Kawanga. Jack Halliday

arms, clutched herself, feeling the pain of her infidelity. “Money, marriage, madness!” she thought as she brooded over her relationship with Tom. And he was gone, in America. “And you’re here, alone,” she thought, lashing herself with her words.

      “What was in that envelope?”

      She slid off the sofa and sat, Indian-style on the bare floor. She picked up the envelope, turned it over, ran her long, ruby thumbnail along its edge, breaking the glue and tape sealing it. The “precious cargo” was a nearly blank sheet of typing paper, blank except for one lone word in the center of the page:

      Kawanga.

      CHAPTER NINE

      Donald Brant was in one helluva mess.

      He lay there, thinking about the plush surroundings of the hotel room back in Sydney. How he longed for a shower, some food, a return to civilization. He was sure he hadn’t been abandoned here more than a day and a half. His athletic background assured him of survival without water for three days, without sleep for four, and a month or more without food.

      He was all right.

      It took all the strength he could muster, but he did it. He pushed and strained and finally flipped himself over onto his back. He guessed it was after six o’clock. The sky above was a deep purple. He lay in the sand trying to get his bearings. He sat up slowly, resting most of his weight on his elbows, surveying the situation. The air was clear, the night quiet, a few faint stars watched overhead. He scanned the horizon and then eased himself up onto his feet. He swayed, regained his balance and began the slow trek toward town.

      A mirage at night?

      The sound of a Jeep engine approached him from a distance like a bullet. The vehicle spun in front of him spraying him with sand. Toby, one of Harley’s men, sat there, poker-faced, the engine idling roughly. The only sound was Toby’s voice, nasal, unemotional. He ordered, “Get in.”

      Brant barked, “Get in? First you and the others leave me here to die and now you expect me to give you another crack at it?”

      “Get in, now! Quick, before Harley and Jim get wise to this, Mate. Look, we didn’t know nothin’ ’bout no killings. The money...that’s all we’re about, Jim and me. Just the money, Sport; now get in!”

      Brant swung himself up into the Jeep and the pair sped off, back to the town, back to Kawanga.

      * * * *

      The Jeep’s lights illuminated the hotel sign reading “Dew Drop Inn.” Toby reached in the back and tossed a duffel bag at Brant who stood, hands on his hips, in front of the hotel door. He caught it, letting it dangle from his hand. Two strange bedfellows stared at each other in the moonlight.

      “Look, Brant, as far as Harley and the others are concerned, you’re dead...or as good as. They’re not even going to look for your corpse. You just get outta here. First thing tomorrow get to Adelaide...get to Timbuktu for all I care. Get a few thousand miles between here and you and you’re apples, Mate.”

      Brant shook his head in incredulity. “Why are you doing this?”

      “I done told you, Sport, killing’s not in me plans; never was. That bastard, Harley, crazy sonuvabitch, Mate. Crazy as a loon he is. Me and Jim? We’re off to the west in a few. Tom’s back in the States already the way I get it. Man, I tell you, this whole thing’s over.”

      Brant’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘over’?”

      “Take my advice: get outta here. Stay one helluva long distance from Harley. Stay clear of him and she’ll be sweet, Mate. Oh...and I reckon you could say you owe me one.”

      Toby sneered a parting grin at Brant and shot away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Brant stood still, hands on his hips, still shaking his head in disbelief. To himself, he sighed, “What the hell?”

      CHAPTER TEN

      Conley poured himself another glass of apricot sherry. He let the glass just gently touch his lips while he inhaled the fruity aroma. The sun was just setting outside his Yorkshire home. He slid his chair back from his desk, swiveling it around to face the window. He licked his lips and surveyed the lush green acreage belonging to his mansion. Everything could remain intact, everything. His standing, his influence, his power, his wealth; he could keep it all. Her Majesty’s public servant had hired an efficient “eraser” to remove even the memory of this misfortune. As he mused along these lines, Anderson, his butler, entered the office. “Any word from Bonnington, Sir?” he asked.

      Conley swiveled his chair back to his desk, ran his fingers back and forth against the cool leather chair arm as he faced Anderson. “Not yet, but I’m satisfied he has the situation well in hand. I’m quite sure the document will be returned by the end of the month...perhaps sooner. Actually, I believe Mr. Bonnington has all the makings of quite an effective ‘cleaner.’”

      Anderson countered, “And the American woman?”

      Conley inspected his study with a regal look. He sat here as king, never mind that “technical Sovereign’s” home in London. He replied, “You’ve been with me for a long time. My ‘relationship’ with Rita is a memory...a slight libidinous excess.”

      Anderson blushed, replying, “Yes, Sir. I only meant....”

      “Meant what?” Conley interrupted. That her majesty would somehow discover and discipline me?”

      Anderson replied, “I meant no impertinence, Sir.”

      Conley steepled his fingers to his lips and turned his back on the butler to face the window, speaking with his back to him. “I’m more concerned with my wife’s whereabouts. Another one of Camille’s shenanigans might prove to be a political embarrassment to me.”

      “I’m sure you’ll hear from her soon.”

      Conley swiveled his chair back to face him. “Yes, I’m certain I will. She’s probably tied up with another good looking low-life. No matter; when the excitement runs down, she’ll do what she’s always done: return to ‘Daddy’.”

      Anderson replied, reassuringly, “I have no doubt, Sir.”

      “Then, that will be all for now.”

      Anderson bowed as he replied, “As you wish.”

      With that, the burly sovereign turned again to face the window.

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      It seemed like they had been together forever. Maybe it was the fact that she was older, maybe that she was more mature somehow. The past few weeks seemed to have blended into one tangled ball of physical and emotional love of a certain sort. He had divorced Carla emotionally years ago, now he was acting on the fact. Maybe his and Rita’s relationship would “upset the cosmos”; she was the one who should have gotten away.

      The restaurant was quiet; the only sounds were the quiet conversations of lovers and the faint kitchen sounds of Chinese food preparation. C.J. was devouring “Hong Kong chicken.” Everywhere they went the surroundings were a movie set. Their romance was picture-perfect.

      ‘Seriously, C.J.; will we get married?” asked Rita, stabbing the chow mein with her fork.

      ‘Honey, I really don’t know. I’m sure not afraid of marriage...or commitments: God, I stuck it out with Carla for nearly eight years.”

      “It’s just that, well, maybe I need the sense of security; that we’re real, all of this. I’ve never experienced this,” Rita continued. “Definitely not while I was in England. And now that I’m back in the States permanently, well, maybe it’s time for me to do something normal, like marriage.”

      “What did happen, I mean in England?” C.J. asked. His curiosity demanded that he pry. He honestly wanted to possess every part of her: past, present and future.

      “I’ve told you already, C.J. I just did a relatively unsuccessful stint as an assistant at