WALKABOUT 2 - The Back of Beyond (Part 5)

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25

Shelby had no idea how long she’d been out. All she knew was the claustrophobic terror gripping her when she couldn’t remove the bag covering her head. She squirmed and cried out, “Let me go! Why are you doing this to me?”

“Shut up!” A sharp kick to her ribs caused her to yelp, which brought another kick. “I told you to shut up!”

Shelby lay there, trembling, sobbing. ‘Why me? Why is this happening to me? Where are they taking me? And what will happen when we get there?’

26

From Mulligan’s journal:

 October 2nd, 2002 Fairfield, Illinois.

When Floyd Sanders body is found, people will wonder why he tried to clear out a clog in his hay baler without first shutting it down. More than half of all workplace fatalities occur in the agriculture industry, so it will be written off as just one of those things.

Then, there was a long stretch, years passing before another entry. Had Mulligan been incarcerated? Sick? Retired? Or were the jobs during that time period simply boring, not noteworthy? At any rate, Mulligan did eventually get back in the game.

January 1st, 2007 Pasadena, California:

Sherri Moore didn’t make it to the Rose Bowl Parade. She died in her sleep in her hotel room before I could get to her. I still charged the clients full price. Let them think I did the job—which I would have. No need for anyone to know I’m not as good as I sometimes appear to be.

March 17th, 2011 St. Patrick’s Day Chicago, Illinois:

Danny Sharpe partook a wee bit too much o’ the green beer, with a little help from me. Died of alcohol poisoning in the alley behind O’Donnell’s

Another year and a half went by with no entries. Then:

November 28th, 2013, Covington, Kentucky: Killed my first horse today. A chestnut gelding that couldn’t run fast enough to earn his keep. Heavy-duty extension cord with alligator clips on the wires. One clipped to an ear, the other to the anus. Plugged it into a wall outlet in the barn, and the animal dropped dead.

*Note: This job paid more than most contracts to dispatch humans. Could be a lucrative niche market.

There were four more humans. One in Texas. Two in Arizona. Another in Seattle. And three more horses. Florida. Kentucky. And again in Florida.

And then, the next entry, a couple weeks before Mulligan’s death, when he tried and failed to kill me:

Booked passage to Sydney. Job too big to do alone. J.F will come along. Have business in Page to attend to first.

Unusual entry, I thought. None of the other journal entries were made before a job had been done. That business in Page must have been me.

27

 Page, Indiana

Shelby Myers awoke confused, frightened. She was alone, her hands and feet strapped to a hospital gurney inside some sort of tent. There were tubes everywhere, it seemed. One was connected to what appeared to be a bag to collect her urine. Another in her side emerged from some sort of wound in the side of her abdomen. And a third ran from Shelby’s arm upward to yet another bag hanging from a metal stand.

She could hear people moving about outside the tent, their voices echoing. The sound of a mower occasionally hitting the side of the building with rocks or sticks.

When she tried to move, it hurt, and she cried out in pain. The flap of the tent door opened, and a short, plump woman in scrubs and mask came in. Shelby could see kindness in her green eyes. Kindness and sadness. The woman tucked a shock of red hair behind her ear, attempted a smile, stroked Shelby’s cheek, then reached for the drip flow control and increased the flow of the pain killer. “This will help you sleep, honey,” the woman said. And then she was gone.

Shelby could hear the voices again, coming from outside the tent.

“Patient’s doing well. I gave her more pain killer.”

“Good. She doesn’t need to wake up,” a man with a deep, rich baritone voice said.

“God, I can’t believe what we’re about to do. I never signed up for this.”

“Yes, Crystal, you did,” the man said. “We all did. We just didn’t know it at the time. Besides, it’s nothing we haven’t already done.”

“Not like this. Never someone so young. She has her whole life ahead of her. What if we refuse?”

“Don’t even think about it. We all have families. You know what would happen. Put it out of your minds. We have work to do. Now let’s get to it.”

“We’re all going to hell. You know that.”

None of it meant a thing to Shelby as she drifted off into peaceful slumber.

28

Everyone talks, eventually. Dexter Flynn supposed that even he would, if subjected to torture. But this girl, this Jasmine Figueroa, she was tough. She held out longer than most men he knew. In the end, she gave up what she could on the bloke she claimed was passing himself off as Jared Mulligan. Claimed his real name is Tyler Hamilton, from Indiana. Said he was an ordinary guy who’d managed to kill a pro like Mulligan, then defeat two of Flynn’s best men.

Flynn was skeptical, to say the least, but even after another hour and a half of hellish abuse, she stuck to the story. So they would have to operate on the assumption that at least some of what she was telling them might be true. When she gave them leverage to use against Mulligan—a daughter back in Indiana. Flynn made a call, had the girl snatched.

That was yesterday. Today his people were busy running down this Mulligan character. He had been staying in Sydney, but bugged out for Port Lincoln. Gonna go swim with the sharks. Then his plans were to catch a train in Adelaide. Flynn had other plans for him. His people were on it. You don’t screw with the Death Adders. And you damned sure don’t screw with Dexter Flynn.

29

I arrived in Port Lincoln early in the afternoon and went directly to the hotel. I tossed my bags onto the bed, undressed and took a shower. I wanted to get out and go for a stroll, see the town, but first, I laid back onto the bed, and shut my eyes, just for a moment.

I awoke three hours later, as dusk descended upon the city of Port Lincoln. My thoughts immediately returned to what I read in Mulligan’s journal, and my mood became somewhat melancholy. In a weird way. Almost a sense of guilt, not for killing him, but for assuming his identity. Passing myself off as Jared Mulligan, a killer for hire who allowed a child to die rather than take him to an emergency room and risk being arrested. To think I had even gone so far as to get a tattoo matching the one on his arm. First chance I got, I vowed, I would have the tattoo removed, but I doubted that no matter how many times I showered, I could ever rid myself of the slimy feeling. I didn’t feel like going out. I ordered a pizza to be delivered to my room.

30

Port Lincoln, South Australia

I stood outside in front of the hotel, drinking coffee under the awning. The weather was lousy. Pouring rain and gusty winds pushing twenty knots.

A yellow van pulled up in front of the hotel right on schedule at 6:15 a.m. The driver, who looked to be one side or the other of twenty, powered down the front passenger window on the left side and leaned over to speak to me. “G’day,” he said, “Are you booked for the shark dive?”

“Yes, I am,” I said, offering my hand as I climbed in to the seat next to him. The windshield wipers were beating a steady rhythm, like an accelerated heartbeat. “Jared Mulligan.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Jared,” he said with a good-natured grin as we shook. “I’m Bart.” He reached forward, grabbed a clipboard, and placed a check mark next to my name on the sheet. I noted that unlike me, Bart came prepared for the weather, with a rain-repellent windbreaker and a baseball cap.

“You think we’ll actually be going out in this?” I asked, pointing outside the van.

“The captain says the weather is better about an hour south of here. Shouldn’t be a problem,” Bart assured me. “Just to be on the safe side of it, you might want to take some seasick pills. If you have any.”

“Way ahead of you,” I said, pulling the packet out of my pocket. I popped one in my mouth and washed it down with the rest of my coffee.

“We’ll be picking up a couple other guests here before going on to the next hotel . . . Mr. and Mrs. Schmitt. Have you seen them?”

I shrugged. “Wouldn’t know them if I did.”

We waited a couple of minutes before Bart said, “Excuse me while I go check on them.”

I watched as he hustled through the rain in the parking lot into the hotel lobby and spoke to the front desk clerk, then spoke over the house phone. Moments later, he was back.

“I called their room. They overslept. We’ll go on to collect the others, then swing back for them.”

Bart made a quick trip of it, stopping at three other hotels, picking up a half-dozen or so other guests before going back for the Schmitts, who were by then ready and waiting. Bart was friendly and professional, treating everyone with courtesy and respect. I’d only known him a few minutes, but I already found myself wishing my own son, Travis, could have turned out to be more like him. ‘Forget Travis,’ I told myself, ‘He was Ty Hamilton’s problem. You’re Jared Mulligan now.’ I still had some adjusting to do. They say it takes three weeks to break a habit. I hoped I could make the transition that soon. It’s not as easy as you’d think it would be. No matter how much shit you are walking away from. Maybe it would help if I could find yet another identity, someone more respectable than Mulligan.

Coffee was on at the marina, and I helped myself. It was a bit strong, but I managed to tame it by adding some cream. I, along with a dozen or so other guests, stood in a semi-circle. The skipper of the day, a husky, middle-aged fellow who introduced himself as Captain Andy, briefed us. “On behalf of Southern Cross Sea Adventures, myself, and the crew, Welcome aboard the Fetching Wench,” he said. “We should be in for a great day on the water.”

I looked around at my fellow guests. A few were all smiles. Some were already taking photographs. A few more wore expressions of fear and apprehension. Most, like me, were calmly sipping coffee or tea as we listened to the captain.

“We’ll be casting off shortly, and breakfast will be served as we make way for the Neptune Islands. Time enroute should be two hours and a half, give or take. The ride could get a bit choppy today, given the wind.”

The German couple, the Schmitts, were whispering now, arguing in their native language. I say they were whispering, but they were loud enough to be disruptive. I personally found it difficult to follow what the captain was saying. I noticed a few of the others in our group, wearing peeved expressions, shooting them dirty looks. Captain Andy noticed it also, and stopped talking.

We all stood there, awkwardly waiting for the moment when the couple realized everyone was looking at them. It took several seconds. Eventually, they stopped, and looked at the rest of us. If they were embarrassed, it didn’t show. “Excuse us,” the husband said. “I do not wish to continue. I cannot convince my wife that we should go another time.”

Captain Andy nodded. “It’s your choice, mate. Come or go as you please.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I think my wife will go on without me. I will find something else to do. Perhaps a museum.” Then, he said, “I wish a refund.”

“Speak with the agent inside, at the counter. She can advise you of our cancellation policy. Meantime, I need to get on with our briefing so that we can get under way.”

Mr. Schmitt turned to go. He attempted to give his wife a peck on the cheek, but she turned away. ‘That looks familiar’, I thought, remembering my previous life, married to Dianna. Just as quickly, I dismissed the thought of her.

With Mr. Schmitt out of the picture, the captain’s briefing didn’t take long. “We’ll throw off ropes and set out for the Neptune Islands in a few minutes,” he said. “Breakfast will be served once we’ve cleared the port and are under way in smoother seas.”

The deck hands and hostesses busied themselves with last minute preparations—loading supplies, checking equipment, setting out life jackets, etc. as the captain spoke to us. “Keep your eyes out and have cameras at the ready for dolphins and whales, and of course, the little blue penguins.”

I laughed, thinking he was making some kind of joke, but I was the only one.

“I’ll get you in close to the shoreline for photos of a fur seal colony, and once we’re on site, we should have clear water, good for viewing sharks. Those of you in the need of it will receive instruction on how to use the diving equipment. Once the sharks come around, we’ll send you down six at a time, and you can stay in the cage for forty-five minutes’ duration. Most important of all,” he said, “the bar will be open on our return leg.” That bit of news was met with laughter and applause. He ended his portion of the briefing with a promise to have us back in Port Lincoln sometime between six and nine o’clock in the evening.”

“I’ll turn you over now to our First Mate, Mr. Clive Birdsong, for a briefing on the safety equipment.”

Birdsong stepped forward. He was short, barely more than five feet in height, with a wiry build and a neatly trimmed beard. “Thank you Captain,” he said. “I’ll keep it short and sweet, mates.” And he did. Birdsong covered everything—life jackets, what to do in event of the need to abandon ship; fire; lifeboats; and half a dozen other things I never would have imagined—all in less than three minutes. “If there are no questions, then let’s go aboard and we’ll be on our way.”

31

The ride to the dive sight was choppy, as promised. I don’t know how many of us were seasick, because I spent so much time hanging over the side puking I couldn’t concern myself with how the others were doing. We did see some dolphins. No whales, though. And the little blue penguins? Turns out they are for real. There was a rook of them along the shoreline of one of the islands. Cute as they can be, maybe a foot tall.

The moment we stopped to drop anchor, sometime around nine-thirty, there was a flurry of activity among the crew. I watched as six of them went about preparations for the lowering of the shark cage into the water. The cage, from my perspective, appeared to be well-constructed, consisting of galvanized steel mesh, welded and bolted together. There was a viewing gap of about nine, maybe ten inches. Just enough to allow unobstructed observation and photographing without danger of the sharks getting into the cage.

The cage remained tethered to the Fetching Wench as it was lowered into the water, and was kept afloat about ten feet or so away from the boat by balloon-shaped floats attached to its top railings.

With the cage now in the water, a couple of them went about double-checking to be sure it was safely secured to the boat, while the others helped the first group of divers with the task of donning their tanks.

The idea of dropping into the ocean—even in a contained, controlled environment such as the shark cage—made me a bit nervous. I was actually more concerned about the possibility of gagging on the mouthpiece and drowning than I was of a shark encounter. I’m the guy who couldn’t sit still in the dentist chair when they put that contraption in my mouth that’s supposed to keep my mouth open so the dentist can repair a chipped tooth. I’m the guy who couldn’t wear a mouthpiece when I was sparring back in my martial arts days. So I naturally had concerns.

While all that was going on, another crewmember began tossing chum over the side. A flock of gulls hovered overhead, squawking and swooping, stealing what they could from the surface. One of them pooped on my shoulder, but as disgusting as that was, I swear to God the sight and smell of the chum was enough to gag a maggot. “Holy crap, that’s nasty!” I said. “What is it?”

“Fish heads, tails, and guts,” he said. “And cow’s blood. Lots of cow’s blood. We get it from the local slaughterhouse.” He made a “hhhaarrick” sound, bringing up a glob of phlegm and mucus, spitting it into the mixture. Something about that was just a bit more than I could handle. I leaned over the side of the boat and began to vomit, purging my stomach of the breakfast I’d consumed on the way to the dive site. No one seemed to notice.

I turned my attention to scanning the surface for shark fins, along with most of the other guests. Luckily, we were quite close to land, which helped by giving me something for my eyes to focus on as I struggled with my nausea. I felt my pulse quicken with anticipation. After twenty minutes, my excitement was replaced by frustration. I suppose I’d presumed the sharks’ response to the chum would be more or less immediate. Obviously not a realistic expectation.

We’d already drawn our pairings. I would go down with the third group. I was kind of glad. There would only be one other guest besides me. I tend to get claustrophobic, and six plus the guide would definitely be a crowd in a shark cage. As the first group went down. I, along with most of the others, stood by the railing, still watching, waiting for a shark to arrive. Others went inside to watch on video in the saloon.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Then thirty. Still no action after forty-five. The first group came up. One of the men was clearly pissed. “I came all the way to Australia for this?” he said, throwing a hand upward in disgust. “I didn’t see anything.”

“No worries, sir,” his guide said. “The day’s still young. Once all the others have a go, we’ll take you down again.” That seemed to appease the man, at least for the time being.

A couple minutes later, the second group was in the water, and it wasn’t long before someone on deck shouted, “Shark!”

I didn’t see it. “Where?” someone asked. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one having trouble spotting it.

“Over there,” a woman said, pointing to a spot off the starboard bow. I looked again. Eventually I spotted it. One shark, its vertical and tail fins intermittently breaking the surface. About a hundred feet away, maybe one-fifty. But not too close. I glanced down into the shark cage. I couldn’t tell for sure, but the folks down there seemed to be oblivious. The shark never did come close enough for them to get a good look. Eventually, their time ran out and they came up onto the deck, disappointment clearly showing in their faces. It was my group’s turn now.