THE EASTER MAKE BELIEVERS Page 9

  “Nice hat Cap, getting into the Easter spirit early are we? I like it, brings out that pulsing vein next to your eye,” I say as we walk up.

  “The hat is part of the problem. It belongs to an identical set of 400 owned by the Lawrence Happy Hearts Daffodil Trust – don’t even ask. And we’re all wearing them instead of the standard high-vis gear because half the town has already decided to go looking for James Chen without first coordinating with the police. Even though we specifically told them not to. Because Becca Patrick did an almost stroke-inducing fucking special news bulletin.

  “We now have several hundred idiots with guns blundering around in the wild, willing to shoot anything that moves, while conducting their own half-arsed search. And the only thing that will hopefully stop them from killing each other is that they’re all wearing these hats. So now we have to too, or they might kill us instead. I’m seriously considering arresting most of Lawrence. We’ve already had to go out and rescue some of them. And then I’m told there’s a real chance of snow even though it’s only the end of fucking March,” he says.

  “Have we got anything?” Tobe asks.

  “Nothing new. No trail, no tracks, nothing on the road blocks. Aside from your bit about Remu Black and his old man Sam going missing, it’s all hints and rumours. Still waiting for some teams to call in but I doubt we’re getting anything more solid. Coroner is still going over the bodies but nothing we can use. Forensics won’t have anything until tomorrow. Tom Parata’s people haven’t done any better, although I’d say there’ll be a few more police brutality complaints in the morning, which for a change I won’t have to answer for. The media conference will be fun. Updates?” Martin asks.

  “Nothing. But with Sam Black also gone I’d say Remu’s our man. That being the case there’s no one left for us to lean on. His close friends died last night along with his two brothers and the rest are currently in prison. No wife, no kids. Aside from his missing father all he’s got left is his mother, but she’s senile and in a wheelchair in the Balclutha Retirement Home. Maybe we’ll hear from Father Ress about word getting out of prison but for now we’ve got no moves left,” Tobe answers.

  “Then let’s hope what we’ve done is both enough and fast enough. Talk to Maud about a search placement, get geared up and head out. Try not to get shot by the Happy Hearts Daffodil Trust,” Martin says.

  * * *

  “Ok people, remember – don’t just go once you’ve got your assigned search area. Make sure you eat before you head out and you need to pass the gear safety checklist at the main gate as a group,” Maud says as he finishes his briefing using a loud speaker while standing on a chair. Small groups of cops and civilians disperse in various directions.

  “What do you need Maud?” I say as we walk up.

  “You’re tasked here?” Maud asks.

  “Yup, nothing left to do but this,” I answer.

  “The grid search is spread about as far as we can risk with this little daylight left but we need more people on pick-ups,” Maud says.

  “Pick-ups?” I ask, looking around at the muddy sports fields and confusion of tools, clothing, boxes and food leftovers everywhere.

  “Locals. We’ve already had several injuries. Search teams calling in lost, vehicles getting stuck. There’s about 300 people out in conditions they really shouldn’t be. I’ll pair you with the local doctor, go where we tell you. You’re just there to do the heavy lifting. Pick them up, have the doc fix what can be fixed, then drop them off here. Get geared up in the tent over there, then go wait by the main gate. Oh, and don’t forget your daffodil hat!” Maud calls after us as we move off.

  The back pack full of emergency equipment weighs heavy on my shoulder as I stamp my feet to keep warm. I see that it’s just past 4:00 p.m. as I stifle a yawn. We’ve been at this now for more than 12 hours but it feels longer. I should have had more coffee, I think blearily. It’s times like this that one cup a day isn’t enough. I wonder how tired Remu Black and James Chen are. Their day started much earlier than mine. And I wonder if they could imagine the scale of what they’ve triggered, because the main gate where we’re waiting for the off-road ambulance is a near-constant stream of vehicles and people, punctuated by the deafening arrivals and departures of search helicopters. And it’s been going all day.

  For the moment, everybody seems busy but us.

  “Do you think Sam Black is out there somewhere? Old and dying? Looking for his son?” Tobe asks, staring out at the heavy clouds over the dark woods that flow down the hillside beyond the town.

  “Don’t know. He must be involved in this somehow but since we still don’t have a clue what this is I wouldn’t bother guessing,” I say. But the image is hard to get out of my head. How many parents would stagger off into the wild after their child, knowing full well it’s going to kill them? We like to believe that most parents would, especially if they’re already dying anyway. But I’ve been in this job a while, and the truth is that what we like to believe is mostly just that.

  “A sentiment that presents its own problem given the fact that we of all people should at least have a better inclination than everyone else,” Tobe says, stirring me out of my thoughts.

  “You mean since we’re officially the local assets of the Gang Intelligence Centre and it’s pretty much why they pay us? Ah, I see what you did there,” I say.

  “Ok, we’ve got some quiet time. Let’s look at the fabulous four,” I continue. Most organised crime exists because they make money. A lot of money. This is not something they do legally. There are four tried and trusted methods. Most gangs survive or perish based on how well they can combine them. Drugs, guns, people and gang war.

  “From the top – drugs?” I ask.

  “Possible but I’d say unlikely,” Tobe remarks. “I can see them selling out here, but that would be the usual small-scale targeting of teenagers. Nothing that would require gang leadership to show up in numbers like they did. If it’s raw product it would be simpler and safer to bring it in on the coast and keep it there until it’s processed,” Tobe says.

  “Ditto for cooking refined product out here,” I add. “No point this far away from a big enough market. Plus, not enough civilisation to hide it easily. And an operation big enough to directly involve all those gang leaders would need a lot more people. Our current bafflement aside I just can’t see us not hearing anything about an undertaking out here on that scale.”

  “Guns?” Tobe asks.

  “Too far south and the wrong side of the Southern Alps. And these days the only real money in that is if they were running cheap Asian automatics across the Tasman. We know they’re already doing that up north on the right side of the Alps, so why double up doing it more expensively from here?” I answer, shaking my head.

  “People?” I prompt.

  “Again, possible but unlikely. Why would they come this far inland just to smuggle people when it’s safer and cheaper to do so further south on the coast?” Tobe says.

  “That leaves the possibility of a gang war, which again makes no sense as we would have definitely heard about something brewing. And of course, there’s the complete lack of dead people from other gangs lying around. Nah, this mess, whatever it is, is inside Manga Kahu. It looks like we have a gang involved in a non-gang related crime. Lovely,” I remark.

  “It only appears that way because we are looking at the wrong things,” Tobe says.

  “The hostage drama last night, whatever they were searching for in that house, shooting Andrea Chen, kidnapping James,” Tobe says in a pensive tone. “That’s only where it ended. We need to find where it started. That’s the crime this is about.”

  “Oi! You two my helpers?” someone yells behind us. We turn to see a tiny, mud-splattered woman who looks to be in her fifties with a bright shock of wild red hair leaning out the window of an even more mud-smeared 4x4 van.

  “Are you the doctor?” Tobe asks.

  “That’s me. Get in. We’re wasting light,” sh
e replies, already revving the engine.

  Tobe takes a seat in the back next to the stretcher as I buckle myself in next to her.

  “Either of you have any training, first aid, that kind of thing?” she asks.

  “I was a medic in the army but it has been several years I’m afraid. We’re both current on our first aid though,” Tobe answers. “Why is this seat so small?”

  “This is the Lawrence School bus. It’s 4x4 for snow days. We took the rest of the back seats out this morning. You don’t need to worry too much about the injuries, it’s mostly sprained ankles and pulled muscles. I just need you to carry the stretcher and my medicine kit,” she says while I take a moment to study her unusual appearance – delicate features, bright, almost carrot-red curly hair that looks natural, and brown eyes all contrasting against a deep olive-toned complexion.

  “That’s Tobe in the back, I’m Nick,” I say by way of introduction.

  “Angus Wu. The local doctor,” she says, eyes not leaving the road as she eases the van through the throng of vehicles near the main gate.

  “Agness?” Tobe asks from the back.

  “Not Agness, Angus. Like the cow. As in the Scottish male name. My dad really wanted a boy,” she replies. As I look again at Angus Wu I think back to what Maud said about the gold rush in the 1860s and how originally the Scottish and Asian settlers didn’t get on too well. I’m beginning to think maybe some of them did.

  “Grew up around here Angus?” I ask.

  “What gave it away?” she asks drily, then relents and adds, “Fifth-generation local. Like a lot of people around here.”

  “Please pardon me for asking but your appearance is striking. Do you by any chance have both Chinese and Scottish heritage?” Tobe asks.

  “Yeah, as I said, like a lot of people around here,” she answers.

  “Fascinating. You are an uncommon beauty, doctor,” Tobe remarks calmly.

  “Sorry about that, it’s the daffodil hat, it just brings it out of him,” I say.

  “I’m ok with unsolicited praise,” she responds with a chuckle. “Check the list on the cell phone there for our next pick up.”

  After I read out the address Angus quickly speeds up out of town, confidently leaning into the turns on the dirt track as I look out at the darkening sky.

  “Angus, do you think they could last the night in this?” I ask.

  “You mean James and this Remu Black?” she asks. She catches my look and adds, “It’s been all over the news and even if it wasn’t, this is Lawrence. There’s no way of keeping a secret in a town this small. Look, it depends. This would be their second night of exposure, but barring any other injuries and assuming they’re of average health and fitness, yeah, sure. If they’ve managed to stay dry. They’d feel it in the morning but they’d still be mobile.”

  “And if the weather gets worse?” Tobe asks from behind us.

  “Depends on how much worse. If we’re just dealing with cold then the trick is to either find shelter or, if that’s not possible, to force yourself to keep moving, which I’m assuming they know. I’d still say their chances are reasonable. You add rain and wind to that equation and things change. The moving part becomes a challenge. Without the right gear they’ll risk hypothermia, possibly even frostbite at temperatures higher than it is now. And that’s here, conditions could be worse wherever they are,” she finishes.

  “What if it snows?” I ask.

  “That would be bad. Same problems, hypothermia and frostbite, only much faster. I’d say their only chance then is if they are lucky enough to make a fire, but that’s assuming they have the means and wood dry enough to burn, or, failing that, find a mine,” Angus answers.

  “A mine?” Tobe asks, beating me to the question. We’ve had enough trouble in this case from mines already.

  “Yeah, the hills around here are pretty much like swiss cheese. Full of old mines and digs. Mostly people didn’t bother to block them up when they were done with them and they were out in the wild. Hunters still stumble across them all the time,” Angus says.

  “How many are we talking here?” I ask.

  “No one really knows. But there were tens of thousands of people mining all over this area for decades. Mostly small operations, a couple of friends or a family. And people weren’t exactly open about the fact that they were doing it. You could be a sheep farmer or shop keeper by day and still be secretly mining gold out in the wild at night or on the weekend. And then there was all that drama with the leprosy, which makes it that much worse.”

  “Leprosy?” Tobe interjects.

  “Yeah, right when the gold rush was at its peak down here there were several cases of leprosy. Not enough to call it an epidemic but big enough that it scared people. And in a rare break from fighting each other the European settlers and indigenous Māori united in both blaming the Chinese for it. By then there were a lot of Chinese miners down here and they were doing better than most other people; I guess people didn’t like that. They even had a tax for it,” Angus says.

  “A tax for mining or leprosy?” I ask.

  “A tax for being Chinese. Seriously, they called it the Poll tax. If you came here you had to pay it for being Chinese. At least I’d only have to pay half of it,” Angus laughs. “Anyway, people then were against the Chinese is what I’m saying, and then there’s a leprosy outbreak and it becomes sort of an excuse for people to take action. A lot of Chinese got attacked; shops vandalised, driven off their land, that kind of thing. It was messy; normal people turning on each other, no army, no police involved. A lot of the Chinese mines were taken over and stripped empty, others were destroyed. Some Chinese settlers left and never came back but those who returned, which were most, made even greater efforts to hide their mines in case anything like it ever happened again. This was in the 1800s but how many mines are still out there now, either open or hidden? Hundreds, maybe a few thousand. That being said, there’s a lot of rough country out there and finding one would be down to luck.”

  “Fine, so there’s a lot of holes out there. I still don’t get it, how’s an old mine in this frozen ground going to help them if they’re already cold?” I ask.

  “City folk,” Angus says, shaking her head. “It’s called the geothermal gradient, simple physics. Basically, the deeper you dig into the earth the warmer it gets. Works anywhere on earth, you get constant heat that’s not affected by the weather. Even as little as 20 feet down would give enough warmth to save their lives, especially if it’s a small tunnel where they can easily block the entrance to stop wind chill.”

  “Great, I’m starting to feel like crime in Lawrence should come with a manual,” I say.

  “It’s a place that runs on its own rules, that’s for sure,” Angus nods.

  “You mentioned that you’re a fifth-generation local,” Tobe says. “Do you know the Chens?”

  “Everybody knows everybody. There’s no real helping it. Most winters Lawrence gets cut off from the rest of the world a few times. Being neighbours still means something out here. So yeah, I know James and Andrea, knew their parents, know their kids,” Angus answers.

  “Good people?” I ask.

  “I think what you mean officer, is do I know any bad things about them that could explain all this?” she says. “The answer is no. The Chens are good people. I went to school with James’ father. His grandad paid to put me through medical school. I delivered all three of their kids,” Angus finishes.

  “Easy Doc. It’s our job to ask,” I respond.

  “I take it from the question that you guys don’t really know why this is happening, do you?” Angus asks back.

  “No, but we’re doing all we can to find out,” I automatically answer.

  “Yeah,” Angus replies, the doubt in her tone equalling the uncertainty in mine.

  * * *

  It’s several freezing, mindless hours of mud and heavy lifting later when Angus Wu drops us off at the Lawrence sports fields, loads up her next pair of stretcher
bearers, and heads off with a honk and a wave. At least she’s getting her job done, I think as I watch her leave. I don’t know what we have to show for today.

  As the sun sets behind us we move from the last rays of light into the eager shadow of early evening, making the already cold air that much meaner.

  “Let’s find Maud and get caught up,” I suggest to Tobe as we head over to the main tent, where we find Martin and Tom Parata studying the screen of a laptop over Maud’s shoulders.

  “—have to start pulling them now. We can’t risk them being out if that turns ugly,” Tom is saying to Martin as we walk up.

  “Agreed. Pull them. We’ll resume the search in the morning. We’ll just have to hope that weather passes us. Take everybody from the search teams who’s only on their second shift and feed them into the cordons and road blocks. Send everyone who’s into their third shift home,” Martin says, sounding more beaten than angry.

  I automatically check my watch to see that it’s just past 6:00 p.m.

  6:00 p.m. and we have nothing. And having just spent several hours out in the impassable wilds around Lawrence, I can only agree with Martin’s earlier estimate; our only chance was to catch up to them fast. We didn’t.

  “Let it go Martin. We can’t keep a secure perimeter out here and the search area is too wide now. We knew we never had enough people if it got past this point,” Tom says, shaking his head. And he’s right. Too much country and too few cops. We were too slow. Remu Black is gone.

  “We’ll run it anyway. The cold may have slowed them down. We might still get lucky,” Martin says, but he just sounds tired.

  Tom puts his hands on top of Martin’s shoulders and looks down at him. The difference in size between them makes it appear more like a parent talking to a child than a cop to a cop. “It’s over,” he says. “We’re out of moves. We lost.”

  “Fuck’s sake,” Martin says, hanging his head as he starts to pat his pockets for his cigarettes. “Anything new Maud?”

  “Nothing that helps us Captain,” Maud answers, checking various windows that are open on his laptop.