none of those things were going to happen.

With an unexplainable feeling of sadness engulfing him, he sat in quiet reflection. Now what was he to do? This was not the ending he'd entertained or even planned. The body was too awkward to move or to carry anywhere, particularly with his injured leg which was now creating excruciating pain and clumsiness in movement. Whilst travelling in his car he'd had plenty of time to fantasise about how he was going to exterminate Wilton. The back-up plan was to recreate the Bill Hunter scene and have him go over a cliff, but one of the wild and absurdly ridiculous thoughts which he'd entertained, was to somehow make Wilton a human scarecrow in his own marijuana plantation. The idea was to leave him there, secured to a tree, spread eagle and rotting as a symbolic warning to others on the consequences of growing and supplying illegal drugs. The idea originating from the practice of what he used to do to crows during the lambing season, by hanging them on a fence once he'd shot them. But his methodology as an executioner would probably be seen as barbaric, and its underlying message would be lost on those judging him. He had to accept the fact that he'd missed his opportunity to make any sort of a profound statement, and now there was no point in hanging around.

He would simply have to leave Wilton to be found as he was, shot to death in a creek bed, with his body bandaged and a backpack full of marijuana heads sitting beside him. He would take the handgun with him though, along with a full packet of bullets he'd found whilst rummaging through Wilton's backpack, and he'd also retrieve Wilton's mobile phone from out of the vehicle on his way out. Before leaving he would put out the fire, then check and double check with his torch that he'd thoroughly cleaned up the area, so that there were no physical clues left behind to identify who he actually was.

The passing of time was also an important element in masking his microscopic identity. DNA evidence of his bodily fluids on Wilton's corpse and clothing, and around the area as a result of the gunshot wound to his thigh, would begin to denature straight away with the ravages of the elements, and rain was an important factor in doing exactly that. The victim's body and the scene of the crime was in a sandy creek bed with running water only metres away, but a good rain anywhere upstream would see the area flushed clean of any evidence whatsoever. Nature was amazing. The unseen microbes would already be at work destroying cellular evidence from the inside, and the relentless insect world wouldn't be far behind, scavenging for any choice organic bits to take back to their nests.

Jamie did his final check around the crime scene, and with the fire extinguished, threw on his backpack and headed back the way he'd come a couple of hours early. He consoled himself that there was no way possible, other than by extreme bad luck, that Wilton's corpse would be discovered straight away. They were well off the main track and deep in the bush, where only devious marijuana growers, experienced bushwalkers or fire fighters would dare to go.
Part 3

# Chapter 22

A week and a half had passed since his second victim, Harry Wilton, had been exterminated. Wilton's body had not yet been discovered and Jamie was sitting calmly in the tranquillity of his garden, nourishing his soul and trying not to be side-tracked by the events of the past couple of weeks. Bathed in sunlight, and sitting in his favourite outdoor weather beaten timber chair with a cuppa in hand, his senses were being held captive by the colourful mixture of flowering shrubs and medium sized evergreen and deciduous trees which surrounded him. The breathtaking beauty of red, pink and white flowering sasanqua camellias, the stunning geisha-girl hedge dripping with delicate purple flowers, the sweet scent of golden gardenias and the stunning yellow/clarets hues of Japanese maples sliding into hibernation. It was mid-morning on a typically beautiful autumn day. The skies were as blue as could be, there was the slightest of breeze on the wing and natures' bees were at work foraging for nectar. The kids were at school, anyone with a job was already at work and the streets were quiet. Magically, everything seemed right with the world, that is, with the exception of the crazy woman who owned the property next door.

She suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder and found it necessary, along with other idiosyncrasies, to rake and pick up every single leaf and twig that fell in her yard, every day. Ironically, she lived on a big block, in the mountains with lots of trees all around, it was autumn, deciduous trees were dropping their leaves and on windy days the clean-up would become a never ending battle. Although she muttered to herself incessantly as she raked, it was the constant sound of the raking and the sound of a twenty litre plastic bucket being constantly picked up and dropped that drove him to total distraction. Whenever he was at home, his ears would subconsciously be listening for the sound, anticipating the sound, knowing that when the bucket was dropped and the raking began that there would be no peace inside his head until she'd finished. The woman was bat-shit crazy. He'd tried to be patient, tried his best in the past to understand her compulsion.

They were friendly enough neighbours for the first couple of years after he'd bought the property next door to her. He'd even contracted an arborist to remove a number of trees on his side of the fence, not only for his own personal reasons, but also to palliate her because she'd complained to him on a regular basis about the mess they made to her property. But there was never going to be any peace. His property was on the high side, and when the southerly and south/westerly winds blew through the trees on his side of the fence, they dislodged leaves and twigs which were carried by the turbulence currents to drop on her side of the fence.

Fighting with nature was a battle nobody was going to win, and that initial friendship over the fence had eroded over the subsequent years to become one of neighbourly tolerance only. Quite simply, her idiosyncrasy didn't make any sense and she couldn't acknowledge that she had a problem. So it was up to him to deal with the ramifications of her obsession the best way he could, because, 'come hell or high water', the muttering and raking were going to continue, day after day, week after week through all four seasons, year after year until she finally dropped dead.

But for today at least, the raking and bucket dropping were finished and the trivial frustration he felt surrounding those annoyances, had melted away. He returned his thoughts to much more serious matters. He knew that once Wilton's body had been discovered, that he would feel compelled to see his grief councillor again. But right now, he was conscious free with his role of being a self-appointed executioner, to rid society of individuals like Wilton who profited from, and prayed upon, the vulnerability and misery of other weak minded fools. The guy had been vermin, his lifestyle had depicted that fact. But now he was gone, shot and bled to death, like the rats Jamie used to hunt in the night so long ago, and with the same rifle. "No loss," muttered Jamie, massaging his scarred thigh.

His damaged leg was now well on its way to being healed, and although the wound probably needed stiches at the time, he'd been reluctant to go to the emergency department at the hospital, or to see a doctor, or see a pharmacist at a chemist shop, just in case questions were asked about the nature of the injury. It would have been obvious to any lay person that something had passed through the superficial layer of his quadriceps muscle. There was an entrance and an exit point clearly visible, seventy five millimetres apart on the skin. Today's society was a violent one, and with shooting occurring practically every day in the suburbs, he didn't want to draw anyone's attention to the fact that he'd been shot, or to have any medical treatment on record showing suspicious tissue trauma, with his name on it.

Instead, in an attempt to stop any infection, and on a regular basis, he'd cleaned the wound thoroughly with peroxide, applied a wadding impregnated with an antiseptic drawing ointment, and just to be on the safe side, had finished off a course of unused antibiotics tablets which he'd found lying around in the medicine cabinet. It did the job, and although he'd been hobbling around for the past ten days, with a built-in explanation of how he'd accidently hurt his thigh whilst cleaning up around the backyard, no one, including his lady friend, had questioned the incident any further. Well, why should they? Who would ever suspect he led a double life, or that he had a secret agenda to rid society of vermin like Bill Hunter, Harry Wilton and John Skobles.

But the fact that he had been careless and had been lucky to have escaped a gun battle at close quarters, without serious injury, worried him immensely. It had been too close for comfort and he'd have to be a lot more cautious next time. Stupidity carried consequences. Even with the painful distraction of a flesh wound, it had been an extremely difficult journey finding his way back through the old growth forest to his vehicle. Every muscular movement from the damaged thigh, and every step had squeezed blood from the raw wound. It hadn't taken very long at all, before that blood had oozed through the wadding and bandage, to discolour his jeans and grow in size. He'd known he wasn't going to bleed to death, and there had been an upside to the dilemma which had kept him moving. With every step the wound was cleansing itself, ridding itself of toxins, and until he got home and was able to rest and dress the wound hygienically, the cleansing would continue... and that had been a good thing.

However, with that constant distraction, a heavy limp and with a back pack and rifle to carry, he'd lost his balance on the steep incline on a couple of occasions, to slam heavily into trees. On one occasion he'd lost his footing all together, to end up tumbling on the ground with his back pack busting open to throw out a number of item, to leave them scattered around and hidden in the undergrowth. In the total darkness of the night, with only a small LED torch to show the way, he'd wasted a lot of mental and emotional energy beating himself up, as he searched the undergrowth, his back pack and his memory for the items that may have been missing. After that mishap and without any track to follow, he'd traversed the forested terrain for a considerable amount of time and a considerable distance, looking for recognisable points of reference, before conceding to the fact that he was lost. Although he was heading uphill out of the valley, he'd become confused and disorientated as to which direction he was actually heading in. He could have literally wandered around all night and not have found the fire track at all, if it hadn't have been for a sudden brain flash, when he realised he still had his mobile phone with him.

All he had to do was to turn it on, pray that he had reception, and activate the tracker App to find his way back to Wilton's station wagon. Miraculously, considering the isolated topography he was lost in, the phone displayed a very weak signal which was good enough to establish a bearing. He had been heading in the wrong direction and was a good kilometre or so from where the signal was originating from. Feeling greatly relieved for being thrown a lifeline, he had then taken his time, assuring there would be no more hasty accidents for the remainder of the journey. Finally, a gruelling hour or so later after reaching Wilton's station wagon, he had smashed the passenger's side window with a bush rock to retrieve Wilton's mobile, before then following the winding and undulating fire trail back uphill to his own vehicle.

Once securely back at home in the early hours of the morning, he had placed the mobile phone and handgun, with its spare packet of bullets, into the same shoe box which held Bill Hunter's trophies. It was a stupid hiding place and he made a vow to himself to find a more secure location in the immediate future, or alternatively, with the feeling that the walls were now beginning to close in on him, he'd physically get rid of all the evidence.

He had once again also disposed of all items connected with his field trip which could be carrying DNA evidence and implicate him as a suspect in the murder of Harry Wilton. These items, amongst other things, included the clothing and boots he had worn, the back pack he had carried into the bush and an ex-army great coat which he always carried around in the boot of his SUV. It had been a very good idea to have pulled over to the side of the road and put that coat on, before then pulling in to get petrol at a twenty four hour service centre on his return trip. He didn't want to draw attention to himself, or be recorded on CCTV displaying incriminating evidence for a jury to see. The limp he carried was noticeable enough, but the huge fresh blood stain on his torn jeans, along with the smudges and splatters of blood on his shirt and jumper, would have created unwanted suspicion and no doubt would have resulted in phone calls to the police. To his advantage, the night had turned cool and the coat would not have necessarily looked out of place. But the true deception of the coat lay in the fact that its length came down to the middle of his calves, to cover all the blood and muck on his clothing and all the tell-tale signs of his misadventure.

It had been a sad act to cut and tear that coat into pieces, to then toss it in the bin with the other putrescible household garbage. He had done the same with his clothing and backpack, and had butchered his near new boots by ripping off the soles to make them totally unwearable. His actions of destruction may have seemed somewhat extreme, but he didn't want anyone foraging through the tip, to find and resurrect anything relating to the crime that could lead back to incriminate him. He would miss the coat though. Its protection from the wind, and the warmth it provided from the long chilly winter days and nights whilst sitting on the tractor, droving sheep on foot, or herding cattle on horseback, had been a god send. He'd worn that oversized great coat year after year, through every winter since turning eighteen, and for the next twenty five odd years, right up until he'd left the farm. Its existence triggered a lot of memories, but now it was gone, and in the big scheme of things, it didn't matter that it was. The coat was an inanimate object that could be cast aside, it was not a living breathing entity with a soul.

Hindsight was a wonderful thing, and the Subaru was also becoming a matter of considerable concern. He should have disposed of it after the execution of his first victim. No matter how much thorough scrubbing and vacuuming he had done after both of these occasions, the vehicle would still no doubt contained microscopic DNA evidence of Bill Hunter actually being in the car when he was abducted. And in spite of a double dose of sanitisation, the vehicle could now also contain hair, blood or mucus from physical contact with Harry Wilton, which he'd unwittingly carried on his clothing, to be then shed in the vehicle and spread within its confines with air circulation, to lodge in every minute nook and cranny during the long journey home.

And now the rifle that he had shot Wilton with was also a problem, despite the fact that he'd used hollow point bullets which flatten on impact. Surely it would be an impossible task to physically reconstruct the flattened projectile, to identify the weapon by matching scoring marks on the bullets, to that of the rifles bore. However, it was a risk he couldn't take. He had fired off the entire magazine of ten bullets. There was no way of being sure that all the slugs were flattened. And he hadn't recovered all of the shell casings with his attempt to clean up the site either. They were probably buried in the soft sand of the creek bed during the melee. Was it possible for the forensic team to find the missing shells with the use of a metal detector, and identify the rifle by the score marks on the shell?

Or worse still, what would the result be if they found the slug from the handgun that he'd been shot with, with his blood and tissue on it? It was a real possibility. The slug would have lost a lot of its momentum as it passed through the superficial muscle of his leg. It could be laying in the sand of the creek bed not far away from where Wilton's decomposing body would be found. Jamie had not been in trouble with the law before, so logically there was no DNA profile to identify him anywhere on the database, but the question still remained, could the detectives legally ask for a DNA sample from him? A cold shudder of concern rocketed through Jamie's psyche as he tried to rationalise the situation with the best possible outcome. Even if there was no forensic evidence found at the site, the police could still get a warrant to search his home, based on the suspicion of his involvement, and if they found his unregistered rifle in the shed, then as circumstantial as that may very well be, fingers would still be pointed in his direction.

He'd had plenty of time to think about the problems he had created for himself on his long drive home from the mid-north coast, and in the days that followed. He had made a vow to himself, that as soon as his leg had healed sufficiently with a good range of movement, then he intended to do something positive about rectifying those problems of what to do with the trophies, rifle and his vehicle. And that time was now. His leg was sufficiently healed. He had to act today. He had to cover his arse before Wilton's body was discovered. For once it was, the police would be seriously looking in his direction, suspecting revenge as being the motive behind the killings and speculating that he was the vigilante, or one of the vigilantes delivering that justice. They would also suspect, rightly enough, that the ex-leader of the gang, John Skobles would be the next intended victim, and they'd be making arrangements through his attorney to have a serious chat to him about that possibility.

As for Skobles, once he knew for sure that Wilton was dead, he'd be looking over his shoulder and he'd be prepared. He would have his wits about him, and would become even more socially withdrawn and paranoid once it dawned upon him that he was the sole survivor of his old gang. He'd know that his past had finally caught up with him, and that he was to be the next intended victim of this vigilante who was dispensing his own kind of justice. However, Skobles was no dummy. He was ruthless and should not be underestimated. This time around, there could be no mistakes. Jamie would have to bide his time and carefully consider how, when and where he was going to trap and execute his victim. One thing was for sure though, he knew he'd have to meticulously plan the guys capture down to a tee, with a very good back up plan, because opportunism may not play any part in Skobles capture.

To that end, he'd been through Wilton's phone log and had found not only Skobles mobile number, but also a number of texts over the years between the two of them, with one recent replied SMS messages from Skobles. The message was dated a couple of weeks ago, not long after Bill Hunter's tortured corpse had been discovered snagged in a tree below a two hundred metre drop in the upper Blue Mountains. It was in response to Wilton's message alerting him to that fact. Wilton's message read, "Billy-boys dead! Looks like he's bin murdered. Yar goin' to der funeral?" Skobles curt reply was, "Nar, fuck him."

Although ruthless and being as cunning as a shithouse rat, Skobles had a weakness which Jamie intended to exploit. It was one of the two common denominators which had bound the gang members together, even long after the gang had disbanded, and that weakness was drugs. Wilton had provided him with info about Skobles drug trafficking affiliation with a notorious bikie gang. On the last Sunday of every month he acted as a two-way mule between Sydney and Melbourne, transporting drugs one way, and laundered money on the return trip from the clubs more legitimate and legal activities. According to Wilton's disjointed ramblings, Skobles was not a bikie club member, had never rode with the club or wore their club colours, and only those high up in the organisation knew of his independent involvement. He did his deals behind closed doors and travelled incognito to fly under the radar. As such, he drew no attention to himself. The arrangement had been that way for a lot of years. It obviously worked well for both the club and for Skobles, who was no doubt being rewarded with a copious quantity of illegal drugs and cash for his high risk activity. This was a sweet deal for Skobles, and he certainly wouldn't want to be upsetting the status quo. The consequences of failure would be viewed the same way as stealing from the organisation, and the outcome would be extremely ugly.

The information had been offered by Wilton. It had been his dying wish, a verbal act of betrayal towards his old leader, as pay-back for keeping his mouth shut and taking the rap by doing time in jail for a crime they'd both committed. There had been no gratitude or privileges, financial or otherwise, shown by the ex-leader towards Wilton, upon Wilton's release from prison. That unacknowledged loyalty had obviously left a very sour and lasting taste in Wilton's mouth. Jamie had an unwritten agreement with Wilton which he was determined to honour. He would use the information to his advantage, and in doing so would fulfil Wilton's dying wish. He made a mental note to himself, reinforcing the fact that the next last Sunday of the month was still two weeks away, so he still had adequate time up his sleeve to plan what he would do, and how he would go about it.

Thanks to Wilton, he now had Skobles phone number, and by using the tracker technology on his mobile over the last few days, he now also knew where Skobles lived. There had to be a degree of irony and poetic justice in that fact. Bill Hunter's phone logs had unwittingly betrayed the whereabouts of Harry Wilton, and Harry Wilton's phone logs had unwittingly betrayed the whereabouts of John Skoble. Whether they liked it or not, they had been forever linked by circumstances. They were blood brothers, bound by the stain of blood and of the deep-seated distrust they felt for each other. After the truth had come out at the Inquest and the finger pointing and local persecution had begun, the three surviving gang members had one by one, packed up and moved interstate to settle in the outskirts of Sydney. Hunter had settled in the Western suburbs to begin his new life as a small time drug dealer in a local pub, Wilton had ended up in the inner west of the city, funding his vulgar excesses with income from his hidden marijuana crops, and Skobles had found his anonymity in the Hawkesbury area, and maintained that existence by being a drug mule once a month for a notorious bikie gang.

Although they were no longer friends, the three had been within striking distance of each other and contactable by phone. This was important, as it no doubt had been for the eight or more original members of the gang, who before they started dying, were constantly being investigated as being suspects in the murder of his sister. If the 'shit hit the fan' and they were under the spotlight for the murder, which they were on many occasions, or if there was the threat of someone squealing in exchange for the huge reward, then they all needed to come together at short notice, to have a meeting and plan a joint strategy of what to do about the situation.

However, at this point in time, Skobles didn't know Wilton was dead, so there was still that background distrust and fear of betrayal in existence. This meant that until Wilton's death became public knowledge, he could pretend to be Wilton and use Wilton's mobile to send texts to Skobles. Perhaps if he was cunning enough, he could trick Skobles into meeting him somewhere at an isolated location where he could be executed. It was a good plan, a simple plan, but he wasn't going to be rushed into making any mistakes. He'd made enough of those. For the time being, he favoured the original plan of capturing Skobles whilst he was potentially carrying hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of drugs, or laundered money, for a notorious bikie gang. The collateral damage of such a brazen move would have far reaching and serious consequences. He would bide his time, knowing that if an opportunity didn't arise to put a plan into action before the last Sunday of this month, then there was always the last Sunday of the next month to plan for.

Right now though, at this very minute, he'd made up his mind. It was time to do something about the rifle, the trophies and the vehicle which could link him to the two executions.

# Chapter 23

Inspector Brian Cooke was anxious to resume his investigation into Bill Hunter's murder. Although the guy had been a nasty piece of shit with a long criminal history, he had no family members, or anyone else in the world, who cared enough about him to push the case along, and the Inspector didn't want his murder becoming another unsolved cold case. He'd been side-tracked over the past couple of weeks, by two other more urgent, yet unrelated, high profile matters, both of which necessitated his teams investigative input. One of these was the disappearance of a ten year old child from a shopping centre who was thought to have been abducted for a paedophile ring. The other was the mysterious double homicide of a controversial property developer and his wife in their multi-million dollar home, which was not witnessed by anyone, or recorded by any of the extensive home security CCTV network.

With a lack of homicide Detectives in the force, coupled with budgetary restraints and the incidents of violent crimes on the increase, it was always only be a matter of time before he would be called away again. The Department's resources were stretched thin. When a murder was committed, the first forty eight hours were crucial to solving the case, and his homicide team was expected to stop whatever they were currently working on, to throw all their resources into helping out with the new investigation before the trail went cold. This was the psychological and emotive period of time for obtaining valuable uncensored information, from anyone affected by, or know to the deceased. The Homicide team knew they had to hit hard and hit fast before the momentum was lost, for once witnesses became guarded with their responses, and once the headlines became yesterday's news, everything from then on to obtain information, became a hard slog.

And a hard slog is exactly what Bill Hunter's case could easily become, if he didn't put aside the time necessary to find and pursue any leads, no matter how vague or unpalatable those leads may be. It had been well over a month since Hunter's body had been recovered from the base of the Blue Mountains, and as of yet there were no firm suspects in the cross hairs. His team had effectively eliminated all individuals, with any sort of criminal history showing on the police data base, who had been identified by facial recognition from the CCTV footage of the hotel, on the night that Hunter had been abducted. Only one face remained, and that face, without any criminal connections or convictions, belonged to Jamie Wells. A niggling sensation was gnawing away in the Inspector's consciousness, pushing him to dig deeper against his will.

The justice system had failed the Wells family consistently over the last forty odd years, and although he didn't like the direction this investigation was heading, he had no choice than to follow the leads and see what they threw up. He secretly hoped that whatever he found could be explained away as just a coincidence, but the two new pieces of evidence coming to light, kind of suggested otherwise. In reviewing additional CCTV footage prior to the night in question, it was discovered that Jamie Wells had visited the pub on one other occasion. That visit occurred three days before the abduction had taken place, and was during the same time that Bill Hunter was in the hotel. He had entered and exited the hotel alone. Perhaps this visit had simply been a reconnaissance to establish the lay of the land, but maybe there was also the more sinister possibility that he had met with an accomplice inside, or maybe even hired a contract killer to do the dirty work for him.

Furthermore, it had come to light that the deceased had bought a barbeque from the Penrith Budwells DIY warehouse, only a matter of days before he was murdered. A cash invoice, which was collected from the victim's house, confirmed that fact. How big a coincidence was it to discover, through taxation returns and group certificates from the tax office, that Jamie Wells also worked at that same Warehouse? And surprise, surprise, with a cursory phone call to the warehouse store manager, the Inspector also found out that Jamie Wells had been working at the warehouse, on the same day that the deceased had walked into the place to buy that barbeque. According to the warehouse manager, who had also been on duty that day, there had been a number of individual violent verbal incidents, which had occurred between various staff members and the deceased during the course of that ongoing soured transaction.

It was apparent to the Inspector that he needed to personally visit the warehouse, to get an overall picture in his head as to how things had happened on that day. Whilst there, if possible, he would also interview the staff associated with the incident. The manager had kindly emailed him the current employee roster with its fixed winter hours, along with the names of the staff who had been the victims of Hunter's violent tirade. It was the same timetable, showing the same workers doing the same hours for the next few weeks, as it had been on the day of the confrontation with Hunter. The only difference being, there was one employee who worked in the lifestyle department from where the barbeques were sold, who was currently on a two week holidays and wouldn't be back for another week. That employee was Jamie Wells, and as the Inspector had only just discovered with his telephone conversation to the warehouse manager, Jamie Wells had been working on the day when Bill Hunter had bought that particular barbeque.

A time line of events were emerging. It made sense, that if Jamie Wells was responsible, or had played a part in Hunter's death, then it probably had been a chance encounter between the two of them at the warehouse which had started the ball rolling. He had then somehow found out where Hunter drank, and a couple of days later had slipped into a very crowded pub to observe the guy while he formulated a plan. Maybe he had an accomplice helping him who wasn't apparent at this stage, but three nights later, Jamie Wells was back at the same pub, and a couple of hours after that, Hunter was to disappear. Since that night, Jamie Wells had not returned to the pub.

Armed with this new information, and with a week up his sleeve to get his head around these series of coincidences, the Inspector decided it would be an opportunistic time for him to front Jamie Wells in his work place, on his first day back at work from a relaxing holiday.

# Chapter 24

Jamie retrieved the shoe box from his bedroom wardrobe. Taking it to the shed, he made sure to secure the door behind him, so that no one could walk in unexpectedly to throw suspicion around what he was doing. He spread the contents out onto his empty workbench. A hand gun with its spare packet of bullets, two mobile phones, a flick knife and two keys on a keyring stared up at him, as did a calico bag containing his sister's bank deposit book. Without hesitation, he ripped up the calico bag, disposing of it into the bin. He would be keeping the deposit book though, as a treasured historic memento of his sister's plight. It would be placed in another box in his study, into a cardboard time capsule which held all the family's correspondence. The bank deposit book would be mixed lovingly amongst the many well-wishing birthday cards, notes and very personal letters from an era before internet and e-mail technology, right up until the present day.

He had no use for Bill Hunter's house or car keys, they'd served their purpose. Removing both keys from the ring, he secured them into the jaws of the metal vice at the end of the bench, and by using light repetitive blows back and forth with a hammer, snapped them both in half. He did the same with the flick knife blade, but to make the knife and the vileness of what it represented even more unrecognisable, he sat it on his blacksmith's anvil and bludgeoned it with a sledge hammer. The physical existence of the two mobile phones in his possession were also an unnecessary problem. Logically Hunter was long dead, so his mobile could be destroyed. And although there was the possibility that he could stooge Skobles, by pretending to be Wilton by using Wilton's phone to text him, it was a stupid thought that wouldn't work.

Skobles was a paranoid sociopath, who, judging by his limited texting history with Wilton, wasn't going to tell him Jack shit, so his phone could also be destroyed. As a back-up plan, he should probably save the sim cards of both phones, but he already had Skobles's phone number and knew where he lived. That's all the information he needed, and as neither phones showed the contact details for Jody, the female who Wilton said was present when his sister was killed, saving the sim cards would also be a pointless exercise and a needless worry. With that decision made, one at a time he laid each mobile onto the surface of the anvil, and with a couple of solid poundings from his well-used and trusty sledge hammer, obliterated them to smithereens.

All that was now left on the bench was the hand gun with its spare packet of bullets. He didn't know the weapons history, but it was obviously illegal and had been bought off the street on the black market. He just hoped it wasn't linked to the murder of an innocent person. Realistically he still had one more primary target to execute, and in light of the fact that he had made the decision to get rid of his rifle, he still needed a weapon of some sort as a back-up. And what better weapon was there to carry around, than one that could be concealed. The hand gun was a necessary evil. It had practically been handed to him as spoils from a gunfight. It was worth saving, and he knew exactly where he was going to hide it until he needed it again. He wrapped the weapon, along with its packet of bullets, in a dry terry towelling fabric and inserted it into a waterproof zip-lock plastic bag.

Leaving the shed, he walked the slight decline, stopping a short distance away to open a mesh gate under the side of his elevated house. Crouching down, he switched on the sub-floor lights and waddled through the metre high opening, to stop momentarily while his eyes adjusted to the dim fluorescent lights. Away from the entrance, there was complete concealment where he was invisible to any prying eyes of the outside world and could move in any direction undetected. With the exception of light filtering in from ventilation slits just below the floor line, the buildings external perimeter was totally bricked in, and with its internal foundation supported on brick piers, movement in any direction was pretty easy on hands and knees. However as the land sloped towards the back of the house, the sub-floor height reduced significantly, which made access to those points more difficult. But that was not going to be a problem, because the hiding place he had in mind was on the second row of piers, and only fifteen odd metres away from where he'd just entered.

He had only found the potential concealment spot, while inspecting the hardwood bearers and joists for white ants, after moving into the place many years ago. One of the bricks, directly underneath the ant cap of one of the metre high brick piers, was loose and could be removed. When he'd originally found it he was a little concerned, thinking that there could be a structural weakness, but upon closer inspection discovered that for some reason or other the brick had never been cemented into place. The house had been standing for a lot of years, and logic dictated that one loose brick wasn't going to affect its structural integrity. The timber bearer above the loose brick, was being firmly supported by the other upper three bricks making up the square pier.

With the brick removed, it exposed an internal cavity roughly fifteen centimetres square, which dropped one metre down to the footing at earth level. Removing the brick, Jamie jiggled the hand gun around until it fitted snuggly within the rough confines. He was content that it wouldn't drop any lower than where he'd placed it, and that assumption was based upon the copious quantities of dried mortar which was squashed out between the bricks of the inner cavity, thus preventing it from doing so. With the brick replaced, nobody would be any the wiser as to the deception. It would take a bloody good detective, with an exceptional instinct and knowing what evidence he was looking for, to be able to find the weapons hiding place.

Stage one was complete, he'd attended to the victim's possessions. Now it was time for stage two, attending to the destruction of his rifle and the cattle prod. Returning to the shed he opened up the storage box to remove the cattle prod and the timber rifle case with the semi-automatic weapon inside. Dismantling the weapon, he once again lay all the individual components out on the bench, so as to evaluate their order and method of destruction. The timber carrying case was first on the list, and was quickly broken up by blows from an ordinary builder's claw hammer. The cattle prod, telescopic sights and empty magazine clip were next, and like the fate of the switchblade knife and mobile phones, were quickly reduced to a twisted and mutilated unrecognisable feature of their former selves, with the help of an anvil and an eight pound sledge hammer.

The rifle however, would require a different method of destruction. Its barrel and bolt were manufactured from high tensile strength steel, and its destruction would require a metal drop saw or angle grinder. Before using the saw though, he would remove as much of the glued on timber as he could from the rifle. Holding the rifle on a large lump of hardwood, he cruelly hacked away at its stock with an old tomahawk, breaking off chunks, splintering and reducing the once beautifully walnut timber to become little more than firewood kindling. Then, choosing the drop saw as his tool of destruction, he pulled on his safety glasses and cut the barrel and firing mechanism into unrecognisable small fifty millimetre pieces. With the rifle destroyed, the only decision that remained, was what to do with almost two full packets of bullets.

Logically, he couldn't toss them in the bin with the rest of his household garbage, like he intended to do with all the items he'd destroyed in the shed today. What if the bullets exploded with compaction, or in transit, or worst still, what if some kid found them at the tip and took them home to experiment with. No! To chuck them in the bin would be irresponsible and potentially dangerous. Some innocent person could get seriously hurt. One thing was for sure though, even if there was a current amnesty on firearms or explosives, he couldn't hand them in to the police for disposal. That would mean going to a police station, and with surveillance cameras everywhere recording who was coming and going, it would be bloody stupid to draw attention to himself. So, what were his options?

It seemed he had no other choice than to either bury them, or drop them in a location where the shell would decay over time to render the powder and primer useless. Salt was very corrosive, it would do the job quite quickly. For that reason he had initially thought about dropping them in the ocean, or in the middle of a tidal river, but his conscience had forced him to dismiss both option. A tidal river with its swirling currents could carry the bullets on its tide to deposit them on the sandy shores of estuaries, which could then be picked up by children looking for seashells. And to be out of harm's way in the ocean, the bullets would have to be dropped kilometres off shore, which would mean hiring a boat with some lame-arse excuse of going deep sea fishing or whale watching for a couple of hours. The consequence of doing that would be an incredible amount of sea sickness, and that sensation was something he never wanted to experience ever again in his life.

In the end, he decided to bury the bullets in his own backyard. Hell, if the detectives came knocking, what would they be looking for, certainly not a body, so surely they wouldn't be digging up his backyard. And even if they suspected a weapon was buried and brought along a metal detector to find the bullets instead, so what, that was circumstantial evidence which could be explained away in another manner and would not be admissible in a court of law. What they physically needed was the rifle. Forensically, its existence could possibly prove that it was the weapon used to kill Harry Wilton, but after tonight's garbage pick-up, they'd never be able to find any of the pieces to put it all back together again, to prove anything.

With that settled in his mind, Jamie knew exactly where he was going to bury the bullets. Last autumn he had planted out fifteen medium sizes red sasanqua camellias. They were all in a row, positioned not far in from the side fence on the other side from his crazy neighbour, and spaced one metre apart in a mulched bed of sugar cane. One of the camellias had died during the summer months. He had intended to replace it, and now was the opportunistic time to do exactly that. He would pull out the dead one and replace it with a more expensive advanced camellia, which would be of the same size as the others so that it wouldn't look out of place. It would take an astute and intuitive detective to realise any deception.

Also deceptively in his favour, was the water pipe running to his house from the water meter at the front of his property. It not only ran parallel to the fence line, but also ran right alongside the camellias. He had uncovered it with the digging of all fifteen holes whilst planting them last year. It was his intention to dig an exceptionally deep narrow hole directly under the water pipe, into which he would drop the bullets, before then back filling and planting the new camellia on top. Because of its size and length, a metal detector would easily find the pipe, but Jamie doubted if the operator would be able to get a fix on, or register a signal from any small metal objects buried under it. It was a feasible and very practical plan which took care of two problems at once. After that, all he had to do to cover his tracks, was to get rid of the vehicle.

It was while he was on his way to the nursery, to buy the replacement camellia a short while later, that he realised the conundrum he was in concerning the disposal of his vehicle. This was a very large in-your-face object. It was nothing like the smaller items which he had just mangled, smashed, or cut up to throw into the garbage bin. His bin would be picked up tonight with thousands of other household bins, all with their unknown contents, to be dumped at the land fill tip with dozens and dozens of other truckloads of garbage. Then a bulldozer would work the garbage, pushing, blending, burying and compacted it so that no incriminating evidence of any sort, belonging to anyone, could ever be found. The same rationale could not be applied to his vehicle.

He couldn't cut it up, that simply wasn't feasible. He couldn't simply abandon it in a street or in the bush somewhere. People hated dumped cars. It would be found and it would be reported to the police who would identified the vehicle by its number plates, or by its engine or chassis numbers if the plates were removed. Either which way, the vehicle would be identified and the coppers would come knocking on his door wanting an explanation. And sooner or later, his name would come up as a potential person of interest in both murders, so there was no advantage in simply dumping a vehicle that would be found and forensically tested. He couldn't sell it to a private buyer, or trade it in on another vehicle either, motor registry records would show who the new owner was and it would be impounded by the authorities for forensic testing. And for the same reason, he couldn't take the chance of selling it for scrap metal. The vehicle could sit around for weeks and weeks in the wrecking yard, while spare parts were being stripped off it for resale, before any decision was made to crush the shell.

Sadly, going against all his moral convictions, there seemed to be only one fool proof way out of this dilemma which he had created for himself. The only way to destroy all forensic evidence and to throw the doubt of suspicion away for himself, was to gut the vehicle with fire and report it as being stolen. To do that, the operation would have to be carried out in the dead of night, probably in the early hours of the morning with no one around to witness what was going on, and in a location where the fire wouldn't set the mountains alight. He wouldn't be able to live with himself, if people or wildlife lost their lives or homes because of his stupidity. To his advantage though, autumn was as good as gone and winter was just around the corner. Last night's synoptic weather map had showed a stable high pressure system over the state, which indicated very cool settled nights without any wind. As an added bonus, there had also been good rainfalls recorded in the past week, not only locally, but also state wide, and particularly on the mid north coast where they'd coped a deluge, so the undergrowth was wet and any collateral damage as a result of the fire would be minimal.

The biggest problem wouldn't be the logistics of how the fictitious perpetrators broke into his car and took it out of the driveway, as that could be explained away by saying that he was asleep at the time and didn't hear the car being stolen. And it would be too suspicious if the vehicle was found just around the corner, so it would have to be torched a good distance away from where he lived. The biggest problem would be getting back home in the dead of night, without being observed, once he had torched the vehicle. Jamie shuddered with paranoiac concern, visualising all the negatives associated with that undertaking. He'd be skulking through the back alleys, streets and highway with a hoodie pulled over his head, trying to keep to the shadows and not draw any attention to himself. Dogs would be barking, vehicles would occasionally be going by and their drivers would be viewing him with suspicion.

News of a burning or exploding car would travel fast. Emergency services would be alerted. Cop cars, fire engines and ambulances would be racing to the scene. All emergency personnel would be anxious and on edge, wondering if this was an arson attack, or something a lot grimmer with people seriously burnt and injured. Along with the local taxi drivers and tow truck operators doing the grave yard shift, they'd all be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary. For that reason he couldn't call a taxi from the middle of nowhere, as that conversation and customer pick-up would be recorded. And he couldn't catch a train from any station, providing they were running at that time of night, for fear of being recorded on CCTV. Struth, maybe he couldn't even use his phone, because any calls would be logged by his telco to show who he rang, the time he rang and the tower transmission area from where he called, which would place him in the vicinity of the crime.

Perhaps he couldn't even take the risk of carrying his phone with him. Maybe his GPS footprints were constantly being uploaded for future reference, and could identify where he had been at all times. This thought was now of great concern. He'd previously carried his phone, with its GPS locater turned on, whilst stalking Harry Wilton through the bush to his marijuana crop. If the authorities got hold of his phone, and somehow worked out his password to gain access to his google applications, then he'd be exposed as being present at the location when Wilton was killed, and in the absence of anyone else being present, could be convicted as Wilton's killer. However, he'd never told anyone his password, and he certainly never would to incriminate himself. Besides, it was very doubtful if any law could make an internet company breach the privacy act, to give any investigative authority any access at all to his account details, and that thought was a load off his mind.

Jamie sighed loudly, his shoulders dropping their tense guard as he slowed his vehicle to turn into the nursery. The whole situation seemed to be getting out of hand. Even if he found his way home on foot without any additional drama, he still had to ring and verbally report the vehicle as being stolen, go to the police station and fill out forms of how, when and where his vehicle was stolen, and then deal with the recovery of the vehicle. The consequences of his intended deceit were going to impact upon too many people unnecessarily, and in the process it would more than likely bring him undone. One thing was for sure, if there was a next time, if he could start all over again with another assignment, then he'd go about things a lot more professionally and without any emotions attached. As an anonymous vigilante, the clinical and cold-blooded execution to rid society of its scum, like convicted paedophiles, drug dealers or murderers would be so much easier.

Case and point to that argument would be Norman Toombs, a serial rapist/killer who was currently in the news headlines and outraging community groups. Toombs had been previously convicted of rape and murder. However in sentencing, on the grounds of diminished responsibility due to an ice addiction problem, a lenient judge had given him an extraordinary light sentence. He had already served time behind bars, but within one month of his release from prison, had reoffended with the vicious rape and assault upon yet another innocent female victim. Unbelievably, he was currently out on bail, walking the streets, stubbing his nose at the establishment and still preying on society. Society would thank him, or any other vigilante, for taking care of this low life grub.

The task of retribution which he was currently engaged in though, was totally different. It involved the execution of three related targets, and historically because of his sister's murder, he was anything but anonymous. But with all that overlooked, he'd made stupid mistakes along the way and fingers would eventually be pointed in his direction. Now the potential ramifications of torching the vehicle, and skulking away like a thief in the night, were psychologically weighing heavy on his mind. The whole scenario didn't feel right. And, once again, there was that proverb going around and around in his head forewarning him to be careful, _"oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."_ There simply had to be another way to solve the problem.

It was only a matter of an hour or so later, while he was dropping the bullets into the metre deep hole below the water pipe, that he realised the new plan for torching the vehicle. Sometimes the best way to hide what you are doing, is to do it in clear sight of everyone. It was so ridiculously simple. All he had to do was to fabricate an accidental reason for setting his own vehicle alight. In that way there would be no skulduggery attached. And what better reason would there be for having a naked flame burning in the interior of the car, than to be lighting a cigarette. Of course there was a cigarette lighter built into the dash of his vehicle, but he'd make sure that its lighter went out into the bin tonight with the rest of the garbage. Then there was the fact that he didn't smoke, hadn't done for ten years, but for the sake of the charade he would buy a packet of cigarettes and a butane lighter today. And because the thin cotton seat covers and synthetic fibres of the seats and floor carpets would burn ferociously, he would choose a location somewhere very close to a fire station so the response time was minimal. It was a good plan, and furthermore, it was one that he felt very comfortable with.

Early tomorrow morning, armed with the excuse that he'd been for a short bushwalk, and with nobody around to witness what was going on, he'd light up a cigarette which would somehow accidently set the interior of his vehicle alight. Distressed, he'd ring 000 from his mobile phone. In a very short period of time, a fire engine would arrive to extinguish the fire, which would have by then totally gutted the interior of the vehicle and destroyed any forensic evidence of any crime. There would be no police investigation of any kind, other than paper work to be filled out. There was also no comprehensive insurance on the vehicle, so there would be no financial claim, or any investigation from an insurance company.

His car would be a twisted and rusted wreck and would be taken away to be crushed for its metal value only. He was the one who would be out of pocket to replace the vehicle, and he would probably also get a bill from the fire department for its call out, but that was a small sacrifice to pay to solve a much larger problem. All that would be left to do after tomorrow mornings charade, was to buy a replacement vehicle. He loved that early model Subaru forester, and if it was at all possible to find one just like it for sale within the next four days of his holidays, then he'd be doing exactly that.

# Chapter 25

It felt great to be back at work. He had just taken two weeks of his annual holidays, at short notice, to recuperate from his injured leg. It was a slow time of the year for sales where staff hours were cut back, so the company had been enthusiastic about his request for holidays, with the consideration for more time off if he so desired. Subject to formulating a plan to capture Skobles, he may very well take them up on that offer in the near future, but for the time being he intended to turn up to work as usual.

"Hold on yar cripple, let me give you a hand with that."

The comment brought a smile to his face. Michael was taking a comical swipe at his temporary disability, but didn't want him to make the injury worst by struggling to lift a box off the floor and onto a trolley without assistance.

"Yer, thanks mate. I feel like a bit of an invalid with this bung leg."

"What did yar do?"

"Cleaning up around the garden and gouged my leg on a piece of steel reinforcing rod."

"Nice! Got you a bit of a holiday from this shitty place."

"Yer," chuckled Jamie, "but it's good to be back. I missed you whinging buggers."

Jamie settled into his old routine, tidying up, restocking shelves and even brought in a few trolleys from the car park, being conscious all the time of his injury and determined not to push himself any more than he had to, to earn his pay. The morning progressed without incident, and it wasn't until after morning tea, while he was helping a customer with an enquiry concerning outdoor furniture, that he noticed the demeanour of a tall well build man standing over by the barbeques, talking to both Alvie and Damo. Wearing a tie with a white long sleaved business shirt folded at the cuffs and carrying a folder in his left hand, there was a recognisable air of authority surrounding the man. A cold shudder of concern pasted through Jamie's body. He had previously seen this man interviewed on the television news. It was Inspector Brian Cooke.

Jamie willed himself to become inconspicuous. Having finished with his customer he moved further away from the trio, to occupy his time rearranging floor stock, while he observed what was going on from a distance. He knew why the Inspector was here, and he knew he'd hear all about it once the Inspector was gone, but right at this very moment he simply didn't want the Inspector to physically see or talk to him, just in case somewhere along the investigative line, the penny dropped as to who he was. Already there were far too many matters for concern, that should he be questioned about the murders, would be difficult to explain away as being purely coincidental or circumstantial. There was his job here at the DIY warehouse where Hunter had bought the barbeque and had been initially recognised. Then there was the CCTV footage of him entering and exiting the pub on the same night that Hunter disappeared, his presence at Hunter's funeral, and his personal involvement with Mandy, by entering Hunter's home to crack open a combination safe and procure a substantial amount of illegally obtained money.

Surely there was nothing to be worried about and he shouldn't feel concerned. The Inspector was merely being methodical and doing his job, step by step, to establish a time line of events. Obviously he'd discovered the receipt for the barbeque at Hunter's house. He would know that the guy had only days before his death purchased the item from the DIY warehouse, and was simply making follow up enquiries looking for potential leads. After speaking to Debbie and Jess, the only two team members of the warehouse who'd had threats of violence personally directed towards them from Hunter, the Inspector would know that both women were incapable of harbouring vengeful thoughts, let alone have the capacity to retaliate with any action of violence against anyone, no matter how nasty the individual was. Quite simply, they were in the clear, as he also was. The Inspector could ask anyone in the store about the events of that day, and no one would be able to point the finger in his direction, or say that he'd had any firm contact with Hunter.

Jamie assumed this line of inquiry with the barbeque would lead nowhere. Furthermore, he speculated that the Inspector was floundering in his attempt to find Hunter's killer. Roughly four odd weeks had passed since Hunter body had been recovered, and that was a long time in a murder investigation to not have any results, or suspects worthy of media attention, particularly with such a vindictive slaying. It was obvious that the Inspector had circled around to be back at the beginning. He was now doing the investigative hard yards, looking for some sort of alternative motive, other than drugs, as a starting point. In Jamie's mind, it seemed surreal that the Inspector could be oblivious to how close he was to discovering the circumstances which led to the execution, or to the man who he was hunting as a result of that execution, who in reality, was only metres away in the same building from where he stood. It was at that very moment, with those surreal thoughts churning around in his head that the unthinkable happened.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw both Damo and Alvie pointing in his direction. The head of the Inspector turned to follow the direction of their fingers, and in that brief moment, as the guy's eyes zeroed in on his target, Jamie felt like the preverbal rabbit trapped in the glare of a spotlight. He couldn't run, couldn't move. It was all too late. The Inspector was heading his way.

"Jamie Wells?" asked the Inspector holding out his hand. "I'm Inspector Brian Cooke. I'm making a few enquiries regarding Bill Hunter whose murdered body was found a few weeks ago up in the Blue Mountains. One of the leads into his death have led us here to this warehouse, where only days before his death he purchased a barbeque. I've already spoken to your fellow team members who had dealings with him, but as you were also working on that day and in the general lifestyle area, I'd ask you if you remember seeing the deceased."

The Inspector handed him an enlarged lifelike picture of Bill Hunter, which thankfully had not been taken at the autopsy. Dressed in a suit and clean shaven, it was a photograph extracted from the newspaper archives which had been taken at the Inquest a few years ago, after the guy had given evidence in his own defence. Jamie recognised him immediately, and in that instant, as his brain flashed a hundred images of the guy's death, and of the suffering his sister had endured at the hands of Hunter and his gang, despised him all over again. The imagery justified his execution and hardened his resolve to keep going. Handing the photograph back whilst looking the Inspector firmly in the eye, he lied point blank.

"No, can't say I saw this person on the day."

"But you remember the day?"

"Oh yer, everyone was talking about it."

"Where were you at the time?"

"Probably on a break, or serving a customer. It can get pretty busy around here."

"Last week we requested and received CCTV footage of that day from this warehouse. The recording shows that within two minutes of the deceased leaving the building to load his barbeque onto his ute, with the assistance of those two team members over there, you also left the building."

"I don't remember. I was probably getting trolleys."

"Did you know the deceased?"

"Not personally, no."

"But you know of him?"

"Yes, but I'm sure you already know that. He's one of the low life grubs who got away with the murder of my sister."

"Just a coincidence that he turned up here and you recognised him?"

"Coincidence, yes, but like I said, I didn't see him on the day. If I had of, then I would have been very upset."

"Was it also a coincidence that you happened to be at the same hotel in Penrith on the same night that the deceased disappeared? We have you on CCTV footage there also."

Jamie knew he'd been snookered. It was hard work denying the truth, to tell lies, or to try to remember the lies you'd told in the past. He needed to bullshit a little, but had to be careful what he said and how he answered the Inspector's questions.

"Are you referring to the Castlereagh hotel?"

"Yes."

"Then I'd have to say it was another coincidence. I went there for a meal. I'd heard they served a great steak. The place was crowded when I went in and I didn't see any familiar faces, but as I was leaving I recognised him and the memories came flooding back. I was a bit rattled at the time. I remember I bought myself a six pack of beer, to console myself with when I got home."

"Do you often drink at that pub?"

"Don't drink much at all these days."

"You were also there three night before, in the same pub as the deceased."

"Was I! I don't recollect seeing him. I went in for a beer and to check out the menu, that's why I went back a couple of days later."

"And you haven't been back to that pub since?"

"Drinking at the same watering hole as that grub left a sour taste in my mouth. Why would I want to go back?"

"He was murdered up your way, not far from where you live."

"Another coincidence."

"His tortured body was found with his hands tied behind his back, his legs hobbled and snagged in a tree a couple of hundred metres below a vertical drop."

"His death sounds very personal."

"Yes it does. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you Mr Wells?"

"Why would I?"

It was right then that the Inspectors mobile phone rang, and with a physical gesture from his hand telling Jamie to hold that thought, he turned his back to take the call. It was only a brief conversation, but Jamie was close enough to hear practically all of it. The voice on the other end said, that a bullet ridden body had been found in a creek bed, at an isolated location in an old growth forest on the mid north coast. The deceased was Harry Wilton, and a marijuana crop had been found nearby. He'd been dead for about two weeks, and had been interviewed only weeks earlier about the death of Bill Hunter.

Jamie knew what the Inspector was thinking as he turned to face him full on. Maybe a subtle supercilious smirk had crossed Jamie's lips when he overheard the news, or maybe it was something dancing in his eyes that had given him away, but whatever it was, it challenged the Inspector. A line in the sand had been breached, and the psychological battle between the two of them had begun at that very moment. With the phone still attached to his ear, and speaking as though he was direction his conversational message to Jamie, he said out loud, "That's a long way to drive from Sydney. I need you to check all red light and speed cameras on that highway for any traffic infringements around that time, and then do a digital number plate search of the RMS point-to-point camera data base. We need to find out when this journey occurred. And when you have that information, I then want you to check the CCTV footage of all the major twenty four hour service centres on route from Sydney to the crime scene and back on that particular day. We need a time line of events. We need to find out where he fuelled up, and if anyone was following him."

Then after having allowed Jamie to hear his game plan, with the view to no doubt to rattle him, the Inspector turned to go, but then stopped, turned again and added, "We'll probably need to talk again when I get back from checking this out, but just to confirm, you drive a white Subaru Forester station wagon, don't you Mr Wells?" The Inspector didn't wait for an answer. Based on his current information, he already knew what vehicle Jamie drove. He had direct links to the Roads and Maritime Services data base and had already checked it out prior to coming today. It was now obvious to Jamie that the Inspector viewed him as a person of interest. He would be searching all available linked traffic data bases, looking for both Jamie's and Harry Wilton's vehicle registration numbers.

The Inspector would discover that Jamie was travelling the same highway on the same day as Wilton, and he would uncover the CCTV footage of Wilton and himself buying petrol at the same service centre within minutes of each other. And the Inspector would also find the footage some ten hours later of himself filling up with petrol on the return journey home. Now, without any alibi, Jamie would have to come up with a believable lie as to where he was going to, and returning from on that particular day. Thank goodness he'd torched that white Subaru station wagon four days ago. However the Inspector would be unaware of that fact, and of the fact that Jamie had also purchased his replacement second-hand vehicle on the weekend, but as of yet hadn't notified the RMS of its new ownership. It was also a white Subaru forester, but a later model than the previous one, and this one came with heavily tinted windows and a tow bar as a bonus.

# Chapter 26

It was mid-afternoon by the time the Inspector had arrived at the crime scene. As soon as the news had come through about the murder, he had caught the first regional plane flight out of Sydney, to be picked up at the mid north coast airport by a local constable and driven out to the site. The deceased had potentially been identified by the number plates of an abandoned Holden station wagon found at the end of the fire trail, and of the subsequent paper work found within its confines. The local Sergeant had entered the deceased details into the data base, and had been alerted by the system to contact the Inspector. By the time the Inspector had arrived, the crime scene had been well and truly compromised, by dozens of local coppers trudging all over the area looking for clues. A medical examiner, who was acting on behalf of the coroner, had also not long ago arrived and was currently examining the body. He had turned up accompanied by a police rescue squad unit, whose job it was to recover the body.

It had been quiet a difficult location to get to, and in reality, it really was the perfect place to commit a murder. An isolated, rugged location, well off the beaten track and deep in the bush, with no one around to hear anyone scream, let alone to witness a murder taking place. It was also an extremely tranquil location. Untamed and protected by thousands of years of old growth forest, it was a place that would only be found by naturalists or hikers looking for this kind of solitude, or by a drug grower looking for an idealistic location to grow a crop of self-seeding marijuana. As it turned out, it had been two seasoned hikers with a passion for photography, who had found the body late yesterday afternoon. At the time, they had been following the creek bed along, snapping shots of the vast variety of native ferns growing along its banks, when they had first come across the marijuana crop. And moments later, it had been the wafting and pungent smell coming from the direction of a dead tree laying in the creek bed, which had led them to discover the rotting corpse.

The Inspector took in the magnificence of his location, appreciation its awe inspiring beauty, before confronting the ugly crime scene in front of him. Harry Wilton's body, like Bill Hunter's before him, was snagged in the fork of a tree branch. But unlike Hunter's, whose torn and broken body was found suspended off the ground and hanging by one leg, after a two hundred metre drop from a sheer cliff, Wilton's body was being held by the head and neck, under the fork of a dead tree in the middle of a creek bed. At some point in time, this tree had fallen into the creek, and over the years as it decayed to lose its foliage and distal branches, it had become lighter and more buoyant, and had been relocated by flood waters to where it now lay, partially buried in the sand in the middle of the creek bed.

Heavy rain in the area, a week or so ago, would suggest that Wilton's body had begun to float with the rising waters, but had been snagged by one of the branches before the currents had the opportunity to literally carry the body kilometres downstream. Furthermore, it appeared as if the currents had undermined the stability of the tree itself and as a result it had also moved, somehow pinning the body underneath. The body lay with its extremities mostly buried in a crater of sand which had built up around it by the turbulent and erosive nature of rushing water. The sand was still wet, and it was logical to assume that the body would have been held under water for a considerable amount of time, probably days, until the level of the creeks stream had subsided. It was pretty well guaranteed, that the body and the crime scene would have been washed clean of any microscopic forensic evidence, but with the assistance from a team of other personnel, including local detectives, the area had been well and truly emu-picked over, looking for physical evidence.

Now that the Inspector had witnessed the crime scene first hand, he gave a nod to the attending medical examiner, who in turn gave his permission for the police rescue unit to recover the body and transport it to the morgue for a post mortem examination. They would have to dig the body out from under the tree trunk, and once they had, the examiner would do a secondary check of the body for physical wounds before it was bagged. However his initial observation was that the deceased had been shot three times, but had died as a result of a bullet wound to the chest, which had pierced the lung and maybe nicked an artery. He had either bled to death internally, or had a heart attack due to a clot blocking the coronary artery, as a direct result of the trauma of being shot.

"You might be also interest to know," said the Examiner pointing to the body. "The deceased was given first aid before he died. Someone plugged the hole in his chest with wadding under his clothing, and then strapped his arm around his body with a bandage, in such a way as to apply pressure to the wound.

"Interesting," replied the Inspector. "A killer with a conscious."

"Maybe, but someone else other than the deceased dressed that wound. It would have been impossible for a man in his condition, with a hole in his chest and a shattered collar bone, to do it himself."

"Anything else you can tell me?"

"There was also a circular bandage found in foliage of the shoreline. It strongly suggests that the bandage was wrapped around the deceased head to stop another bullet wound from bleeding. It's been bagged for forensics, as has bullets and shell casing and a few other nick knacks found in the immediate area, including that large backpack over there."

The Inspector turned his head, seeing the backpack as part of the crime scene for the first time, but before he could open his mouth to ask anything, his questions were answered.

"It was found just around the next bend of the creek, caught up on an exposed tree root. It contains a good number of mature marijuana heads. I'm assuming it's related to the crime scene due to the existence of the crop over there."

The medical examiner pointed in the direction to where a group of personnel were standing some fifty or sixty metres away. "But that speculation is your domain. I've digitally photographed all the available evidence. I'll do up a report when I get back to the office and forward it onto your department. And if anything forensically significant crops up in the meantime, I'll give you a holla."

The Examiner was a factual, no-nonsense type of guy who didn't have time for small talk. He knew his job and what was expected from him. He passed the Inspector his business card with all relevant contact details upon it, and with a nod of his head, turned back toward the rescue squad who had already dug out and retrieved the body from under the tree. Not offended at being dismissed, the Inspector made his way over towards the small group who were assembled at the perimeter of the marijuana crop. As the lead investigator in the case, the local detectives were giving him the curtesy of viewing the illegal set-up in its natural location, before then uprooting every plant, and somehow transporting them from the area for a future controlled incineration.

As he approached them, he was deep in thought. The Examiner had been correct with his initial assumptions that this looked like a drug related crime. However, robbery wasn't the motive. The killer didn't take the produce, which had already been harvested off the plants and placed conveniently in a backpack. It was a large backpack, which judging by the size of the crop, would have been quite full. It would have been worth a small fortune on the streets. All the killer had to do was to pick it up and walk away with it, but he hadn't. Why? And this wasn't a contract killing either. The killer provided first aid, by dressing the man's wounds after shooting him numerous times, and that was something a contract killer wouldn't do. A hit man would not show any empathy or emotion towards his victim, and there was no evidence of any kill-shot to the forehead or back of the head to signify a sanctioned execution.

So, why was compassion shown to the dying man? Why were his wounds dressed? Was it simply a case of slowing down the man's death, so as to extract information from him? Or was there more to it than that? Was there remorse on behalf of the killer, at seeing his victim suffer as a result of his handiwork? Perhaps the killer lacked the nerve, or conscience, to deliver a kill shot to put his victim out of his misery. Did the killer stay till the end, until his victim took his last breath, before then leaving the site? The speculation and mounting evidence suggested that the motive for this murder had nothing to do with the supply of drugs at all. This murder, like that of Bill Hunter's, had been personal, very personal. They were connected, of that the Inspector was sure, and once again a niggling sensation in the back of his brain was telling him that Jamie Wells was also involved, and that maybe, just maybe, he was working alone without an accomplice.

Having reached the crop, the Inspector introduced himself to the Detective sergeant from the local command, who had coordinated the investigation since yesterday afternoon when the body had first been discovered. In the last twenty four hours, his team had thoroughly searched the area inch by inch looking for evidence, particularly along the creek banks downstream, where physical items may have been carried by recent heavy downpours in the area. In this time frame, all evidence from the crime scene had been gathered, documented and photographed, and now that the body was being taken away, all that was left to do before leaving the site, was to remove the crop.

"Only one thing significant about the crop worth reporting," commented the Sergeant as he moved to one of the plants, to show that its head had been removed. "We did a rough count. There are about fifty similar sized plants in this crop, which have also had their heads removed."

"No plants missing, no signs of any other harvesting?"

"No, just the mature heads. We found some of them in the backpack, but the rest were obviously washed further downstream in the storm."

"Quick snatch and grab."

"Yer, but he didn't get away. Any ideas who you're looking for?"

"Pictures yet to come into focus. Can you take me through what you've found?"

"Yer sure, if were finished here I'll have my boys start to rip these plants out."

Gesturing to his team, the Detective Sergeant gave them the green light, and with the final process of removing evidence from the crime scene underway, he stepped off the bank and onto the sand of the creek bed with the Inspector, heading back to where the body had been found.

It had been courteous of the Sergeant to have waited for him to inspect the crop before giving the order to rip it out. It was always easier to visualise the crime scene in its entirety, by actually being there to see it in the flesh, rather than to imagine it through photographs. The Sergeant, just like the Examiner, was good at his job, and although he was keen to leave the area to go home, he gave the Inspector a thorough rundown of the evidence they'd discovered before doing so. Being a shooting, the first thing the Detective Sergeant had insisted upon was a couple of metal detectors. His team had found no weapons, but had uncovered two different types of bullets from the cartridges used, along with their respective shell casings which were buried in the sand close by, or wedged under rocks and rubble further downstream.

It enabled his forensic team to identify the type of weapons used, in what apparently had turned out to be a gunfight within metres of where the body was found. The victim had been shot with a .22 calibre bullet, which had more than likely been fired from a rifle. Unfortunately for investigators, the bullets were hollow point and were distorted out of shape and flattened on the end. It was hoped however, that collectively, these bullets along with the ones recovered from the victim's body at the post mortem, would show enough consistent scoring on their surfaces to identify the weapon used. To do that though, they'd first have to find the weapon.

The other bullets which was found came from a .40 calibre pistol, more than likely from a Glock, the same type of handgun as was being used by the police force. They were a very popular concealable weapon which were currently flooding into the black market from overseas. This weapon had obviously belonged to Harry Wilton. Logically, it would make sense that he was carrying a weapon of some description. He had to protect himself. Illegal drugs of any kind were a grubby and dangerous business to be involved in, and therefore carried a high degree of risk. Five shell casing and one bullet had been found, so at least five cartridges, and maybe more had been fired from a full clip of fifteen. There was the distinct possibility that the other party had been wounded in the close quarter melee. The pistol was nowhere to be found and the Inspector, rightly so, assumed it was now in the possession of the killer.

And that killer's face was now starting to show an outline. Since his face to face interview with Jamie Wells earlier on in the day, Inspector Cooke had been mystified by all of the coincidences leading up to Bill Hunter abduction, but what had unsettled him most, was the thin smile of self-gratification he'd detected on Jamie Wells's face when they talked about those coincidences. Wells could certainly be a person of interest, and now there was even more speculation of his possible involvement. He had come off a rural sheep and cattle property in western NSW. Back in the days when Wells was a young man, no one was required to have a licence to carry or buy a rifle, and back then, procuring ammunition was as easy as buying lollies from a corner shop. He would have had a rifle and it would more than likely have been a .22 calibre. They were a very common, effective and versatile weapon of choice for farmers and graziers, who used them to shoot feral animals or farm pests.

The question was, did Jamie Wells bring his rifle with him when he moved to Sydney? The Inspector intended to ask him that question, but words were cheap, and in the end the only way of knowing if Jamie Wells was telling the truth, was by issuing a search warrant to physically search his property looking for the weapon that had killed Harry Wilton. And while he was doing that search, he would also be looking for the missing .40 calibre handgun, as well as a cattle prod similar in dimensions to the one which was used on Bill Hunter as an instrument of torture.

The Inspector had a lot on his mind as he retraced his steps out of the bush, heading to where the constable was waiting for him in the four wheel drive police vehicle. It was parked just in front of Wilton's Holden station wagon, and the Inspector stopped for a minute to gaze inside through the smashed passenger's side window. His senses were immediately assaulted by the pungent smell of stale cigarettes and grog. Holding his breath, he opened the door to shove his head inside, scanning the interior for a quick look. It was a pigsty, and the conditions reflected the deceased's, _"I don't give a flying fuck"_ attitude. The front bench seat was torn and unkempt and full of cigarette burns. Its vinyl surface stained by spilt drinks, soiled by food crumbs and top-dressed by grubby clothing which trailed to a floor pan littered with fast food take-away wrappers, empty bourbon cans, a pair of muddy boots and numerous torn girlie magazines. The back of the vehicles interior was no different in appearance to the front. The seat had been folded down and covered by a much stained mattress which also showed signs of cigarette burns. Its surface was littered by filthy clothes, grotty blankets, more girlie magazines and plastic bags full of assorted confectionary items such as chips and nibblies.

The Detective Sergeant's team had been through the vehicle looking for evidence and had come to the conclusion, that the only obvious item which had been stolen from the vehicle was Wilton's mobile phone. They made this assumption based on the fact that the mobiles recharge cord was still connected into the dashboards cigarette lighter. The phone had not been found on his body, or at the crime scene, so it was a reasonable assumption to make. There was a possibility that a passing bush walker, or mountain bike rider had seized upon an opportunistic moment to smash a window and grab the phone, but the Inspector didn't think so. The existence of the driver's side flat tyre, with its loosened valve, were the same tactics the killer had used on Bill Hunter's ute to render it un-drivable. Furthermore, due to the heavy rains recently in the area washing evidence away, there was also no signs of any tyre tracks to identify the presence of the killer's vehicle which may have been there at the time.

The Inspector assumed the killer had taken Wilton's phone, just like the killer had taken Hunter's phone. Logically, there could be no other reason for the killer to have taken the phones, other than to source information from them about his next victim. Did the killer still have them? The Inspector thought not. It would be a foolish thing to do. In today's world, everybody knew that the police could trace calls and track phones via GPS to a physical location, just so long as the phone was turned on. It was a long shot, but just in case the killer hadn't destroyed them, he would get his team to run a trace on both phones, and contact their telco's to check their calling log. Perhaps they'd get lucky.

# Chapter 27

It was mid-morning the next day when the Inspector arrived at his office for a briefing from his team. They had some good news for him. Point to point cameras on the Pacific highway, two hours north of Sydney, had identified Wilton's Holden station wagon, and Jamie Wells's Subaru forester travelling up the freeway within fifteen minutes of each other. The same cameras would also only record Jamie Wells's Subaru on the return journey later that same night. Further scanning for Wilton's vehicle, via the point to point cameras further up the coastal highway, would reveal nothing. The simple explanation was that he'd turned off prior to reaching those cameras, heading inland to where his illegal crop of marijuana was hidden. As it turned out, Wilton had been interrupted whilst harvesting his crop, and was fatally wounded in a shoot-out with his killer. His vehicle had never left that location since arriving there that afternoon.

In the process of looking for more evidence, his team had checked CCTV security footage of all twenty four hour service centre along the highway, looking for both vehicles on that particular day. It was a long journey up and back. Sooner or later, both drivers would need to pull into one of these centres for fuel, to get a drink or something to eat, or even to relieve themselves. The search had turned out to be a gold mine, and really narrowed down the time frame of events of when Wilton was killed. He had pulled into a service centre at ten minutes past midday, an hour after point to point cameras had identified his vehicle, and roughly three hours after he would have begun his journey from where he was living in Sydney.

And surprise, surprise, five minutes later, Jamie Wells was recorded driving into the same service centre. He had pulled up only a couple of pumps stations away from Wilton's vehicle, and was observed sitting in his own vehicle for a short period of time before getting out to fill up with fuel. Unfortunately for the investigative team who were viewing the footage, the camera's focus from a distance was fuzzy and incapable of being enhanced, or enlarged to show facial expressions. It was impossible for the Inspector to discern if Wells had even seen Wilton, let alone be able to categorically state that he was waiting for Wilton to drive off, before getting out of his own vehicle. Perhaps Wells was searching for his wallet, or checking his mobile for missed calls or something else quite innocent, but the Inspector didn't belief it for one minute. It was far too coincidental for Jamie Wells to be at the same service centre, and at the same time, for him not to have been following Harry Wilton. And Wells didn't waste any time in leaving the service centre either. There was an air of haste surrounding his movements to get out of the place, and a nervousness as he fronted the counter with his credit card, to look directly up into the camera, with the eyes of a hunter in pursuit of its prey.

Regardless of whether Wells was following or not, there was still a considerable amount of distance for Wilton to travel to reach the destination where he was killed, and based on speed restrictions, traffic flow and hold ups due to road works, he still had three hours of driving ahead of him. Wilton would have arrived at the site somewhere between three and three thirty, and by the time he had found his way through the bush on foot, crossed the creek and followed it downstream to the illegal crop, it could have been as late as four in the afternoon before he had started to rip heads of the plants. A quick snatch and grab of fifty or so heads would only take maybe half an hour at the most. So it was logical for the Inspector to assume that the deceased had finished his harvest, and was ready to leave at around four-thirty, when he was surprised by his killer and the close quarter gunfight had erupted. But the questioned remained, what was he doing sitting in the middle of the creek bed, fifty odd metres away from the crop and further downstream.

The Examiner had mentioned that a few other nick knacks had been bagged as evidence, and before leaving the crime scene the Inspector had taken a look at what those items were. Amongst other things, there was a squashed can of bourbon, an iPod and a set of ear phones belonging to the iPod. The bourbon can was similar to those found on the floor of the deceased station wagon, and the Inspector made the assumption that before Wilton left the site, he was relaxing, sitting in the sand with his back against the dead tree, having a drink, listening to music and watching the sun go down before heading home. It would have been at this point, when he was unaware of any danger and extremely vulnerable to attack, that he was crept-up upon from behind and surprised. The questioned still remained though, was he attacked by Jamie Wells?

CCTV footage from another service centre, situated on the return side of the Pacific Highway heading toward Sydney, would show Jamie Wells pulling in for petrol once again. It was ten fifteen at night on the same day, and it had been ten hours since he had last filled up. Once they had the authority, the investigative team would be checking Jamie Wells's credit card purchases for the day, just to verify his movements and to make sure that he hadn't been anywhere else. The Inspector was convinced that he hadn't, but there was ten hours missing which needed to be accounted for. From the first fill up, it would take Wells approximately three hours to get to where Wilton's station wagon was found, and it would take another three hours to get back to where he had filled up the second time around. That accounted for six hours out of ten, with four hours unaccounted for.

The Inspector had walked in and out of the bush, from where Wilton's station wagon was parked, to the site of where he had been killed. The trek had taken a good half hour in both directions, and that was zig zagging through the thick bush and following someone who knew the way. But if you were the killer stalking your victim somewhere up ahead, and didn't know the terrain or what to expect, then you'd be extremely cautious and it would take considerably longer. The Inspector allowed a total of one and a half hours, maybe even two hours for this round trip, particularly as the return trip may have been in the dark, which could have disorientated the killers sense of direction. If this was the case, then there was still two, to two and a half hours unaccounted for.

He also knew that the killer had given first aid to his victim after the gun fight, so it was logical to assume that the killer had stayed to the end, and that it had probably taken about two hours for the deceased to die. To add to the personal nature of the crime, preliminary results from the autopsy conducted this morning, and emailed through not long ago by the Examiner, indicated that the deceased had eaten a meal which was thought to be a sausage sandwich, just prior to his death. Just like Hunter's death, with undigested food found in his stomach, it looked as if Wilton had also been given a last supper. But in return, did the killer, if it was Jamie Wells, get the personal satisfaction for retribution and justice which he'd craved for, for so long?

If the CCTV footage at the second service centre was any indication to go by, then the Inspector would have to say that there was an element of liberation surrounding Wells's demeanour. His persona was totally different. There was a casual calmness as he firstly strolled in to pay for his petrol, before then returning for a meal and hot drink after moving his vehicle. And unlike the first time, when there was a nervous anxiety in his eyes as he looked up into the camera while paying for his fuel, this time around there seemed to be not only a forlorn distant sadness in his eyes, but also a challenge etched into his facial features, defying the Inspector to come after him. The contest between them both seemed to be becoming very personal indeed, and the Inspector intended to come after him, in his own good time. But for the moment that could wait, it seemed as if circumstantial evidence was mounting against his adversary at every twist and turn.

And of particular interest to the Inspector right now, as he watched and re-watched the CCTV footage, was the question as to why Wells would be wearing a long trench coat, and as to why he was limping. Had he suffered an injury? That limp wasn't there ten hours earlier, as he rushed about to get out of the service centre in pursuit of his victim, and it wasn't a particularly cold night either. It was fair enough to say that winter was just around the corner, but if the other customers in the footage were anything to go by as an indication of the temperature, they were wearing jumpers and light winter clothing only, but nothing as heavy duty as a trench coat.

It seemed odd that Wells had gotten out of his vehicle with the trench coat already on, so maybe he was suffering from a degree of shock due to the injury and needed to keep warm, or maybe he cunningly anticipated that the footage would be viewed and needed to protect himself against incriminating evidence before pulling in for petrol. However for whatever reason, it was obvious that Jamie Wells was hiding an injury of some sort, and the Inspector's instincts were telling him that Wells had been shot somewhere in the left leg during the melee. It was only superficially, because he could still get around, but nonetheless, there would blood on his clothing, not only his own, but also Wilton's, and the long trench coat he was wearing would disguise that fact.

One thing was for sure though, he'd have his team checking to see if Jamie Wells's Medicare card had been used within the last two weeks, and if it had, he'd be pulling the patient files to see what the doctor's diagnosis of the injury had been, or for the reason as to why Wells had visited the medical facility. Furthermore, over the next couple of days, his team would be canvassing the local chemist shops and speaking to all pharmacists, to see if Wells had been in seeking medical advice, or had bought over the counter analgesics or antiseptic medication during the same time period. Sooner or later Wells would slip up, and when he did, the full force of the law would be coming down on him.

# Chapter 28

It would be fair to say that the Inspector had rattled him. It had been Jamie's first day back at work, after having two weeks off to recover from his leg wound, when the Inspector had ambushed him. Now, a few hours later, sitting at home watching the evening news, the speculation as to the motive for this recent murder was pretty well unified. As one reporter said, _"It is too early in the investigation for the police to say anything conclusive, but with the body being found within such a close proximity to a marijuana crop, it would appear that drugs, or a drug related retaliation were a motive behind the killing."_ However a little later, on one of the commercial current affair type programmes, a female research journalist was taking a slightly different tact. The journalist, Kate Tully, presented a weekly segment on crime and violence and its negative impact upon local communities. Last week she had lashed out against the soft sentencing and parole board laws which had allowed Norman Coombs, a convicted serial rapist/ killer, to be released on bail and free to walk the streets until his next court appearance. The programme had a huge following, and tonight she was fired up again, armed with historic facts as she connected the dots between this latest death and another occurring weeks prior, were both men had known each other.

Ms Tully had to agree with the mainstream view, that with a lifetime history of drugs and gang violence, revenge by criminal connections were an obvious motive for their murders. However as the nature of both their deaths seemed very personal, she presented the ideology of a vigilante dispensing justice to the scums of society, as being responsible for both murders. She said, _"There is a cry for justice in the community. It appears as if the legal and judicial system has failed in their duty of care to protect its citizens. Consensus of opinion suggests that the sentencing laws are too lenient, with punishment not reflecting the severity of the crime. As a result, to get justice, individuals may feel they have no other choice than to take the law into their own hands."_

The journalist seemed to be advocating and endorsing his vigilante action. This was good news, as he needed all the public empathy that could be generated, if he was to feel vindicated in getting away with what he was doing. But that brief feeling of elation and anonymity quickly dissipated, as he felt the pit of his stomach drop. Undaunted by what she was suggesting, the journalist then went on to emphasise her hypothesis, by showing footage from the Inquest five years ago into the forty year old cold case homicide of his sister, with him in it.

Ms Tully narrated the criminal history of both men, emphasising their repeat court appearances and convictions for drug possession, alcohol fuelled violence, burglary, drink driving and time behind bars for aggravated assault and rape. She went on to say, that both of the deceased men had been part of a larger gang of thugs and hanger-on-errs, who had terrorised and controlled their community, using fear, intimidation and violence as their weapons for a hell-of-a-lot of years. Their anti-social behaviour religiously included bashings and drunken public brawls, and worst of all, the abduction of young women off the street, to alarmingly throw them into the back seat or boots of their vehicles, and drive them out into the bush to be gang raped.

She graphically pointed out that in a fledgling rural city where everyone knew everyone business, victims were too afraid to come forward, community leaders were too afraid to speak out, and the local police were seemingly powerless to shut them down. It would only be a matter of time before someone got killed, and in a scenario of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, Laura Wells had been abducted, gang raped and bludgeoned to death. Her body had been callously cast aside, discarded as if garbage, with no attempt at all to hide the nature of the hideous crime.

The Inquest had revealed, that under the fear of death and a sworn blood brother pact to bind together those responsible within the gang for the vicious death of the young female veterinary student, nobody had squealed. And in spite of an intensive homicide investigation which followed the discovery of her skeletal remains, and of the temptation of a huge reward encouraging anyone with incriminating information to come forward, nobody ever did. It seemed as if no one within the community was courageous enough to put themselves, or their families at risk, by opening their mouths or pointing the finger. Fear, intimidation and violence had won the day. The gang had effectively gotten away with murder.

And suddenly, there was Jamie's face as large as life being interviewed on national television from outside the courthouse of the Inquest. When asked for his comments about the Coroners findings, to not commit anyone to trial for the murder of his sister, he had said, _"I feel as if I've been kicked in the guts. In the court of public opinion, these three persons of interest are as guilty as sin. This Inquest has exposed these three grubs for what they really are, gutless lying cowards. And I say this, that mountain of fear and intimidation they used to control their victims, their victim's families and the community, has now been turned around to come back at them. It is now these three who are condemned to look over their shoulder for the rest of their miserable lives, to see which victim is shaking a fist in their direction, or coming after them, to get even."_

As a closing statement before ending her weekly segment on crime and violence, the journalist then highlighted the vigilante angle which she was attempting to make. She said, _"Anyone of the hundreds of victims of this gang who had been raped or physically assaulted, or their family members, would have had good reason to want to harm those deceased men. There has been no justice. Could you honestly blame any of them for taking the law into their own hands?"_

It was like déjà vu. All the emotions which he thought he'd distanced himself from, the hurt, anger and rage, the feelings of hopelessness and the sense of being abandoned and betrayed by the system, it all returned in a flash. It churned around in the pit of his stomach and once again threatened to pull him apart. He had lost then. A forty year battle to get justice for his sister had come to an end. It was over and he had to walk away, to lick his wounds and allow time to pass so that he could accept the Inquest's findings, and be at peace with himself. But before he could let it all go, fate had intervened. The tide had turned and he'd since taken revenge on two of his sister's killers. There was only one more to go, then the ledgers would be balanced. But now that may prove to be a bit difficult.

The journalist had mentioned the fact, that there was still one member of the old gang left alive, and with an on-camera wisdom of being prophetic, she had left a question mark hanging over the guy's ongoing mortality. Jamie had no doubt that his third intended victim would be forewarned that he was coming, and that was okay, as that fear factor of constantly 'looking over your shoulder,' would work in his favour. However due to the airing of this old footage, with him delivering a threat on national television to get revenge, and with the Journalist's suggestion that a vigilante could be involved, a finger had been pointed in his direction as having a possible motive to do exactly that.

# Chapter 29

It had been a sleepless night. Jamie had woken up suspecting that after the airing of last night's programme, that today would be the day the Inspector came knocking on his door with a search warrant. In light of that possibility, it was probably prudent not to go to work. His work mates would have seen him on national television, and rumours would be rife about his possible involvement in the murders of both the men, particularly after the warehouse's involvement with Bill Hunter. Best thing he could do was to call in sick for the rest of the week, as he now also had a couple of other matters to attend to.

His lady friend Lisa had also seen the programme. He'd spent a good hour on the phone with her last night, being extremely careful how he responded to her questions which closely aligned those of the Journalist. She was worried about his mental health, and of the insinuation of his possible involvement as a vigilante in the murders, no matter how remote that possibility may be. She had wanted to come over to spend the night with him so that he wasn't alone. But the truth of the matter was, he needed to be alone with his thoughts and had dissuaded her from coming over, by promising to contact his grief and loss counsellor this morning, to talk through any issues that may have arisen because of the programme.

Jamie had no doubt, that if his counsellor had seen him on television then she would be expecting his call today, and based upon his history to talk issues through immediately, would already be making time to see him. Although personally he no longer wanted, or needed to express how he was feeling, or continue to lie about his involvement in either murders, he really had no other choice than to continue the facade. To appease both women, he would attempt to make that appointment for later on in the afternoon. In the meantime though, with the sun shining and a cracker of a day on its way, he intended to distract his analytical thoughts, by getting out in the garden to potter around doing menial physical tasks, such as weeding and pruning.

Everything was coming to a head and a confrontation was looming. Very soon, possibly today, the Inspector would be turning up unannounced to harass and intimidate him into confessing. A search warrant would be issued, and his house, shed and property would be searched by a team of detectives. The Inspector would come armed with a brief of evidence, and a convincing motive as to why Jamie would have good reason to want to extract revenge upon both victims. A battle of the wits and willpower between them both had already begun, and he would have to keep his calm in deflecting the Inspectors innuendos to find him responsible for both murders.

Right now though, everything seemed right with the world, that is, except for the crazy woman next door, who was already out with her rake and twenty litre plastic bucket chasing every fallen leaf on her property. It was pointless beginning any project until that aggravation passed. The last thing he wanted to do was to be mulching the camellias against the chain wire fence, which separated their properties, whilst she was displaying her crazy obsessive/compulsive behaviour. She would not have the curtesy to wait for him to finish mulching. No, she would follow him along, all the while muttering and cursing under her breath, while she shamelessly raked up every innocent shred of mulch that slipped through the fence to land on her property.

The sanest thing for him to do was to wait until she had satisfied her daily obsession, and had notified that fact, by empting the contents of her bucket into the bin. Only then could he think about beginning the mulching process. Tomorrow was a new day and she would do it all over again, but tomorrow she could huff and puff and rake the fence line until she was black and blue in the face, without him being anywhere near it. So for the time being, until she finished her outdoor nonsense, and had then moved onto one of the more acceptable household obsession of constant washing, vacuuming and cleaning, he'd make himself a cuppa and go out into the front yard, to sit in his favourite wooden chair and soak up the morning sun.

It was probably around eleven in the morning when the mobile rang. He'd just completed topping up the mulch layer in the bed of camellias, and was heading indoors for a drink, when he heard it. He didn't recognise the number, but he didn't have to wait for the caller to say who was calling either, for as soon as he heard her voice, he knew who it was. It was the journalist, Kate Tully. She sounded exactly like she had on the television last night.

"Mr Wells," she begun. "My name is Kate Tully. I'm from..."

"Yes, I know who you are," interjected Jamie taking the offensive. "You dragged up my past last night. You singled me out on national television as possibly being the executioner of those two grubs."

"I'm sorry, that certainly wasn't my intention..."

"Seemed to me that you were advocating victims of violent crime to take the law into their own hands."

"No. I'd never do that, well not on live television anyhow. But I'm sure you will agree with me, when I say that no public sympathy should be extended towards the likes of those two. Their kind are the scourge of society."

Jamie was silent. This woman had an agenda and she needed to spit it out, so he let her continue.

"The problem is, it is the civil libertarians and do-gooders within our society who have the loudest voice. In their distorted eyes, they see the criminal as the victim, and as a victim, they have the same rights as law abiding citizens. They seem to forget the initial impact, or the ongoing ramifications that these criminals' actions have had upon the families of the real victims, or of the damage done to the communities of where their crimes were committed, even if it was a long time ago."

She was waiting for Jamie to engage, and once again he was silent with the expectation of being asked a leading question. He had to be careful what he said. He was already in enough shit and didn't need to attract any more flack. For all he knew, she could have been recording their conversation, and would later edit out selected dialogue to use as a follow-up story to her next week's programme, to further implicate him as a potential vigilante. It was probably wise not to engage with her at all.

"I was hoping I could get a comment from you about last night's story," she said. "Would it be ok if I asked you a few questions?"

"Sorry. I really don't think that would be a good idea. I've been trying to put all this behind me and move on with my life since the Inquest."

"I can understand that, forty years is a long time to pursue justice. The judicial system failed you and your family, and hundreds of other victims' families for that matter. Three persons of interest walked away from a Coronial Inquest without any punishment at all, for any of their crimes. Now there is a very good chance, that there is a vigilante out there in the community, doing what the system failed to do. Two are dead, but the leader of the old gang is still alive and walking the streets. There would be a lot of focus on him now. How do you feel about that?"

"I'd have to say his days are numbered," said Jamie through gritted teeth.

"Mr Wells, I can respect your desire to no longer be involved, but someone has to speak out. And before I go, I'd just like to give you a bit of feedback on the public outrage our programme has produced against these type of offenders. Last week we did an exposé on Norman Toombs, a serial convicted rapist/murderer who is currently out on bail awaiting a new trial. I don't know if you watched the segment, but we didn't hold back in our observations of him. We tailed him driving his yellow Toyota corolla to all his favourite whereabouts and haunts in the St Marys area. Videotaped him drinking and playing pool in one of the local pub, and eating at McDonald's right next door. We even followed him home to the next suburb of St Clair where he's currently renting a three bedroom house. That footage, along with the story of a system which had failed in its duty of care, created outrage and resulted in threats of violence being targeted against him."

"Sounds to me like you were inciting violence."

"Simply levelling the playing field and making everything transparent. The public have a right to know what the paedophiles, rapists and convicted killers have done, and where they are hiding in the community. And the public have a right to expect justice."

"I couldn't agree with you more, but I'm sorry, I'm no longer prepared to rehash the past, or to make any further public comments."

She thanked him for his time, but before hanging up had reiterated, that if she could help him out in anyway in the future, or if he ever felt the need for a confidentially chat at any time about anything, then please contact her as he now had her private mobile number.

After getting off the phone, Jamie was left with a riddle as to the real purpose of the phone call. It was obvious from last night's programme, that she understood he'd have good reason to seek retribution, and good reason for taking the law into his own hands. But why was she telling him all this stuff about Norman Toombs, and why was she suggesting that he could trust her? Was she forewarning him that too much attention was now on Skobles? Was she insinuating, that if he was the vigilante, then maybe he should be directing his attention towards doing something about Toombs, who was close-by out in the community and walking the streets? Rape and murder were emotional trigger words for anyone. Was she playing psychological games with him by planting seeds in his mind? Was she setting him up to somehow trap him, or was she subtly suggesting to help him as an accomplice, by providing information?

It was a truism that honesty was a virtue. Quite simply, if you had nothing to hide, then you had nothing to worry about either. However on the other hand, if you are guilty of something, as he was, then your paranoia runs rampant, and you suspect every situation to be a trap and that everyone is conspiring against you. Jamie massaged his brow. Why was he mentally torturing himself like this? The woman had stated her intentions at the onset on the call, she was simply seeking a comment to last night's programme. He shouldn't be reading anything more into the situation, but in truth her passion for justice had triggered something extra within him.

Unexpectedly, he was now questioning the virtues and vices of extending his role as a vigilante, beyond the boundaries of his personal quest to get justice only for his sister. Was he seriously contemplating the notion? Was it possible to truly detach himself emotionally, to become a cold hard executioner? Based on the stuff-ups of these last two executions, where emotions, principals and ethics had got in the way, he probably could. But there was no way in the world he could do it by himself. He would need good intelligence to be able to act decisively. Perhaps he was being delusional in thinking the journalist was offering her help, but a serious question remained, if she was offering her help, could he trust her?

# Chapter 30

It was the crazy neighbour's yapping Maltese terrier which first alerted him to the arrival of unannounced visitors. He was out the back doing a bit of weeding at the time, and upon hearing doors slamming shut, realised that his visitors had driven up the fifty metre long driveway to pull up behind his vehicle parked under the carport. Walking around to the front of the house, he was confronted by three males and one female alighting from two late model vehicles. He didn't have to be a genius to know who they were, he had been waiting impatiently for three days for them to turn up. Straight away, he recognised the leader of the group, as he stepped forward to approach Jamie with a piece of paper in his hand.

"We meet again Mr Wells," began Inspector Brian Cooke. "Although this time it is under different circumstances. I have in my hand a warrant to search your property for evidence possibly relating to the murders of both Bill Hunter and Harry Wilton, and while my crew are conducting the search, I'd like to ask you a few questions. Is that okay by you?"

"Doesn't seem like I have any choice in the matter does it?" remarked Jamie, taking the search warrant which had been thrust in his direction. He gave it a cursory glance, to ask, "Exactly what is it you are looking for?"

The Inspector ignored his question, being side tracked by his three subordinates as they prepared themselves, waiting his command to begin their search. With a nod of his head, two male detectives headed for the stairs to enter the front door of his house, as the other, a female detective constable, approached Jamie's car. There was a moment of confusion as the female Detective suddenly stopped, only metres away, to turn to her superior and say, "Sir, this isn't the vehicle. It's the right make and model and the right colour, but it has different number plates to the one we're looking for."

It was a gotcher moment, and Jamie couldn't suppress a grin of fiendish delight, as he saw the ramifications of that realisation wash across the Inspector face. The Inspector turned, his chin and facial features hard.

"Where is the white Subaru forester you were driving a few days ago?"

"It was totally destroyed in a fire last week."

"Well that was convenient wasn't it?"

"No! It was inconvenient actually," snapped Jamie. "I had no comprehensive insurance on the vehicle and had to buy another out of my savings."

"Check it out," commanded the Inspector.

Jamie was conscious of the junior Detective scurrying to one of the vehicles, to use whatever technology she had at her disposal, to access the relevant authorities data base and verify what he had claimed.

"Care to tell me what happened?"

"It's all in an incident report at the Katoomba cop shop."

"I'd still like to hear your version of events."

"Ok. I had just come back from an early morning bushwalk up in the mountains. I was parked in a little carpark at the end of a dead-end street, and before heading off, I lit up a cigarette. I had a coughing fit. The end of the cigarette dropped off and landed in my crutch. Then all hell broke loose. Somehow in the panic to get out of the car and stop my balls from burning, the seat covers caught on fire and within minutes the vehicle was gutted. I rang 000. The fire engine came and put out the fire. End of story."

"I didn't realise you smoked."

"Haven't for a lot of years. Only started up again recently."

"Why would that be?"

"Stress! You know, all the Bill Hunter stuff in the media. It stirred up all the shit again and I found myself reaching for a cigarette."

The Inspector was momentarily quiet, obviously processing information. All DNA evidence pertaining to the vehicle was gone, and a nod from the female detective constable confirmed that fact. The Inspector acknowledged her back and with an offhanded gesture of the finger, indicated for her to go around the house to begin searching the shed in the backyard.

"If you tell me what you are looking for, I could probably save you a lot of time," offered Jamie.

The Inspector ignored his request for a second time, to refocus back on his questioning.

"We have you on CCTV footage travelling up to the mid north coast a couple of weeks ago. Mind telling me where you were going?"

"Nowhere in particular. Sometimes I just get in the car, night or day, and go for a drive to clear my head and I don't come back until I'm ready."

"Well where did you end up?"

"It was a pretty spot. I don't know the name of it. An isolated beach just north of Coffs Harbour somewhere. I walked the beach for a good while, took in the magnificent sunset, and watched the moon rise with its reflection shimmering across the ocean surface. I sat on the sand, meditated in the dark and listened to the waves crashing on the shore. Like I said, I stayed until I cleared my head."

"You know Harry Wilton don't you?"

"Not personal, but in the same capacity that I knew Bill Hunter. They were both in the same gang that raped and murdered my sister."

"We have you on CCTV as being at the same service centre, and on the same day as Harry Wilton? Apparently you two were heading north in the same direction at the same time. What do you think of that?"

"Sounds like a coincidence."

"Did you see him at the service centre?"

"No, can't say that I did."

"You were also caught on CCTV at another service centre on your way back a few hours later."

"Yer that'd be right. I filled up with petrol and had a hot meal. I was hungry and cold."

"You were wearing a long trench coat."

"Like I just said, I was cold. It was a cool night and my driver's side window wouldn't go up. There was something wrong with the electronics, a broken toggle switch I think, and I had to drive home with the window down. It was fortunate for me that I'd kept that coat in the car."

"I'd like for forensics to take a look at it."

"Is that what you are searching for?"

"One of the things. Do you have it?"

"No I don't. Sadly, it was destroyed in the car fire."

"Well that was convenient wasn't it?"

"Not for me. I loved that coat."

"You had a limp on the return journey. What happened to your left leg?"

"Did I? I don't remember that. My leg was probably cramped and stiff due to the cold."

"I noticed you had a limp a couple of days ago, when I first approached you for a chat at the warehouse."

"Yer, that'd be right, I've been hobbling for a while. Took some time off work actually. I damaged it the day after I did my trip, speared a piece of reinforcing rod into my thigh while cleaning up in the backyard."

"Seek any medical help?"

"No, the injury wasn't that bad," lied Jamie.

It was at that moment that the Inspector's attention was drawn to the female detective constable ushering him to the backyard. Together they made their way in silence, up the slight incline to veer around the house and enter the shed. The storage box was open and there staring them in the face was a cattle prod.

"Well, isn't that interesting," remarked the Inspector. "We'll be taking this with us for forensic examination."

He had a look of smugness on his face, as the female constable picked up the instrument to place it in a plastic bag. Knowing he had deceived the guy, Jamie contained his smirk. He had to give them something, a false lead, but they'd find no traces of DNA evidence anywhere on that instrument. He had brought two cattle prods back with him from the farm and this one was his spare. The one he had used on Bill Hunter had been pulverised unmercifully by a sledge hammer and thrown out in the trash, along with cut up pieces of the rifle, a week or so ago. Jamie realised he was enjoying the contest between them both.

"Why would you be interested in a cattle prod?" he asked quiet innocently.

The Inspector raised his eyebrow at Jamie, but ignored his question. He gave praise to his constable for her find, and after establishing the fact that her search of the shed was complete, and confirming with Jamie that his vehicle was unlocked, instructed her to search the newly acquired second hand Subaru. It was a formality that would find nothing. After she left, the Inspector ushered Jamie outside in the open to continue his questioning where he could keep an eye on the overall operation.

"Do you own a firearm Mr Wells?"

"No I don't"

"You come off a grazing property, you must have owned a rifle at some stage?"

"Yer, I once had a .22 calibre rifle."

"Where is it now?"

"Destroyed I should imagine. I handed it in a lot of years ago during a firearms amnesty."

"What about a handgun. Do you have one of those?"

"No."

"Do you know anything about first aid Mr Well's?"

"Only the basics. A few farm survival techniques, that sort of thing."

"Such as?"

"I'd like to think I'd know what to do if I was bitten by a snake, or if I ripped my hand open on a barbed wire fence."

"Do you carry some sort of first aid kit with you when you go bush walking?"

"Only the essentials. Compression bandages for sprains and strains, adhesive strips and wadding for cuts, and paracetamol tablets for pain relief."

"And you carry them in a backpack?"

"Yes, of course."

"Where do you keep that backpack?"

"It's always kept in my vehicle."

"So the backpack would be in your new vehicle?"

"No, my backpack was destroyed in the fire a couple of days ago along with my trench coat. I haven't, as of yet, replaced those items."

The Inspector was against the ropes. His frustrations at not having any substantial or tangible leads to follow were apparent, and his questions were coming to an end. Searching for physical items which would connect Jamie to the murders, like finding his vehicle, rifle, cattle prod, coat and backpack, or looking for trophies he may have taken from his victims, like phones, flick knives or handguns, were logical operating procedures for collecting evidence, but wanting to see what first aid items he carried around in the backpack, was truly grasping at straws. There was absolutely nothing unique about the brand of bandages or wadding he had used on Wilton, and the Inspector would be stupid to think there was. They were both generic brands, purchased from a common supermarket where thousands of other customers had access to the same product.

To make matters worse for the Inspector, the two male detectives had completed their search of the house and had come out empty handed. Both were clearly visible from where Jamie and the Inspector stood, and their intentions of where they were searching next became apparent as they squatted on their haunches, to open the mesh gate allowing access under the house. Jamie momentarily held his breath, trying to look bemused by what was going on, as his ears detecting the sound of the sub floor lighting being switched on. He wished he could hear what both men were saying, but their voices were muffled as they disappeared from sight, to duck waddle a little way under the house and shine their torches in all directions, looking for something out of place. It would take a very perceptive individual, with an eye for detail, crawling around on his hands and knees and getting his suit dirty, to be able to find the handgun's hiding place. And without knowing exactly what it was they were looking for, these two junior Detectives half-hearted efforts would fail to discover anything out of place. Within minutes their inspection was complete and they were on their way out.

"Gees, I hope they don't come over here to tell me I've got white ants in my bearers and joists," said Jamie making light of the situation.

The inspector waited for Jamie to turn and face him full on.

"We're going to take that cattle prod back for DNA testing," said the Inspector. "I suspect it was used against Bill Hunter as a form of torture. But we're not going to find anything are we Mr Wells?"

"No you're not. The only DNA you'll find, is cattle DNA."

"I reckon you have good reason to want to take revenge against Hunter and Wilton. You have a very strong motive, and there are far too many coincidences for you to have not been involved. These were both very personal murders, and although we've found nothing to date to implicate you in these murders, I think you've been extremely lucky, or cunning in covering you're tracks. And I have no doubt that you intend to go after the last member of the gang. I'll be keeping a very close eye on your movements Mr Wells. I apologise for any inconvenience caused to you today."

And that was that. Without another word being spoken, the Inspector had signalled his team, and within a minute flat, the two vehicles had reversed out of the driveway and were gone.

# Chapter 31

The Inspector reclined himself back in his office chair. Placing his hands behind his head to interlocking his fingers, he took a deep breath. Before him on the computer was an open email from forensics with the DNA finding on the cattle prod. It had come back negative. At this point, there were no more leads to follow. They had their main suspect. As a matter of fact, Jamie Wells was their only suspect for both murders, but now the case would be deprioritised to go on the backburner.

His department had two other very recent homicides to investigate, which urgently required his team's attention. One, involving the shooting of a middle aged male and female looked very much like a murder suicide, and the other was a young woman who had been found bound and stabbed to death in her bedroom. In all murder investigations, time was of the essence for collecting evidence and information, and with a shortage of manpower, these cases had temporary precedence over anything else any other Detective was working on. Unfortunately, time had been their enemy in both Hunter's and Wilton's deaths. In both cases, the bodies weren't discovered until weeks after their murders, and in both cases, heavy rain had washed away or totally denatured any DNA evidence that may have existed.

The Inspector closed the file on his computer. It was time to immerse himself in the new cases. Jamie Wells would have to wait. It was a stand-off, with time out for both of them, but the Inspector had no doubt in his mind that the guy had unfinished business, and this would not be the last time their paths crossed.

# Chapter 32

The realisation that he'd survived a major investigation and as of yet hadn't been charged with murder, had taken a couple of days to filter through. The elation of that realisation had stirred-up a range of emotions within him, which had been more than just a sense of relief. It had been, and still was, an incredible feeling of empowerment, embellished by a sensation of self-righteousness. It almost felt like he'd been given a judicial pardon for dispensing justice, and his spirit was revelling in it.

The ramifications of that empowerment were all consuming, and here he was, a week and a half later, at ten pm on a Saturday night, sitting in his vehicle in a pub carpark waiting for Norman Toombs to emerge. A whole series of thought processes had carried him along to get him to this point. It had started with the acceptance of the fact, that for the time being and for a number of good reasons, he had no other choice than to hold off in his pursuit of John Skobles.

The last Sunday of the month, when Skobles would be out in the open and vulnerable, by doing a road trip to Melbourne and back as a drug and money laundering mule for a bikie gang, was only days away. Besides the fact that there wasn't enough time to put a plan in action, or to set a trap, it was also too soon after Harry Wilton's murder, to bring any more attention upon himself by executing Skobles. The dust had to have time to settle, so it was prudent to wait and bide his time.

However, when the last Sunday of the month came around, Jamie would be doing his Intel for future use. Human beings were creatures of habit, and as Skobles had done this trip dozens of times before, he'd no doubt have an established routine. So Jamie would be monitoring Skobles's movements. He'd be using the GPS tracker app to discovery the location of where Skobles picked up his drugs, to find out which route he would be taking, where he pulled up along the way to get fuel, and to discover where his final delivery destination would be.

Skobles would know he was coming, he'd be looking over his shoulder expecting the unexpected. He could carry that fear and anxiety, and allow it to eat into his soul, but for this month at the very least, he would have a reprieve from his execution.
JUSTICE IS CLOSURE

Book 2 in the Jamie Wells saga

Jamie had found himself thinking about the journalist Kate Tully. In her phone call to him not that long ago, she had been very vocal and passionate with her views surrounding society's expectations of law and order, and how those expectations were at odds with the legal systems inadequate outcomes. She had highlighted the lenient sentencing laws, which saw convicted rapists, killers or paedophiles given soft sentences. Or subsequently, upon reoffending, snubbing their noses at authority and society, with their rights to be allowed out on bail pending a future court hearing. These scums, with no remorse for their past or present victims, were released back onto the street where they could continue to hunt for their next victim. Jamie had to agree with her. Where was the protection, the duty of care, or the justice in allowing that to happen?

It had angered him, and he found himself researching all there was to know about Norman Toombs. And after he had been through all the on-line media stories, and read all the victim impact statements over the years, he discovered he despised the man as much as he despised Bill Hunter, Harry Wilton and John Skobles. They were all tarred by the same brush of disrespect and inhumanity, and they all deserved to meet the same end. He had found himself reviewed the Journalist's television footage. He'd paid close attention to the features of the house at the end of the street where Toombs was living, and had then pulled up a series of maps applications with street and birds eye view on his mobile, to specifically pin point the property for easy recognition.

Out of curiosity, late in the afternoon the next day, he had done a drive bye of the property, to park up the street and wait long enough to see Toombs come out of the house and hop into his yellow Toyota corolla. As he drove off, Jamie had followed, keeping his distance to tail the guy to a pub in the adjoining suburb of St Marys, where Jamie had then stayed for a while, sitting in his car in the carpark, watching the coming and goings of patrons. The whole physical situation which he'd found himself in, had triggered memories of Bill Hunter's successful abducted, and he found himself reflecting on that fact. By the time Jamie had left the carpark that night, he knew he was committed to the cause of executing Norman Toombs.

Suspecting the pub visits were a pattern of the guy's behaviour, he'd done the same type of drive-by surveillance over the next couple of evenings to verify that was the case. As much as he would have liked to, he resisted the temptation to go into the pub to rub shoulders with the guy, but there was no way he was going anywhere near another CCTV surveillance camera, which could implicate him as having any connection to the guy whatsoever. If he was going to do this, then he had to be a phantom, and his actions had to be clean cut and clinical.

It was with that thought process that he had come up with an idea of attaching a tracking device to the guy's car, so that he could tail him without being seen. In the absence of having Toombs's mobile phone number, it was a good plan, and with a trip to the city to find a shop specialising in spying equipment, his plan was in action. An hour or so ago, he had attached the small magnetic tracking device to the underside chassis of Toombs's car, tucking it in beside the boot, well up out of sight where it would not be found. The device was already turned on and transmitting a signal of its location, back to a hand held receiver in Jamie's car. The unit had a tracking range of around five hundred metres, and a battery life of about a week, so there was a comfort factor associated with the exercise.

Jamie didn't know exactly what he was going to do, or what would happen when he tailed the guy to where he was going, but if an opportunistic moment didn't present itself tonight to execute the guy, then it didn't matter, there was always the next night, or the night after that, right up until the battery went flat. And at any time, for any reason, it was a simple five second snatch and grab exercise, to reach up under the car and get the small transmitter back. And if in the event that everything went pear shaped and the bug was discovered, then all he had to do was to ditch his hand held receiver, and no one would be any the wiser of his involvement with the spying device.

Other than Wilton's handgun, he'd also brought with him a small backpack containing a few selected items, which subject to any confrontation that may occur, may come in handy on the night. He was extremely conscious of the fact that Toombs was a very dangerous man, and not to be underestimated. He was an ice addict, a serial rapist and a murderer whose weapon of choice, other than using his fists for assault, was a knife. All his previous victims carried, not only lifetime emotional and psychological scars, but also physical scars of his brutality, and his last victim had died at his hands. She had been stabbed multiple times in a psychotic drug fuelled frenzy, after being savagely raped. Even though there was no need to get up close and personal with the guy, by giving him a last supper, a final wish or a chance to repent, he still had to face the guy, to look him in the eye and let him know who his executioner was.

To that end, Jamie was prepared for a very long night. He'd brought along food, drink and a blanket to keep warm, and had his favourite radio station and android music to keep him company till the small hours. But as it turned out, he didn't have to wait very long at all. At ten pm on a Saturday night, it was still relatively early for the party generation, they were still arriving in their droves and the pub was going off. Music was pumping, lights were flashing, and overzealous patrons were spilling out into the carpark, drinking and yahooing as if there was no tomorrow. Later on there would no doubt be trouble brewing and the cops would be cruising the neighbourhood, but right now, he could clearly see Toombs manoeuvring his way through the energetic throng, coming out of the beer garden area and into the carpark.

He had his arm locked around a young female's waist, hanging onto her tightly, supporting her to walk, as they stumbled in the direction towards his yellow Toyota corolla. The young lass was none too steady on her feet. Her head was drooping heavily and her arms were swayed around, pushing against him with a feeble resistance, trying to get away from him. She had obviously been drugged and taken against her will. Toombs had found his next victim, and no one was challenging the situation or offering to help. He intended to do, what he had a history of doing dozens of times before. He was taking his drugged victim to an isolated location, to viciously rape her for his own twisted self-gratification. If she put up a fight, she would be physically assaulted, and a knife would be held at her throat with a threat to kill her, if she didn't submit to his demands.

Upon reaching his car and opening the passenger door, he all but threw the girl in. She struggled to get away from him, tried to scramble across the front seat to reach the other door, but he grabbed her by the hair and jerked her back, slapping her face repeatedly and raising his fist under her nose with a gruff warning, before slamming the door behind her. He then stood very still, like a gazelle sensing danger, slowly moving his head around, looking to see if he'd been observed, before striding casually around to the driver's side of the vehicle to open his own door.

Although Jamie was parked a good distance away, there was still enough silhouetted light in the carpark, to make out that Toombs was once again lashing out at his victim, physically abusing and mentally intimidating her into complying with his wishes before driving off. Almost straight away, as Toombs's vehicle moved out of the carpark, the hand held receiver in Jamie's SUV began to _blip_ , as a location dot on its screen showed the street Toombs was entering, and the general direction of where he was heading.

With a renewed fire in his belly, Jamie turned the ignition key, kicking his Subaru into life and began to follow. These new developments drastically changed the nature of his undertaking. Now he had no choice. If he was to save the girl, even at the expense of knowing she could be a witness against him in Norman Toombs's execution, then he had to act right now.

..... To be continued......
