A Croc Called Capone (10 page)

It was Murray and a couple of other guys with long beards. Rifles were propped against the ute's tray. One man had a long hunting knife in his hand. I slipped behind a tree and peered around the trunk. Even though I was still some distance away, I could see what they had been dragging.

It was the head and skin of a large crocodile. They must have gutted it where it had been shot. Now they spread the remains onto the ground by the ute.

Images flipped through my mind. Al's brother, his short legs splayed in death, bobbing on the river. Then Al himself, gliding alongside the tour boat. Powerful jaws. Cold eyes.

Terrifying.

Yet so beautiful.

I realised I'd stopped breathing. My hands were clenched so tightly that when I uncurled them, my nails had left crescent-shaped gouges in my palms. I exhaled slowly, calmed the anger surging through my blood.

I needed a cool head.

Blacky and I silently agreed on what must happen. Timing was crucial. We ran through it one more time. Then he slipped off across the wet land, crossed the thin trail on which the ute was parked and disappeared into the bush on the other side. I waited.

‘Hey, Murray,' one of the guys called out. ‘What about a photo of you with your kill?'

‘Nah, mate,' said Murray. ‘Not into souvenirs.'

‘Oh, go on.'

‘Mate, I said no. I'm not taking the chance of being identified should some photo fall into the wrong hands.'

The other guy laughed.

‘You worry too much.'

‘I worry enough,' snapped Murray. ‘And if you don't like it you know what you can do. I can always take my money elsewhere.
Mate
.'

The man with the knife lifted his hands. A few drops of blood fell from the stained blade.

‘Whoa, man,' he said. ‘No offence, okay?'

At that moment an unearthly noise floated through the bush. A howl that seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. If you were imaginative you'd think it was some spirit moaning in inexpressible agony.

Luckily I'm not imaginative. Anyway, I knew that it was Blacky.

The men were startled. They grabbed their guns and moved to the other side of the ute, out of my line of sight. This was the time to make
my
move. I slipped out from behind the tree trunk and sprinted towards the ute. Sprinted is a slight exaggeration. Given the muddy earth, ‘oozed' might be a better word. But I made it to another tree approximately twenty metres from the men.

This tree had a dense canopy of broad leaves. Equally importantly, it was easy to climb. Blacky's howls suddenly ended, as if a stop button had been punched. I tucked myself into a fork in the branches and looked through a gap in the leaves.

Perfect. It was unlikely I would be seen from below. You would have to make a special effort to peer into the branches and there'd be no reason to do that. I unclipped my digital camera from the belt of my shorts – the same camera I'd taken along for the croc cruise – and looked through the viewfinder. It wasn't a top quality camera. The zoom function was, to be honest, crap. But, at this distance, I was confident I would get a picture of Murray that would be recognisable, that might hold up in a court of law. I turned the camera on and waited.

The men had gone into the bush a few metres, trying to track the source of the howling. Now they returned.

‘What the hell
was
that?' asked one.

Murray shrugged.

‘No idea, mate,' he said. ‘Never heard a sound like that before. But I reckon we should get this carcass in the back of the ute and call it a day. I've got a special project on tomorrow. A really big croc. Over five metres. The top dog in the entire area. Capone, they call him. I'll meet you at nine.'

The men placed their rifles back against the side of the ute. I was pleased to note the guns could be clearly seen in the camera viewfinder. Then the guys bent down to lug the crocodile skin the remaining metre or so to the ute tray.

I waited.

I waited until Murray turned his head to the side to judge the distance, his face almost front-on to my lens. Then I clicked the shutter.

It was a great photo. The image appeared immediately on the small
LCD
screen and I knew at once that this was game, set and match. The butchered croc was easily identifiable. So was Murray, his hands gripping the corpse. The rifles were there. Even the ute's rego.

The entire operation was perfect in design and execution.

Apart from one slight detail.

You see, as I examined the photo, I slipped and crashed through the branches onto the soggy ground, like a piece of exotic fruit. Dylan and I seemed to be making a habit of this kind of thing, but at least Dyl had fallen into water. The ground punched the air from my lungs. I struggled to my feet as Murray and the other two men walked quickly towards me. They didn't seem thrilled.

I had three chances, I thought, of getting out of this. One, their limbs might suddenly start to drop off. Two, a snake could bite them. Three, a croc could eat them.

When they stopped in front of me I had to admit that these had all been very long shots. So I tried a bright and cheery smile instead.

‘Hi guys,' I said. ‘Surprise! Just thought I'd drop in and see how you're going.'

One of the men scrunched up his fist in my T-shirt and pulled me close. I was terrified but determined not to show it.

‘My mum ironed this shirt this morning,' I said. ‘She is not going to be happy with you if it comes back creased.'

‘Let him go, Mick,' said Murray. His voice was soft.

‘He's been spying on us,' snarled Mick. His beard was very impressive in close-up. Not so his teeth, which were chipped and yellow. His eyes were simply hard. ‘Taking photographs.'

‘I said let him go, Mick.' Murray hadn't raised his voice, but it had authority. It reminded me of parents. They didn't yell, but you just
knew
you'd better do as instructed. Mick let go.

‘Finish up in the ute,' Murray continued. ‘I'll deal with this.'

The others slunk off, grumbling. Occasionally they looked back at me, as if imagining what they'd like to do if Murray wasn't around. I made a mental note not to invite them to my next birthday party. If I lived to enjoy it.

Murray crouched in front of me. I put the camera behind my back and added another name to my birthday party exclusion list.

‘No one's going to hurt you, Marcus,' he said. ‘It
is
Marcus, isn't it?' I didn't reply. ‘In fact, I'll take you back to the resort myself. But … you
do
understand, don't you? I can't let you keep the pictures in that camera. I simply can't allow it.'

‘Sorry,' I replied. I was pleased to note my voice sounded strong and confident. ‘But this is
my
camera and
my
pictures. If you're going to take them, then I guess you
will
have to hurt me.'

Murray sighed and rubbed a hand across the top of his head.

‘I don't want to do that.'

‘But you're good at it,' I said. I nodded towards the ute where the bearded thugs were tying down what remained of the croc. ‘Isn't that part of the fun? Hurting things weaker than you? Hey, I'm eleven years old and a twentieth your size. Should be easy.'

‘That crocodile is not weaker than me,' said Murray.

‘In a swimming pool, that would be true,' I replied. ‘But you had a gun. I'm guessing the croc didn't. Under those circumstances, I reckon you were in a slightly stronger position.'

Murray fixed me with his piercing blue eyes.

‘You don't understand,' he said.

‘That's true. I don't.'

‘Marcus, I just want to delete those photographs. Then you get the camera back and I take you home. End of story.'

‘I'll tell everyone what I've seen.'

‘Fair enough. And maybe some might take the word of an eleven-year-old kid against a forty-year-old doctor who's spent his life healing children. But you won't have
evidence
and that's the only thing of importance to me.' He smiled. This time I didn't like his smile. ‘Come on, mate. You can't win this. Just hand over the camera, like a good boy.'

And suddenly another voice – one in my head – also told me to be a good boy. It explained why. Now
I
smiled. I took my hand from behind my back and held out the camera to Murray. His eyes softened as he reached out to take it.

I knew Blacky could move quickly. I'd seen his spectacular disappearing acts. But this time he outdid himself. He was a dirty-white streak as he launched himself between Murray and me, a blur, a haze, a smudge, a smear across the eyeballs. Before you even knew he was there, he was gone.

And so was my camera, wedged firmly in his jaws.

For a moment, Murray was too shocked to move. We stared at each other for a heartbeat or two. Then came confusion. There were shouts, yells and three men running after a small, dirty-white dog as it ducked and bobbed through the bush. It was unlikely they'd catch him.

I ran in the opposite direction.

Blacky met up with me twenty minutes later. He said he'd left Murray and the other two in the middle of a
very
wet and
very
smelly marsh. I clipped the camera back onto the waistband of my shorts and we headed back to the resort.

It had been quite an adventure and I was looking forward to telling Dyl all about it. I was also looking forward to a rest.

You couldn't call this holiday dull. We'd been here less than twenty-four hours and Dyl had nearly been eaten by a crocodile and I'd completed the mission Blacky set. Once that camera and the evidence it contained was safely secured, there was no way Murray was going to get away with any more killing. True, we were leaving soon and I couldn't think how to avoid that. But I was pleased I'd achieved something important before the holiday was over.

But it
wasn't
over. It turned out the adventure hadn't finished with any of us yet. Not by a long chalk.

I watched as Brendan locked the camera into the safe behind the desk at reception. Only when he turned the key did I give a sigh of satisfaction. I didn't know if Murray would come back to the resort at all. Maybe he'd make a run for it. It didn't matter. Once I got the photographs into the hands of the police or the Parks and Wildlife authority, there wouldn't be anywhere for him to hide. It's not as if he was a nobody. He was a big man – in every sense of the word – with an important job. He'd be easy to find.

So it was with a spring in my step that I walked back to the cabin.

I didn't make it there unscathed.

Rose leaped out from a shrub at the side of the path, dragged me off into low-lying bush, clamped my head under her arm and gave my skull a good going-over with her knuckles.

‘I hate you, Mucus,' she screamed. ‘I really hate you.'

‘What have I done?' I managed to croak. I was tired, dirty and hungry. I could have happily given up being tortured by an evil sibling at that particular moment.

‘Ruined this holiday, that's what you've done. And I
told
you. I told you that if you messed this up I'd make you wish you had never been born.'

It's difficult to organise your thoughts when your head is being held in a vice and your brain feels as though it's being eaten by fire ants. I tried to throw up over Rose's shoes, but couldn't manage. I vowed to work on this. It would be very useful to be able to summon vomit at will.

‘How have I ruined the holiday?' I gasped.

‘The crocodile, Mucus?
Hello
?' She scarcely paused in the rhythm of her knuckle-grinding.

‘That wasn't my fault. Even you said it wasn't my fault. An accident. That's what you said.'

‘I was lying. It
is
your fault. That splat of cat poo is
your
friend. And he's a moron, an imbecile, a half-wit thicko and a brain-dead drongo. Falling off a boat! And now we all have to go home because of him. It's not fair, Mucus. You're responsible and you're going to pay.'