The line clicked dead and Marissa slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle. Her heart ached with the same pain she knew Gustave was feeling.
Flopping back on the bed, Marissa covered her face with her hands and sobbed until she could no longer cry. Then, with her hands still covering her face, her sadness began to transform to irritation, then even to anger.
Instead of being pleased with how much in control Gustave had been, it began to bother her. When she replayed the conversation in her mind, she hated that Gustave had sounded so cold and detached, as if she had been giving him a report on one of his patients and not on his wife. It made her suddenly wonder if the problems spawned by the infertility treatments were such that Gustave was relieved to some extent by Wendy’s untimely death.
Rethinking Gustave’s conversation made Marissa do the same with Robert’s and with a similar result. The idea that Robert wouldn’t volunteer to come instantly to Australia, knowing what kind of trauma she’d experienced, was unforgivable. Taxes! What an absurd excuse. After all that had happened, she would have hoped that he would make their marriage a priority.
Marissa got up from the bed and walked to the window. The ocean glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. It was hard to believe that Wendy had met such a brutal fate in so serene a milieu. She wondered what her own fate would have been had nausea and fatigue not forced her back to the boat. Maybe she’d be dead as well. Maybe that had been the idea: to get rid of them both.
Marissa’s throat went dry. She swallowed hard. She was thinking dangerous thoughts, maybe even crazy ones. Her mind went back to the vicious Chinese security guards at the Women’s Clinic. Could they possibly be related to the sinister Chinese aboard the Oz? Marissa wondered if there was any connection between the Women’s Clinic in the States and the FCA in Australia.
Marissa went out onto her balcony. She sank into the chaise lounge. That Wendy died for nothing hit her hard. How could she just let it go and return to Boston? Her thoughts drifted to the elusive Tristan Williams. Why would a trained pathologist make up the ridiculous data that could easily be proven false, all for the questionable benefit of publishing an article? It just didn’t fit.
Marissa tapped her fingers nervously against the arm of her chair. She thought again of those men tossing chum over the side. If they were so innocent, why did they flee the instant she called out to them? She could assume Tristan Williams had committed professional hara-kiri on a whim. She could talk herself into believing that those two on the Oz had not realized what they were doing. But the whole weird thing was beginning to remind her of the way she felt in the early days of the Ebola outbreaks when she’d been with the CDC. Back then, Marissa had begun to suspect a sinister force at work long before her colleagues did. Despite setbacks, she clung to her beliefs, ultimately proving the existence of a cabal even more diabolic than she had ever imagined. Now, as then, she was beginning to think it was time to go with her instincts.
Even if she didn’t have much more than a hunch that there was more to these events than met the eye, she had to dig deeper. Impulsively she went back inside and called Robert back. She woke him a second time.
“I need you here, Robert,” Marissa said. “The more I think about Wendy’s death, the more I think it was caused deliberately.”
“Please, Marissa. You’re overreacting. You’ve had a tremendous shock. Shouldn’t you just get on a plane and come home?”
“But I think I should stay.”
“I cannot come to Australia,” Robert said. “I told you business is—”
Even though she realized she was being unreasonable, Marissa hung up on him before he could finish his sentence. Then she realized there was something he could do. Snatching up the phone, she dialed Robert yet again.
“I’m glad you called back,” Robert said. “I was hoping you’d come to your senses.”
“I want you to find out something for me,” Marissa said, ignoring Robert’s comments. “I want to know if there is any business connection between the Women’s Clinic in the States and Female Care Australia.”
“I can check in the morning,” Robert said.
“I want you to do it now,” Marissa said. She knew Robert’s computer was hooked up to several business data banks.
“If I do this,” Robert said, “will you come home and stop asking me to come to Australia?”
“I’ll stop asking you to come to Australia,” Marissa said.
“Give me your number and I’ll call you back.”
Five minutes later Marissa’s phone rang. Robert had been faster than she’d expected.
“You were right if you guessed they were associated,” Robert said. “Both the Women’s Clinic, Inc., and Female Care Australia Limited are controlled by an Australian holding company by the name of Fertility, Limited. I found it out by reading the back page on a prospectus on the Women’s Clinic.”
“What are you doing with a prospectus on the Women’s Clinic?” Marissa asked. “I thought it was a private company.”
“They floated a big stock offering a few years ago to finance their nationwide expansion,” Robert explained. “It’s been a good stock. I’ve been very pleased with it.”
“You own stock in Women’s Clinic?” Marissa asked.
“Yes,” Robert said. “I have a significant position with both the Women’s Clinic and FCA.”
“You own stock in FCA as well?”
“Sure do,” Robert said. “I bought it on the Sydney Exchange.”
“Sell it!” Marissa shouted.
Robert laughed. “Now let’s not confuse emotions with business,” he said. “I see both stocks splitting in the near future.”
“I think there is something seriously wrong with these companies,” Marissa said with vehemence. “I don’t know what it is they’re up to, but I think it may be linked to these cases of TB salpingitis.”
“Don’t tell me you’re back on that crusade,” Robert whined.
“Just sell the stock,” Marissa said.
“I’ll take your recommendation under advisement,” Robert said evasively.
Marissa slammed the phone down, cutting off Robert before he could say more.
Anger had now overcome to a large degree her sadness about Wendy. Although she thought that her hormone-induced hyperemotional state might have had something to do with her change in mood, she didn’t care. Instead of giving in to depression, she opted for action. Picking up the phone, she called the Royal Flying Doctor service in Charleville.
“Yes,” the woman at the other end of the line told her, “Dr. Tristan Williams is with us, but he’s out at isolated cattle stations at the moment. He won’t be back for several days.”
“Does he have a specific schedule?” Marissa asked.
“Indeed he does,” the woman said. “Unless there is an emergency. Our doctors have a regular route whenever they leave for a loop of the outback.”
“Could you tell me where he will be two days from now?” Marissa asked. She thought that should give her enough time to get there no matter how far away it was.
“Hold the line,” the woman said. She was gone for several minutes. When she came back on the line she said, “He’ll be near a town called Windorah. He’s to make a call at the Wilmington Station.”
“Does Windorah have a commercial airport?” Marissa asked.
The woman laughed. “No, not quite,” she said. “In fact it doesn’t even have a bitumen road.”
Marissa next called the airport to see about connections to Charleville. With reservations made on an airline called Flight West, she quickly packed her bags and went down to the lobby. After making arrangements for Wendy’s bag to be brought to the hotel’s storage room, she checked out.
During the short ride to the airport, she began to wonder about defying the police inspector’s request to remain on Hamilton Island. She wondered if security people at the airport might try to stop her. But there was no problem and she boarded the plane for Brisbane w
ithout any incident.
In Brisbane she had a short wait before she boarded a commuter plane with only twelve seats. At a little after nine in the evening, the plane lifted off the tarmac and headed due west toward Charleville, a town situated on the edge of the broad expanse of the Australian outback.
While Marissa was flying over the Great Dividing Range, a series of mountains separating the narrow, lush coastline from the rest of Australia, Ned Kelly and Willy Tong climbed the stairs in the mostly darkened FCA clinic and headed for the deserted administration area. The door to Charles Lester’s office was ajar. The two men walked in unannounced.
Charles looked up from a puddle of light emanating from his brass desk lamp. The shadows made his deep eyesockets appear blank like a man with no eyes. His mouth beneath his heavy mustache was clamped shut with the corners downturned. Charles was not happy.
“Sit down!” he ordered.
Ned flopped casually into one of the chairs facing the desk while Willy leaned up against a bookcase.
“I just heard what happened on the evening news,” Lester said. “You’ve managed to make things worse. First, you only got rid of one of the women. The one you let get away is talking about her friend’s death being deliberate because she saw you two blokes. The police, it seems, are investigating.”
“How were we to know one of them would come out of the water while we were throwing in the chum?” Ned said. “It was a bit of bad luck. Otherwise it would have worked. We tossed in enough bait to summon every shark from the entire Coral Sea.”
“But eliminating one and raising suspicions is not what you were supposed to do,” Lester snapped. “Now it is imperative rather than merely advisable that this second woman be eliminated. It said on the news that her name was Dr. Marissa Blumenthal-Buchanan.”
“I know which one it is,” Ned said. “The sheila with the brown hair.”
“You want us to go back to Hamilton Island and hit her?” Willy asked.
“I want you to do whatever it takes,” Lester said.
“What if she’s already left the island?” Ned asked.
“I doubt she’s left with an investigation underway,” Lester said. “But let’s call the hotel. You said she was staying at the Hamilton Island Resort?”
“That’s the one,” Ned said.
Lester picked up his phone and, after obtaining the number, called the hotel. To his dismay he learned that Mrs. Buchanan had already checked out.
Lester stood up and leaned over his desk. “I want you mates to clean this affair up. Ned, you start looking for this woman in the usual hotels, here and in Sydney. Use our government connections to find out if she’s left the country. Willy, I want you to visit Tristan Williams and hang around. This Mrs. Buchanan had originally talked about finding the man. If she were to have a conversation with him, a bad situation could conceivably get far worse.”
“What if she’s already left the country?” Ned asked.
“I want her disposed of,” Lester said. “I don’t care where she goes, the States or even Europe. Is that clear?”
Ned stood up. “Perfectly clear,” he said. “It’ll be a challenge. But then, I like challenges.”
12
April 9, 1990
7:11 A.M.
Marissa woke up feeling exhausted. She had not had a good night’s sleep. She had checked into a tidy motel in Charleville and, though her bed was comfortable, she’d hardly done more than doze. Every time she closed her eyes, she’d see that great white shark. The few times she managed to fall asleep, she’d be shocked awake by a nightmare vision of Wendy in the shark’s jaws. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, she did sleep fitfully for almost three hours.
Although she wasn’t hungry, Marissa forced herself to eat some breakfast before setting out for the car rental office.
As she walked down the street in Charleville, Marissa had the feeling she was in a time warp and was back in a Midwestern town in the United States fifty years previously. The quaint Victorian character that she’d expected to see in Brisbane was evident in some of the homes and office buildings. The air was clear and bright, and the streets were free of litter. And the early-morning sun was hot enough to suggest what its noontime power would be.
At the car rental office in the Shell station, Marissa rented a Ford Falcon. She asked for a map, but the attendant didn’t have one to offer.
“Where are you planning to go?” he asked in a slow Queenslander drawl.
“Windorah,” Marissa said.
The man looked at her as if she were crazy. “What on earth for?” he asked. “Do you know how far it is to Windorah?”
“Not exactly,” Marissa admitted.
“It’s over two hundred miles,” the agent said. “Two hundred miles of nothing but wallabies, koos, and lizards. Probably take you eight to ten hours. Better fill up that reserve tank in the trunk. There’s also one for water. Fill that up just to be sure.”
“What’s the road like?” Marissa asked.
“Calling it a road is being generous,” the agent said. “There’s a sealed strip, but there’ll be a lot of bulldust. Not much rain this season. Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow from Windorah? If I don’t hear from you I’ll let the police know. There’s not much traffic out there.”
“Thank you,” Marissa said. “I’ll do that.”
Marissa drove the car back to her room. She found it awkward driving on the left. Once she was there she had the proprietor ring up the Royal Flying Doctor Service for her. She made sure there hadn’t been any emergencies to interrupt Tristan Williams’ schedule.
After filling her reserve gas and water tanks, Marissa drove straight through Charleville and picked up the road to Windorah. As the agent had said, near the outskirts of town the paved road suddenly narrowed to a single lane.
At first Marissa somewhat enjoyed herself. The sun was behind her and not in her eyes, although she knew that would change as the day wore on. The solitude of the land was a good balm for her raw emotions.
The road was a sandy orange color and it sliced across the channel country, an arid, desertlike expanse of space cut by curious, narrow-ribbed valleys or arroyos that carried away the meager rainwater in the rainy season. Birds were everywhere, taking flight as she bore down on them. She even began to see the fauna that the agent had mentioned. Occasionally she passed a water hole ablaze with the color of hibiscus.
Despite the dramatic scenery, monotony soon set in. As the miles passed, Marissa began to be relieved that the car rental agent had agreed she would call when she got to Windorah. Marissa had never traveled through a more desolate area in her life; the idea of the car breaking down was truly frightening.
The driving wasn’t easy, either. The rough road meant she had to struggle with the steering wheel. The dust billowing in her wake eventually started to work its way into the car, covering everything with a fine layer.
By noon she was sure the temperature had climbed well over a hundred degrees. The heat created the illusion of rolling undulations. There were other natural distractions as well; later in the afternoon she had to slam on the brakes, coming to a sliding stop to allow a pack of wild boar to continue to cross the road.
At a little past eight in the evening, after eleven hours of driving, Marissa began to see meager signs of civilization. Twenty minutes later she pulled into Windorah. She was glad to be there, although the town was hardly a scenic oasis.
At the center of town stood a one-story green, clapboard pub-cum-hotel with a wooden veranda. A sign proclaimed it as the Western Star Hotel. Across the road from the Western Star was a general store. A little farther down the way was a gas station that looked like it was circa 1930.
Marissa entered the pub and endured the stares of its five male customers. They had paused in their dart game and were looking at her as if she were an apparition. The pub owner came over and asked if he could help her.
“I’d like a room for two nights,” Marissa said.
/> “Do you have a reservation?” the man asked.
Marissa studied the man’s broad face. She thought he had to be joking, but he didn’t crack a smile. She admitted that she didn’t have a reservation.
“There’s a boxing troupe in town tonight,” the man said. “We’re pretty busy, but let me check.”
He went over to his cash register and checked a notebook. Marissa glanced around the room. All the men were still staring at her. None of them moved or said a word. They didn’t touch their bottles of beer.
The man came back. “I’ll give you number four,” he said. “It was reserved, but they were supposed to check in by six.”
Marissa paid for a night’s lodging, took the key, and asked about food.
“We’ll fix you up something here in the pub,” the man said. “As soon as you freshen up, come on back.”
“One other question,” Marissa asked. “Is the Wilmington Station close to town?”
“ ’Tis,” the man said. “Quite close. Less than three hours’ drive due west.”
Marissa wondered how many hours it would take to get to a distant station if it took three to get to a close one. Before she went to her room, Marissa used a public phone to ring the car rental agent to say that she had made it.
She was pleased to discover that her room was reasonably clean. She was surprised to see mosquito netting draped over the bed. Only later would she learn how important it was.
The rest of the evening passed quickly. She wasn’t very hungry and barely touched her food. She did enjoy the ice cold beer. Eventually she found herself in friendly conversation with the men in the bar.
She was even persuaded to join them at the boxing show, which turned out to be an opportunity for the locals to box with professionals. The ranchers would win twenty dollars if they were able to last three one-minute rounds, but none of them ever did. Marissa left before it was over, appalled by the violence the drunken men subjected themselves to.