Fatal Flaw. Sandy Curtis
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that had suffused Julie when she'd read the newspaper article bubbled to the surface. 'You knew about Gordon's death, didn't you, Dad? Why didn't you tell me?'
'We're still in the office, Julie.' His lips moved around the cigar in his mouth. 'Do I have to remind you?'
Julie's anger rose another notch. 'All right, Ray.' She looked at the bland expression on her father's square face and knew he was playing with her. She bit back the retort that had almost given away her susceptibility to the game. 'Have you contacted Gordon's wife? Do you know how the family are coping?'
Ray Galloway shifted his large frame more comfortably into his office chair and swivelled it slightly sideways so he could place his shoes neatly on the edge of his expansive oak desk. He leaned back, placed the cigar in an ashtray and considered Julie over the tips of his steepled fingers. 'I phoned Claire this morning to offer my condolences.'
Silence dragged out between them, until Julie finally gave in. 'How was she?'
'As you can imagine, she was quite distraught.'
A wave of helplessness swept Julie. If she'd ever believed that a relationship could survive all that life could fling at it, it was because of Gordon and Claire Talbert. Now Gordon was dead.
'You'll be going to the funeral?' She asked as though sure of an affirmative answer, and was shocked when Ray simply shrugged his shoulders. With an effort, she choked back the query that took shape in her head. She took a deep breath. 'Well, I'll be going.'
'You may not get the time off.'
Although his tone was mild, Julie sensed the threat in the words. 'So fire me.' She turned and walked out of the office without glancing back.
The mountain looked no closer than it had when Mark Talbert had started out early in the morning. It loomed in the distance, majestic and unattainable. Or so it felt. Almost symbolic of the peace he had searched for through this trip but that so far had eluded him.
Sweat coursed down his back, soaking his shirt and the belt on his khaki pants. It slid down his face, and he tasted the salt of it on his lips. For the second day in a row he questioned his sanity in tackling the Bicentennial National Trail in Queensland's early March heat. The mild weather he'd experienced when he'd started out a week ago had quickly changed into soaring temperatures barely relieved by night's coolness, and he was grateful he'd at least had sense enough not to start from Cooktown in the tropical north.
A group of trail riders had overtaken him on the fourth day, but since then he'd seen no-one. The solitude suited him. It should have given him time to think, to worry at this new disquiet in his soul, but he had lapsed into the rhythm of the hike, the heat dulling his senses, his thoughts subdued by the almost constant drone of cicadas.
It was only at night as he cooked over his small campfire that his demons returned. He'd given up trying to analyse his feelings. He knew what the psychologist had said was true, that anyone who'd come as close to death as he had would start to reassess his life, but he knew there was more to it than that.
His father had understood his need to walk the track that meandered the east coast of Australia. They shared a rare bond, forged through suffering but even more so through understanding and respect. When he'd driven Mark to Kilkivan to start the trek, Gordon Talbert had been as supportive as he always had been, and Mark had been grateful for that.
An hour later the track reached a high ridge that appeared to lead straight to the top of the mountain. Trees were sparse on either side now, but ahead they thickened into swathes of green that rolled up the mountain and down into the valleys on either side.
Even in the far distance there were no signs of farms or towns, and a deep loneliness swept over Mark, surprising him with its intensity, because in the past he had rarely felt lonely.
He swung his pack off his back, took his mobile phone from a side pocket, and switched it on. He'd conserved the battery by only using it to check for messages and give brief replies, and now it showed several messages, all urgently requesting him to ring his parents' home. He hit Reply, waited a few seconds, then listened in growing shock and disbelief to his stepmother's halting, grief-stricken words.
Instinct snapped in. He reassured her he'd get home as soon as possible, and hung up. He took his personal GPS from his pack and took a reading, pressed several numbers on his mobile, and told the woman who answered that he needed a helicopter urgently. Within minutes it was arranged, and he sat under a shady tree to wait. He was aware he'd overstepped his authority but he didn't give a damn. He'd almost given his life for his country; a helicopter ride was small recompense.
Dust covered the toes of his boots. A tiny insect crawled over his arm where it lay on his drawn-up knees. He watched it negotiate the dark hairs. His Army cloth hat felt suddenly restrictive, and he pushed it further back on his head. He'd let his hair grow over the past three months, and it lay thick over his forehead and curled around his shirt collar.
As the minutes ticked by, the control he'd always had over his emotions began to slip. Questions raged through his mind, demanding answers. But the anguish in his chest overwhelmed them, and Mark did something he hadn't done since he was six years old.
He cried as though his heart was breaking.
CHAPTER TWO
As he hurried through the narrow Calcutta lane, Yuusuf Haasan felt nerves twitch in his lean belly. The smell of straw and earth and clay mingled with sweat and urine and faeces was not the reason, but rather the fear that someone might realise the bag he carried held more money than the population of this squalid tenement could make in a lifetime. People and animals spilled out from the disparate buildings, chatting, laughing, yelling, a cacophony of sound that never seemed to cease as they toiled at creating the festival figures they would need to sell to assure their place in one of the small rooms here.
Only a small portion of the lane remained clear of workers. Yuusuf side-stepped a stand of statues, their garish red and gold costuming offset by black wavy hair and blue faces and arms. He looked again. Multiple arms. He shook his head, unable to comprehend a religion that needed to believe in not only multiple deities, but in a god that was so malformed.
Winter had not ceased, but the humidity had begun. His eyebrows, grey and bushy, diverted the sweat that beaded on his forehead.
Further on, two men worked on covering straw figures with earthen mix. For a moment Yuusuf stopped, his gaze caught by the fullness of the female statues' breasts, then he quickened his pace. Finally he found, among the jumble of shop signs and collapsing awnings, the shop he was looking for. He stepped inside.
No window alleviated the dimness, and it took some seconds for his eyes to adjust enough to discern statue-laden shelves, rolled up bedding, a kerosene stove and cooking equipment. Curry and oil smells permeated the room, as though the walls had absorbed them for so long they now could hold no more.
Yuusuf's stomach rumbled, in hunger or revulsion he wasn't sure, and he clutched his bag closer. A tall, wiry youth slipped in beside him. In the peculiar chanting cadence of street-sellers, the lad extolled his product's qualities, then asked how many Yuusuf wished to purchase.
Yuusuf waited until the flow of words ceased, then uttered one word. The animation left the youth's dark face and he scurried through an inner door. A moment later, an older version of the youth appeared through the same door.
'You have the money?'
Yuusuf almost allowed himself the relief of a smile. The deal had been a precarious one, arranged through an associate, and he hadn't been sure that it would actually go through. He nodded. The man looked at the bag Yuusuf carried, but Yuusuf shook his head. 'The merchandise first.'
The youth reappeared, clutching a rectangular box about thirty centimetres long. The man took it from him, then spat rapid instructions. The youth moved into the outer doorway and stayed there, a barrier to any intrusion. Or escape. With obvious reluctance, the man held the box out to Yuusuf.
Apprehension, mingled with a wild excitement, trembled Yuusuf's outstretched hand. The metal box was heavier